A/N: Next chapter! Not sure how I feel about how this chapter turned out for various reasons, but I did my best anyway. (I always did struggle with the HP side of things.)
Hope you enjoy, and see you at the end!
Chapter 47: The Games
With three consecutive cracks, Harry, Hermione, and Ron appeared just outside Hogwarts grounds. The sky was tinged with orange and red as the sun drew closer to the horizon.
Partially concealed under Disillusionment Charms, as well as a few other clever spells Hermione had come up with, including one to mask the sounds of their footsteps and breathing, and even smell, in case they ran into something like guard dogs, or worse, Fenrir Greyback, they crept carefully along the familiar path of rolling grassy hills toward the castle entrance.
However, Harry didn't doubt they had tripped a dozen alarms already, and every moment he expected to be descended upon by deatheaters, captured and dragged before Voldemort. However, no one appeared—the place appeared almost eerily deserted, with not so much as a posted guard outside or in any of the towers.
They didn't speak as they walked—they had already discussed everything there was to discuss, and in spite of the sound-masking spell, they didn't want to give any enemies any more information than they had already. Instead they simply tread down the long familiar slope to the castle's enormous ornate doors—and found the first sign of activity they had seen so far.
The last time they had been here, they had found the doors blasted open by some tremendous force, but they had now been fully repaired. It could have been the castle's house elves, Harry supposed—and he suddenly wondered what had happened to them if the castle had been taken over. House elf magic bound them to serve a master, the headmaster, but if the place were taken over by force, would they be forced to serve the new owner? Harry felt suddenly sick at the thought—less because of the additional powers they would lend Voldemort and his followers, than the thought of the elves trapped under a rule they didn't choose. Voldemort had to be stopped—he had to.
They were standing before the entry doors now, and the doors loomed, massive and austere in the red evening light. After a long moment, Ron at last broke their agreement not to speak to whisper, barely mouthing the words, "Now what?"
Almost as though in answer, a loud clank cut out over the quiet, followed by an enormous groan as the doors slowly creaked open, inch by inch. Then, with a final thud, they stood wide open, like the open mouth of a predator inviting in prey. The hall was empty, still no one in sight.
Harry could barely see the others under their Disillusionment Charms, but he could almost feel them all sharing a look. Apparently, they were expected after all.
Harry's heart pounded at double-speed, and for a moment a terror like no other overwhelmed his senses—the battle, the battle which had been his fate from almost the moment he was born, when the prophecy had come, was almost upon him. And if he failed, everyone would lose.
He thought of his parents, standing strong even in the face of the enemy that had come for them, even as death was nearly upon them, and he took a deep, steadying breath. He raised his wand, letting the Disillusionment Charm fall away, though Ron and Hermione kept theirs as they'd discussed—it was probably pointless, as powerful wizards could see through concealment charms, but perhaps it would afford them a sliver of safety, no matter how slight. This was his fight, and even though he didn't feel in any way strong enough, prepared enough, he would do everything he could, and hope. That was all he could do now.
Staring straight ahead with determination, wand raised, Harry stepped inside.
The castle was often a bit drafty, even in the summer months—and yet now it seemed to feel unnaturally cold. As Harry stepped over the threshold, the air around him seemed to drop ten degrees, and he had to suppress a shiver.
What had once been a place warm and inviting and familiar seemed now dark and foreboding. The stark ceiling loomed high above their heads, dim candles lining the walls of hard stone.
Up ahead Harry saw light shining through the cracks of the doors to the Great Hall, and his feet automatically carried him forward toward it. He had also dispelled the sound-muffling charm of Hermione's, and so his footsteps echoed off the empty stone walls as he went. Each step seemed to weigh as much as one of Hagrid's banned monstrosities, but he kept his eyes facing forward, wand held high. He thought of all the years of jokes and laughter in this room, the startling news by owl, the stress-filled tests, Dumbledore's yearly opening speeches—and his heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if this would also be the place where he would die.
They stopped before the great doors, and Harry heard muffled voices from inside. However, as soon as his feet stopped, so too did the sound. He stared straight ahead—then, taking a deep, even breath, he reached forward and pushed inside.
The Hall was just as he remembered it. Long house tables of varnished wood and long red carpet extending from the entrance to the far side, like a carpet for royalty, candles hovering everywhere like twinkling stars, their light reflecting off the golden splendor of wall statues and tablecloth trim. Above the enchanted ceiling was tinged red with falling twilight.
At the front stood the staff table as ever, along with the tall throne-like chair in which had always sat Professor Albus Dumbledore. Someone sat in the chair now—only it was not Dumbledore.
Heads turned in his direction—like some horrible, nightmarish echo of days past, the hall was filled with people, some standing behind the throne like soldiers at attention, others seated along one of the tables—the Slytherin table. Only a few sat on either side of the throne. All dressed in long midnight black cloaks. But though most of their hoods were up, the Death Eaters weren't wearing their masks—they had nothing to hide anymore, and so Harry had a clear view of their glittering eyes, hungrily awaiting the coming spectacle.
Harry forced himself to ignore them, and instead focused only on the throne. Where, of course, sat Lord Voldemore, thin lips twisted in an exultant smile.
"Well, well," he said in that dry, snake-like voice, almost languidly. "Look who has come knocking at my door."
Harry stood stockstill where he was, rigid. As he stared at the pale, inhuman face and bloodred eyes, all his fear seemed to ebb away for the moment, locking itself somewhere he couldn't feel it. Voldemort had murdered his parents, for no other reason than to get at him, because of some prophecy that Harry would one day be in his way. Now he would face him, and he hoped somehow he would be the obstacle the Dark Lord had been afraid of.
Voldemort did not stand immediately. Instead, he simply sat in Dumbledore's chair, still smiling, gazing complacently at Harry across the Hall with glittering eyes.
"Welcome," he said, in that same dry, hissing voice, that almost made him sound like the old man he ought to be. He spread his hands, like a host inviting in a guest. "We have been waiting for you, most anxiously, Harry Potter. The great Harry Potter—it is an honor."
A titter went around the room, amusement, derision.
Harry flashed back to the scene in the graveyard, Cedric's prone form, and for just a moment, the cold fear he had banished slivered its way back in. Still he kept his head high, and didn't look away.
The Death Eater sitting immediately to Voldemort's right bowed slightly, and whispered something.
Voldemort glanced briefly in that direction, before his eyes rose back to Harry's. "Yes," he murmured. "I think that could be arranged. I have no use for the other two. I only want Potter. If you would like to take care of them now, you have my blessing."
The figure stood abruptly from the table, throwing back the black hood—to reveal long black hair and blood red lips, and eyes heavily lidded with black mascara. Bellatrix Lestrange.
She strode around the staff table, high-heeled shoes clicking on the stone with every step. "Ickle Harry Potter," she said, almost breathlessly. "He never learns his lesson—I will prune the excess for you, my lord. I see two of them right there."
Harry tensed. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Kill the spare. But even as he saw out of the corner of his eye as Hermione dissolved the Disillusionment Charm, their wands raised, ready to fight, he didn't turn. He didn't take his eyes from Voldemort.
"You don't want witnesses, Tom?" Harry called across the hall. "That's why they're here. In case I lose. Someone has to take the news back. Be the proof."
Voldemort sneered. "When I destroy you, I will parade your body through the streets of Diagon Alley. That will be all the proof I need."
"Bodies can be faked," Harry answered. "Just a transfiguration charm or two. Sure, you could kill them, and then kill me, but enough people would think you were faking it. They'd think the three of us were still out there, working on a plan to take you down. They'd probably accept the truth eventually—but wouldn't be much of a grand, glorious moment, would it? Not very satisfying."
Harry could feel his heart pounding. A part of him knew he shouldn't have brought Ron and Hermione here—that they'd just be fodder, a way for Voldemort to break him before the fight had even begun. But he had taken some of Voldemort's powers the night his parents had died—perhaps he could imagine smooth talking to be one of them.
Voldemort's nostrils flared, his eyes blazing. Then he relaxed. "Perhaps you make a good point," he said, languid again. His eyes swept casually over his Death Eaters. "Doesn't the boy make a good point?" None responded—perhaps unsure what answer he was looking for.
His cold snake-like eyes focused on Harry again, and he smiled. "We can leave the pureblood as the messenger. As for the girl… Bellatrix, you may have her to play with, if you like. Oh, don't kill her—the great Harry Potter is about to lose everything, I can be generous enough to spare his friends. He's been hero to the Mudbloods, so there ought to be at least one Mudblood left in this world to remember him—if she still remembers anything when you're through."
Bellatrix's eyes blazed with delight. She took a step forward.
Harry's eyes shifted, and he stared into the face of the person who had murdered Sirius, who had tortured Neville Longbottom's parents into insanity. He wanted to lift his wand to point directly at her heart—to forget all about Voldemort, and just fire off one last shot, and make her pay.
But that wasn't going to save anyone, and so he just kept talking. "I came here for a duel, Tom," he said, eyes back on Voldemort. "Now you're just stalling. Or isn't she going to get to watch?"
Bellatrix stopped moving briefly, and frowned, as though it had just occurred to her if she took Hermione, she might not be present for her lord's most glorious moment. She didn't turn, but her eyes slid to the side, half back in the direction of the staff table.
"Perhaps you are right," Voldemort mused. "Perhaps I have humored you and your enormously large head long enough, little boy."
He stood from the table, and all the candles in the hall seemed to flicker and dim—and whatever pronouncement he was about to make, what would happen to Ron and Hermione, how the duel was to take place, Harry knew it would be terrible, perhaps more than he could imagine. He gritted his teeth, and now he raised his wand in readiness.
There came a creak behind them, so soft he might almost not have noticed, if not Voldemort's red eyes suddenly fastened to the spot just behind them.
The creak was followed by the groan of the great doors opening once again, and though he knew it was dangerous, Harry let his eyes flicker back, for just an instant.
A figure stood there in the entrance—long, wild white hair hanging half over face, dressed in a long black coat and black scarf tied over one eye. Ryou Bakura stepped forward, with a gait almost casual, until he drew to a stop just a yard or two from Harry's left.
"I apologize if I'm interrupting anything," he said smoothly. "I realized I'd left something I'd forgotten. I'll just pick it up and be on my way."
Harry spun his head back quickly to see the reaction at the arrival—Bellatrix's wide, vicious smile was back. "More children to put in their place?" she exulted. "All magnificent sacrifices to our glorious Dark Lord!"
Voldemort however, was no longer smiling. He eyed the boy with an odd expression—careful, calculating. An almost wary look Harry would have thought only reserved for Dumbledore.
"Don't look like that," said Bakura, and there was something new in his face—just like when he had taken on the cup. A coldness in the smile that flickered at the corner of his lips, as though he were enjoying himself. "You should be happy to see me, my lord. Things are about to get a lot more fun. You wouldn't want things to be too predictable, would you?"
"Why are you here, thief?" said Voldemort, tone dismissive, though still with the same calculating look in his eyes. "I am a little preoccupied at the moment."
Harry's eyes shot back and forth between Voldemort, and the figure standing barely a hippogriff's length from him. Though he couldn't really afford to take his focus off Voldemort even for a moment, he could feel his mind racing, trying to make sense of all this. Bakura's entire aspect had changed—gone was the timid, self-effacing boy who could barely cast spells. He was smiling, grinning wide, and his few steps from the great hall doors to where he stood now had been almost a swagger. He spoke to Voldemort as though he knew him personally somehow—and Voldemort seemed to know him as well.
Bakura, as though he could read the thoughts now beginning to form in Harry's mind, suddenly shifted his single eye to stare right back at Harry. Still grinning, with a kind of controlled glee that might have matched even Bellatrix.
"No," said Bakura, as though speaking to some sentiment spoken aloud. "No, the Dark Lord and I were not working together all along—but I did grant the two of you a magnificent stage on which to conduct your final showdown. Generous of me, no? Breaking the defenses of this castle, to allow them to enter and plant themselves here… aren't you glad to come to a place familiar? Imagine if you had had to track the lord down off in the middle of nowhere. It just wouldn't have the same gravitas."
He added as an afterthought, "For what it's worth, Harry, I would like to see you win. After all, dealing with you afterward would be easier for me than dealing with him. But, you can have the peace of mind that, even if you fail, I will be here to finish what you started. The Dark Lord will fall, one way or another."
Harry's attention was fully on Bakura now—they had speculated about Bakura and Yugi, what they were really after, but he realized now he had not really believed they would be betrayed. Especially by Bakura first—did Bakura really have strength enough to back up his words, to face Voldemort, or was it just arrogance? From Voldemort's expression, Harry thought he seemed to be taking him seriously.
Harry opened his mouth to respond—he still wasn't sure how—but Bellatrix spoke first.
"Insolent—little pest—" Bellatrix hissed, seemingly barely able to get the words out in her rage. "You would dare—show such disrespect to the greatest wizard who has ever lived? We will see how insolent you are, with your eyes and tongue burned out of your head."
She raised her wand, pointing it directly at Bakura, the curse already on her tongue. Harry reacted on instinct—wand rising toward Bellatrix to stop her, somehow, even though he knew he'd already be too late.
But Bakura only laughed—a chilling sound that echoed about the room, making the candles flicker. There was a strange glow at his chest—and something erupted from the stone floor at Bellatrix's feet.
An enormous, disembodied hand with long deadly claws extended from the stone floor like a statue that had been there all along. Bellatrix's eyes widened in furious confusion, surrounded suddenly by fingers as thick as her torso, moments away from crushing her.
"I don't think so," said Bakura pleasantly.
Harry saw Voldemort's hand moved as fast as lightning, drawing his wand, and Harry saw the end point straight at the hand. But in an instant, the hand withdrew back into the stone—carrying Bellatrix with it. Harry caught a glimpse of her face, eyes wide with shock and horror, before she was gone, head submerged under the stone.
"There's one follower in my clutches," he said, waving a casual hand. "Shall I kill her, my lord? I would drag out taunting you, but I know you don't give a whit about them."
When he received no immediate reply, he went on, "I must admit, I've learned my lesson not to underestimate you wizards. When I first came to your world, I was arrogant, I thought you stood no chance whatsoever against my powers—now I know how to be more careful."
He raised one hand, palm up, fingers crooked as though he were the one holding Bellatrix in his grip. "Any final words, my lord?" he murmured. "For your most devoted devotee, at least."
Voldemort was no longer looking at Bakura—as Bakura had been speaking, his eyes had been roving the room, first wandering over the floor, then to the side wall, and at last the wall around behind him, though he only turned his head a fraction. As though seeking out the giant hand.
At last his eyes returned to Bakura. He flicked his wand slightly, to one side.
Bakura brought his fingers inward, smiling wide—then froze. He suddenly gritted his teeth, staring down at his palm—which, Harry saw, was smoking, the skin suddenly red and blistering.
Voldemort's eyes calmly shifted again, toward the floor between what had once been Griffindor table and Hufflepuff, and suddenly the hand emerged again—still holding Bellatrix, only now she appeared to be in a protective sphere, the hand gripping it like a rat ball. Wherever the hand touched the sphere, the skin seemed to burn, and the clawed fingers released it rapidly, before withdrawing back protectively into the stone.
"Perhaps you don't understand our magic so well as you think, thief," said Voldemort.
Bakura's teeth were gritted, and for a moment, he glared up at Voldemort. But then, his lips flickered in another smile. Reaching inside his coat, he withdrew his wand. And, holding it between two fingers almost carelessly, he began to draw the end back and forth across his palm. The burns healed as they went. He raised his palm to look at it, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"Interesting," he said. "That was a quick bit of intricate magic—impressive. The fearful shadow you cast upon your world is well earned. I did not know you would be so skilled at protective magic as well—but I wonder if you will be able to protect them all so well. Or if you will even care to."
There came a small squeak somewhere to Voldemort's left, a little behind—and for the first time, Harry noticed a quivering form behind the staff table. His hood was up like the others, but Harry knew it could only be Wormtail.
Bellatrix, who seemed to have recovered from nearly being crushed to death, stepped forward, furious again. "You dare—"
Voldemort put up a hand to silence her. He eyed Bakura with narrow-eyed suspicion. "I grow bored of these games, thief," he said in his usual husking rasp. "Potter and I have a fated contest to face—but if I have to destroy you first, I will gladly do so." He added, "From all this talk, I would almost say you were stalling."
Bakura tilted his head to one side, his eyes flickering back in the direction of the great doors behind him, which had fallen closed again, as though listening for something. Then the corner of his lip twitched.
"Clever deduction, my lord," he said. "My timing may be impeccable, but that of others often leaves something to be desired—and I did have a bit of dead space to fill. But it would appear we can soon move forward now."
He eyed his perfectly whole palm for a moment, before his eye rose back up to Voldemort. It seemed to glow red in the light of the flickering candles.
"Let me let you in on a secret, my lord," he murmured. "Maybe a few secrets." He raised a single finger. "Secret number one—a few moments ago, when you apparently caught me off guard—just a bit of playacting on my part. The truth is, I am never taken off guard. I always see you coming—so it should come as no surprise to you that I am well aware of your real plan to destroy me. Granted, it was foolish of me to go out of my way to make you aware that I am an opponent worth the sacrifice you planned to make, but again, I acknowledge I may have been slightly overconfident in the past. It almost destroyed me, I'll admit, taking out your pieces of protection—that is why I employed someone else to take care of this one. Someone whose true loyalties you never were able to see…"
Harry had never thought he would meet an enemy who liked to talk more than Voldemort—except maybe Draco Malfoy—but Bakura seemed to be enjoying explaining his plans. Harry would have rather Voldemort not know they knew about the horcruxes, but it seemed there was little he could do to stop it.
Voldemort's eyes flickered toward his followers, who were looking on in confusion—they wouldn't know about the horcruxes. Of course, many if not most were likely well versed in knowledge of dark magic, and even if they had never guessed it, they may well guess it now.
Voldemort looked back toward Bakura, and his nostrils flared—but then he seemed to think. His eyes narrowed, then widened.
"I think you can guess who I mean," said Bakura, smiling. "Someone close to you. Someone who knows the dark arts inside and out, who performed a task so great it pushed him beyond suspicion, even though the two of them planned it from the beginning…"
"Severus," he murmured.
Bakura's smile was wide. "I admit, I am flattered really," he said. "That you would initiate such a sacrifice for just little old me—I must have really made an impression on you. Unfortunately it will not be I falling into your little trap. But at least you will have punished one enemy."
"Severus has not the power to defeat Nagini," said Voldemort coldly.
"Ah," sighed Bakura. "You would do well to take a lesson from me, and not underestimate the power of others. How much control and power do you think it took to hide from you that which no one else could? Think on that, my lord."
As the two had spoken, Harry had taken a step back, then another, until he was standing beside Ron and Hermione. They all three had their wands raised, watching Voldemort, his followers, and Bakura. He knew the two of them were thinking and feeling so many of the same things he was feeling—this story had a way it was supposed to play out; from the very first moment Harry had been born, and the prophecy had changed the course of his entire life. Now it was being hijacked by a rogue player, from a magical world outside their own, and it was impossible to tell if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. If only the two would fight and somehow destroy each other—but Harry knew that was too much to hope for. Now Bakura seemed to be saying that Snape was suddenly on their side too—everything seemed a confused jumble, the clear line that he thought he had to follow now a tangled uncertain mess.
"What should we do, Harry?" Hermione said in an undertone.
He could hear the second implicit question—who do we want to win? Harry knew what his instinct told him—Voldemort had murdered his parents, and many more besides, and he was the threat that had loomed over his head since he had first learned of him his first year. But that may simply be what he didn't know—from the way Bakura talked of death, that strange monster that could crush a person to death in a fist if he so chose, Bakura could have easily done things just as terrible in his own right. They needed someone who could tell them more about what was happening, someone who knew the things they didn't.
Harry realized Bakura had stopped addressing Voldemort, and he had turned his head, just enough so that his single eye rested on Harry. "You're about to get your wish," he said. "I really must apologize for his tardiness—he has never been a polite individual, but then I suppose that's what royalty does to one. The spoiled child."
Harry didn't answer, but he stared back at Bakura. Wondering if he might guess more of the questions now blazing through his mind.
Bakura's grin widened ever so slightly.
And that was when the great hall doors creaked again—both Ron and Hermione each kept their eyes on Bakura and Voldemort, and so Harry chanced a look behind him.
He was almost surprised—yet somehow, not quite. A second figure stood in the entrance, still dressed in the same long school uniform cloak they had seen him in that morning, hair slicked up as always into multicolored spikes, the gold pendant like an upside down pyramid at his chest as ever. The only thing different was that Harry now saw a strange device strapped to one arm, an object with an overlarge circle in the center like a wristwatch, with sharp points extending from either side like mechanical wings. It was all futuristic blues and silvers, clearly muggle-made.
Yugi was holding up his wand, which he had used to open the doors. He met Harry's eyes, and they were hard with determination. He stepped through the doors.
When they had first met Yugi in the middle of the school year, he'd seemed almost timid, a shy kid who needed looking after. Now he stood with his head high, radiating confidence, just like he had in the Gringotts vault. Harry wondered as he had then if Yugi had changed somehow from the beginning—or, more likely, if like with Bakura, the shyness had always been an act.
The gold pendant and strange wristwatch gleamed in the torchlight, and Yugi's eyes scanned over the room. His eyes lingered briefly on Voldemort and his strange features, his red eyes, and on Bellatrix, whose hair was half in her face, looking furious and a little worse for wear after her near-death underground. Before at last his gaze settled on Bakura.
"So here you are, spirit," said Yugi. "Interfering in a battle that is not yours."
Bakura had turned his head to regard him over his shoulder. "You're one to talk," he sneered. "I seem to recall no one knows how to stick his nose in where it doesn't belong better than you, your Majesty."
"You wanted me here," Yugi answered in a measured voice. "Why? Do you want me to help you defeat this dark lord?" His eyes flickered briefly again toward Voldemort. "Or is your real plan that you are going to try to use him to destroy me—since you've never been able to defeat me yourself?"
For the first time, Bakura's complacent smile slipped. His eye narrowed, and for a moment, it was black with hate.
An explosion of green light suddenly erupted in front of him, and Harry, startled, looked up to see Voldemort and Bellatrix both, their wands pointed straight at Bakura.
However, the green light didn't reach him, and scales glimmered in the candlelight. It blended in perfectly with its surroundings, yet at the edge Harry could once again make out the outline of a giant hand.
The edge of Bakura's lip was curled back from his teeth in open irritation now, and he raised his eye to Voldemort. "How many times do I have to say it—you will never take me by surprise." However, there was a bead of sweat on his brow—and Harry wondered how close he might have come not to summoning the monster, whatever it was, in time, distracted as he seemed to be.
"We might be able to defeat him," Yugi went on calmly, "with our magic he doesn't know. Or he might be the one to destroy us, with the powers we don't know. There is already someone fated to defeat him. I think we have a battle of our own to get to—I'm tired of waiting. For you to arrange all your own pieces, so that you feel perfectly safe."
Bakura's expression had smoothed, yet the rigid tension of irritation in the corner of his mouth still lingered. "Perhaps you are right," he murmured, almost to himself. "Perhaps I have put off destroying you long enough."
He looked to Voldemort. "The time draws near, for your trap to be sprung, my lord… perhaps you ought to take your leave now, as you intend. You know that even if you lose everything here, you can always build from scratch. And you may yet succeed over me—I will not be going, not just yet. After all the trouble I went to in order to secure this grand stage for a final battle, I cannot let it go to waste."
Voldemort had climbed to his feet. "I will take my leave," he said, almost languidly. "Come, my followers—this castle is no longer worthy to act as our sanctuary. We shall scatter, and I shall call you all to our new home. As for you—I hope you perish in your own arrogance, thief."
Voldemort turned, and swept from the room, passing through a side door. Harry wasn't sure if he imagined it, but as Voldemort turned away, he thought he saw the flickering sparks of a spell issue from his wand.
Harry expected the Death Eaters to immediately follow, but they all remained still as statues. Even Bellatrix didn't move, her dark eyes glassy.
"A nice speech," mused Bakura into the quiet, "even if it was all for show. He won't let even his own followers leave here alive, knowing what many may undoubtedly guess now about their master's secret to immortality." He chuckled. "Once the final piece is destroyed, I will hunt him down. And I will be free at last from all competition..."
"No." Yugi's voice rang with power and authority. "I'm the one you are facing here, spirit. This is a battle that has been raging for decades, and must be fought by the ones who have been fighting it all along, the witches and wizards to which this battle belongs."
His eyes shifted to Harry. "This is your battle, Harry. I see that now. I'm sorry if I interfered in things I didn't understand—but you are this Voldemort's true enemy, and he yours. Go, put an end to the darkness that has been reigning over your world. And I will take care of the alien shadow that has crept in where it doesn't belong."
Harry glanced toward Bakura, who watched them, then turned his eyes to meet Yugi's gaze. He had so many questions he wanted to ask—he still didn't know what to think of Yugi, if he could be trusted, if he was really on their side. But in this moment, he couldn't push away the sense that they were. That, though they might be from different magical worlds, they fought for all the same things.
There was no time, and so he only nodded once. He took off across the Great Hall, dodging frozen Death Eaters, until he reached the side door, the one Voldemort had taken. Wrenching it open, he raced down the familiar corridor he had walked so many times as a student, after his enemy.
The pharaoh watched Harry go. Behind him, he could almost feel Ron and Hermione vibrating with the desire to follow, to be there for him—but they remained where they were. They too knew that, though they had come this far, this was a battle Harry had to face alone.
"Well, well," said the spirit, drawing the pharaoh's eyes back toward him. "Here we are. Now, doesn't this feel familiar? The two of us, ready to do battle again—not that you remember half of them."
"And you do?" answered the pharaoh skeptically. "You always talk like you know things I don't—but I'm starting to wonder. If you're just a lost spirit after all, pretending to be important."
As the pharaoh spoke, the spirit barely seemed to pay him any mind. Instead, he reached down to draw back the flap of his trench coat, where there was a conspicuous bulge at his waistband—revealing, of course, a Kaiba Corporation Duel Disk. He slotted it onto his arm, clicking into place, then waved his arm experimentally, making sure it was securely fastened.
"I suppose we're about to find out," said the spirit. His single eye gleamed with malice. "By the way, your two friends are entirely confused by now—I think much of this will be self-explanatory, but perhaps we can enlighten them as the game unfolds."
The pharaoh didn't turn his head, but he could feel Ron and Hermione behind him, staring at his back, searching for answers. Perhaps trying to make sense of what little he had told them, and how it all fit together.
He heard Hermione's voice murmur softly, "This is one of your games, Yugi? That you live or die by."
"Yes," the pharaoh answered quietly. "I know you have little reason to trust me, but—he must be defeated. This is our magic."
If Hermione intended to answer, she didn't have a chance, because the spirit laughed suddenly, spreading his arm. "Well—I think we could use a little more room, don't you? Diabound!"
The foul monster of bulging muscle and tendons erupted from the floor, not bothering to cloak itself in the shadows—with a sweep of its arm, it shoved back the Hufflepuff house table, then Ravenclaw. The Ravenclaw table hit the side of the Slytherin table, sending several of the frozen Death Eaters falling against the stone. Still they remained unresponsive, still as statues.
An open space had now opened up in the floor between them, and the spirit walked to the far side, turning slowly, the high staff table looming at his back. The pharaoh stood opposite, watching him.
The spirit extended the Duel Disk in front of him—but nothing happened. He chuckled.
"Oh, that's right," he said airily. "I almost forgot—technology doesn't work here." He smiled, showing his canines, single eye seeming to glow almost crimson in the candlelight. "I guess we'll just have to use Shadow Magic to bend the rules a little."
Gold flashed at his chest, and an inky blackness seemed suddenly to explode from behind him, racing over everything, blocking out the candles, the overturned tables, the enchanted ceiling with its sunset sky above. Dark mist roiled at their feet—and all that was left was darkness.
"Someone is about to suffer the humiliation of defeat," the spirit murmured. "And he will regret taking on a battle he could not win."
"For once, you speak the truth, spirit," said the pharaoh. "It's time to duel."
"A battle strategy that relies on strength sometimes reveals unforeseen weaknesses. True power would never mean hurting yours allies... your friends."
A/N: I have a note that I apparently finished the original draft of this chapter April 2014. (Wow. Such old writing, no wonder I had to rewrite everything.) Also there was a last-minute chapter title change, for the longest time it was called 'Time to Duel.' Which occurred to me might be slightly misleading.
In any case, chapters like this were definitely one of the biggest obstacles I had to finishing these drafts and getting them up. I have a lot of critiques of this old project looking back, particularly the HP side of things, though having worked on this also meant I was able to appreciate even more Deathly Hallows as the final book of a series so rich and complex.
Thanks so much for reading! If you have a moment, let me know what you thought, and hope to see you in the next one!
Posted 9/2/22 (Couldn't decide to finally finish posting this story in September and not have at least one update fall on Bakura's birthday. In real years Bakura is like, what… 43 now? Happy Birthday Bakura, may your days not be filled with possession and soul-sucking RPGs.)