Beneath Stormveil Castle, Rogier had once discovered a piece of the Prince of Death's face.
Why the Prince of Death's visage appeared there was anyone's guess—but that detail wasn't important.
What mattered was that the unlucky Rogier had triggered the lingering power of Death upon it. Deathroot erupted in an instant, snapping his spine clean in half as thorny growths crushed him at the waist. Barely clinging to life, he fled back to the Roundtable Hold.
Arthur guessed that Fia learned the truth around the time Rogier sought her out for an embrace.
After all, Rogier was a tireless scholar—he had gathered an enormous amount of information through his research.
Sure enough, Fia continued softly,
"Now that you know the truth of Those Who Live in Death, are you still willing to help me?"
By Those Who Live in Death, she meant beings reborn after death—what could be loosely called undead.
If the Lands Between were compared to a computer, such existences would be like viruses—aberrations rejected by the system itself.
That was why Fia asked the question.
Arthur nodded calmly. "Naturally. I have something I want as well."
Fia understood at once. If not for shared interests, why would anyone involve themselves in her cause?
"In that case," she said, "please return this item to its rightful owner."
She produced a broken dagger, its surface riddled with corroded scars. Arthur could feel the power of Death clinging to it. If an ordinary person carried it for long, the corrosive force would erupt and claim their life.
Arthur took the dagger and turned to leave.
In the main hall of the Roundtable Hold, Arthur walked straight up to a man seated there and tossed the broken dagger at him.
The man wore twin-toned gold-and-silver armor—a devout follower of the Golden Order. The dagger's original owner was none other than him: D.
Ever since Those Who Live in Death appeared—existences that defied the Golden Order—its faithful had begun hunting them relentlessly. The Golden Order's followers and the undead were natural enemies.
And Fia clearly stood on the side of the undead.
Which meant D was an obstacle she needed removed.
Arthur had nothing to say to these zealots. After tossing the dagger back to D, he left the Roundtable Hold without another word.
D didn't know where Arthur had obtained the dagger, but it was undeniably his. He accepted it without suspicion.
Unbeknownst to him, Arthur had placed a tracking spell upon the blade. The moment the corrosion erupted, Arthur would know.
And that would mark the start of the next step.
By the shores of the Black Lake at Hogwarts, Arthur was enjoying the simple pleasure of fishing.
Hermione sat nearby, quietly working through the assignments Professor McGonagall had given her, occasionally asking Arthur a question or two.
Ranni sat beside him as well, holding a fishing rod of her own.
In her own words, she wanted to experience the activity that so utterly fascinated her king.
The three of them enjoyed the tranquil afternoon in silence.
Truth be told, Arthur's third year at Hogwarts was by far the most peaceful he had experienced.
No Dark Lord trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
No former student attempting resurrection and unleashing a basilisk.
The year's "plotline" had been resolved early—by Arthur himself.
Peter Pettigrew was likely still fleeing somewhere in Albania. Whether he had encountered Voldemort yet was unclear—but he certainly hadn't met Dumbledore. Otherwise, the papers would have announced his recapture long ago.
As for Sirius Black, he was busy reclaiming parts of the Black family's former businesses. Under pressure from the old pure-blood families, Fudge had been forced to disgorge most of the Black family assets he'd previously swallowed.
Speaking of Fudge—
After collective protests from Hogwarts parents, the Dementors stationed around the school were finally withdrawn.
Fudge had suffered a crushing defeat—losing face with the wizarding world while also failing to appease the Dementors.
Arthur even heard that after returning to Azkaban, the Dementors had sucked the souls out of several non–death-row prisoners.
As for how he knew—
Quite simply, because two of those Dementors were his.
At first, Arthur had only meant to catch a pair out of sheer collector's instinct.
But after capturing and placing restraints on them, he realized he had nowhere suitable to keep them.
These walking, environment-freezing "central air conditioners" killed vegetation wherever they went. His Zen Garden was absolutely unsuitable.
And feeding them was another problem altogether.
So Arthur released them back into their kind, treating it as free-range management.
What he hadn't expected was that even after returning to Azkaban, he could still sense them.
Just like that, Arthur gained two inadvertent informants inside Azkaban—though, truthfully, he had no real need for them.
Arthur's days were peaceful.
Harry's… were not.
There was a saying: a friend's friend is also a friend.
But that clearly didn't apply to Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.
Though they shared Arthur as a mutual friend, the two remained sworn rivals—or perhaps frenemies. Even Arthur wasn't sure how to define it.
They disliked each other intensely, clashing every few days. Yet every duel ended with nothing worse than minor injuries.
Whether they were holding back—or simply unable to truly defeat one another—was hard to say.
Most of the time, it was Draco provoking Harry.
But Draco had grown smarter. He no longer relied on petty tricks, instead opting for open, straightforward duels. Professors found little reason to intervene, and before long, even began watching as spectators.
And more often than not, Draco won.
Harry had talent, but he was no match for a Draco who had undergone Arthur's rune enhancements.
Still, Harry wasn't stupid.
Though his deductions sometimes went astray, more often than not they hit the mark.
Thinking back to their first duel in second year, Draco had been roughly on par with him.
But after the Easter holidays, Draco had changed drastically—his spellcasting improved by leaps and bounds, and even his demeanor grew steadier and more restrained.
Before, Draco lashed out with venomous words at anything that displeased him.
Afterward, though still arrogant, he no longer wore every emotion on his face.
More importantly, Harry discovered over the summer that Draco had become close friends with Arthur—close enough to visit each other's homes.
And Arthur was the most powerful and intelligent peer Harry had ever known.
It wasn't hard to connect the dots.
After piecing it all together, Harry approached Arthur while he was fishing and laid out his conclusion.
Arthur didn't deny it. He nodded.
"Draco's improvement is indeed my doing. What—do you want the same?"
"Of course!" Harry said immediately. "What's the price?"
Harry wanted strength, but he wasn't the type to take things for free. He knew every gain demanded its due.
Arthur thought for a moment.
Galleons were unnecessary—after Ranni perfected her plant mutation potion, Arthur had added several more golden marigolds. He now earned hundreds of Galleons a day.
Making more would only risk destabilizing the wizarding economy.
Finally, Arthur named his price.
"I'm interested in the Black family's library. Ask your godfather if I can make a copy."
Harry let out a sigh of relief. That was well within his ability.
Sirius had long wanted to find a way to repay Arthur anyway.
Without Arthur's help, Sirius would likely still be a fugitive, living in the shadows—rather than strolling openly through Diagon Alley and meeting Lupin for drinks now and then.
Harry didn't agree immediately, though. The Black family library wasn't his to decide over.
The very next day, Sirius's reply arrived.
He agreed.
However, since the collection was far too large for owl delivery, Sirius invited Arthur to visit the Black residence during the Christmas holidays and take what he needed then.
This suited Arthur perfectly.
From the beginning, his true objective had never been the library itself.
What he wanted was hidden deep within 12 Grimmauld Place—
One of Voldemort's Horcruxes.
Salazar Slytherin's locket.
Originally, Voldemort had hidden it in a remote sea cave on a desolate island.
At the cave's heart, he placed the locket in a basin filled with a potion so agonizing it made death feel merciful. Only by drinking it could one retrieve the Horcrux.
(Don't ask why the water couldn't simply be scooped out. The answer is magic.)
The surrounding waters teemed with Inferi, guarding the Horcrux with lethal vigilance—likely the most heavily protected of all Voldemort's Horcruxes.
Of course…
That was excluding the one still resting in Gringotts—
Hufflepuff's Cup.
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