Rebirth
by Ceresi

Rating: R

WARNING: There are spoilers for the HP books in here. I know, it's crazy. Also, slash, and one racy little R scene. ALSO. This is still, for all intents and purposes, a rough draft. I've had it betaed and edited it several times myself, but I'm working on a sequal, and some changes might be necessary.

Author's Note: It's been a long time since I updated, for which I don't really have an excuse, as this fic is already done and sitting on my computer. So here are four chapters all at once, and I'll probably put the last two chapters and the epilogue up some time soon. Sorry about that, guys.

Want more notes? See Chapter One

***

Quiet.

Breakfast was a quiet meal when you refused to talk to the person eating it with you.

Very quiet.

Mrs. Kamazaki tried, but neither of the Kaiba's were particularly enthusiastic. So she scooped out their food and gave them disappointed looks before disappearing into the kitchen.

Mokuba couldn't help but notice that he was eating almost three times as much as Seto, who ate barely an entire plateful. Had he always done that? And he looked tired, pale. Was something going on at work? Or was this a guilt trip? Seto was too clever when it came to things like this.

When Seto finally looked up from his plate, Mokuba was at turns worried and frustrated. His brother's face was so wan and so perfectly devoid of emotion that Mokuba's irritation won out -- he grabbed his book bag off the counter and left without a word.

When Mrs. Kamazaki came out of the kitchen, Seto's elbows were on the table and his head rested in his hands. Weariness slumped his proud shoulders.

She removed Mokuba's plate, sending up a faint clatter. He lifted his head and straightened instantly. "Thank you," he said briskly, formal as always. "That will be all. Take a day off."

Mrs. Kamazaki might offer counseling to Mokuba, and might bully Seto into eating on his good days, but even she knew better than to push him.

"Yes, sir."

He left without looking at her once, like she was a prop, a thing. She respected him, of course -- but she could understand how some people hated him. Always so rigid, so cold. A hair away from fierce.

~

"I'm not sure that it's wise, sir . . ."

Seto gave the officer his coldest, most imposing look. "Are you questioning me?" he demanded. The woman wavered. "I didn't think so. Now get out of my way."

She hurried to obey.

Seto shoved open the door and strode into the small interrogation room, fixing it's lone occupant with a glare. The man -- Taichi Soichiro -- lifted his head and caught sight of Seto. He snarled, leapt to his feet --

-- and was yanked back down by his cuffs, fastened securely to the table.

Seto smirked and pulled out a chair, sitting in it with his legs crossed. "Having a nice time?"

Soichiro glared at him under his eyebrows and muttered. Seto made it a staring contest and listened intently; he wouldn't admit it, of course, but he found the man's muttering disturbing. Not because of the threats on his life, which he was used to, or the comments about his character or corporation. It was that occasionally Soichiro would grunt a curse about Mokuba. He was worried that not only did his enemies know who his brother was, they knew Mokuba well enough to taunt Seto over him.

When Seto had heard enough, he leaned back in his chair. "I asked you a question, prisoner," he said.

Soichiro snarled again, like a rabid dog.

"So you're not intelligent enough to speak?" Seto asked coldly. He leaned back in his chair, staring idly at the ceiling. "That's going to make this difficult."

Soichiro's muttering grew slightly louder.

"I heard you the first time," Seto snapped irritably. "Now shut up and answer my questions! Who are you?"

Soichiro fidgeted in his chair and kept mumbling.

"Where do you come from? Why did you attack me?" Seto leaned forward. "Who are you working for?"

Soichiro fell silent for a moment, staring at him almost blankly. And then he let out a low growl and said, "Fuck you."

"Yes, you'd like that," Seto said silkily. "But that's not what I asked you, is it? Who hired you?"

"Kill you," Soichiro grunted. "Fucking KILL YOU!" He exploded, yanking at his bonds, snarling.

Seto recoiled, in spite of himself. He expected Soichiro to gloat, but he just returned to his fidgeting, his muttering.

Half an hour later, the female officer jumped back as the door slammed open and Seto strode out.

He whirled on her. "If he says anything," he said, "anything at all, you contact me immediately. Understood?"

Her hand was on her gun, probably an instinctive reaction to her obvious terror. She nodded.

Seto left the police station in a fury. How the hell had such a wacko gotten past his security and shot him?

It wasn't possible. He was faking it -- or someone had been controlling him. Seto had voiced the idea to the private investigator he had on the case and was assured that brainwashing was never so effective. But Seto was thinking of a different kind of control; par with the sort that Ryou's yami used to have over him.

But who? As much as Seto disliked the thought of someone trying to take over his corporation, he liked the thought of a magic-user even less --

"Mr. Kaiba!"

Someone gripped his arm and yanked him to the side, hard enough to nearly give him whiplash. He didn't even have time to swear before he was shoved into a brick wall, hard.

He managed to gasp in a breath. "What the hell are you --"

Gunshots rang out in the street. Seto's bodyguard -- one of them, at least -- released his arm and looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry, sir."

Seto ignored the apology and peeked out of the alley he'd been so rudely crammed in. Two more of his bodyguards had already tackled a man and knocked his weapon aside. Nodding his approval, Seto left his cover further. Someone was shouting. Were they hurt?

"Sir, there might be more!"

The bodyguard was ignored. Seto finally found the source of all the shouting -- a black-haired boy, about twelve. He was kneeling beside a young woman. "Ami! Ami! Wake up, wake up, wake up . . ." His voice dissolved into something approaching a whimper.

Seto crouched by the boy's side. "What happened?" he demanded. He took the girl's shoulders and laid her carefully on her back.

"The-the guy -- he shot her, it went right through her belly and into the car, she's bleeding really bad --"

"All right," Seto said. "Calm down." He looked briefly over his shoulder at his bodyguards. "One of you, call an ambulance!" A crowd was beginning to gather. "And get the sight-seers out of here," he added, glaring at them for good measure.

"Wh-wh-what should I do?" The boy was beginning to cry, shaking all over as he held onto his sister's hand.

"Nothing right now," Seto said calmly. He moved the girl's shirt aside and tried to ignore how the boy gasped -- the hole in her stomach was gushing. Seto yanked off his coat and wrapped it around her carefully.

"Is she gonna be all right?" the boy asked. His fit of weeping had passed abruptly, replaced with an eerie calm.

He's in shock. "Probably," Seto said honestly. "Sit down and try to breathe."

Without argument, the boy obeyed. Seto looked at him a moment and then felt for the girl's pulse.

"What's your name?" Seto asked finally.

"Akira," the boy mumbled. "Takamoto."

"How old is she?" Seto asked, just to keep him talking.

"Eighteen," Akira said. "Six years older than me."

The ambulance arrived soon after that.

Seto stepped aside, watched as the girl was lifted onto a stretcher and her brother was escorted off. Someone gave him a cursory work of thanks, which he brushed off. His hands were caked with blood -- that was all the thanks he deserved.

He went to his car quickly, wiping his hands on his pants. One of his guards opened the door for him.

Seto paused and looked at the man intently. It was the one who'd pushed him into the alley and, oddly enough, the one he'd frightened during his surprise security inspection.

"Ami Takamoto," Seto said finally. "Go to the hospital. Make sure that all of her medical bills are paid. I'll be checking to be make sure you've done it."

The guard wavered, but stepped back. "Yes, sir."

Seto got in the car and slumped into the seat as it began to move. He glanced down at his hands, sticky and brown.

It was the least he could do, and not even necessary. His insurance would take care of it. But . . .

Stop it, he ordered himself firmly. Akira doesn't look like Mokuba. He doesn't.

It didn't help much. When he got home, he doubled the number of guards and rigged the security cameras so they would transmit to his laptop.