Disclaimer: Pretty much, I'm a criminal for writing this little fanfiction. On the other hand, I'm not getting paid…
Chapter Twenty-three – Trial…
Transfiguration seemed to take especially long today. Maybe it was the fact Hermione was staring a hole through the back of his head.
Unlikely, considering what he had just read. He hadn't put a lot of thought into the Wizarding media – he had assumed that, because it was undoubtedly under the same affect as the rest of the literary conquests, he would be relatively safe. Apparently not.
He clenched his fists tighter around the quill, nails biting into his skin. The… the… the impudence of it! Lies, all of it… It seemed more fiction then reality, but, nonetheless, people around the world would read that newspaper, look at him and think Criminal.
Artemis was used to being considered that. He had to be, or his ego would collapse in on itself. The problem was that he hadn't done anything to deserve it yet. They were already put on red alert for criminal actions.
Perfect teeth grit together, and he forced himself to look at the board McGonagall was writing on. Some people already had an idea how thick he was into this world already; far short of the mark, but they could guess. Most, like Hermione or Draco, already knew his family were notorious Muggle criminals and had once been the Voldemort of their time. They had been on their guard, but they still would not be able to get anywhere close…
But now they'd all know. They would know a series of concoctions, created by a master alchemist in his—or her?—lab. He could only be thankful that Juliet had not been mentioned—
His hand jerked up from the parchment he was writing notes on, creating a large ink splotch on the paper and on his robes. Juliet. They still didn't know about her.
He had had no communication with her yet, but someone in Ravenclaw had mentioned that their cousin had a new roommate. Blondie was obviously with her. She was safe, and hopefully with some degree of caution.
Still… Juliet was Juliet. Fresh from Ko's academy after the first incident. Cared more about her looks then about her lethal weapons. Prone to be annoyingly social. One could only expect so much from her, especially as immature as she was now.
Hermione wordless passed him a handkerchief from behind him. She had given up the front row after she realized she could stare at him without attracting as much suspicion from the back. An odd move from such a school-obsessive person, but an interesting one nonetheless.
Artemis was no longer certain about how to deal with her. He was convinced she somehow found out about the Fairies—the funny looks she had been giving McGonagall lately were a clue, in addition to the increasingly curious ones he had been receiving. She may only be book-smart, but she had logic. Logic was a rare commodity amongst people, especially teens.
"…and remember, the essay on Theremon's Formula is due next week. Dismissed."
Artemis mechanically rose, stuffing his ink-splattered parchment into his bag. Routine already. If he could ace the quizzes and still have time to think, this really was a waste of time. The only challenge was taking time away from research to do the homework.
Holly carefully looked around the corner, then withdrew her head quickly. She was still running hot; she, unlike Trouble, was cautious when it was her turn to go around Hogwarts. Being hot felt good. Better then it did with Mud Maids.
She ordered her breaths to slow, deepening them until they had become half-calm again. She hated doing these. Especially when the goal was as elusive as this.
The Council wanted Fowl. So? They always had. Pride is an easily wounded beast. The difference in this was that Root wanted Fowl—if Root wanted Fowl, there was more then just politics on the line. Her job, for example.
True, the whole reason why they were following Fowl out to Hogwarts was to originally kidnap. The Council had turned it into so much more; make sure Dumbledore wasn't meddling with Fairy business, make sure Fowl didn't kidnap anyone, map out Hogwarts again, keep an eye on the Ministry…
Holly decided this was what it meant to be a mother. So much to do, obnoxious, minute beings hounding at your heels, and a whole lot of sweeping up to do. And an extremely annoying male screwing everything up all the time. Which one was dependant on the current frame of mind.
At the moment it was Trouble. He was rightly named; he caused trouble wherever he went, even on such a stupid, no-brainer mission like the last. All he had to do was:
A) Keep out of sight,
B) write legibly, and
C) try to stop looking for trouble in the first place.
He failed all three. The map was horrendous, although he had to be commended for his spelling of Mak-Gone-a-gal in genuine English. One of the more apparent reasons why Trouble went into Retrieval was because he needed like-minded males to be able to read his handwriting. Holly was not a like-minded male. Holly was a very annoyed female. No matter what some said to the contrary, there was a difference.
Holly shook her head minutely, trying to grip a grip on her thoughts. Why in Frond's name was she thinking about Trouble? Sure he was gung-ho, but it was the stupid gung-ho that came with ignorance.
There I go again, she scolded herself. Too much time away from Root and my discipline goes to the swear-toads.
She swore under her breath, her shield sliding up like rain on a window. Filch was approaching, and fast. From what she had managed to pull from Trouble he had snuck right past him; that would put quite a dent in the Mud Madman's ego. He was probably trying to fix that with a good ol' fashioned whipping, new rules or no.
Holly shuddered, pressing herself further against the wall. Filch got closer and closer. His breath was hot and humid, smelling distinctly of very Muggle potato chips.
Holly was about ready to puke.
She really should have counted herself fortunate that the cat wasn't there. She would have been discovered ten seconds sooner.
She hiccupped.
Filch spun around, drab arms spinning out towards the sound. By sheer luck it managed to connect with the half-sprinting Holly, grimy digits wrapping around what precious little hair she had and yanking.
He must have been expecting a stealth-cloak like the one Artemis had – he pulled upwards, loosing his grasp on the sweat-soaked auburn hair. Holly stiffened her fingers and jabbed upwards, hitting what she honestly hoped to be his stomach.
Filch staggered backwards, cursing vulgarly not so much beneath his breath as without it. Holly fought with a street fighter's instinct; knock 'im down so they never rise again. Minute hands went for his relaxed belly and neck, twisting and pressing where need be. It all came rushing back to her, sweeping away the (somewhat) cool Holly that was worrying about her lack of discipline.
When she was younger, much younger, she had deigned the girls in her class to wimpy and played with the boys. She was five. No one made a big fuss out of it; they, including her somewhat eccentric parents, had figured this a phase that would pass.
It didn't. She played with the boys until tag became gangs that wandered around causing, one could say, 'trouble'.
She wasn't proud of those days. Yet, in an ironic quirk, those days had taught her more about life then anything else. Including that fateful meeting with Artemis Fowl.
The first lesson she had learned was to cut the joints. That would keep them out for a long time if they were properly hit. Holly made sure they were.
Her mentor in the Formorii gang would have even said she went a little overboard. Filch got knocked out pretty quickly.
She stood back, chest heaving. She didn't often let that side out of her, and for good reason. Filch wouldn't be waking up until he heard the nightmarish tidal wave of students approaching for breakfast.
When her breathing had calmed down again, she dragged Filch into an alcove, propping up his head with his patched wool jacket. His eyelids were fluttering. Holly wondered what sort of nightmare he was having.
She gave a little sigh, and began trotting down the corridor. Well, she and Trouble were even now. She inwardly vowed to make a deal with him somehow about the Filch Incidents. Root simply could not catch word of this.
Artemis was, as usual, staying up. As some anonymous, probably obscenely optimistic person had once said, 'There is time enough for rest in the grave'.
Granted, his eyes were probably disinclined to agree with that at the moment. Even after a week of adjusting his sleeping patterns they simply could not adjust to the five-hour nights, then the half-on half-off mode he went into in some of the more boring classes. Midnight Astronomy classes just muddled his medulla more. Sometimes he just felt like strangling his organs for not following a perfectly logical plan. He didn't only because of the grievous consequences that would follow.
He ordered his eyes to focus on the page before him. The Calling wasn't making anything better; the pictures still trotted, swam, or flew across the page in colorful patterns that muddled the spider-like text even more. Had he not placed a Silencing Charm on it, the dwarfs on page thirty-eight would have broken into the Sulfur Song again, and he did not want that to happen. He heard enough vulgar songs just listening to Spader, Jack and Chance everyday, even if they would help him understand the unusually stereotypic culture of Fairy Dwarfs.
Artemis sighed, and closed the book with a solid thud. The thin, near-silent …and that's what sulfur does to me! became little more then a really bad memory.
He leaned over, murmuring the opening spell along with intricate hand-gestures. The chest at the bed-side glowed slightly in response. A small silver key was inserted into the lock, and the lid opened. The Calling was slipped into the uppermost of the bags; his book-bag for tomorrow. He switched every few days to shake off residue magic and stains from nearby students. They tended to point their wands the wrong way on some of the more destructive spells.
The curtains were half-shut when a minute hand slid into the opening, then another as the crack was widened. Holly's grinning face appeared in riven curtains.
"Nighty-night," she said cheerily.
The last thing he saw for a long time was a small, petite fist cracking his nose solidly.
Chance was not stupid. It was hard to be so if you traveled so much, as many children of divorced children do. Different places opened different parts of the mind, letting thoughts stray to places where parents generally did not like them to go.
He liked to stay up. It was one of his many quirks. Staying up meant you were cool, in the Muggle world. If you went to bed at eight, you were promptly labeled a geek, and a stupid one for telling someone that. Three in the morning meant you must be doing powerful, important things. Chance privately associated this thought with the opposite gender, but he stayed up anyways, despite a certain lack of a girlfriend.
Chance was musing on the stupidity of his parents—why on Earth had they named him Chester? Why, O WHY?!—when the crack woke him up.
He was familiar with the sound of cracking bone. Once you were the one getting trampled by a horse, it's hard to forget what each not-so-funny bone sounds like as the iron-shod equestrian rider crushes you underhoof.
It sounded like a nose.
His covers were thrown off as he bolted upright in bed, Astérixpajamas bright in the gloom of night. Just because he liked the idea of being cool didn't mean he was going to get rid of blankie and le Gaul.
Please let it be a dream, he prayed inwardly, please let it not be Spader beating up on Jack…
The curtains were tossed back, only more swirling black in the ebony room. Here and there lighter blobs of deep indigo met his eyes where fellow students in the dormitory had left the curtains wide open. They were few and far between.
He was about to sigh in melodramatic relief when a thought sparked in his eyes. Artemis never left his curtain open, except for a small crack at the end to allow air circulation. His was all the way open, and the bed was untouched.
Chance knew from late-night stays that Artemis liked to read. He didn't particularly care what; if he asked, he'd probably get an obscenely long and complex answer in Latin. He also knew that Artemis kept his bed neat until the last moment.
The bed was too messy. The end was ruffled up, and the sheets were pulled in the general direction of the window.
Chance padded on over, footsteps light and tentative across the glacier-cold flagstones. He wished for the thousandth time that Flitwick would stop using money for Ravenclaw to fund his Charms class to get carpet installed.
The window was wide open. Below, lightly shimmering in the icy night wind, was the rolling emerald grass of the Grounds.
Chance swallowed the vomit at the back of his throat and backed away from the window. Artemis' broken and mangled body wasn't at the bottom. Nor was he screaming for help on the sill.
"Damn…" he whispered fervently, staring through the window a safe distance away. Artemis Fowl had finally cracked.
Pity. He always managed to wipe that smirk off of Spader's face when they goaded him into playing Hearts.
Mumbling about dem crazy genii, he clambered into bed and pulled the curtains shut tightly. Very tightly.
I'm trying to get the plots rolling. Hopefully, I'll have this monster-of-a-story done next January. April at the latest.
'the very evil daughter of lord voldemort' brought up an excellent point in her review. No, I have not read The Seventh Dwarf. My parents thought it stupid to order a book all the way from Europe when it was probably going to published in the US in paperback in, oh, a year or so. scowls Sorry if I miss any canonical points mentioned in that, in any case.
Editations going, as always, poorly. S'il vous plait, don't hurt me.
Namárië,
Nallasariel the Weeper