Triple update, as promised. The other two shall be tomorrow, since it's eleven and I really don't feel like editing the other two.
Another note: I wrote this in an odd mood. The style's all over the place, as it was with the above story. I blame it on all the Motrin I've been consuming lately (Which you may blame on X-Country, since I managed to get a leg injury at the peak of the season).
And I'm really behind in responding to reviews. Sorry again. X-Country has been taking up all my time lately.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Flight of the Bumblebee
Artemis' first thought was to run. Run and run and run until he came back to Butler, who could point a rifle at someone to cease whatever had been distressing the young Fowl.
But that was usually his first thought. He just did a really good job of suppressing his reflexes.
The second was to, in so many words, smile.
Artemis' smile did not have the effect he hoped it to have; Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "Did I hold you long?" At his sides, arthritic fingers met behind his back, lacing together before the long robe of indigo cashmere—he was going to take a walk later through the grounds, and the practical solution was to dress warmly instead of having to resort to spells.
Artemis managed to shake his head, eyes never leaving Dumbledore's. "No. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time to collect my thoughts."
Dumbledore nodded sagely, and traversed the room, circling around Artemis to get to his desk. The letter in Artemis' hand magically reappeared in the envelope on the desk.
When he had seated himself in the throne-like chair—Artemis briefly wondered why all the teachers seemed to subconsciously obsess about being in power—he laced his hands together, leaning into the richly embroidered back of the chair. "I assume you managed to… 'knock out' Captain Short?"
Artemis' forehead wrinkled slightly. "Ah… yes, sir." He contemplated asking how he knew of Ho—Short, but decided against it in the end. He had to play his cards correctly here. Dumbledore was not an easy wizard to manipulate.
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a few moments, giving Artemis a few more moments to organize the battle plan before opening them again. "And you are not hurt?"
"No, asides from a tear in my pajamas and a bruised nose."
He nodded. His beard came untucked from his belt, swaying slightly as he moved. "I shall send you to Madame Pomfrey later, after a change of clothes and some breakfast."
Artemis stood awkwardly, although he made sure is uncertainties did not pass through the mask of calm. After several moments, he asked, "Is that a dismissal?"
Dumbledore smiled again, leaning forward slightly. "Did you wish to tell me something?"
He weighed his chances, mind toeing the start line of a thousand possibilities. He had many questions which the Hat had not chosen to answer the way he had meant, and many questions the Hat had not pulled from his mind. Believe it or not, not all of them were concerned with that infamous Aurum EST Potestas.
Blinking to clear his eyes—he wanted to see every move Dumbledore made—he asked, "How do you know Captain Short?"
Dumbledore's brows drew together like curtains in the evening. "Captain Michael Short of the Londonderry Militia? I believe I bumped into her once at the Ministry—"
He's testing me, Artemis realized suddenly. He wants to see how I react.
He decided to play this particular game. Manipulation was, after all, the only thing that required more than a second's thought in the morass of Hogwarts. "I mean Captain Holly Short of the Lower Elements Police Reconnaissance, and you know that, Dumbledore. Do not evade my questions."
Dumbledore appeared amused for a few seconds, but the merriment faded from his eyes nonetheless. "That is a complicated question, Mister Fowl, which could perhaps be better answered by McGona—"
Artemis cut in again, cold and crisp as a freshly calved iceberg, "I know that. I am not stupid, however much you consider me to be. How do you know of the People?"
He appeared almost startled, giving Artemis an unexpected jolt of diabolic glee. Who's manipulating who now? When he had recovered, he leaned back again. "Again, Mister Fowl, that is a complicated question. I assume you have The Calling?"
"Of course, sir," Artemis responded, sounded shocked. Inwardly, he rubbed his hands together in another metaphoric shot of morphine. He was enjoying this very much indeed.
"Then you are familiar with Salazar's commentary of the Iron Wars?"
He nodded. Duh, his appearance said, obviously bored (Black pajamas and all). His mind, on the other hand, analyzed each word, filing them in his memory for further investigation later.
Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Then you know the Ministry's policy towards the Fairy People."
Translation: The Ministry told me, you dimwit. Next question.
Artemis' face remained impassive as he decided what to do next. Then: "What are the descendants of the People?"
Dumbledore seem thrown off by this question. Just as Artemis intended. "In what sense?"
"Scientific and Mythological, if you please."
The Headmaster considered it for a few moments. Artemis could not fathom what was going on behind the blue eyes and wrinkled skin. "I am not sure about the 'scientific' way," he said slowly, "as I am not a Muggle. Wizards generally believe that they are descendants—bastards, if you will—of the domesticated House Elves."
Artemis could not resist a snort of laughter. He very much doubted that.
He regretted this almost instantly—he had been letting his guard down too much when in the company of those that would judge him on a moment's infraction.
Dumbledore gave no sign of recognizing Artemis' mistake, instead continuing. "I personally believe that they are entirely independent of the House Elves, but I am no Muggle scientist. I encourage you to do your own investigations."
Artemis nodded, somewhat stiffly. "Merci beaucoup. I was wondering about that."
There was several more moments with only the spherical device—Artemis would have paid quite a lot of money to learn what it really did—for sound.
"Anything else?" Dumbledore asked eventually. Beneath somewhat bushy eyebrows, the blue eyes stared impassively.
Artemis thought about it. Anything else I want to manipulate the senile old fool into believing?
"No. But thank you.I shall see Pomfrey on the way back to my dormitory." He turned to leave, the torn sleeve of his black pajamas exposing him to the chilly air of mid October. Dumbledore apparently didn't believe in warm temperatures for quick minds.
"McGonagall shall probably wish to speak with you as well, about your… experience."
Artemis half-turned, nodded again, and left.
Only when he was in the hallway again did he allow himself to smile openly.
Despite the fact he had only gotten half the cuts on his feet cleaned up—Filch would be so pleased with the faint bloodstains that seemed intent on following Artemis—he managed to walk quickly. Discipline could be such a useful thing. It helped with that annoying sense we tend to call pain.
Still… he had won! Perhaps not in that HA!-I-finished-the-race-first! sense, but in that wonderful, wonderful way of just simply knowing he had outmaneuvered the greatest Wizard in a thousand years.
Artemis smile broadened, not even changing as a ghost crossed the corridor in front of him. He had managed to salvage the situation beautifully, even fooling Dumbledore into thinking that little spark that happened to be fond of his father was more a candle-flame than something that occasionally burnt the skin.
And how Dumbledore blundered! First showing perfect knowledge of the LEP, but then denying their existence before going back on his own statements! Yes, Artemis certainly came out the better of that short escrime.
He had learned things too, things that would require extensive calculation once he had the time. Dumbledore had read The Calling. Obviously, there was more than one copy in the world. Not only that, but The Calling was something that was extremely disapproved of by both Ministry policy and Fairy.
Was Dumbledore playing around with Dark Magic? And, more importantly, was he involved in that lovely conspiracy that messed with history that really did want to be left alone?
Artemis thought he knew the answer. The wrong one, yes, but an answer nonetheless. The question mattered considerably more.
Dumbledore smiled at door to the stairwell, his fingers laced together. "He was quite… interesting. Don't you think so?"
The Hat's brim opened up in a smile. "Yes, he most certainly is, Albus."
Dumbledore smiled too. Few people could resist talking to the Hat. Even he, all those long years ago when he was a student, had had a chat with that lowly bowler hat with the ink stain on the front. "Is he dangerous?" he asked eventually, reaching for a quill and parchment.
"Yes," the Hat replied, smiling again, "oh yes. He could conquer the world if he had a mind to. He and ol' Riddle would have a fascinating conversation. They're really quite alike."
Albus frowned, his arthritic hand writing the beginning of a letter in elegant, spider-like handwriting. "You said that about me too," he stated pointedly, raising his voice accusationally.
"I know," replied the Hat. "You had ambitions too when you were his age."
"But I didn't act upon them," Dumbledore said sharply. The letter gained a dark emerald splotch.
Had the Hat shoulders, it would have shrugged. "And young Mister Fowl is a very different type of genius from you, Salazar and all the other greats. Think about it for a few moments."
Dumbledore did. He didn't like what he came up with.
"Dear Lord," he whispered into the parchment. There, half-written and still drying, was, Dear Angeline Fowl. "He's out for the Fairy's blood."
This wasn't strictly true, but the heart of the matter was. Artemis couldn't care less about the human race, or its close ancestors.
Hermione tapped her foot impatiently against the floor. "Where is he?" she muttered to herself. Her stubby fingers, splotched with ink, drummed against her crossed arms.
Ron gave Harry a funny look. Not funny, really; more of that, I think she's finally cracked look that the brains of the operations too often get.
Hermione wasn't the brain of this particular idea. She would willingly admit that it was utterly stupid and had no brains involved in it, which, although certainly not the most conceited thing to say, was true.
She glanced at her NoSlow Watch that had been specialized for working in magic-thick areas that normal mechanical devices tended to break down in. Letting out an annoyed sigh, she turned to Harry and Ron and demanded, "Did you see him at breakfast?"
Harry shook his head numbly, glancing anxiously down the dungeons corridor. He didn't want to be late to Potions, since Snape had been in a particularly bad mood yesterday. "No, 'mione, I didn't. But why are we standing out here?"
Hermione didn't answer, although she had to bite her lip to avoid a scathing rejoinder for that hated nickname. After sighing again, she began to walk briskly towards Potions.
Ron turned to Harry, catching his gaze. What is it? He mouthed, brow furrowed. He had a right to be confused; Hermione had been acting… peculiar lately. She hadn't even been paying attention to Transfiguration class, instead spending half the hour staring at the back of Fowl's head.
Harry almost snickered as he came up with an idea. Tell you later, he mouthed back, diving around the corner of the Potions class. Snape, thankfully, wasn't there to see his crate of Newt Tails scatter across the floor.
We need to talk to her, Ron replied, adding a jut of his thumb towards Hermione. Malfoy sniggered as Hermione tripped over his outstretched foot on her way to the front of the class.
"I know," Harry whispered back, and bent down to pick up the glittering blue newt tails off the floor.
Hermione, after frowning at her bookbag for a few moments, brought out a copy of The Calling and began to read.
Madame Pince could be so accommodating sometimes.
Vaguely confusing. Désolées.
As a bit of shameless advertising, I believe that most of you would enjoy Katydid Kata. Some delightful Artemis angst, and a fairly good plot that could have been multi-chaptered. Find it in my AF collection today! Insert salesperson voice
Namárië,
Nallasariel the Weeper