He hung up and went back over to the mass of wires. "See, we have a loudspeaker that can connect through the whole house. That's what the plug was for. The wires actually go like…this!" He stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

"TESTING…ONE…TW-"

"Turn the volume down!" protested Jounouchi, his hands over his ears.

"Oh yeah, I forgot."

They finally got everything together enough so that they could stick in a CD and it actually played. But everyone had forgotten one rather important factor. Malik was no longer a teenager, and therefore no longer had the voice of a teenager. No, now he was the perfect boy choir soprano, and apparently only he knew it. This they discovered when he decided to try to improvise during an instrumental and effortlessly hit a high C. Jounouchi, startled, jumped and nearly fell off the couch. Everyone else settled for merely gaping at the youngster now giggle by the karaoke machine. Even Anzu admitted she couldn't sing that high.

"Now I get to try it with the microphone!" exclaimed Malik excitedly.

"Oh no, please," groaned Jounouchi, rubbing his ears.

The rest of the afternoon passes rather uneventfully. Mokuba and Malik started out sounding, shall we say, less than beautiful. It was the type of sound that made Jounouchi and Honda turn up the TV volume. As time wore on, though, they improved considerably; they both could carry a tune by dinnertime.

"You two are really starting to sound…um…better," said Honda as they followed Mokuba down to the dining room. (Strangely enough, Seto had made it clear that he would be taking supper in his office.)

"Yeah," added Jounouchi. "Pretty soon we're going to have to come up with a band name for you guys."

"Something catchy," agreed Anzu. "Maybe we could take advantage of the alliteration between your names."

"Uh huh," mused Honda. "Malik and Mokuba…Mokuba and Malik…"

"M&Ms?" suggested Malik, licking his lips at the thought of chocolate.

"M an' M…" Jounouchi turned the letters over in his mouth thoughtfully.

"Emanem!" laughed Honda suddenly.

"Shh," warned Anzu. "We're going to get sued by the Americans."

"But I changed it a little," protested Honda.

The two new "celebrities" finally decided on using an Egyptian phrase that translated roughly to "The Inspiring Singers Malik and Mokuba, Who Are Really Cool and Talented and Awesome. Yeah, That's It." The downside was that nobody but Malik could pronounce it, and even he forgot after about five minutes.

Dinner was an interesting affair. Mokuba had obviously warned the cook in advance, because there was enough for all. "I should have reminded Seto at the same time," he sighed, watching as a maid disappeared out the kitchen door with a tray. Not surprisingly, Seto had decided to take his meal in his office. Jounouchi and Honda ate everything they could get their hands on with little regard for manners. To everyone's immense surprise, Malik had the most etiquette of them all. He even beat out Anzu, who rested her elbows on the table momentarily when she was done.

They all stayed right until nine, holding video game tournaments and taking turns on the karaoke machine. Yami Bakura took over his host's body and spent the evening toying with the remote, still convinced that there was a switchblade hidden somewhere in there.

But when Seto emerged from his office at half-past nine, the house was quiet as promised. He grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and walked through the dining room. He was just at the door when he thought he heard something suspiciously like laughter. He stopped.

"The dragon," a small voice whispered out of nowhere.

Definite giggles followed.

"Shh…he'll hear you," chided another voice, followed by a soft munching sound and chuckles from both voice.

Seto slowly walked back into the dining room, looking around carefully.

"Shh! He's not supposed to know you're here."

Giggles.

More munching.

By now, Seto was quite sure the "mysterious voices" were not in his head, but were instead coming from under the dining room table. He remembered when he had first moved in and seen it, it had struck him as an excellent hiding place. Of course, now he was sixteen and much too old for that…but Mokuba wasn't. Slowly, he knelt down and lifted up the edge of the long tablecloth.