Disclaimer: No more crappy poems. The majority of the characters are completely Colfer or Rowling's, although the blend is all mine. Honestly.

Chapter Twenty-two: Enter Politics

The next morning, Hermione found a particularly grumpy Artemis staring at her.

Not the real thing, of course. Had that been the case, Hermione would have taken the opportunity presented and given him a piece of her mind and a slap to go. The real thing was, as always, exactly two minutes late.

It was a picture, not even moving; obviously taken by a Muggle camera. The lines were blurred, the angles of his cheeks almost highlighted by poor photography, but he was there.

The headline seemed almost friendly compared with the paralytic scowl: FOWL THINGS AFOOT AT HOGWARTS. Beneath the headline was an article, written by whoever signed their pieces with a signature approaching Egyptian hieroglyphics.

"Today, we sleep in our homes, tucked into the safety of our beds. Many of us have children, also sleeping in either Hogwarts or abroad. But are they safe? Dumbledore has unleashed what could become a disaster at Hogwarts—the newest in a long line of criminals.

We all know the tale behind Hugo de Fóle. It is a nightmare that haunted Wizards and creatures alike for nearly a hundred years before disappearing into the depths of Azkaban, bringing with him the end of the golden age of his family.

Or not, as it later turned out. Unknown to our investigators at the time, his wife was two months pregnant with a child—enough to escape our notice, although, as Ministry officials grudgingly admit, they shouldn't have given her Fóle's estate to begin with. The child from this would continue the Fowl dynasty, although, fortunately, without knowledge of magic. Four-hundred years later, the Fowl family collided with our world again, but, fortunately, several well-placed Obliviates by Ministry officials managed to subdue that particular venture."

Hermione blinked at the photograph, trying to catch the background. It was too blurred, however—all she could make out was the vague shape of a Corinthian column behind him, and a whole lot of white marble. Mind spinning, she continued.

"Not two weeks ago, however, I managed to infiltrate their literal castle outside of Dublin, Ireland, and interview the matriarch of this ancient family.

I didn't like her as soon we shook hands, and the fact that she ordered her eunuch, 'Butler', around as if he was a House Elf did not improve my opinion of her at all. Angeline Fowl, as she called herself, was the widowed mother of Artemis Fowl. The husband of this lady is presumed dead, lost in an ambush in Russia, and was once a prominent Muggle criminal himself.

However, Madame Fowl was sparing with facts. It was obvious that her luxurious home held many secrets; the eunuch trailed behind my every step, or jogged ahead to shut guilty doorways. Whenever I came close to uncovering something she changed the subject, usually to the innocent culinary genre.

Nevertheless, it was obvious Angeline was proud of her son, if for all the wrong reasons. "He's such a wonderful little boy," she stated at one point. "Takes after his father in many ways. Most ways, actually."

I wondered what ways she was talking about; his renowned intelligence, or the fevered drive for gold.

As we entered into the living room, the first thing I noticed was the gilded letters inlaid across the top of the doorframe; Aurum Est Protestes. For those not majoring in Latin studies, it translates as, 'Gold is power' – a fitting motto for the power-hungry family.

When I questioned Angeline about this, she gave me a crocodile-like smile. 'No, I'm not proud of that motto. We've been trying to turn ourselves around for a while now, but, ah…" She trailed off here, and then launched into a detailed discussion about the culinary value of mint and rosemary.

It is painfully obvious that she was lying. She made no attempts to squelch either Artemis' criminal behavior; undoubtedly, the legitimate, if fatal, mission to Russia was a fluke. It cannot be doubted that she is every much an accomplice as the shadowy Butler in their frequent crimes, and that her son will follow in these steps.

But has he done so already? Interpol, an (unsuccessful) Muggle police agency, has been trying to crack the Fowl family for years. They have failed, but have also been able to accumulate innumerable failed cases against them, ranging from petty forgery to the classic let's-run-into-a-bank-and-start-shooting. In the recent years since Artemis Senior's death, this number has spiked sharply upward, as well as their bank accounts. Considering they have almost no sources of income other then Junior's patents, it is a dubious account indeed.

And this Artemis Fowl, considered the most promising young man in a century by many Muggle accounts, has entered our world, bringing with him the legacy of the Fowl family. Will he become a criminal worst then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself?

By all psychological accounts, yes. I talked to The Daily Prophet psychology consultant Kyra Whitman. 'Children tend to resemble their parents,' she said, 'and Artemis Fowl will be no exception. Criminality is in his blood.'

No parent wants the future He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named growing up with their children. But by all accounts, Dumbledore, who directly disobeyed the Minister's order, is not about to let down from his view of letting all eligible children into Hogwarts. Artemis Fowl the Second will stay at Hogwarts until extreme action is taken by the Ministry. Continued at C-8"

Hermione tore her eyes from the paper, and shoved the paper beneath Ron's nose. "Can you believe this?" she seethed, waiting impatiently for Ron to skim the article.

Ron shrugged, and pushed the newspaper aside. "So?" he mumbled, his mouth full of cereal. "Fowl got what's coming to him."

Hermione glared at Ron, wondering how he could be so stupid. Granted, some leeway had to be given considering he was a boy, but still…

But no matter. Ron would be Ron—insensitive, annoying, leech-like—but Artemis was not Artemis. She rarely paid much attention to propaganda like this, especially where it was so clearly aimed at deflating someone rather then explaining, but this was… odd. Why would The Daily Prophet put something like that there? They held a reputation for accuracy so far, and for relatively unbiased facts, leaving little tidbits and rumors to Witch Weekly.

Harry leaned across from his croissant, mouth fortunately through with chewing. "Fowl's in the newspaper?" he asked, dumbfounded.

Hermione could have screamed at him. "Yes," she snapped, folding it up crisply and applying herself to her toast.

Harry shrugged, nursing his milk. "Why on Earth is the Ministry interested in him?"

Hermione looked across at Artemis. The almost familiar frown lines were beginning to crease his brow.

"No idea," she said airily, and slipped the newspaper into her book-bag. She would deal with it later.

Jones rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them desperately. Fudge had lied. Of course he had lied; he was a politician. Still, he thought he could have trusted him…

He had read the article on Fowl countless times, trying to identify its maker. It wasn't Skeeter, even though it had her Sanskrit-like signature on it, and Skeeter liked to do her own work and research. Obviously, it had been put together by someone else.

Jones looked longingly at the empty Bailey's bottle on the table, wishing that it would fill itself. He felt too smart now, and the feeling was unnerving. Besides, last time he had acted with any amount of intelligent his mother made a big deal about it, which was not a good thing in Jones' dictionaire de culturaille.

He sighed, and picked himself up out of the (real) Victorian armchair. He would deal with it when he got home. Fudge probably wouldn't be paying him this week, and his mother required an explanation before the frypan came down. A dent in the head wouldn't look good for the interviews.

"Ju-lius!"

The pen in Root's hand gouged a hole in the reputedly scratch-proof desk, ripping through five millimeters of paperwork. It took him several minutes for his blood to cool down enough to respond. "What?"

Foaly trotted into his office, a big grin plastered on his vaguely equestrian face. "Guess what?"

Root grumbled something indistinct deep within his throat, and continued resolutely with the ruined paperwork. It wasn't everyday he did this; ever since being promoted centuries ago he never got to go out on the job again. Paperwork had become Public Enemy Number One, the Public being Root because that was all he was considered worth his time.

Foaly continued, regardless of deep-rooted hatreds. "Holly's on, and she's got something to tell you."

The pen fell forward in tandem with the chair. "What?! It's early!"

Foaly's grin widened when crimson became magenta; shade five to six and the shift had barely started. "I know."

The indistinct noise continued as Root rose in his desk, potbelly jiggling slightly from the movement. Foaly mentally reminded himself to hack into the budgeting program and slash the lunch allowances.

"No need to move, gordita," Foaly said, still grinning. He was thankful that Root's gift of tongues didn't work that well in the morning, along with the rest of him.

Root's lips moved as he translated. "Little—man? No, that can't be right…"

Foaly waved a hand flippantly before Root could figure it out. He must have had his caffeine this morning if he could translate that closely. "Never mind. Press the button on your far r—no, the a bit more over—"

Root finally pressed the right button, reaching with his other hand beneath his desk for a Ra-Bar ('Be as bright as the sun!'). A large projection of the Friends cast appeared on the far wall, which Foaly quickly changed with a click of a remote. Holly's face became visible, blue sparks practically flying off of her. She was, not in the Mud Man sense, hot.

"Commander?" she asked tentatively, tapping her helmet's remote in front of her. In the background, Trouble gave her bunny ears.

"Report!" he barked, his words garbled by the Ra-Bar half-in, half-out of his face.

Holly looked back at Trouble, who dropped his hand innocently at his side. After he shrugged, she turned back to the helmet and continued. "Trouble's got the map done."

Root glared at Foaly, who had trotted back to examine the unused calendar from '90 hanging behind his head. "This is what you wanted me to hear?!"

Back on the screen, Holly licked her lips nervously. The log she was sitting on jittered slightly as she shifted position. "No, but I wanted to give you the good news first."

The temperature in the room reached the boiling point. Foaly was glad that he was born a Centaur and not a Mud Man. "What's the bad news?"

The lips were rewetted. "The Ministry's getting involved through the media."

His heart skipped a beat. "Muggle or Wizard?"

"Both," Foaly cut in easily.

There was a slight popping sound as a dozen capillaries in Root's body all burst at once.

"Foaly!" Holly scolded furiously, her face hidden by a hand. In the background, Trouble was doubled over.

Root cooled down from sunset-indigo slowly, heartbeat coming down to the above-normal pace. Had he been intimate enough with anyone to allow someone to get that close to his chest, they would have heard a sound like the roaring of a diesel motor. "Muggle or Wizard?" he repeated, his voice high and strained like a badly played violin.

"Wizard," Trouble said from behind Holly. He had said the word fast in-between gasps; he was still struggling to withhold his laughter. It wasn't everyday he was far enough away from Root to avoid retribution.

Root glared at Trouble, taking another bite from the Ra-Bar. Damn youngsters. Thought that old folks couldn't do nothing. "What's the range of the paper?"

Holly sobered up quickly. "Worldwide, sir."

"Already delivered?"

Holly nodded miserably. He distantly noted that her buzz cut was growing out into a small aphro. "Saw it this morning when we did our morning sweep. More then twelve-hundred people in Hogwarts alone."

Root's head dropped into his hands, which began massaging his temples in an all-too-well-known pattern. "Foaly, get the Council up."

Foaly hesitated. "What should Holly do?"

Root's head shot up. "What's the status on Fowl?"

"Nothing really, sir. He still had The Calling, but otherwise he hasn't really done much."

Trouble piped up again from the background. "Someone's trying to poison him."

There was a sharp thud followed by a throated groan, not dissimilar to the sort made by people that have been elbowed violently in the ribs.

Root pretended like he hadn't seen that. "What's this about poisoning, Short?"

Holly gulped. "To be honest sir… I—we don't know. All we've really done is put two and two together."

Root looked at Trouble, who hid behind Holly. He seemed more willing to part with the facts today. "This true?"

Trouble nodded miserably.

Root sighed again, letting his head sink into his balled fists. "Has he made any threats relating to the People lately?"

"Negative, sir."

He made a decision. One that he would later regret. "Get him to base, Captain. Him and that little servant of his, too."

"Which one, sir? The big one or the small one?"

Root's eyes peaked between his fists. "Does it matter?"

Trouble and Holly nodded in unison. It was quite a difference to them.

He sighed, and sunk further into his own self-pitying. "Whichever one's more convenient. Just get them to base; Foaly'll arrange transport."

Foaly looked about ready to argue, then stopped. He may be one of the People, but he liked the idea of things getting stirred up. Dumbledore would not pleased when one of his students went missing, criminal prodigy or no.

Confusing, no?

Update times have been changed to Saturday's, since I can't cope otherwise. Today was an exception, as Varsity X-Country and social obligations will keep me away from computers for quite a while. Don't tell me that I don't have the right to be a freshman on Varsity and a friend of Mithostwen.

So you don't whine about my update times, here's my schedule;

After High School (Straught AP classes), there's Varsity X-Country 'til five-thirty. Tuesdays have flute lessons from six to six-thirty, with twenty minute driving each way. Thursdays have karate from six-thirty 'til eight, with twenty minute driving each way. Meets on Wednesday until seven; meets on Saturday 'til noon or later (Getting up from four to five). Science Olympiad studying is something I try to do thirty minutes a day; I'm going for the long-awaited flush of first places at State in my respective events (Fossils, Forestry, Dynamic Planet, Meteorology, Process Skills for Life Science, hopefully Reach for the Stars, and the build-event Awesome Aquifer). Also, I'm readying two novel-length serious stories for publication, perfecting the twenty-seven languages of my invented universe, working on other original stories, trying to finish five 200,000 Artemis Fowl fanfics for posting, two The Lord of the Rings, three for The Silmarillion, one for Discworld, and beta-ing a story for my friend Telpyvien. Also, I may be starting fencing with Telpyvien on Monday nights from seven to nine.

Don't complain. This is hard enough as it is.

Critiques are more then welcome, for all my grousing. I'm still trying to switch from my norm. Angst!mode to Pratchett!mode, even though most of my stuff looks like Hemmingway with better descriptions.

Bugger off before my head explodes.

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper