Arthur apparated to a remote clearing in the Forest of Dean, miles from any settlement. If he was going to bait Voldemort's dogs, he'd do it properly—and let them come to him.
The afternoon sun filtered through ancient oaks as Arthur cast detection charms in a wide radius. Satisfied he was alone and no innocent would be caught in the crossfire, he conjured himself a comfortable chair and settled in.
"I wonder what Voldemort is doing right now," he said clearly to the empty forest. "Probably crying about the loss of the Lestranges."
He counted silently. One. Two. Three—
The cracks of apparition shattered the peace. Six snatchers materialized in a loose circle, wands drawn.
"Well, well," the lead snatcher growled through his mask. "Some idiot forgot the Dark Lord's name is forbidden."
"Voldemort," Arthur said pleasantly, not even bothering to stand. "Oh look, I said it again. How terrifying."
The snatchers attacked simultaneously. Six stunning spells converged on his position.
The Elder Wand moved with lazy precision. The spells curved impossibly, bending back toward their casters. All six dropped instantly.
The attack was over before Arthur could even have some fun. And the fact that they'd used stunners meant he would have to finish the job himself.
Arthur decided to deal with that later. For now, he levitated them to the side, stacking them neatly like cordwood.
"Voldemort," he called out again to the empty clearing. "Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort. Really, Tom should have picked a less silly name."
Five minutes later, eight more arrived.
"You killed—" one started.
"Yes, yes, very observant," Arthur interrupted. "Voldemort sent you to die. Shall we get on with it?"
They lasted forty seconds. Arthur didn't even rise from his chair. The Elder Wand flicked almost dismissively, sending curses rebounding, freezing attackers mid-spell, turning their own magic against them.
He added seven more bodies to the growing pile. Most were still breathing, he noted. They hadn't thrown anything truly lethal yet.
"This is rather therapeutic," Arthur mused, conjuring himself tea. "Voldemort really should charge for this service."
The third wave arrived twenty minutes later—fifteen snatchers in formation, shields raised, spreading out tactically. This looked like a proper team, not ordinary rabble.
"Learning!" Arthur said approvingly, finally standing. "Voldemort must be so proud. Shame it won't help."
One of the newcomers went rigid with recognition. "You're... you're him. The one who killed the Lestranges. Arthur Hayes."
"Guilty as charged." Arthur smiled pleasantly. "And who will come after you lot? Voldemort himself?"
They attacked with coordination that spoke of real training. Dark curses filled the air—not just Unforgivables, but magic designed to rot flesh, boil blood, turn bones to glass.
Arthur laughed.
The Elder Wand moved in patterns that predated modern spellwork. Reality bent to his will. Curses didn't just miss—they simply ceased to exist. The ground beneath the attackers' feet became quicksand, then solid rock, trapping them to their waists.
"Is this really the best Voldemort's forces can manage?" Arthur asked, strolling between trapped enemies. "I expected more."
One Death Eater, stronger than the rest, broke free. "You dare mock the Dark Lord?"
"Constantly," Arthur replied, then demonstrated why that confidence was justified.
The Death Eater's shield charm might as well have been tissue paper. Arthur's spell—not a curse, just raw magical force—hit him center mass. The man didn't die. He simply... ceased. One moment there, the next scattered atoms on the wind.
"Anyone else?"
Silence. Those still conscious were too terrified to respond.
The pile of bodies had grown impressive. Arthur added the new additions, then returned to his chair.
"Voldemort!" he called out cheerfully. "Still taking visitors!"
But no more came.
Arthur waited another hour, saying Voldemort's name every few minutes. The forest remained peaceful except for the occasional bird.
"Fast learners," he murmured. "Or perhaps they've run out of volunteers."
He turned toward the pile of bodies. What to do with them? Would killing so many make him a monster?
But these people were worse monsters than he could ever be. Arthur opened a portal, revealing nothing but red-hot lava on the other side. With a gesture, he sent all the bodies through.
Perhaps he was becoming something darker, but this was war. Sending them to Azkaban would only lead to breakouts and the cycle starting anew.
"That should teach Voldemort and his snatchers a lesson," Arthur said to the empty clearing. "So much for not meddling in this war."
Then he apparated home, leaving only silence and the lingering taste of terror in the air.
—
Hayes Manor was quiet when Arthur returned. Winky was elsewhere, and he didn't wish to disturb her.
Arthur made his way to his study, where his most secure cabinet waited—warded with protections that had taken months to perfect.
Inside lay two items: the Invisibility Cloak, folded with precise care, and the Resurrection Stone, dark and unassuming.
Arthur placed the Elder Wand beside them, completing the set.
Satisfied, he turned to close the vault. But then something changed.
The temperature plummeted.
All three Hallows began to glow—not with ordinary light, but something that seemed to pull illumination from the room itself. They rose from the cabinet, floating in perfect harmony. The Cloak unfurled like liquid starlight. The Stone pulsed with visible darkness. The Wand vibrated with barely-contained power.
"What—"
Understanding crashed over Arthur like a tide. Was he about to become the Master of Death?
But how? He'd thought he needed to master all three Hallows individually.
The Wand, yes—he'd won that from Draco. But the Stone's master should be Voldemort, still alive, and the Cloak belonged to Harry by right...
No. Wait. Perhaps he had mastered all three after all.
By destroying the Horcruxes, he'd been killing pieces of Voldemort's soul. Each destruction was a magical death, a conquest over the Stone's previous master.
And when he'd extracted Harry's Horcrux, Harry had touched that strange realm between life and death. The boy had walked where mortals shouldn't walk and returned. In the eyes of ancient magic, Harry had died and come back—and Arthur had been the one to "kill" him and bring him back. Perhaps that made him master of the Cloak as well.
But the reasoning did not matter. The three Hallows spun faster, their glow intensifying. They moved together, forming a familiar shape in the air—a triangle with a circle inside, bisected by a line.
The symbol of the Deathly Hallows.
Before Arthur could react, the symbol blazed with impossible brightness and shot toward him. He raised his hands instinctively, but it passed through them like smoke.
It struck his chest with the force of destiny.
Arthur gasped, stumbling backward. Power flooded through him—not painful, but overwhelming. It felt like drowning in liquid starlight, like every cell in his body was being rewritten in tongues that predated human speech.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
Arthur stood in his study, breathing hard. The cabinet was empty. No Cloak, no Stone, no Wand. This was no dream or illusion.
With trembling fingers, he unbuttoned his shirt.
There, directly over his heart, was a mark that hadn't existed moments before. The Deathly Hallows symbol, etched in what looked like living shadow and captured moonlight. It pulsed gently with his heartbeat.
"Master of Death," Arthur whispered.
He raised his hand experimentally, expecting... something. Lightning? Cosmic power? The ability to command life and death? Perhaps Death itself might appear and kneel before him?
Nothing happened.
Frowning, Arthur tried again. Still nothing. No surge of otherworldly power, no sensation of immortality, no dominion over death itself.
"That's... anticlimactic," he muttered.
Perhaps the title was just that—a title. He tried summoning the Elder Wand back, but nothing came. No reaction from his new tattoo.
Then a thought occurred to him. He concentrated on being invisible—not casting a Disillusionment Charm, just willing himself unseen.
His body vanished.
Not like a charm or potion—this was the true invisibility of the Cloak, perfect and absolute. Arthur looked down at where his body should be and saw nothing at all. A thought brought him back to visibility.
"Interesting."
Next, he considered the Resurrection Stone. Could he still summon the dead?
"Albus Dumbledore," he said clearly.
The temperature dropped again. A translucent figure materialized—the former Headmaster, looking exactly as he had last seen him.
"Mr. Hayes," Dumbledore's ghost began with familiar calm. "I heard—"
"Not now, Headmaster. Goodbye." Arthur dismissed the shade with barely a thought.
He tried casting without a wand next. He'd always been capable of wandless magic, but now...
The spells flowed like water. No effort, no strain. Each spell had the control and precision of wanded magic, as if he were still holding the Elder Wand.
"The Wand's power, but without needing the Wand," he murmured. "That's actually quite useful."
The tattoo pulsed warmly against his chest, as if in agreement.
Though Arthur still felt a twinge of regret at losing the Elder Wand so soon after mastering it.
But maybe this was better. He'd never liked depending on wands—wooden sticks that could be lost, broken, or stolen. A staff might have appealed to him for the power boost, but staves weren't practical for someone who blended wizarding magic with mystic arts.
So having the Wand's power absorbed directly was the best-case scenario. Though he would miss the Cloak a little—with it, he might have been able to extend invisibility to others. Now it was just himself.
Arthur spent the next hour testing his new abilities. True invisibility at will. The power to summon and dismiss spirits with a thought. Wandless magic that flowed with unprecedented ease and control.
"Master of Death," he said again, tasting the title. The abilities didn't quite match the grandiose name. He'd expected more than just user-friendly versions of the Hallows' powers.
And maybe that made sense.
In this universe, Death wasn't a hooded figure with gifts. It was a cosmic force, older and more powerful than magic itself. To think three relics could grant control over that?
Arthur exhaled slowly. "If I thought this made me ruler of Death, I'd be a fool."
Still, he should be content with what he'd gained.
He buttoned his shirt again, covering the mark. The power was his now—but it didn't need to be flaunted.