One: Math

Calm down. Calm down. You checked it thrice; there is no way you could be wrong, I told myself. This was detrimental to my health, being a teacher in St. Bartleby's. If I hadn't been a poor, self-sufficient professor, I would've packed up and left this horror of a school. As it was, I was a poor, self-sufficient professor, one who needed money to support my extravagant lifestyle. (I had always chastised myself for not watching over my expenses.) And only St. Bartleby's could provide me an ample amount of income.

And so, today, Monday, I strode down my classroom's centre aisle. I was the picture of placidity and coolness. However, that was only on the surface; inside me was a turmoil of agitation and, ridiculously enough, fear. The closer I got to that dreaded desk, the warmer the atmosphere seemed to be and the faster moisture seemed to trickle from my temple. The pad of assignments I held was beginning to dampen because of my sweating palm.

With a faux air of superiority and confidence, I stood in front of the desk—Artemis Fowl's desk.

It took a lot of focus from me to keep my hand from shaking as I laid his almost-perfectly answered Mathematics assignment on his worktop. I then proceeded to the desk beside his. From my peripheral vision, I could see him glaring down at the huge, red mark of ninety-nine percent with the comment 'Very Good!' Needless to say, he was not pleased.

He forgot to round it off. I'm sure he did, I tried to convince myself. I had graduated with highest honours from the best university in Ireland, but this mere child could make me doubt my own brilliance by just a few terse statements against the theorems I had been teaching the class.

Master Fowl's eyes narrowed. Surely not a good sign. My hand that was passing a failed assignment to his seatmate twitched. I waited for his long argument (one that would occasionally imply astounding ignorance on my part) to come with bated breath while running a few good—but would surely be flimsy, in his opinion—defences in my head. My heart pounded loudly.

Amazingly, nothing came. If I hadn't known better, I'd swear his cheeks were a tad bit tinged with pink.

I exhaled, swept over with utter relief. Really, this lad would be the death of me.

A/N: This will be where I'd put my drabble/ficlet exercises. I had stopped writing for more than a year so my writing skill has become rusty (not that I was really great; just passable). I'll keep the coming chapters in five hundred words or less, since I can't do one hundred. The idea is from Artemis's interview in Artemis Fowl Files. Read it again. He said he was embarrassed. Mortified, even.=P

Hope you like it. Please review; constructive criticisms and suggestions—whether nice or mean—are welcome. English is not my first language so my phrasing may sound a bit awkward. Please tell me if it is, since I won't use betas with this project.;)