First of all, I would like to thank all of my great readers who have stuck with my previous story, King of Serpents, to the very end. It was my first "real" fiction, with a long-term plot and everything, and I couldn't have done it without all of your support and advice. And I probably would not have begun writing the sequel if you guys hadn't been so great to me in the first. Seriously, King of Serpents was probably my most successful story.

I feel that there is always room for improvement, so just because this is my second book, does not mean that I'm still not taking advice and suggestions from you guys. On the contrary, I've still got a long way to go. So any sort of help would be appreciated.

And without further ado, here's the sequel you've all been waiting for!

Paris

In such a large city as this, many strange things tend to go unnoticed.

Such as the pair walking under one of the many bridges that cross the Seine, for instance.

It was a rather odd couple – the first of the group was small boy, who could not have been older than eleven or twelve, and yet had a strange complexion to his face and a depth to his intense blue eyes that made him look wiser and more dangerous than the man standing next to him.

His dark raven hair was neatly combed, and he sported a dark, well-pressed suit, made from the finest fabrics and materials, complete with a tie and impecabbly shined shoes, in a way that added a rather stylish flair to what would have otherwise been a very conservative look. His hands were smooth and thin, as were his long fingers, and had probably done no actual labor (unless you counted playing "Flight of the Bumblebee" on the piano, which is actually much more difficult than Maksim Mrvica makes it look).

The boy was well-groomed and his fingernails were very precisely cut. In fact, everything about him was very precise. Whether it was his slim, if angular shape, his calculating eyes, and his overall appearance, or his habitual behavior, in general - it was all precise. There was no cutting corners or laziness for this young man, which was a feat in itself, considering the condition of other children of his age.

The boy seemed to live for precision. Mathematics and sciences were everything to him; even the inexplicable coincidences or the unexplainable feats of magic or the fickleness of the human mind had an exact, scientific reasoning behind it, for him. Everything in life had an answer.

Yet he was smart enough to know that life was not a function, and that answers were sometimes even more convoluted than the question itself. He could bend and twist his oh-so-very versatile mind so easily, and arrive at the right shape so quickly, in response to any problem or question thrown to him. And his answers, while undoubtedly were nowhere near an easily identified geometric shape - they were probably answers that most people did not even dream existed - were still geometric and sensible in their own fashion.

That was what made him a genius.

The man in question, on the other hand, was a monstrous giant, at least eight feet tall, with a strong jaw and biceps to put Olympic weightlifters to shame. Even though his arms were hidden under his long sleeves, one could easily tell from a distance that his muscles were at least the size of the average man's legs.

He, like the young boy, wore a well-pressed, dark suit, though the material was much different. The suit was built for action, and the man was definitely well-suited for that suit in particular.

(He was well-suited for that suit, just like that suit was well-suited for him, in a way in which both suited one another very well, so you could say that the suit was well-suited for the man well-suited for the suit well-suited for him in return, though perhaps not in that certain suit of action, for the suit that well-suited the man well-suited for the suit was suited for a certain suit of action, and perhaps a different suit of action was ill-suited for the man well-suited for the suit well-suited for him, since neither the man well-suited for a certain suit of action wearing the suit well-suited for that certain suit of action were suitable in the ill-suited suit of action, and vice versa ten times over.)

Top that, Lemony Snicket.

One's first guess would be that of father and son, but the two looked nothing alike, and in any case, the older man's behavior was a far cry from that of an actual father. His eyes were darting around suspiciously, and he stood around the boy in an overly protective stance, not with the kindness of a father, but with the discipline of a soldier. In fact, a soldier or a guard of some sort might have been a pretty good guess - a better one than a father, at any rate. The older man actually seemed to be taking orders from the little boy - though the little boy was wise enough to be discreet about it, so that the nature of the orders in question was indecipherable to an outsider.

Both had reflective sunglasses folded into the breast pocket of their suits, even though it was nighttime.

Why they did so was unknown.

If one looked closely, one could see the boy holding a piece of wood – a branch of cypress, maybe – and tapping it periodically against the bricks on the wall of the underside of the bridge. (Just like his precise nature would lead one to predict.)

If one looked even closer, one could even see a slightly suspicious bulge in the suitcase that the tall man was carrying.

The boy's lips would occasionally twitch inconspicuously, enough to be conveying some sort of message to the tall man, whose only replies would be a nod or a gesture.

As it was, though, the night was descending upon the inhabitants of France, and the people of Paris were only eager to get indoors – to their homes, their dinners, their families, or some party (yet again.)

There was no point in stopping and staring at strange people who occur daily (or nightly, in this case) when more important things were at stake. Like that one appointment with the pretty lady who "knew" the Minister of Education and could possibly get you an important job if you played your social cards right.

No one noticed the pair all of a sudden seem to disappear through the wall.

The Pont Louis-Philippe was truly lovely at this time of night. Glowing lights carved brightness through the otherwise black night, and illuminated the underside of the bridge like a perfectly straight row of oversized glow-worms. Their reflections bounced back cheerfully from the surface of the dark waters, the little waves of the Seine refracting their smooth light into rippling dots of yellow.

Butler sighed. "Sir?"

"Yes, Butler?"

"How will we get this past Lady Angeline?"

To say Butler was concerned would be quite correct.

His young charge had yet again come up with another one of his devious plans. The worst part was, since he was the only one Butler was assigned to, it meant that Artemis had the final say over his actions.

These actions happened to be assisting the boy in deceiving his mother yet again.

Artemis was currently tapping his wand in a pattern on the southernmost arc on the underside of the bridge. With a rumble, the bricks sprang to life, much like those times in Diagon Alley, and the duo stepped through, allowing the structure to close behind them, reforming to its previous state.

Unlike Diagon Alley they knew from home, which preferred a somewhat darker, more medieval design, however, this city was bright and flaming with color and life, like a fancy high society party thrown by one of the royal families from the Renaissance era.

"Magical Paris is so much more extravagant than home, isn't it?" the boy answered cryptically.

"It is rather flamboyant," Butler agreed uncomfortably. Artemis only dodged the subject when his secrets were extremely important.

Artemis' mother was currently away at a party with some of her contacts in France. She had tried to persuade Artemis to come, hoping that her son would be able to forge some international friendships with some students from Beauxbatons, the magical school for students mainly from the Mediterranean area, but to no avail.

He had instead assured his mother that he would be fine, and when she left, had decided to bring Butler along for a "tour of Paris." Butler knew better. Artemis had been trying to find something.

And find it he did.

The difficult part was keeping it a secret from Lady Angeline when she returned.

Flashback: June

Artemis had been annoyed at first when his mother surprised him with "vacation" when he returned from Hogwarts.

He had been planning so many things to do at home, but then his mother decided that it would be a great idea to drag him out on a "global tour".

"It'll be fun, darling! Like an adventure!"

Artemis knew better. She wanted him to meet new people.

There was nothing wrong with meeting new people, but new children were a different matter altogether.

He had hoped that at least one of them would turn out to be slightly intelligent and capable like his friends from Hogwarts. (Even if Blaise acted like the clown of their little "group", at times, he was still pretty smart.) He had called them so at first, only to appease his mother, who was concerned about his social skills, but after reassuring her about his relationship with his colleagues, Artemis supposed that they truly counted as friends.

After all, their owls to him were the only thing that kept him from going insane over these antics.

Theodore Nott had sent everyone some very interesting photographs from the Himalayas, as well as a detailed explanation of the true nature of the Yeti. Somehow the boy had gotten a close-up view of one while climbing Mount Everest – Artemis could see the creature clawing at the camera screen on one of the prints. Theodore was always on these trips with his father.

Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, was at home relaxing and overall, accomplishing nothing. Artemis had to give him some credit for being able to make that sound interesting in his message to the world.

He smiled at Draco Malfoy's letter. News of their not-so-little stunt during their first year had naturally arrived back at Lucius Malfoy, and the man had apparently been angry enough to kill. If it hadn't been for Narcissa Malfoy's intervention, Draco's head would have apparently been hanging from a spear tip by now. Artemis actually laughed to himself when he got to this point.

It was obviously exaggerated – Lucius Malfoy was smart enough not to kill his only heir no matter how angry he was. As predicted, Draco was now under house arrest ("grounded," was the term used by people his age) for being so "Gryffindor-like" and associating with Artemis (the good-for-nothing mercantile "blood-traitors"), although the boy did receive a Nimbus 2001 as compensation (meaning his father was somewhat pleased that the rash action had kept Slytherin House in the winning streak and Dumbledore on their good side).

Even Hermione Granger, whom Artemis had had low opinions of at first, wrote to him. She was wondering how he was, where he was, and if he had met anyone else who he could deem "worthy of his precious time." (The nerve! Though, it was most likely rather amusing to a third party reading the letter…)

Quite the opposite had occurred. All of them turned out to be exactly like those airheaded, brainless morons that had driven to such an antisocial personality in the first place.

It was summer! He was hot, bored, and overall miserable during the entire trip. He wanted nothing more than to return home and continue his research on the People and his quest to find his father. How was he supposed to do this when his mother insisted on these pointless journeys?

What if there was an important alert while they were zooming around the earth? Artemis had not told his mother about his plans concerning the search for his father, because he knew that she would disapprove. One, it would be "dangerous," and two, many of his tactics were probably on the shadier side of the law.

Their last stop had been Paris, and by then it was already nearing the end of July. Artemis mourned the loss of his precious time. He would only have three weeks – that was hardly enough time – to continue his studies before he was shipped back to Hogwarts.

He had been in such a dismal mood that he had rejected his mother's invitation to attend some senseless high-society ball on the last day of the trip more harshly than originally intended. She had been very hurt, but wisely decided that the best course of action would be to surrender and to simply leave her son to his own devices.

Artemis took this as the perfect opportunity to sneak out into the city (with Butler coming along, of course – going alone would be ludicrous) and visit some of his less scrupulous informants. Filling a suitcase with some "paper persuasion," they had not gotten far when they were met with a rather unusual scene. Unusual, but not impossible, considering some of the other events Artemis had witnessed.

Perhaps this summer had not been as fruitless as I originally judged, Artemis thought to himself. His trademark vampire grin graced his stony features as he watched Butler pack the luggage again, the bills turned into worthless padding compared to their new treasure.

Stepping through the wall of the Pont Louis-Philippe, Artemis was suddenly glad that his mother had dragged him to Paris.

A/N: The Pont Louis-Phillipe is just one of the bridges that span the Seine in Paris. I thought that would be a pretty neat hiding place for a magical Paris, kind of like Diagon Alley in London, but behind a bridge instead of an alley.