Past
Coming awake, Bakura tried to take in as much of his situation as was possible without giving away his return to consciousness. He was lying on something soft, and the garment that was wrapped around him was of a thinner, finer material than any that he had touched before. It felt as he thought the robes of the Pharaoh and his priests must have, soft, gentle, thin, and light as a cloud. Every muscle hurt, and he could feel the duller ache of bruises over his face and body, but the sharp stabbing pain from the ribs that the guards had broken had vanished completely.
Light shone from somewhere overhead, and as soon as Bakura's eyes had adjusted he opened them into slits, still trying to hide his awareness from anyone who might be watching him. He didn't know where he was, but he knew where he had been when the sudden pain of the priest's magic had overwhelmed him and he blacked out, and the Pharaoh's guards had no reason to be kind to him. As a matter of fact, he was rather surprised that he was still alive, let along lying in a bed that was this soft rather than in a dark cell somewhere, although he had no idea how they had managed to make the room so cold. He was a criminal after all. Attempting to kill the Pharaoh was high treason, not to mention the tombs that he had robbed and desecrated.
Bakura was lying in what appeared at first to be a small room with white curtains around it, moving slightly in the gentle breeze created by movement outside the curtained section. Seeing no one watching him although he could hear footsteps and soft voices outside, Bakura gingerly opened his eyes and sat up, suppressing the groan that rose to his lips as he pulled too fast on still healing scabs. Wonderingly, he touched his side, feeling the hard scab that had formed over the long sword wound that he could have sworn had cut deep enough to scrape into his ribs. It had been less than a day that he knew since he had been hurt. How was it that he was so nearly healed already? Surely the Pharaoh would not have bothered one of the holy healer priests for a simple thief who was destined for execution if he didn't die of his wounds first.
No matter how quiet he had been, his movement had attracted the attention of the others in the room, and one of the curtains was pulled back to reveal an elderly man, and an equally decrepit woman looking at him concernedly. Bakura frankly stared in return, mouth dropping open at the spectacle. He hadn't realised that anyone could possibly be so old. How had they survived? The woman alone must be over fourty years old!
There was a long pause as they seemed to wait for him to speak or do something other than stare at them in amazement, taking in the incredible age of both people and the dark, heavy robes that both wore, covering their skin. At home they would have been sweating and nearly dying of the heat within minutes, but here the robes looked comfortable and Bakura found himself wishing for equally warm coverings before he caught himself. He was a prisoner, no matter where he had ended up or how strange, pale, and old the people might be. He couldn't expect such kind treatment, and should be properly grateful for such as he had already been given.
Finally the man spoke up in a strange, smooth language that Bakura had never heard anything like before. He didn't understand a word, but the youth responded to this anyway, just in case this was only a test of some sort. "I am sorry," he started humbly, trying not to anger these strangers who had taken such care of him and whose decisions would govern the remainder of his life. "I do not understand."
The man frowned and pulled a thin stick out of his robes, pointing it at Bakura and saying a few words in Latin that Bakura vaguely recognized as having to do with language. He had heard Latin before from visitors to Egypt from Rome, the growing power in the north, and had learned to understand a little, enough to puzzle out a conversation in the language if that was what these people used. He opened his mouth to say so, and found himself hit with a bolt of magic stronger and more controlled than any he had felt before. Even the Pharaoh's priests were not so controlled in their use of magic, preferring to overwhelm with immense bolts of pure power.
Frantically, Bakura ran a mental checklist, trying to find out what the man's spell had done to him. He didn't feel though he had been hurt, but he had heard of spells that would force a man to obey the caster, and although rumors of such spells had never been proved to be anything more than fiction someone with so much control over his magic might truly be able to do as the rumors had promised. Although he searched, however, Bakura could find no trace of anything controlling his actions or making him more inclined to follow a different path than the one he had intended.
Confused, Bakura turned his attention back to the man who watched him curiously, as if waiting to see how he would react. "What did you do to me?" he asked quietly, and was shocked to find himself speaking in the same language that the man had used earlier. Closing his eyes, Bakura searched out the knowledge of his own language in his mind and was immeasurably relieved to find that he still remembered how to speak in the language of Kemet, that the language had not been replaced by the knowledge of the new language which he was now speaking.
"I only gave you the ability to speak in English." The man smiled at him reassuringly. "Things will be strange enough for you without adding in the difficulty of not understanding our language. From what Atem has told the Ministry you two have been brought to us from nearly three thousand years ago."
The information staggered Bakura. He knew, of course, that Atem was the Pharaoh, and although he had never heard of the ministry the thought that thousands of years might have passed since the priests cast that spell. What had they done? How could he have slept for so long and woken up almost exactly as he had been only moments before?
Seeing that he was too stunned to respond, the man continued. "No one understands exactly how this occurred, but when the curse breakers found and destroyed the seven dark items that were buried inside the temple of the two ladies of the pharaoh," Wadjet and Nekhbet, Bakura supplied mentally, mind boggling at the thought that these strangers could speak so casually of having destroyed the items that he had risked his life to tell the truth of. "Somehow the two of you were brought back into the normal stream of time from wherever you had been placed. Atem explained that you had no idea what spell they were casting, or what it would do to you, so you've been excused from the questioning that he's undergoing, and since you're so young and so obviously untrained in the magic that you have in such abundance, it has been decided to admit you into Hogwarts as a first-year student.
"You'll be with children younger than you, I'm sorry to say, but I'm sure that you'll manage well enough. Books have been provided for you, and you'll find that the ability to read a language come along with the ability to speak it. If there's anything else that you need don't hesitate to ask either me or Madame Brandon, the healer."
"Who are you?" Bakura asked hesitantly, not wanting to anger the man who had so much power. "Why would you want to teach me?" Hadn't the Pharaoh told him that Bakura was a thief? Surely they could tell just from his hair that he was cursed, someone that no self-respecting man would wish to associate with.
"I am Professor Dippet," the man responded proudly, "The headmaster of this school. And as for why we are helping you, you're just a child, and one who couldn't possibly manage to get along without our help. If you need that help it is our duty to give it to you, child." He smiled at Bakura kindly, and left him to think about it, wonderingly. This was certainly not his home.