Chapter 117: Chapter 117: Echoes of the Dead

Arthur stored away the Resurrection Stone carefully and turned his attention to the crumpled Golden Snitch. Its wings hung limp, the central panel crushed beyond recognition.

Time to restore it.

“Reparo.”

The crushed gold shimmered and re-formed, wings twitching faintly as the Snitch returned to its perfect spherical shape. Arthur set it gently back where he’d found it, as if nothing had ever happened.

Time to go home.

With a sharp CRACK, he vanished from Dumbledore’s vault and reappeared in his study at Hayes Manor.

Excitement thrummed in his veins as he strode to the polished mahogany desk at the center of the room. One by one, he laid out his prizes.

The Invisibility Cloak, folded neatly, its liquid-silver fabric catching faint light like flowing water.

Beside it, he placed the Elder Wand, its knobbly length looking deceptively plain.

Finally, he set the Resurrection Stone between them.

The Cloak. The Wand. The Stone.

The three Deathly Hallows, united for the first time in who knew how long.

Arthur waited, every sense attuned to the slightest shift in reality.

Nothing happened.

The air didn’t crackle with cosmic energy. The shadows didn’t stir with ancient power. Death did not appear to shake his hand and hand over business cards.

Of course.

He hadn’t really expected it to work.

Even if the legend was more than a children’s tale, the Elder Wand’s allegiance still belonged to Draco Malfoy. A minor hurdle he would deal with soon enough.

But a more troubling thought surfaced. The wand required allegiance won through defeat. What if the other Hallows had similar requirements?

The Stone’s last true master was Voldemort, through the Gaunt line. Killing him was already on the to-do list. But the Cloak… its ownership had passed down the Potter line for generations. Its current, rightful owner was Harry.

And Arthur couldn’t—wouldn’t—kill Harry Potter just to complete a set.

Power was his goal, yes. But he had limits. He eliminated threats. He took revenge. Those he could justify. But murdering an innocent boy to satisfy a legend?

That was the first step on a path he refused to walk, the path that led to becoming a power-obsessed monster. It was a line he would not cross, even if it meant he could never truly become the Master of Death.

He exhaled, pushing the thought aside. It was only a possibility, after all. And if true, perhaps he could claim mastery once Harry died naturally. He could wait.

For now, there was a far more interesting experiment to run.

Arthur picked up the Resurrection Stone, its surface unnaturally smooth against his skin. The legend said to turn it three times in hand. He did so, focusing his mind on a single, powerful name.

Salazar Slytherin.

Nothing happened. The study remained still, silent but for the faint crackle of the fireplace. No ghostly apparitions, no spectral founders.

Arthur frowned and tried again. Godric Gryffindor. Merlin. Even people from the muggle world. Isaac Newton. Leonardo da Vinci.

Still nothing. The study remained stubbornly empty of ghosts.

Either the legend was flawed, or there were rules he didn’t understand.

Perhaps it only worked on those he knew personally. Or, more likely, it only worked on souls who had not yet… moved on.

Reincarnated souls wouldn’t answer his call—and Arthur himself was living proof that death wasn’t an ending but a transition. The souls he had called were likely long gone, living new lives somewhere else in the cosmos.

Time to test the theory.

He turned the Stone again, this time picturing the faces of three Dark Lords he’d recently executed—and the rogue American wizard North.

The air grew cold.

Four shimmering figures materialized from the shadows, their forms faintly luminous, their expressions twisted with rage and disbelief.

“You.” North’s voice echoed eerily, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “You dare—”

“Interesting.” Arthur cut him off, studying the ghost. “You see me clearly. Tell me, North—can you see what I’m holding?”

North’s eyes widened in recognition. “The Resurrection Stone. That’s impossible. How did you—”

So these were real souls, not mere echoes. And they retained their memories from life. They know things their living selves knew. Proof the Hallows were indeed connected to Death itself—not just powerful artifacts, but something greater.

“Enjoying the afterlife?” Arthur asked conversationally. “Please give my regards to whatever passes for hell.”

Their silent, murderous rage was answer enough. With a mental flick, he dismissed them, sending their souls back to whatever limbo they occupied.

Now for the main event. There was one soul he was certain had not moved on yet.

He turned the stone one last time. Albus Dumbledore.

The familiar, half-moon spectacles and long, silver beard solidified before him. Dumbledore looked just as he had in life, only fainter, more ethereal. His expression was one of profound shock.

“Mr. Hayes.” Dumbledore’s voice carried that familiar blend of disappointment and curiosity. “I must say, I’m surprised. The stone was meant for Harry.”

“Lots of things were meant for Harry.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, studying the ghost. “Your grand plan. Your perfect sacrifice. Too bad I don’t follow scripts.”

“You took the Elder Wand as well, I presume?”

“From your cold, dead fingers.” Arthur smiled at the ghost’s flinch. “Well, technically from your cold, dead tomb, but the principle stands.”

“It won’t work for you. I arranged for its power to die with me.”

Arthur laughed. “Oh, Albus. You, the master manipulator, miscalculated at the final moment. You arranged for Severus to kill you, but you forgot who disarmed you on that tower first. The wand’s allegiance passed to Draco Malfoy.” He paused for effect. “And it won’t be his for long.”

Dumbledore’s form seemed to sag. “I… had not considered…”

“You never do consider all

the angles, do you?” Arthur said with mild amusement. “But I can’t fault you. I’ve played chessmaster a few times myself.”

“What is your plan, Arthur? What do you intend to do?”

“Become the Master of Death, of course,” Arthur replied breezily. “I’m curious what the title actually entails.”

“You will never find the third Hallow,” Dumbledore stated, a hint of his old manipulative certainty returning.

“Already have it,” Arthur said, gesturing to the cloak on the desk. “Replaced Harry’s with a very high-quality fake years ago. He never noticed the difference.”

The shock on Dumbledore’s face was immensely satisfying. “So… you are the Master of Death now?”

“Not yet. Just need to have a little chat with young Mr. Malfoy to secure the wand’s allegiance. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“And then? What will you do with such power?” Dumbledore’s voice was laced with dread. “Rule the world? Enslave it?”

“Gods, no.” Arthur scoffed at the very idea. “That sounds like an exhausting amount of paperwork and responsibility. My goal has always been the acquisition of power itself, not the tedious chore of wielding it over others.”

A flicker of relief crossed Dumbledore’s face.

“Speaking of chores,” Arthur continued, “I’ll be dealing with Harry’s pesky little soul problem soon. So don’t be surprised if he pays you a visit in the great beyond.”

“Soul? You mean—you’re going to kill Harry?” Alarm flickered across the ghost’s face.

“Your faith in me is touching.” Arthur waved dismissively. “Run along, Professor. Puzzle it out in whatever passes for the afterlife’s waiting room.”

Before Dumbledore could respond, Arthur dismissed him with a thought. The old man’s form unraveled, scattering like smoke.

Arthur chuckled, imagining Dumbledore’s ghost fretting and trying to untangle his intentions. Let the old manipulator stew for once.

But his amusement faded as he stared at the stone.

There were two souls he had avoided summoning. Two people whose memory was a quiet, persistent ache in his heart. His parents in this life, the ones he had come to truly accept as his own.

A knot of anxiety coiled tight in his chest. What if they hadn’t moved on? What if they had been watching all this time—seeing their son turn into… this?

An isolated, power-obsessed man with no friends to lean on. A life defined by ambition and revenge. A son chasing goals they would never understand.

No parent would want that for their child.

Would they have recoiled in horror, seeing what he had done? The people he had killed? The cold pragmatism with which he had dismantled his enemies?

Arthur’s hand trembled, ever so slightly. He didn’t want to know.

But he had to.

With a deep, steadying breath, he raised the stone. Once. Twice. Three times.

He closed his eyes, focusing on his mother’s warm smile, the sound of his father’s encouraging laugh.

Sarah Hayes. Richard Hayes.

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