A/N: Next chapter! We're making progress.
So happy to see a few of you still out there! Hope you enjoy, and see you at the end...!
Chapter 46: The Ultimate Thief
Though it had been early morning in London, it was late afternoon in Japan when the pharaoh appeared with a crack in the shadow of Domino City Museum.
It was a slow time of day, and only a few people were trickling in and out as the pharaoh made his way toward the glass doors. Inside, he scanned the mulling crowds and collection of exhibits, searching for the person he was supposed to meet. But, he did not immediately see him.
Somehow, the pharaoh knew where he would be, and he turned, starting down a long hallway.
He came to a doorway he had once entered what seemed an age ago now. This time, it had been sectioned off with yellow construction tape warning visitors to stay away. Without hesitation, the pharaoh ducked under the tape and into the long hallway that led to the room.
The stone tablet displaying his ancient origins, he as the pharaoh of Egypt wielding monsters of the Shadow Games, where he had first met Ishizu, and she had spoken of things that at once seemed to be the answer to so many questions, yet sparked just as many new ones—of course, was no longer there. It had been taken back to Egypt, and now the room was empty, in preparation for some new exhibit. However, as he had known, there was someone there waiting for him, in a long dark cloak with the symbol of the wadjut eye emblazoned on the hood.
The pharaoh took a cautious step forward, eyes sweeping the space for signs of a trap. As he turned, his gaze fell on three more figures standing near the side wall, also dressed in black hooded cloaks—only these were not cloaks of the Ghouls. They were not unlike the one he still wore now.
The pharaoh drew back a step, eyes darting everywhere. However, then the figure in the middle of the room stepped forward, drawing back his hood to reveal light blond hair, tanned skin, and a broad smile.
"My king," he said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing his head in respect. "You have come."
The pharaoh hesitated, glancing back uncertainly at the small delegation of cloaked figures, who continued to stand a little ways back, unreacting. Malik followed his gaze.
"Allies," he explained. "They helped me come here, and get a message to you. They are… of a different world. But I know you already know all that."
The pharaoh's gaze returned to Malik.
"Now," Malik said, all business. "We don't have much time, but there are a few matters we must discuss."
He paused, and he raised his eyes to look over at the three cloaks, still standing motionless by the wall. "We will be taking a turn about the museum," he said. "I don't expect to be gone more than a quarter of an hour or so."
"We will be standing by," said one of the cloaks, and the pharaoh was startled to recognize the crisp tones of Professor McGonagall. She continued, "Don't take too long."
Malik nodded once, then turned back to the pharaoh. He gestured toward the hall leading back to the main museum, and the pharaoh followed wordlessly.
When they were back among the regular exhibits, a few other visitors meandering here and there, and the pharaoh was sure they had to be out of earshot of the three cloaked figures, he asked, "Something you didn't want them to hear?"
Malik smiled a little. "Not particularly, I suppose. I wouldn't be surprised if, with their powers, they had ways of listening to us right now anyway. But I have a feeling, even by their standards, they might think us both a little crazy if they heard us talking, and I wanted to avoid that if it were possible. Besides—you know secrets come more naturally to the tombkeepers than light and openness."
The pharaoh nodded. He saw Malik's point. He doubted any real harm would come if they were listening—he found the idea that McGonagall was among them reassuring—but even so, talk of pharaohs and spirits was likely not to fit all that well with their understanding of the world, and the more they could avoid the necessity of convoluted and confusing explanations, the better.
They automatically gravitated toward the permanent Egyptian exhibit, and soon they found themselves standing before a mummy, not unlike the one they had just faced in Gringotts in Lord Voldemort's lair. It lay in an open sarcophagus with its arms crossed over its chest behind the glass, mouth gaping.
Malik put a hand gently to his heart and bowed slightly in respect, and the pharaoh found himself thinking of when Yugi had met Shadi for the first time—right here, in this museum, perhaps even gazing upon this same mummy. Malik had certainly changed a lot.
"I will make this brief," Malik said, his eyes returning to the pharaoh. "My king, I see you have learned a new kind of magic—this other, wizard magic. I know you got here using a power akin to teleportation, and even now, we are both speaking English. As I'm sure you're already aware, the spirit has obtained these powers as well—he came to Japan."
The pharaoh felt something cold drop in his stomach, and he spun toward him. "My friends," he started. "Are they—"
Malik put up a reassuring hand. "They're fine," he said. "The spirit did not go to them or speak with them. Only me."
The pharaoh relaxed slightly, letting out a breath. "Yes… I did know the spirit could use this kind of magic now. Bakura and I were at a school where it was taught—I was never sure how Bakura came to be there, but I've only been able to assume the spirit was behind it."
Malik nodded. "But, it seems there is a dark power in the world of wizards. Before I went to Japan and met the spirit, I was attacked by two in white masks, with powers similar to what I saw later in the spirit."
The pharaoh's brow creased. "Death Eaters," he muttered. "The servants of the Dark Lord."
Malik nodded. "So you know of him, too. I believe he must have been in search of information on the Millennium Items."
The pharaoh considered. "That would probably mean that the spirit has indeed met with the Dark Lord, as I've feared. But… if the Dark Lord was looking for information on the Items, that might mean the spirit hasn't told him all that much. The spirit seems to want the Dark Lord dead almost as much as the wizards do."
"I have no doubt he would," Malik murmured. "He would have no use for competition." He added, "But, that is not why I asked you to come here."
The pharaoh turned his gaze back to Malik, and regarded him evenly.
"This Dark Lord seems dangerous," Malik continued, "but he already has enemies that are fighting him—that are preparing to put a stop to him. The spirit, on the other hand, is our enemy. If you don't stop him, no one will."
The pharaoh hesitated, considering.
"While he was in Japan, we dueled," Malik said abruptly.
The pharaoh blinked, startled. "You—" he started to say. "And you—?"
"I lost," Malik completed. "For whatever reason, he did not force me to play a penalty game. But I will say he has developed a new, terrifying strategy."
The pharaoh nodded. That didn't surprise him. Part of being a duelist was to keep evolving, to keep working on new lethal combos to take down opponents. The spirit was nothing if not adaptable.
"I expect he's come up with a way he thinks will conquer the gods?" the pharaoh said.
Malik shook his head. "No, not that. At least, from what I saw of his deck. Rather, I think it more likely he'll find some way to force you to remove them before the game."
Once again, the pharaoh nodded. The gods were difficult enough to face even when you possessed a god of your own, and all three was a daunting prospect—that would perhaps be the simplest solution to subduing that which seemed insurmountable.
"Then I will defeat him without the gods," said the pharaoh.
Malik turned, regarding him with eyes that were difficult to read. There was faith there, yet also a lingering worry.
"There is another thing," he said. "Your friend Bakura."
The pharaoh turned.
"You remember your previous battle with the spirit at Battle City," Malik continued. "I used your friend Bakura as a hostage. If you struck to win the duel, your friend might have been hurt, even killed. You might have lost. Now, in fighting the spirit again, you may once more face the same dilemma—even if you come to the point of being about to win, the spirit may use your friend as a shield. What would you do then?"
The pharaoh hesitated, considering. Then he shook his head. "It's true, I was frozen then. I nearly lost. But in that duel, it was you who used Bakura as a hostage. While it was the spirit himself who intervened to stop you, and allowed us to claim the victory. Yugi and I speculated on that long afterward, and it seems clear that the spirit must need Bakura in some way. The way that I cannot exist and interact in this world without a body, neither can the spirit, I think. Therefore, it seems unlikely he would gamble with the life of someone he still needed."
Malik's brow had creased, and he looked torn as he gazed at the pharaoh with something like concern. "I wouldn't be so sure," he said quietly.
Malik sighed deeply, once again raising his eyes to the mummy behind the glass, though this time, he didn't really seem to be seeing it. "It may be partly true, of course. I don't think he can possess just anyone—but when the spirit defied me, what he said to me was, Even I have ways I like to win, and ways I hate to win. As though even he were disgusted with my treacherous and underhanded tactics.
"You see," Malik continued, "my goal then was vengeance—to simply destroy you, however I could. I didn't care how it was done—so in the end, the spirit had more duelist's pride than I did. However..."
Malik turned his eyes back to gaze at the pharaoh, mouth pressed in a grim line. "This last time I faced the spirit, it seemed clear to me that something had… changed. He is different from before. Whereas back then all he cared about was power, and gathering all the Millennium Items, I saw this time a degree of madness in his gaze. For whatever reason, he is now filled with hatred for you, and I am certain he will stop at nothing to utterly annihilate you and all you care about. Trust me when I say—true hatred knows no pride."
An image of the spirit flickered across the pharaoh's mind, as he stood beside the crystal waters of the Hogwarts lake, under a clear blue sky. His single visible eye wild, face contorted with blackest fury.
"You're right," the pharaoh said quietly. "I don't know why, but since going to the school of magic, he has come to despise me in a way he never seemed to before. I will need to be careful."
If the spirit was willing to win in a way he had not been willing to win before—what could he do? The pharaoh was not the duelist he had been at Duelist Kingdom; had the spirit not intervened to save Bakura's life then, he would have lost. Even if it had meant losing Slifer the Sky Dragon, giving in to Malik's evil plotting, never regaining his memories. He could not have gone through with the attack, and risked the life of someone else in the process, let alone the life of a friend.
Yugi spoke up quietly from his soul room, /We might just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I think this battle is going to happen, whether we're ready for it or not./
His partner was right—of course he was.
"One last thing," Malik said, interrupting their thoughts. He reached a hand inside his Ghoul's cloak, and when he withdrew it he was holding three cards, spread apart like a game hand. He held them out.
"Here," he said. "Take these. You may put them in your deck in place of the god cards when you duel."
The pharaoh took the cards and studied them for a moment. "And you think these will help me defeat the spirit?"
Malik shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine—you can take them, or not, it's your choice."
Smiling a little, the pharaoh quickly slipped the three cards inside his deck. "We wouldn't be here if not for the help of friends. I trust you—only I don't suppose you'll give me a hint as to what I'm supposed to do with them."
Malik shrugged again. "If they are meant to help you in some way, I'm sure when the time comes, you'll know. I'll merely say—do you remember how you defeated me at Battle City?"
"Of course," said the pharaoh, smiling. "But which time? The you or the other you?"
Malik chuckled a little ruefully. "Me. My servant, the silent doll, and Slifer the Sky Dragon."
The pharaoh nodded. That was one duel that would be forever burned into his memory. Facing an Egyptian god without a god of his own to defend him—he had very nearly simply bowed his head and given into defeat.
"When you are dueling, recall that battle," Malik said. "When you seem faced with infinite darkness, pierce the shadows with infinite light."
The pharaoh considered that. The words felt a little dramatic—yet appropriate. He nodded once.
Malik took one last look back up at the exhibit, then turned back to the pharaoh.
"And I'm afraid that's all the help I'm able to give," he said. "You will emerge victorious—or not. In which case, I'm sure the world will be plunged into darkness." He shrugged nonchalantly.
The pharaoh was gazing at the doors far across the lobby, though not really seeing them, already thinking of the battle that lay ahead. He knew of the stakes, of course—he always knew the stakes. However, at last his eyes returned to Malik. And in spite of himself, he couldn't stop the tight smile that flickered across his mouth.
"You know something, Malik," he said. "Maybe you have changed. But you still have a villain's sense of humor."
It was sometime later when the pharaoh emerged from the museum, the sun was still shining high in the sky, the warm sunbeams on his face at odds with the threat of the coming darkness.
Malik had been able to give him a little more information, and when the pharaoh had shared a little of what he knew from the spirit about the movements of the Dark Lord, Malik seemed to think the wizards would already know, but he would pass it along anyway. If all went well, they ought to have help for the final battle at the school—or so the pharaoh hoped. They had briefly discussed whether they ought to visit the rest of their friends, explain more of what was going on, but they had both decided against it. Time ran low now, and it was safer for them if they didn't get involved, which they no doubt would want to if they knew the danger the two of them were about to walk into.
/We will do it, other me,-/ said Yugi from his soul room. /We'll defeat the dark spirit, and free Bakura. And the others will defeat Voldemort. And then we'll come back and see them./
The best case scenario. It was easy to say—but he appreciated the words all the same. He would hold onto that hope, until he made it real.
"Yes," he said quietly aloud. "Yes, we will succeed, and all will be well."
Trying not to think of all the other possible scenarios, he stepped into the shadow of the museum, as the sun drifted ever closer to the horizon and the end of the day. And with a crack, he vanished.
Godric's Hollow was eerily silent and empty. Even though it was late morning when they arrived, and it was still summer, clouds had gathered overhead, and they shivered with cold. A light, ghostly mist hung over everything.
It took them a little while, but at last they found the place. At first, all they could do was stand and stare at it. Harry felt a tremor in the pit of his stomach. He was looking for the first time upon the house he had heard the story of probably a dozen or more times, the story that had so changed the way his life had gone. The place where his parents had stood and died defending him from the being that was now his greatest enemy.
The house wasn't anything particularly impressive to look at. Next to the neat, well-kept cottages beside it, it was a ruin, with windows blown out and black scorch marks on it, perhaps left untouched since the day all those years ago the tragedy had occurred. Likely the muggle occupants of the other houses couldn't see it, probably magically shielded from their sight.
"Lily and James Potter," said Hermione softly, and Harry turned to give her a strange look, then nearly jumped out of his skin as something suddenly pushed its way up from the ground in front of them. Harry looked at the object to see that it was an informational plaque, nearly as tall as he was, of the type one saw at historical landmarks made by the muggles.
"That's the password to see the marker," Hermione said in a low voice. She added, almost embarrassed, "I read it in the brochure."
"Only you, Hermione," muttered Ron.
They all gathered around the plaque and read the long passage detailing the event Harry knew only too well, and Harry felt tears sting his eyes.
His parents' sacrifice hadn't just saved him, it had saved so many witches and wizards, and ended a long reign of terror. Now it was happening again, and it was up to him to stop Voldemort. After what they had done for him, he couldn't fail. It was up to him.
Neither can live while the other survives...
"Harry," said Hermione quietly. "Do you want to go over to the cemetery? That's where your parents..."
However, Harry wasn't listening. He stared at the plaque and then at the house, and a new determination surged in him. He reached into his pocket and drew out the heavy locket. He held it up in his fist, and he suddenly had a desire to hurry up and destroy it now, in order to show them—to show the ghosts of his past that he would do it, and that they could believe he would make certain their sacrifice was not for nothing.
Harry opened his hand and gazed down at the heavy locket sitting in his palm, at the curving S for Slytherin on the front. He was seized suddenly with a conviction—here, at this place, Voldemort had transferred to Harry some of his powers, and so perhaps those powers could give him the ability to destroy the horcruxes, or at least this one.
Harry gazed at the locket, at the glittering green jewels forming the S, imagining it as a snake. He opened his mouth.
"Open up,"Harry said, but the words came out as a series of rasping hisses, just as he had spoken to get into the Chamber of Secrets all that time ago.
Hermione gasped and Ron flinched, and they both fumbled for their wands as, miraculously, the locket did, slowly, creak open.
Harry had not actually expected it to work, especially not on his first attempt. His hand dropped for his wand, and he braced himself for an onslaught of dark magic. He'd been so caught up in the moment he had been too careless.
However, the wave of malignant power, as with the tiara and cup, did not come. For a moment, as Harry stared down into the locket's interior, he saw what looked like a swirling wisp of fog, and he heard a small voice in his head cry out in pain and fear. Then the locket disintegrated in his fingers.
"What the—" Ron began. "What was that about?"
"Maybe it's some kind of trick," muttered Harry, trying to hold onto the bits of debris to study them, but a gust of cold wind blew and the remnants scattered from his grasp.
"R.A.B.," Hermione said thoughtfully. She turned to look at them. "Remember that note, Harry?" she said. "The one that was with the fake locket. R.A.B. said he had taken the real locket and intended to destroy it as soon as he could. Well, maybe he tried—maybe he got a long way in disarming the enchantments and defenses around it, but just wasn't able to take the final step."
Harry looked back down at his empty hand, pensive.
"Wow," Ron said. "Would have been nice to know that sooner. Would have saved us a lot of stress."
Hermione sighed. "Well, at least it's taken care of now, that's what's important." Hermione turned to Harry and said in a gentler voice, "Harry? Do you still want to… well, the gravesite for Godric's Hollow is over that way." She gestured vaguely.
"Right," Harry said, still staring at his empty hand. "Let's go." He suddenly clenched his hand into a tight fist. He would do it. He would fight Voldemort, and he would defeat the evil Dark Lord once and for all.
Hermione and Ron were already moving, but Harry stayed behind a moment. He turned back to the marker.
"Mum, Dad," he murmured. "I'm going. And I won't turn back."
The expansive, stone-walled rooms of Hogwarts castle could be stiflingly warm this time of year. In past years students already hot in long black robes were more incentivized than ever to practice all spells with anything to do with cold water or ice, but those who couldn't get the hang of it simply loosened their sleeves and collars, and tried to make the best of it.
However, deep in the bowels of the castle, the chilling cold lingered on the air. Perhaps because it was all underground—or perhaps because its occupant simply preferred it that way.
Former Professor Severus Snape moved quickly about his old dungeon office, gathering ingredients as a large cauldron bubbled on his desk. He dropped minuscule bits of this and that into it at various intervals, only pausing occasionally to stir with a precise number of strokes. Every now and again he would pause to consult a long roll of parchment laid out on the desk beside the cauldron, or jot down a note in cramped, tidy handwriting.
The fact that he needed to use these notes at all was a testament to the complexity of the potion he was making. Though his true interest had always lay with the dark arts, Severus Snape had always had the memory, knowledge, and creativity to make him excel at potions-making.
The potion was far from complete, and the former Potions Master was not even certain it would do what it was meant to. After all, he was developing a new potion from scratch, a process which generally took years, with much trial and error. But then, this was only the backup—in case the other plan didn't work.
There came a knock at the door. Snape considered ignoring it, or informing the fool that he was occupied with very delicate work at the moment, and they had best return at a more convenient time—next year, perhaps. After all, most likely it was Bellatrix come to reiterate her mistrust of him again and make her usual empty threats. The woman was growing restless, and it frustrated her to see Snape doing the work of the Dark Lord while she was held in reserve.
However, the rational side of his mind, ever weighing the pros and cons of every action, knew he could not afford to. It could be Peter Pettigrew, the disgusting little man, on an errand for the Dark Lord, or someone else who may have the power to cast him in a bad light to the Dark Lord.
"You may enter," Snape said without turning around, flicking his wand over his shoulder to unlock the door. A moment later, the door creaked open.
"Good day to you, Professor," said a voice—not as familiar as Bellatrix or Pettigrew, but familiar all the same. And certainly not where it belonged.
Snape hesitated. Then, regaining his composure, turned slowly.
Though a portion of his mind remained firmly focused on the brewing potion behind him, he surveyed the youth standing before him through cool, calculating eyes.
The boy came fully into the room, casually shutting the heavy door behind him. His single dark eye swept over the office, taking in the jars of pickled animals, body parts and various other potion ingredients lining the walls.
"I see," Snape said at last into the silence. "So you were an agent sent by the Dark Lord after all. I admit, I had my suspicions—you were not always entirely discreet. I only wonder that I was not informed."
Ryou Bakura's lip curled into a sneer. "I? Work for the Dark Lord, drowning in his arrogance? And here, I had begun to think you had a bit more brains than the average fool I am forced to endure on a day-to-day basis."
Snape's only reaction was to narrow his eyes ever so slightly. Another silence, as the calculations raced. He was in danger of losing his concentration on the potion.
"So then, Mr. Bakura," he said at last, voice low and delicate. "Are you trying to make me believe… you are not a servant of the one who controls this castle? That you have entered here without his permission?"
The boy's single eye glittered in the lamplight. "Permission, hmm. You know, I do believe I have. I have ways of getting permission if I so desire it of course, but I am governed by no one. That is quite unlike yourself, is it not?"
His eye flickered then, to the black cauldron just behind Snape. "I take it that is the potion the so-called Dark Lord has ordered you to concoct then," he said, almost conversationally. "Quite a task. And you are being so cooperative."
Snape had been careless, he knew—but he could not have expected anyone but allies and servants of the Dark Lord to be able to enter here, perhaps the most fortified magical place in the world. He held one hand behind him, and now he slowly reached into his robes, inching his hand toward his wand.
The boy's single eye flickered very deliberately down to the place the wand was concealed, then back up to his face. His expression remained unchanged, and he made no move to stop him. A bad sign.
"You know, Professor," the boy continued idly, and from his tone one might have thought they were old friends chatting amicably over a couple mugs of butter beer, "you look as though you've gotten a bit thinner since I last saw you. You don't look well. If I didn't know better, I would say something's weighing on your mind."
Snape's fingers finally closed around his wand. In an instant he was pointing it directly at the boy's heart. "You will go to the Dark Lord," said Snape evenly. "And he will decide what is to be done with you."
The boy's smile never even flickered. "Ah," he said, with a mocking simper. "But would you really do such a thing to a student, Professor?"
Snape's eyes narrowed. He ought to cast a spell now—but he didn't. The boy's utter confidence was enough to give him pause, and so he said instead simply, "I would."
The boy leaned back against the heavy door of the office, arms folded casually. "Lie," he said easily. As though they were suddenly playing a guessing game.
Snape's eyes narrowed, and when he didn't respond, the boy continued, "You are, after all, a professor, Professor. You have tried to protect the students as best you can—you know me to be dangerous, question who I am and what I want, and fear that I may interfere with your plans. But you have no intention of taking me to the Dark Lord. You wish only to incapacitate me, and decide what to do from there."
Snape did not immediately answer, controlling all reaction that might show on his face, in his body language, with a control so complete his fingers on his wand didn't so much as tense. "Delusional," he said at last, the corner of his lip curling a little. He felt nothing—no emotion. The boy was only guessing at things he didn't understand. The shield he kept was perfect.
"Am I?" said the boy idly. "Guessing, I mean. Or could it be that I possess a magic that not even your great skill at Occlumency can block out?"
For the first time, Snape felt something—a bead of sweat that formed at his temple, and slid down his face. No, he couldn't allow himself even a moment to feel any doubt, any fear, or else—
"It's useless," said Ryou Bakura, raising his left hand, and studying the fingers a moment. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the long black coat he wore, then raised his eyes back to Snape's. "Don't worry, it was no gap in your defenses. Those are quite impressive by the way, even I can see that. Let me explain it this way… Most thieves must navigate the pathways of any labyrinth they enter, in order to find the treasure they seek. Even the great Lord Voldemort. But—I am the ultimate thief. I can walk through the walls, pass through the solid barriers surrounding your mind with ease. That is why… I know the real truth about you, Professor Snape."
Snape didn't reply, and the boy continued in a voice barely above a rasp, "Everything has gone according to plan, it would seem. You, who have been able to place yourself in the perfect position to destroy the enemy, or at least play a part in his destruction. No detail of your cover escaping your notice, working for months on a potion with every appearance of the greatest effort at success…"
Still Snape did not answer. He well saw the danger here—he could not know whether the boy truly saw what he claimed to see, or if it was a trick, and this all simply guesswork, but it hardly mattered. The Dark Lord was not a trusting man by any means, and it would be easy to plant the beginnings of doubt. And then all would have been for nothing.
"You plan to turn the Dark Lord against me," said Snape. "Clever—but foolish. Because I may now kill you where you stand."
The boy chuckled. "Oh, don't be concerned, Professor. Even here in the heart of his new lair, there is no one close enough to hear, no spells listening. It's hardly in my interest to reveal you—the truth is, I'm just like you, Professor. Like the Dark Lord, like the dearly departed headmaster. Just another player, playing the game, arranging all the pieces the way I want them arranged, for the final moves. I just wanted you to know that we're on the same side—because I want his defeat as much as you do."
Snape had not lowered his wand. So much talk—the boy liked the sound of his own voice. And yet, Snape took in the information, hardly trusting it, but slotting it in with everything else he knew, trying to piece together the bigger picture. Who this boy was, and what he was after.
"There's something you can do," said the boy. "To help me, and help further your own goals. I just came to enlighten you."
"So enlighten me," said Snape, scathing, yet unable to quite curb a sliver of curiosity.
The boy's single dark eye seemed to glow almost red in the lamplight, his skin so pale in the dim light he almost looked like a ghost. "If you want to see the great Dark Lord fall, Professor, then this is what you must do…"
"There are three kinds of people upon whom the god of duelists never smiles. Cheaters who will do anything to win, cowards who fear defeat, and the arrogant drowning in their own powers."
A/N: Whew, there's another one! Something I forgot to mention, since this was planned prior to the release of HP 7, many of the reveals that happened there (Snape's history, the true nature of Harry's scar, the Elder Wand, etc.) won't be appearing, but I think I did use the description of the real Godric's Hollow for the setting here. So there could be a few details like that.
Interesting side note—I was rereading the Yugioh manga not too long ago (well, September 2017, it wasn't long when I was originally trying to write this author's note lol), and during the Memory World arc, I was curious to learn that Bakura's father owns Domino Museum. Uh, wow, I had completely forgotten that. Which is funny, considering it was a major component of my first ever long (ish) fanfiction, in which for some reason I decided to make Bakura's dad a horrible father who was kind of the villain. (Considering the direction the 2016 anniversary movie went though in telling Bakura's backstory getting the Millennium Ring, I feel justified now.)
Thanks again to you all out there still reading! Hoping to have the next chapter out by Friday (9/2 as it happens, for anyone who remembers the significance of /that/ particular date). If you have a moment, let me know what you thought if you like, and hope to see you for the next one!
Posted 8/29/22