Chapter 113: Chapter 113: Grave Robbing

The night was deep, moonlight veiled behind drifting clouds as silence draped over Hogwarts like a mourning shroud. The castle slumbered. Not a creature stirred across the grounds. Even the wind held its breath.

A soft crack split the air beside the Great Lake.

Arthur materialized at the water’s edge, his dark robes blending seamlessly with the shadows. Dumbledore’s tomb stood nearby—solemn, undisturbed, pristine in white marble.

Time to disturb the dead, Arthur thought without a shred of guilt.

With a flick of his fingers, a faint shimmer expanded outward from him like a growing bubble. The air rippled briefly, then stilled. He had conjured a dome of concealment around him and the tomb—perfect illusion. Anyone watching would see nothing amiss. Just peaceful stone. Quiet grass. A grave untouched.

“Forgive the intrusion, Headmaster,” he murmured to the night air, though remorse was the furthest thing from his mind. “But better me than Voldemort.”

His hands began their dance—precise, elegant movements that would have made the Masters of Kamar-Taj nod in approval. The air crackled with otherworldly energy as he brought his palms together, then pulled them apart.

The tomb answered.

With a low hum, the tomb split open—cleanly, geometrically. Marble tiles slid aside, rearranging themselves with architectural grace. Within seconds, the crypt lay exposed beneath the night sky.

Dumbledore lay within, looking remarkably peaceful for a man who’d orchestrated his own death. His hands were folded neatly across his chest. His half-moon spectacles still perched on his crooked nose, as if waiting for the next great chess match.

Arthur barely spared him a glance. His eyes were drawn instead to the wand nestled in those still fingers.

The Elder Wand. The Deathstick. The Wand of Destiny.

It looked disappointingly ordinary—just a length of elder wood with peculiar knobs along its length. No aura of power, no singing of destiny. Just wood and core, waiting.

Arthur plucked it from Dumbledore’s grasp with the same casualness one might borrow a quill.

“Let’s see if you live up to the hype.”

He gave it a test flick. Sparks flew, obedient and controlled, but he felt no surge, no shift, no bond. It felt… ordinary.

“Still loyal to Draco, are you?” Arthur muttered. “No matter. I’ll find him.”

Draco Malfoy—who had disarmed Dumbledore before his death—held the wand’s allegiance, whether he knew it or not. Arthur would have to best the boy. A minor nuisance, nothing more.

He slid the wand into his robes, turned back to the tomb, and resumed his work.

More golden sparks. More fluid movements. The tomb reassembled itself seamlessly, slab by slab. Within moments, it looked untouched—pristine and dignified.

Arthur dispelled the concealment dome with a whisper. With a final cleansing sweep of his magic, he erased every trace of his presence and vanished into the night, silent as a ghost.

Two Hallows down. One more to go.

—

CRACK.

Arthur appeared directly in the Headmaster’s office, bypassing all wards and passwords with contemptuous ease.

His hands were already moving before the portraits could register the intrusion.

“Petrificus Totalus Maxima.”

The spell rippled outward, freezing every portrait mid-motion. Former headmasters and headmistresses hung suspended like insects in amber, unable to see, hear, or tattle about his presence.

The office remained untouched since Dumbledore’s passing. No successor had yet been appointed. Even the papers lay exactly where Dumbledore had left them.

Arthur glanced around once, then smiled at the only occupant still awake.

“Hello, Sorting Hat,” he said calmly.

The ancient artifact’s brim twitched with what might have been surprise. “Mr. Hayes.” Its voice rasped directly into his mind, dry as old parchment. “Apparating through Hogwarts’s wards—a remarkable feat. Though you realize you’re not supposed to be here.”

“You can call me Arthur.” He conjured a comfortable chair and sat. “We’ve shared enough delightful conversations to drop formality. Speaking of which, I’ve never asked—do you have an actual name?”

“I have always been the Sorting Hat.” A pause, tinged with nostalgia. “Though Godric did call me ’Hat’ for short. Not very creative, but affectionate in his way.” The brim straightened sternly. “Now don’t change the subject. You shouldn’t be here. I should alert the professors immediately.”

Arthur waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. I’m just here to pick something up, then I’ll be gone.”

“You mean to steal,” the Hat snapped. “I will not support such an act.”

“Is it theft if it belongs to no one?” Arthur countered smoothly. “Tell me—that ring that cursed Dumbledore. Do you know what became of it?”

The Hat’s fabric seemed to stiffen. “Why would you want such a cursed object?”

“You know what it really was, don’t you?” Arthur leaned forward. “Or did Dumbledore manage to hide even that from you?”

Silence stretched between them before the Hat sighed. “The Resurrection Stone. One of the Deathly Hallows.” The voice dropped lower. “So you seek to become Master of Death, Arthur?”

“I’m curious what the title entails,” Arthur admitted with a shrug. “It seems like a worthwhile pursuit.”

“You will be disappointed,” the Hat retorted. “There is no ’Master of Death.’ The story is a children’s fable. You don’t become immortal, nor command Death itself. They’re just enchanted artifacts. Strong, yes. Legendary, perhaps. But not divine.”

“In a world with only wizards and muggles, I’d agree.” Arthur’s eyes gleamed with hidden knowledge. “But given what I’ve learned about gods, cosmic entities, and higher beings? The legend might be more literal than you imagine.”

“Your post-Hogwarts adventures have been educational, I see.”

“Extensively so.” Arthur replied. “And I’ve become much stronger.”

“Then why do you need the Hallows? You are likely more powerful than any wizard in this country already.”

Arthur laughed, genuine amusement in the sound. “Who said I’m competing with wizards anymore? My goals involve beings far beyond mortal magic. The Hallows might be useful tools on that path.”

“Blind pursuit of power corrupts,” the Hat warned. “You risk losing yourself to ambition.”

“I’m not blind. I’ve walked this path with eyes wide open.” Arthur leaned casually against the desk. “Every step has been calculated, every risk weighed. My path is deliberate.” He rose and began examining the office with casual interest. “So, any idea where the Stone is?”

“Dumbledore didn’t leave it here,” the Hat admitted. “I saw him seal it into a Golden Snitch. Then he left.”

“To give Harry in his will, no doubt.” Arthur began pacing. “Which means it’s in his Gringotts vault, waiting for the Ministry to distribute his bequests.”

“Nothing escapes you, does it?”

“Rarely.” A mischievous grin spread across Arthur’s face. “Looks like I’ll need to visit Gringotts.”

“Could you not simply wait for it to reach Harry and take it from him?” the Hat asked, a hint of exasperation in its mental voice.

“Where’s the challenge in that?” Arthur’s grin was pure mischief. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to tour Gringotts properly.”

“This reckless streak never showed during your Sorting!” The Hat sounded genuinely baffled. “Had I seen this danger-seeking tendency, you’d have gone straight to Gryffindor. Perhaps many things would have been different.”

“Perhaps. But I’d still have outgrown this world.” Arthur shrugged. “Besides, I don’t seek danger—I simply have absolute confidence in my abilities. Very different things. Still Slytherin to the core.”

The Hat rustled thoughtfully. “So… just how strong have you become?”

Arthur grinned. “Read the headlines. I’m sure I’ll feature every now and then.”

“You never give an old relic any rest,” the Hat sighed. “Is that all you came for?”

“Well…” Arthur glanced around innocently. “If Dumbledore happened to have a private collection of rare books tucked away somewhere…”

“He was obsessed with magical knowledge,” the Hat admitted reluctantly. “There is a collection. But only if you swear to return them.”

“I’ll make copies if needed,” Arthur said. “The originals will return untouched.”

The Hat directed him to a concealed panel behind Armando Dippet’s portrait. Inside lay dozens of journals, rare texts, and theoretical treatises in Dumbledore’s distinctive handwriting.

Arthur’s infinity pouch swallowed them gratefully.

“Is that all? Will I be seeing you again” the Hat asked as Arthur prepared to leave.

“Even ancient headwear gets lonely?” Arthur laughed “If you want someone to talk to, have Headmaster Black’s portrait contact me through Sirius Black. I’d genuinely enjoy hearing about the Founders firsthand.”

“I may take you up on that offer.”

Arthur smiled. “Then goodbye, Hat. Try not to miss me too much.”

With a sweep of his hand, he released the portraits from stasis.

Arthur vanished before any could fully wake, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and one thoughtful Sorting Hat.

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