Disclaimer: Colfer and Rowling are well beyond my current span of patents, which consists of absolutely nothing. Got it?
My rabid readers, I give you: A Cliffy! (Sort-of)
Chapter Twenty-Four: …and Error
Artemis awoke to a steady prodding at his side. It hurt. A lot.
"It's not even light yet, Chance," he mumbled, still half in the familiar routine of school life. "Go back to bed."
There was a very un-Chance-like snicker. "Ickle Artykins awake? Too bad this isn't a bed of roses you're sleeping on."
His eyelids shot open, trying to focus in on his surroundings. He knew that voice.
Still, he could only managed a choked-off groan as his headache began to pound unceasingly at his temples. Yes, he knew that voice. It had spoken exactly two words last night which were most definitely not the sort found in a lullaby. At least, not in that tone of voice.
As his eyes cleared, he could see a figure moving of to his right. Judging by the certain stiffness to his back, he was probably on the ground. "Ooh, does Arty need an Advil? Has the little boogeyman gotten to him?"
He managed his custom smirk. "Have you been taking up babysitting lately, by any chance?"
A fist solidly connected with his jaw. His vision blurred with the unexpected pain. No crack, fortunately, which would have been bad. If his memory served correctly, it had already been broken once tonight. "If you're just an oversized infant, then yes."
Artemis raised his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. Holly did not stop him, fortunately, nor did she resist as he brought his back up in a more-or-less standard sitting position. He thought about a particularly witty reply to that last remark, then decided against it. There was probably a point even Fairy magic couldn't bring him back from. "Where am I?"
He mentally cursed himself as Holly laughed, spreading her arms out to indicate the beshadowed forest. "Where does it look like, kimosabe? London? Paris?"
Artemis sighed, rubbing his forehead. Forbidden Forest, no doubt, and probably quite a ways in. "I had that one coming. Where are you taking me?"
Her grin widened as she stood up, green jumpsuit crinkling slightly. "Every single story in history had that one, moron. You think I'll honestly tell you?"
"Yes," he replied, "actually, I was."
Holly laughed again, relishing the moment. She had been nursing her wounded pride for a year; she planned on enjoying this. Immensely. "Thought I'd be that stupid, Mud Boy? Has ickle Artykins underestimated me again?"
He sighed, standing up. Despite his somewhat boyish frame, he managed to tower over the petite Recon agent. "No, I haven't."
Holly's eyes only had time to widen before he pushed her into the shrubs on the other side of the clearing. He selected a stick from the ground, and walloped it against a nearby tree. Not very hard, as Artemis could hardly be considered for the Olympics, but enough to prove it strong. When Holly stumbled back out of bushes, he snapped the stick cleanly over her head.
She stood, dazed, for several long moments. Then, in almost cartoon-like slowness, her knees folded beneath her and let her kiss the leaf-covered ground.
Artemis blinked, and stared at the stick. That had, in all, taken about three seconds. And he hadn't even thought about it. Just… acted. Proved that he was less dependant on Juliet, in any case.
With a slight sigh, he bent down besides Holly. With the aid of waxing moon he was able to see the blood trickling down from her forehead, and the sparks flowing tentatively towards the wound hidden beneath a rough auburn buzz cut. Her angular face was cast in shadows, high cheekbones sharp against the muted blend of leaves in the background.
He hesitated before the front zipper of her jumpsuit. She would be waking soon; Fairies had fairly thick heads in more then one sense. Besides, taking what little self-defense she had in the Forest, where Salazar had once roamed and the centaurs were even more paranoid then the Lower Elements sort? Despite all criminal intentions, he did not want the People seeking out another reason to kill him. That should occur once he had the proper defense created.
His fingers closed around the pull, and drew down five inches before stopping. Around her neck was the golden glint of the Book, and an empty sphere.
He examined the sphere first, saving the best for last. There seemed to be some residual dirt in it—had Holly been keeping spare acorns in it? That would explain how she performed the Ritual so quickly…
He dropped the sphere back onto her heaving chest, and picked up the Book. For all conventional purpose, it was an exact copy of the one that had disappeared from the portrait several months ago. Smiling slightly, he took it, slipping the glinting gold chain around his neck. It stood out against the deep ebony of his silk pajamas.
But what else did Holly have? She was not stupid, although he could think of a specific encounter where she had acted just so. She would not wander around weaponless in Dumbledore's backyard.
Or would she? She had that strain of cockiness, as all Fairies seem to have. Furthermore, that idiot Trouble was with her as well. Bad habits have an odd trait of spreading for their own survival.
Artemis lifted one of her hands up, and stripped the green gloves off. Aiming the fingers carefully away from himself, he squeezed a joint.
The pressurized dart made no sound except for the final quiver in the maple bark.
Smiling again, he pressed every digit, and then switched to the other hand. Four darts in all. Again thanking Foaly for making top-secret prototypes so easy to find on his site, he slipped the gloves carefully on again, and walked to the other side of the clearing. After tugging on the darts, he eventually pulled them all out from the groaning tree. Holly would never know they were gone; how would she test without waste?
Artemis looked back at Holly. Her eyelids had begun flickering, hands moving to rub at her eyes.
Without any hesitation this time, he grabbed a stick and slammed it over her head. Her hands spasmed for a moment, then stilled. The eyelids stopped moving.
He began to trot from the clearing in a southerly direction, glancing up to take his bearings from the stars and lightening sky. The Book bounced against his chest, gleaming with a promise for war.
McGonagall slumped against the wall, hands fluttering up to her mouth. Holly had done it. She had actually done it. Kidnapped the most controversial boy since Salazar himself.
Flitwick looked up at her from his somewhat less lofty position. Clouds had gathered at his brow, creasing the already lined face until it resembled a decent piece of math homework. "Are you going to tell Dumbledore?"
McGonagall chose that moment to use her extensive vocabulary—to be specific, the word recently discovered today due to Fred and George. "Duh!" she said, exasperated as she threw her hands into the air. "Dumbledore could very well be the only one who can handle this!"
Flitwick, who seldom showed his crabby side in front of (considerably taller) students, scowled. "I meant more about your involvement in this."
Had any students been near, they would have been extremely surprised to see McGonagall blush slightly. "I did no such thing!" she thundered, crossing her arms. "Do you honestly think that I would kidnap my own student?"
Flitwick laughed. He had sat down on the only other chair in McGonagall's office. "I am sorry, Minerva, but you cannot blame me for thinking so."
She thought about it. "No," she responded quietly, walking over to her throne-like chair and sinking into the uncushioned surface. "No, you can't be blamed."
The minute man sunk further into the chair, wincing at the hardness of the seasoned oak. McGonagall wasn't a believer in luxury. "No, I didn't mean I that way—" he began, but was cut off by McGonagall.
"Stop it," she scolded, her tone like that that she used on her students. "It's been going to far. Dumbledore must be told."
Flitwick, with a sigh, leaned back as far as the stiff chair would let him. He wasn't concerned for McGonagall; she was easily one of the more capable witches he knew. He was concerned for Dumbledore. He might, for the first time in recent memory, become truly angry.
He was right, in a twisted way. Dumbledore turned exactly three shades of red that seem more at place in a Baroque painting.
It really was strange, in retrospect, seeing Dumbledore like this. Or McGonagall, for that matter. He couldn't be sure which of the two seemed more concerned when McGongall managed to 'spit out' the news.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. Unlike McGonagall, he liked his padding. Probably had something to do with his thinning frame. "Are you absolutely sure of this, Minerva?" he asked. Those were the first words anyone had said in five minutes.
She nodded wearily. She had left her living quarters at a run; her hat was missing and her longish silver-streaked black hair hung down her back raggedly. "Yes. I cast a small cantrip to see when Holly came in and out of building." Then, she hurriedly added, "Not on Ho—Captain Short herself, of course. That would kill her, especially when done by me. On her copy of the Book." There wasn't any brag to her words; they were simple facts. McGonagall was not a foolish witch who went around casting love spells all day.
Flitwick at McGonagall's side looked over the edge of Dumbledore's desk. He was no fool, but he was not a political midget. He could teach, he could cast spells like something from Beyond, and he knew how to decorate. That was that.
The corners of Dumbeldore's eyes crinkled, although there was very little smile to back him up. "You may go, if you so wish."
Flitwick wordlessly turned and left. Again, politics weren't his thing. It was a whole lot more complex than bespelling a worm to yodel.
When the slow groan of the spiral staircase stopped, McGonagall turned to Dumbledore again. Her eyes were inspected a strange contraption of silver spheres on his desk, as if it would provide an answer. "Now what?"
Dumbledore settled back in his chair with a faint sigh. "Exactly how intelligent is he?"
McGonagall blinked. "Fowl? I believe I can say with no doubt whatsoever he's the most brilliant student I've ever had."
"No," Dumbledore said slowly, "I meant Holly's companion."
McGonagall made fluttered shrug. "To be honest, I am not sure. I've never actually met him, but Hol—Captain Short complained about him quite a lot last time we met. Not very, but I can't be sure. Captain Short dislikes many things that we hold in high regard. Chocolate, for example."
Dumbledore's eyebrows raised fractionally. "Chocolate?"
She sighed. It could be frustrating, when Dumbledore brought little things that didn't matter the slightest. However, she knew that behind the whimsical face dwelt a mind that spun like that funny spherical device on his desk. For those that have trouble visualizing vague descriptions, that's very fast. "Yes, chocolate. Their metabolism is more dependant on actual minerals than calories. It tastes disgusting to them, except to the rare few with eccentric tastes."
Dumbledore's mind caught up to the situation. "I assume that your locating spell is still in affect for the Book?"
She nodded. Her spells took more then the presence of alien magic to stop working.
He waited patiently until McGonagall put it together that she wanted to see where her friend was. Slightly flustered, she brought out her wand and sketched a quick map of Hogwarts and the surrounding area.
When she let the locating spell find its duplicate on the map, she gasped. Dumbledore just smiled.
A little red dot was moving, at a leisurely pace, towards Hogwarts.
A bit short, I know. Next chapter shall be considerably longer, if that makes it up to y'all.
Chapter four's editations are up. To those that wanted to have me email the updates; sorry but I can't do that anymore. I barely have time for this anymore.
I'm also a bit behind in replying to reviews. Refer to last chapter's rant.
Flitwick is a tad OOC for a reason. Ever notice how teachers act so different whe not in class (Or am I the only one 'round that has one for a x-country coach, one for a friend and one as a Sci-Oly coach?)
Namárië,
Nallasariel the Weeper