The creature was less a living thing, and more an abomination. A twisted, emaciated thing—folding in on itself with wrinkled skin, with bulging veins, with rolling eyes and with a hanging jaw.

The thing was a mess of limbs on the floor, bound in chains and unable to move. The chains were of snakes, greedy and bloated worms thirsting after being burned by the flames of the sun, and in the center of the snakes was the rotted soul, laid bare before the waters and reeds.

The creature lay beneath a lake of fire, between two hawks, in an eternal, red sea of swaying reeds. Stranded between the hawks and the snakes, the slivers of soul deemed rotted had barely avoided the hungry jaws of the crocodile.

He lay gasping, shivering. Naked, wet, covered in blood like an infant torn from his mother's arms. Perhaps he could be one, in the eyes of those who surrounded him, in the eyes of the hands reaching out from the water towards him.

The hawks tore into him with their beaks, while the snake consumed his own tail. Sharp talons like blades against the creature, while he groaned against the attack. Hands covering his face, the creature squalled like an infant, rattling breaths drawn through his throat while he fought back in sound towards the sky.

It was in this form, rattling against the chains of death, that hands reached out from the ground to grasp the thing, fingers against flesh, while the creature was submerged in blood, water, and gold, and reborn into a cauldron of fire and bone.

Flesh and fire pouring into one, the lives of innocents sacrificed to blood, the creature was pulled through the hanging gates into gold and emerged with veins dripping in black and mouth open in screams.

Worms in his bones, the creature devoured his servants, and took life once more.


Harry James Potter liked to think himself a perfectly reasonable young man, thank you very much, and the first thing that came to mind with perfectly reasonable young men was the ability to ignore the voices in his head.

Which was proving increasingly difficult, all things considering, with the increasing frequency of nightmares that would typically get one thrown in what was colloquially known as "the loony bin."

In short, Harry James Potter was rather sick of prophetic dreams.

Night after night it was the same dream-some kind of world that looked like a desert, with giant animals and pyramids and some kind of kid-thing that was crying in the middle, before he was thrown into a big pot of gold soup and dumped on the ground. It was...well, it was disturbing, if he were being honest, and if he were a couple of years younger, he would have probably attributed it to some kind of late-night horror movie, or maybe eating too much leftover pizza right before passing out in the cupboard under the stairs.

As it stood, however, Harry had seen far too many coincidences to really discount things like that anymore, and so he was left, staring at the ceiling, brows furrowed while he turned the events of the recent dream over in his mind.

He wished, for once, that he was still just a muggle, unaware of the world of magic that lay before him. Maybe then, he could just blame it on horror movies, and not something that very well may threaten the souls of himself and his friends and family.

Burying his hands, in his face, Harry groaned, and then was promptly reminded of why that was such a bad thing to wish when he heard his name screamed at the top of a pair of loud, ear-bleeding lungs.

"BOY!"

In retrospect, he would rather face Voldemort than this.

Harry, all of fifteen years old, was a scrawny, specky thing with green eyes behind out-of-date prescription lenses (which hadn't been updated since he was eleven), rumpled, black hair (that hadn't been cut since last summer at the Weasley's), and oversized clothes (that hadn't been new since Dudley had stretched them out four years ago-of which the only clean thing at the moment were baggy jeans and a t-shirt that advertised Snapper Jack's Taco Shack). With precious little to his name-nearly all of it (thankfully new) underwear and (unfortunately) hand-me-down socks-Harry had packed his worldly possessions that were muggle friendly in a rucksack weeks ago, and left the rest of it in his trunk under the floorboards, ready for the day when he'd finally be picked up by the Weasleys.

In all honesty, he had almost been doubting this day would come-he had been half-certain that he'd have to make an escape like he did in second and third year, but it seemed that all of his letters were not totally unanswered, at least for today, and he squashed down the anger that had been growing at his guts towards his friends while he grabbed his things, ready to go, because honestly, why else would his aunt and uncle want to talk to him, if not for this? It was not like they had ever had a civil conversation with him before, and they sure as hell were not going to start now.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Harry walked down the stairs, sack slung over his shoulder and trunk thudding down the stairs behind him, ready to depart, that he stopped short, utterly frozen in confusion at the man standing before him.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter, I presume? I am going to be your escort back to Hogwarts, this year."

The man standing before him was a tall man, at least as tall as Dumbledore, with dark skin and long, brown hair to his mid-back, tied back in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. His eyes were also dark, somewhere around grey to purple, and framed by dark eyeliner. He was also wearing a white suit with a logo on it that Harry did not recognize-a KC, with a small dragon around it.

Rather than looking like a wizard, quite frankly, he looked more like one of Vernon Dursley's employers. Harry got the distinct impression that this was why his uncle didn't put up too much of a fight in calling Harry down to meet him-he probably thought the man was "respectable" enough in how he dressed to have money to spend.

"Who are you?"

The words fell right out of Harry's mouth, before he had any real time to think about him, and the man chuckled softly, giving a polite incline of his head that made the back of Harry's neck flush with embarrassment.

"My name is Mahaad Al-Sayyid, and you may call me Mr. Al-Sayyid. I represent the Grand Egyptian Museum, and our mission to restore the artifacts in the London Museum to their rightful resting place in the Valley of the Kings. You, Mr. Potter, are going to be a great help to me today, as I have asked Mr. Dumbledore to assist me in this task."

"Me?"

Harry pointed at himself in confusion, honestly unsure of how he could be of any assistance. Instead of answering, Mahaad held out his arm for Harry to take, as if he were a much younger child being guided by an older relative.

"I will explain when you get there."

Feeling rather frustrated by the lack of answers, Harry hesitated for just a moment, before he took hold of the older man's arm. Hedwig, apparently sensing her owner's foul attitude, clucked in reproach while he stepped over the threshold.

Harry had been expecting that familiar rush under his naval, or at least some kind of magical pop, but instead, what lay before him was an honest-to-god white limo, with a driver, and another dark-skinned young man and woman-one blonde, one brunette-with the driver being another dark-skinned man with a bald head and a ponytail.

Harry flushed, feeling rather like he did when he was twelve, and Lockhart declared he was going to teach the Boy-Who-Lived personally. He had the distinct feeling that there were going to be flashbulbs popping in his face at any moment.

The man with the ponytail opened the limo door for Harry, and if there was any pleasure in the situation at all, it was certainly the look on his cousin's face when Harry stepped into a limo. The man with the ponytail put Harry's luggage in the back, and Harry awkwardly slid into the seat, hands in his lap, feeling out of place among all of the people in suits while he advertised a California taco shack on his person.

"That's the kid, then?" The blonde asked lazily, lounging back on the chair, sprawled out like he owned the place. "That doesn't seem like too hard a job, you managed to secure everything for his sake?"

Harry blushed furiously, staring down at his shoes. He felt like he was a kid again, while his relatives talked over him. "My name is Harry, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." The blonde waved a hand. "Ishtar. Malik Ishtar. This is my older sister, Isis. Our older brother, Rishid, is the one driving."

The man with the ponytail raised a hand from the wheel and started the car as they went down the street. Next to the woman-Isis-Mahaad sat down, crossing his legs as they all seemed to judge Harry, making him feel like he did whenever the teachers found out his scar was sore.

"What do you want from me?" He finally asked, daring to meet the eyes of the strangers around him. It was Mahaad who answered-and Harry was quickly deciding that Mahaad was his favorite, judging from the fact that he was meeting Harry's gaze, and bothering to address him in the first place.

"Your evil wizard, Tom Riddle, has returned, has he not?" Mahaad asked, making Harry jerk his chin up to look at the other-the first bit of news he'd heard the entire summer, the first person to tell him something. "We have reason to believe he used a very valuable Ancient Egyptian artifact to do so, and thus the return of our history hinges on the fact that you saw him return."

Quite frankly, Harry did not care less about something like history, when there was Lord Voldemort being talked about in front of him. Lunging forward in excitement, Harry grabbed his own knees to balance himself. "Really, you heard about him? What's he been doing? Why hasn't Dumbledore talked about him to me?"

The man held up a hand—something which immediately caused Harry's temper to flare, and something which he tried to suppress, despite the fact that he felt the immediate urge to jump the man and throttle him for more info (so much for his favorite stranger so far, at the very least).

"Dumbledore has asked us to not tell you anything, and we will respect his wishes. Instead, we are bringing you to the Wizangamot to testify Tom Riddle's return. Your meeting will be tomorrow afternoon, and until then, you will be staying in London with us."

"London?" Harry blinked, slumping back in his chair, feeling almost dizzy with the absolute, neck-breaking jumps back and forth between the weird things happening. He was in the middle of a limo with a bunch of strangers dressed in muggle clothing, talking about Ancient Egypt, and how it somehow related to Tom Riddle.

He did not think his life could get any weirder.

By the time the car started on its way out of Surrey, the dream Harry had that morning was completely forgotten.


"You know, I never actually pictured you as the teaching type. Maybe like, upper administration or something, but definitely not teaching."

"Mutou, if you say another word, I will punt you to the moon."

Yuugi smiled, the absolute picture of innocence as Seto continued to pack his suitcase—all of it approximately three weeks before the fateful meeting between the tombkeeper's and Mr. Harry James Potter, only about a day after Mr. Kaiba's meeting with Albus Dumbledore.

Needless to say, if it had to do with the Pharaoh, he had to call Yuugi.

"If you're already losing your patience, I'd hate so see how you act when someone actually gets on your nerves, you know."

"You are actually getting on my nerves."

Yuugi laughed, as if Seto's words didn't affect him at all, and Seto cursed his newest employee's sunny disposition for about the millionth time since he'd met the Duel King, instead turning his attention back to his laptop.

Mokuba would be taking over his company for the time being, with Yuugi leading the project into the Duel Dimension System. Yuugi would also be maintaining things on the Egyptian side, with the help from the Ishtars, and Ryou, for whatever reason. Seto, for the life of him, could not figure out why Ryou would want anything to do with the Ishtars, but he was there, and Seto supposed there was not much he could do to stop him.

Yuugi leaned forward so that his elbows were on the table, getting into Seto's personal space, and the taller of the two leaned backwards, blue eyes focused on Yuugi like steady lasers full of stubbornness.

"You know, there's always the chance he could refuse." Yuugi said, actually meeting Seto's gaze, while Seto finally broke the stare, frowning.

"I am fully aware. That is not the point. The point is that nobody should be driven to suicide, and nobody bothered to stop it."

"And you miss your friend."

Seto grunted, grabbing his deck, and stuffing it in the holster, closing the briefcase around it.

"I expect daily updates, you know. And weekly rematches. And make sure Mokuba eats at least twice a day—he is starting to take after me, and I expect you not to allow that, with how often you insist that I eat."

Yuugi laughed again, once more getting in Seto's personal space, and Seto this time allowed it, while looking away.

"I know, I know. I'll keep you updated, and you know that Mokuba will kill me if I don't."

"I also expect that you will be able to defend yourself if something happens. We still often get attacks from competitors, you know, and if there really is some kind of evil wizard out there, it will most likely target us, as we are publicly involved with the Ishtars. I expect you to still be smart enough to get yourself out of dangerous situations, should they arise."

"Obviously, obviously." Yuugi waved his hand dismissively, as if it were something to straight-up be expected at this point, which it kind of was by now. "Do you think I would be the King of Games if I weren't used to getting out of situations like that at least twice a week?"

"You should also enter all KaibaCorp sponsored tournaments and remain our main representative. You will be compensated for your extra work, and I expect you to remain in top form in all your duels, even the rematches with me. I will keep testing your skill, to make sure you do not grow sour while I am away."

"Kaiba."

"And for that matter, make sure that Mokuba keeps his medication schedule, and I give you the full authority to fire any of my employees if they prove to not work up to KaibaCorp standards. As Mokuba's acting advisor, I expect you to show proper judgement with employee standards, and I expect your progress to continue as normal with the Duel Dimension System, and our conferences should at least be an hour minimum."

"Kaiba."

Seto finally turned his gaze to meet Mutou, who had his arms crossed, staring expectantly up at the Chess King, foot tapping.

"You're worried, and that's fine. Everything is going to be alright. I'll be here when you need me."

Seto looked away, picking at the cuff of his jacket, taking in a deep breath, and releasing it slowly, through his nose.

"Fine. Use your best judgement."

"You, too, Kaiba."

Seto finished packing his laptop, grabbed his briefcase, and he started to head towards the elevator.

"Don't get driven too crazy by the school, you know." Yuugi called after him, and Seto lifted a hand, giving a single wave in reply.


"I didn't expect you to agree to those terms. It kind of goes against everything that you did in your lifetime."

"It does, but things are different now. What matters to me most is this new lifetime. Or rather, getting to it."

Mahaad's fingers were folded in front of his face and sitting across from him was the heir to the tombkeeper's lineage the wizard had established—something of his final protegee, in a long line of his kind.

They had the same eyes, at the very least. The same, determined face.

"Our alliance only goes as far as this, however. After that, we will return to our former state, enemy of the Pharaoh."

Malik grinned, leaning forward, looking for all the world like the cat that had caught the canary—something appropriate, for the man who had come closest to killing the Pharaoh, as well as all of his friends, during his entire time as one of the Pharaoh's enemies.

Eyes gleaming with laughter, he held out a hand to the other, and Mahaad got the impression that this was not going to be the last that Malik made himself their enemy—at least in the abstract sense, if not going against him head-on yet again.

After all, their debts were equal, but that did not mean that there was no room for continued bad blood in the future, or at least curses sent from both sides. Mahaad, in that case, had no qualms about casting his own.

"Deal." Malik said, taking hold of Mahaad's hand—or at least the projection of it, in his glamoured form as the Dark Magician, summoned by his own power.

Mahaad shook.

"Deal."


A/N:

Just for clarification, the Nerd Herd are all one year post-DSOD, while the Golden Trio are all fifteen. Nobody in the Nerd Herd, apart from Mokuba, is young enough to go to Hogwarts.