Disclaimer: Yes, this work can never be published because all the cool ideas belong to Colfer and Rowling. Now don't rub it in.

Chapter Nineteen: Curry

Artemis had another idea. Amazingly, it had to do with the current topic.

It occurred during his next History of Magic class, while Binns was still giving the syllabus. Halfway through describing the importance of historic references, no matter how unlikely, Artemis Fowl fell out of his chair.

It hadn't really been his fault. Chance, who had been sitting behind Artemis in the row, had been playing cards with Spader and Jack again while Binns was busy focusing on the opposite wall. Artemis was leaning his chair back against the blonde's desk to get a better look at The Calling, hidden beneath the rim of his desk and the extensive bulk of a nameless Ravenclaw in front. When Chance won that round of Hearts – beating Spader, who professed that no one could beat him at Hearts – he had scootched both his chair and desk back. Against most odds, Artemis leaned forward at that same time, trying to see if he read the controversial passage right.

Binns, despite his notoriety for being a ghost that quite literally no longer cared for life, noticed his otherwise perfect student topple to the floor. "Yes…" There was no question to that remark; Binn could not add any sort of emotion to his voice even when he was alive.

Yet this somehow managed to annoy Artemis. He picked himself off the filthy floor (Even Filch avoided Binns) and brushed himself off as thoroughly as he could, carefully keeping the tell-tale blush down to a minimum. Several people laughed, including Draco, who sat in the back of his class between Crabbe and Goyle. Spader kept an evil-looking grin as he gave the Queen of Spades to Chance.

"I am sorry, Professor," he said curtly, mind spinning as he bent over to pick his scattered books. "It shall not happen again."

Binns did not even bother to nod, and began droning on again about the importance of books.

Artemis slipped into his seat again, momentary shame erased once his thoughts began spinning again. There were continued snickers from the back of the room, and even a few from the three-odd card players, but all slipped into the back of his mind.

History books. He had figured that they were slowly being changed; that had taken five minutes of his conscious thoughts. But the change itself would not affect old books…

The time of Salazar Slytherin was the time that the Wizards got into the bad relations with the People, and before that with Muggles. What ancient book did he have that was written in that time by the most unbiased source around? It was elementary, really…

The Calling was a history book. All the spells, all the seemingly random laments about the current state of affairs (Which Artemis agreed with, although his version of 'those vile young childes, running aboute as if they own the place' seemed vaguely modern), were all there for a reason. Salazar didn't mean for the moving pictures and wiggling text to be a problem—it was all part of the mosaic. The grinning dwarfs became harbingers of doom, smiling faces showing their affiliation with him as Salazar outlined his spell that had turned their allegiance in the Iron Wars. Every picture, every word—

It was history, the one that stayed the same no matter what people decided. Salazar had seen something back then and wanted to stop it. The War, according to The Calling, was a draw, comparable to the Cold War between Russia and the U.S.A. Both sides had continued, half-denying the existence of the other.

Yet somehow, Salazar had overcome his biases and made that book. It bore none of the scars that the altered History had; it was the truth.

Holes still remained in Artemis' knowledge of The Calling and what exactly had happened in the Iron Wars—he had had limited time to read it thus far, since he was only into classes a week and a half—but the big picture was starting to emerge. Hidden pasts. Dark secrets. Dangerous magic. The stuff of pulp fiction.

Butler looked across towards Angeline, keeping his shaven head bowed as he spooned the curry-beef soup into his mouth. Angeline seemed to miraculously not notice the swelling numbers of paparazzi, nor the electric fence he had wired through the outermost perimeter just outside the walls. In fact, she seemed to not notice anything at all, even the certain horridness to her cooking.

He was sure it wasn't her fault she wasn't a bad cook; he had always been used to his somewhat professional culinary skills. Angeline had not cooked before she met and married Artemis Senior either, since she had been going into the waitress field in Paris, which did not happen to involve cooking. And after, she had found that the Butlers' cooking was far superior then Paris' McDonalds' for dinner.

However, with her spirit revived and nothing to do with both Artemis' in her life gone, she had decided to take up cooking, with disastrous results.

His dark eyes flickered towards Angeline again. She was still beautiful, even if worn by sorrow and tragedy. Her long brown hair hung in a long braid down her back, loose strands framed against her creamy-blue gown. His Principle, the younger of the two Artemis', had received his twilight-blue eyes from her, perhaps the only physical resemblance between mother and son.

She maneuvered her spoon delicately into her mouth, eyes widening slightly at the strong mix of curry and ginger. Then a slow smile spread across her creamy complexion and Butler began to despair. "This really isn't that bad. Spicy, yet hardy. What do you think?"

Butler cleared his throat. His eyes had begun to water from the intoxicating mixture. "Excellent, Madame. Perhaps less curry next time?"

Angeline frowned to herself, and spooned more of the red-brown soup into her mouth. "No, I think more would be better. Maybe a pinch of paprika, even?"

Before Butler had to dignify that with a response, his watch buzzed against his wrist, vibrating annoyingly. Something had set off the alarm. Or rather, someone.

"Excuse me, Madame," Butler said smoothly, folding his napkin and setting it next to the abandoned soup. "I need to see to the perimeter."

Angeline's frown deepened as she watched Buter duck into the hallway that would lead him to the front door. He certainly had been acting peculiar lately…

She shrugged, and returned to her soup. It was probably the lack of good cooking.

Being short and stupid is not a good combination.

R.C. Jones is the rare exception to that litany. No one that knew him would have ever expected him to be successful, to be sure. His mother had even pulled an exceptionally high life insurance at Gringotts out on him. Most would have placed him as the bartender at The Leaky Cauldron in ten years. They were so wrong.

Jones was, in fact, a reporter. The reportéd would probably call him more of a stalker then a reporter, but the principle was the same. Track down your person, and watch them squirm. The only difference was that in one you used a notepad to write things down in and in the other you used a notepad to write the victim's suicide note in. Jones was probably one of the few that could claim that his notepad boasted both by the time he was done with him.

He crept further along the hedge, flap-jack sized brain running through his instructions again. Get into Fowl Manor. Interview—in plainer words harass—Artemis' parents until his notebook was full. If possible, sniff out a scandal.

Jones stopped suddenly, blinking at the wide yew needles. Cornelius had specifically said sniff, but how was he supposed to do that when scandals didn't have a smell?

He supposed that they could smell like another woman's fragrance or a strange man in the household, but most were smarter then that.

It was in that stupefied pose that Butler grabbed him by the back of the neck and lifted him into the air.

"I didn do nutin'!" Jones squeaked, his limbs writhing.

Butler shook the five-foot man, watching bemusedly as a notebook, wand and quill fell from his hands. "Then what are you doing in the Grounds?"

Jones, had his neck not been caught in a painful pinch, would have shaken his head. "I'm reportin'!" he insisted, trying to twist around to see what his attacker was. "It's perfectly legal by the—the—that one law the Minister made!"

Butler shook the man again for good measure, and set him back down on the ground. No hostiles there. "Who sent you?" he demanded, lowering his voice and bending over. Angeline could not hear of this.

Jones' eyes flickered towards his wand, which Butler swiftly picked up before he could make a lunge for it. "The Daily Prophet," he said, crossing his arms. Butler noted that he had the garb of a wizard on.

"I'll tell you what," Butler said at last.

"What?" Jones demanded, looking up at the man towering above him. He had a lot of experience with security guards. If you annoyed them enough they always set you free to harass another day.

Butler leaned forward and clenched Jones' head painfully between his huge hands. Not the normal security guard, then. "If you give me the address for… Hogwarts… I'll let you go. Deal?"

Jones could not help but laughing, which received another painful squeeze that petered the chuckles out to a squeal. "All owls know it!" he yelped, ink-splattered hands trying to pull Butler off him. His face had turned as blue as the night sky behind him. "Just ask any of them!"

Butler loosened his hold on Jones somewhat so he wouldn't pass out. "How would I get a message to him if I didn't have an owl?"

Jones almost laughed again. Almost. "If you don't have an owl, you're screwed," he informed Butler. His mouth wanted to add something to that, but his instinct for survival finally defeated his just plain stupid nature.

Butler looked off into the distance, eyebrows and lips alike pulled into a frown. After several moments, he released Jones. "Fine," he stated, "but if I see your face past my fences you won't be coming back out."

Jones nodded, clutching his neck when Butler let him go. "Thank you, sir. I won't be coming back again, sir."

Butler narrowed his eyes, watching as the man ran back into the shadows by the hedge. Filthy liar. He was just circling back.

Butler sighed inwardly, and picked up the handy notebook on the ground. A deft twist of the hand sent it spinning top over flapping papers. It hit him between the shoulder blades, felling him without a sound.

He jogged over to the groaning little wizard, scooping him up easily by the coattails. They ripped slightly, forcing Butler to sling the man over his shoulder. Apparently, they didn't make clothes any better at Diagon then they did in Ireland.

When he attained the gate he stopped, dropping the man heavily to the ground. By now he had reawakened, moaning over his undoubtedly heavily bruised back.

"Don't come back," Butler said, pushing the twitching body until it was outside the gates. "I'll know if you do."

Whatever response Jones had was lost as the gates of Fowl Manor slid shut behind him, humming with six amps and two-hundred volts of heart-stopping power. The tip of Jones' shoes was sliced cleanly off, it not being quite out of the way.

Butler watched to make sure Jones didn't try anything stupid for a few moments, then accelerated to a light jog back towards Fowl Manor. After finishing the horrid curry-beef soup, he would investigate that wand he confiscated, and perhaps watch where Jones went. He was very grateful to Artemis for supplying the minute tracking devices, even if they involved a certain amount of computer know-how.

I hope that y'all excuse the fact that I'm way behind in my editations. If it's anything I can't do, it's editing my own work.

Yes, this is a triple update to make up for the missed posting date last week, and a short chapter to boot. Just to make that crystal clear.

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper