Sorry about the slow update speed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Snakeoil Salesman

Hermione would never know it, but Snape was only late because he was converging on Dumbledore's office, along with a half-dozen or so other teachers.

Dumbledore wanted them. It was rare that he called a staff meeting in the middle of classes; need had seldom been so urgent that it couldn't wait until the end of the day, and never in Snape's brief years at Hogwarts.

He smiled slightly when he passed the Bloody Baron in the hallway, giving him a brief nod before continuing. The ghosts would be presiding over the classes, which would be a delightful thing to watch. Even Peeves, who was horrible at best as far as Severus was concerned, got to watch the Divinations which would be a sight that he would pay a gold Galleon for. Maybe even two.

The smile, however small, reversed itself when McGonagall swept into the corridor besides him from her Transfiguration classroom.

They made it exactly twelve feet before Snape could not contain a snide remark. "This is your little friend's doing, is it not?"

McGonagall did not give him the grace of her glare. "If you are referring to Holly, yes."

Severus smirked. He liked getting beneath McGonagall's skin, since he couldn't do so with other, less interesting, teachers like Sprout or Flitwick, who did not even ponder Snape's barbed slips anymore. "And what did she do this time? Steal food from the kitchen?"

Minerva's fists clenched at her sides. "No. She was following orders from her government to kidnap Artemis Fowl."

Snape was taken aback, despite himself. It took several moments to manage gain control over his barbed tongue again. "For what? A Samain-eve sacrifice to their pagan gods?"

McGonagall snapped in less than her usual time. "This is beyond you, Severus. I don't even know why Albus wanted you to come."

"Yes, you do," Snape replied oily. His quickened his pace to keep up with McGonagall.

"Because you were once a Death Eater? Oh yes, what an honor, what pride you must take in knowing that is your sole reason in going to these."

That clout struck home, and cruelly so. Snape's arm lashed out, catching the black sleeve of McGonagall's overrobe. "That was a low blow, Minerva, even for you. Your past was far from pure either."

McGonagall regarded the clenched fist in mild interest, deftly plucking it from her arm. "Really. What have I done that's taken me deeper than you?"

Snape smirked, regaining his composure as he began to walk down the corridor again. "Fraternizing with the enemy."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed, although they continued to look straight ahead. "The Fairies are hardly our enemies. They haven't done anything to us."

"According to the Ministry, they are. And don't you remember the lovely little Iron Wars affair? I would think that long-loved friend of yours would."

They turned the corner, beginning to ascend the stairs that would bring them to the floor Dumbledore's office was located on. "She's only eighty, Severus. She doesn't even know what the Iron Wars are, except for some vague battles that we fought against them, but she thinks it's all over. They all do, and we almost all do." She sniffed the air. "The ones that remember are just being a bunch of politicians."

Snape saw the logic in this, although he would never admit it to McGonagall of Gryffindor. He knew politics. Politics had been what had kept him from Azkaban, true, but it had also cost him, not his literal life, but what made life bearable. Honor.

"Fine," he conceded at last, turning into the niche that held Dumbledore's guard-gargoyle. "Those same politicians, however, only allow ignorance as an excuse pass when it goes their way."

She nodded. "Kudos."

The gargoyle grinned at her, and slid to the side to reveal the spiral staircase.

McGonagall continued as she walked up the stairs. Snape followed. "I know we aren't friends, Severus, but don't be acting the hero here. These are very big matters that can very well decide the rest of our lives."

"Or the lack of," Snape cut in dryly.

McGonagall shot him a withering look, hitching up the trailing bottom of her Emerald Isle-green robes. "My point is, Severus, that this isn't something that you can dive into and risk everything. This is, again politics."

Snape frowned. "Risks must be taken in war," he said quietly.

"Not when it costs you your life," McGonagall replied sharply.

Severus smiled oily. "Minerva, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't."

Before he had a chance to respond, McGonagall opened the door to Dumbledore's office. Snape smiled when he noticed that she did so in a somewhat faster fashion than usual.

The Office, as it was simply referred to by teachers and seasoned students alike, was made painfully obvious in that fact that it was not meant to hold so many people at once. The teachers, even the transparent Binns, had crowded around Dumbledore's desk like turkeys before a TV in a slaughterhouse. Snape was thankful that he was not remotely canine; the room was probably rank with fear.

McGonagall and Snape pushed themselves to the front of the crowd, firmly ignoring protests from younger or simply less spell-savvy teachers.

"Minnie! What is all this nonsense about a war?"

McGonagall winced as a hand dug into her arm. One of the younger teachers, Talia Ridder, was helping the Arithmancy professor Vector grade the complex idiosyncrasies of the upper-level classes. She was brilliant, certainly, and young, but she was the sort that dyed her hair a brilliant red and added levitating spells to her eyelashes.

Something that McGonagall found infinitely irritating about the girl was that she insisted on calling her Minny. Had she been a historian and knew who Minnie was, she would take that and all Tantric connotations with it.

"I know as much about it as you do," McGonagall replied coolly, nudging the red-faced Hooch from in front of her.

Dumbledore was not saying or doing anything, instead letting the questions bombarding him flow over like a cool glacial stream. His eyes were closed, the half-crescent glasses on the brink of his nose. If she didn't already know better, she would have said that he was sleeping.

As soon as McGonagall swept in front of his desk, his blue eyes opened, crinkling at the corners. I was waiting for you, he seemed to say.

She smiled at him, and turned towards the small flock of teachers. "Quiet!" she snapped imperiously, her hands akimbo. "Albus is trying to say something!"

Behind her back, Dumbledore smiled to himself as he straightened his spectacles. Minerva never changed.

He remained seated, but the crowd hished as he readied himself to speak. "You may wish to find someplace to sit," he murmured.

As if by magic—bud pun—fourteen chairs dropped in a semicircle around Dumbledore's desk. Thirteen seated themselves like the children they taught (Binns had to content himself with floating in the chair).

Vecter regarded the chairs with mild surprise, twisting her body around to examine the rest of the teachers' chairs. "My seventh-years were using these," she said to Dumbledore, frowning.

Albus smiled at the Arithmancy witch. "They all decided they would do a better job studying at the lake, apparently. No one was in your classroom."

Vecter frowned again, but settled back into her chair, adjusting her prim black robes so they covered her feet.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of him, watching the staff over the brim of his glasses. "I'm sure you're all aware that Artemis Fowl was kidnapped last night from his dormitory."

Thirteen nods. McGonagall tapped her fingers impatiently against her thigh.

"And that the kidnapper was not Russian, as the students seemed inclined to believe. Elfin, in fact, if Minerva told me correctly."

Although a few gazes turned towards McGonagall accusationally, the majority turned to each other, mouthing horror and disbelief. Talia Ridder fingered her violently red locks anxiously, wondering if she should dye them the more suitable black.

Dumbledore raised his hand, which brought about an instant silence. "I have told the Ministry of this, as I had to. Dippet," he gestured towards the portrait on the wall, who nodded curtly back, "tells me that Fudge is thinking about war."

Before they could break out in outraged whispers, Dumbledore raised his hand again. "I know that you all feel rather strongly about this, but no decision has been reached yet. If the Ministry decides that war would be best, then we shall be the first to know."

He let his hand down, and probably regretted it instantly. All fourteen teachers rose from their chairs in unison, all trying to get an answer out of Dumbledore at once. Several of the nearby portraits did the same, equally curious.

McGonagall's voice rose above the rest, silencing the other teachers. "Where is Fowl?"

"In his dormitory, I should expect." Dumbledore frowned to himself. "No… he's in Potions."

Snape looked over at McGonagall. "Really," he said to no one in particular. "A little quick of him after a life-threatening experience."

Ridder elbowed 'Minny' aside, placing her hands squarely on the desk. "What about the students?" she demanded, gazing down imperiously at Dumbledore. He didn't falter, but she did. "What are we supposed to tell them?"

"The truth," Albus stated, and turned to Snape. "No, your services are not needed at the moment for any type of subterfuge. You will stay here, like every other professor here." He looked at each of the teachers in turn. "Is that understood."

McGonagall opened and shut her mouth several times before managing a sentence. "The Ministry will probably want me."

"You heard me, Minerva," he said quietly. "You will be staying here."

McGonagall looked down, her hand going to her forehead. "I should see to my students," she murmured, and left.

Dumbledore didn't protest, instead turning to other teachers. He would not be able to deal with Artemis himself by the way things were turning out; McGonagall could probably do a perfectly reasonable job.

Dumbledore was slightly incorrect when he stated that Artemis was in Potions. In fact, he was on his way there.

He had cleaned himself off as best he could, showering and performing a Healing Charm on his scraped feet before dressing in his Hogwarts regalia. After nabbing a few of Spader's Chocolate Frogs—the dark-chocolate variety, Artemis was pleased to note—he began his way down to Potions.

He had never been in the Hallways before where it was entirely empty; no matter how late he made himself to breakfast, there was always an unfortunate few that shared the hallway with him. It was hardly a bad thing, though; he could have his own thoughts without the threat of 'polite conversation'.

His doubts about Dumbledore had begun to whisper about halfway through his shower. The Headmaster was ancient, and had been dealing with people like him for more years than what Artemis weighed. What is he had been the manipulator all along?

But then the smug part of Artemis would answer, He has never had to deal with someone like me before. No one has.

Am I so sure? his doubts would respond, stopping his hand halfway to the bottle of shampoo. I'm only a genius by Muggle standards. How do I know that someone like me doesn't come along every year in Hogwarts?

The next answer would come like a big DUH, which it really was. Granger's considered the best witch in a century, nitwit, and she hasn't half the IQ I have.

And it would go on, arguing through those endless spirals of logic and the lack thereof. Although Artemis would like to think he was right in the first place, those little niggling doubts had those nasty parasitic attributes which made them survive no matter what the species.

That little spiral was about to touch on, But what about him not even minding where I went next? He had to have been planning something… when McGonagall clasped him firmly on the shoulder.

Artemis spun around, hand instinctually going to his wand before letting it fall back to his side. "What?"

McGonagall smiled thinly, guiding Artemis to the nearest empty classroom (Arithmancy). "I think you know exactly what, Mister Fowl, and don't give me that look. Dumbledore wasn't anymore fooled by it than me."

Told you, his doubts whispered.

Artemis pulled himself away from McGonagall brushing her hand off his shoulder. "Has the Ministry declared war yet?"

The look on her face was something between supreme weariness and disgust. "No, thank God!" she said vehemently, opening the door after unlocking it with Alohamora.

Artemis cocked his head, thinking for a moment. "Was it the Council then? Fudge always struck me as the more aggressive of the two, but it could ve—"

"Fowl, be quiet."

Artemis did, for perhaps the first time in his life, and let himself be led into the classroom.

McGonagall shut the door quietly, and then turned to face him. The lines on her face seemed deeper than before, etched like the letters on a gravestone. Artemis regretted his actions, momentarily. "Sit."

He did, choosing one of the more stiff-backed seats. His hands folded in his lap.

McGonagall chose Vecter's seat, which was padded considerably. She leaned back into it gratefully, closing her eyes for a few moments.

Artemis, meanwhile, stared at the chalkboards lining the room with interest, eyes drinking in the complex equations like a connoisseur would a fine wine. "Can I test into this? It looks far more interesting."

McGonagall opened her eyes, glaring at Fowl. "Be quiet, please. Short's coming, and I need to be strong enough to do a Confundus Charm on Filch."

"Bespelling fellow teachers is hardly a nice thing to do."

McGonagall closed her eyes again. "Don't try to think about it, Mister Fowl. Your brain will probably overheat."

Artemis saw he wasn't going to get an answer out anytime soon. Sighing inwardly, he continued to study the equations. Seventh-year Arithmancy certainly looked a good deal more interesting than the rest of Hogwarts, Holly Short coming or no.

Sorry. Another TBC.

Screw update times. I'm just going to update this whenever I feel like it, since my poor original stuff is suffering. (Arilyn's been trapped in an enemy city for almost a year now, and she hasn't budged a bit)

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper