Artemis took slow, deep breaths, trying to keep every muscle relaxed so as not to quiver as he poured the highly delicate concoction from one flask to another. His eyes, though permanently set in their effortless, slightly condescending manner, were wider and more attentive than was the norm. Such careful measures were necessary when he was engaged in this potentially disastrous practice.
"Artie?" Holly tried to gauge her voice into being as least abrasive as possible, not wanting to startle her comrade.
He paused tersely, giving her a critical look of disapproval. "No. Just… no. Try again."
The elf let out an exasperated sigh. "Artie Fowl the Second," she tried again with a saccharine sweetness.
This time, the teenage genius stopped entirely, setting down his tools to glare at her. "I will arrange a highly unfortunate and bizarre accident to affect all those you love, though yourself most gravely." He deadpanned.
Knowing Artemis's history, Holly decided it would be prudent to take this threat at face value. Better safe than sorry.
"Artemis, what exactly are you doing?" She asked as he busied himself once again with his unfathomable work.
He smirked slightly, as though he had been waiting for her to ask. "I'm manufacturing an artificial substitute to equestrian or bovine keratin."
"But you hate horses and cows," Holly pointed out, puzzled, after realizing he was talking about hooves.
"I do. And that is a tribute to how painfully bored I am. Isn't there any sort of crisis in Haven? Anything? Even some juvenile sprite running amok would satisfy at this point."
Holly shook her head bitterly. "Not even that. We've done our job too well, I'm afraid."
It was at that moment that Butler burst into the room, breathing hard, with a look of unparalleled fury on his face. "Artemis! You are supposed to be going through your exercises in the hangar!" He bellowed.
Artemis flinched as violently as if a bomb had detonated. Incidentally, one may as well have, for he was so startled his hand jerked the contents of his flask into a large flagon of questionable content. There was a sound roughly reminiscent of a cage of mice dying in childbirth, and a thick blue smoke engulfed the room.
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England smiled uncharacteristically as he placed his scones into the oven to bake and removed his lovingly-embroidered 'Kiss the Cook' apron to greet his guests.
"Ciao, England!" Italy exclaimed brightly, skipping over to hug the ample-eyebrowed nation. "Ah, hullo, Italy." He replied, trying (and failing) to ignore the caustic look he was getting from Romano.
"Yo, Artie!" England visibly flinched as his former colony came bounding over, hurling himself into his arms while laughing a few decibels higher than the typical tornado alarm. "Bugger off, bloody Yank!" England erupted, pushing him away and smoothing his military uniform back to its usual perfection.
"Guten tag, England." Germany said stiffly as he entered the room, exchanging a stoic handshake with the man. The pleasantly normal greeting, which England savored, was promptly interrupted by France, who swept in to take the Brit's hand and press it to his lips with a wink. "Ah, Angleterre!" He breezed. "You are looking as tense as usual; if you only allowed me to-"
"Gerroff, frog!" England exclaimed in disgust, ripping his hand away and scowling. After rubbing it frantically with the corner of his jacket to purge any lingering Frenchie-germs, he smiled up at his guests a bit dazedly and invited them into the dining room.
Immediately, the room tensed. "Er… sorry, Iggy, I just realized-" "Something's just come up, I'm afraid-" "As much as I'd love-" Every nation stammered some frantic excuse and gathered their things, backing hopefully towards the door.
"Oh, no need to be so bashful! Come right on in!" He beamed, shepherding them into the dreaded room. Their faces were twisted in anxiety. "I'll just get the scones, don't move an inch!"
England frowned slightly as he entered the kitchen; there was a disconcerting burning smell, but he was sure the damage wasn't too bad. Even as he opened the oven door and large clouds of angry black smoke billowed out, he merely coughed, waved his arm around to clear it, and took out his masterpieces with a smile.
When he came back to the dining room, prized scones in hand, all conversation immediately ceased. Germany, Italy, and America were all looking resolutely away, but France stared unyieldingly at him.
"Angleterre, sit down." When he didn't move, France added, "We're having an intervention."
England set down the scones and slowly settled into a chair, so surprised by the frivolous nation's sobriety he forgot to disregard his every word.
"I say this in the kindest way possible, but you are an atroce cook, mon amour."
In his eternal denial, England stammered, "I… I don't speak frog. Say it in the Queen's English."
"He said your cooking is craptastic, dude." America explained simply.
England looked crestfallen. "You… you all think so?" He turned hopefully to Germany and Italy.
"Si!" Italy exclaimed, making a face. "It's bland and disgusting and always burnt and-"
Luckily, Germany interrupted his monologue by saying simply, "Yes."
For a moment, England looked simply heartbroken, like he just didn't know what to do with himself. Then the legendary British temper kicked in.
"Wankers!" He cried, leaping up. "You're all just bloody prats that wouldn't know a delicious meal if jumped out of a plane with James Bond in front of you!"
"Calm down, Igs!" America said, alarmed.
"No, I know just what to do!" He smirked wickedly. "I bet a bit of Black Magic would set you all straight!"
"NO!" The room cried collectively, familiar with his magical skills (which rivaled his cooking in their rudiment).
Their protests ignored, England whipped out his wand from some hidden pocket and cried, "Hasta la vista keysta meista, jiggery pokery liveny smokeny, mane and flank or shame in blank…"
With a noise like a starting pistol and a smell like a thousand burning scones, a vivid cerulean light flashed through the room.
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Sirius sniggered uncontrollably as James swaggered nonchalantly to the potions cabinet, giving his best friend a subtle wink. After rummaging innocently around in it for a bit, he emerged with an unassuming bottle of some innocuous sky-blue powder, giving his Potions partner a thumbs-up sign. Remus merely rolled his eyes and continued measuring his bubotuber puss.
Snape was, as always, completely consumed by his work at the cauldron just behind the Marauders. At first they had been appalled by his proximity, but as the year went on, they had learned to appreciate the innumerable opportunities it presented.
Lily frowned almost imperceptibly from her seat next to Remus, already honing in on their plot. Though the prospect didn't exactly make her want to burst into guffaws, she was no longer Severus's friend and so didn't particularly care what they did to him anymore. Plus, she was getting tired of Snape's showing-off and sneers towards her newfound friends in the Marauders. She was looking forward to them teaching him a lesson.
Perhaps James was overdoing it, Sirius though briefly as his best mate whistled loudly with his hands clasped behind his back, looking around the room and making his way past Snivellus's cauldron. He quickly shook off the notion.
Suddenly, the hand holding the mysterious ingredient just slipped over the cauldron. "Oh no!" He cried exaggeratedly. "The powdered pegasi wi-"
His words were interrupted by a spectacular explosion which splattered he, Snape, Sirius, Remus and Lily with a biting substance which let off caustic chartuese mist, shrouding them from their classmates.
This story written in part by a coauthor, who does not have an account on FIMfiction but can be found on fanfiction.net where she is known as TheAwesomenessThatIsDumbledore and has published numerous delightful stories, the majority of which are about Harry Potter. Please visit her and shower her with well-deserved praise. Shameless self-pluggin over.