Arthur appeared at the Apparition point in Diagon Alley with a soft crack. The investigation into the Skrull situation had wrapped up quicker than expected, leaving the afternoon wide open.
Perfect timing for a little Gringotts reconnaissance.
He was still wearing his rlin disguise—because the appearance of Arthur Hayes in Diagon Alley and a break-in at Gringotts on the sa day would be far too convenient a coincidence.
As for the Skrull infestation? That was a problem for another ti. Yes, he could, with so effort, hunt down and eliminate every last one of them. Clean. Efficient. Simple.
But also foolish.
Arthur understood the tiline’s delicate balance. Wiping out the Skrulls now would derail it entirely. Fury, without his alien allies, would never ascend to Director of SHIELD.
The math was simple. Fury was a competent field agent with trust issues and a talent for survival. Good qualities, but not Director material. Not without help.
Enter the Skrulls.
With shapeshifters, Fury could know anything, be anywhere, blackmail anyone. The suspicious death of a rival here, the convenient discovery of corruption there. In ten years, he’d run SHIELD.
Without them? He’d be lucky to make Deputy Director before retirent.
So, the Skrulls need to stay. For now.
Besides, Talos still had them under control. The real danger wouldn’t co for years—when disillusioned Skrull children, raised on broken promises, grew into bitter adults. When hope curdled into rage.
Future Arthur’s problem, he decided.
The present had its own issues.
Diagon Alley was a ghost town. Half the shops had shutters drawn, windows dark. The few wizards who hurried past kept their heads down, hands close to their wands.
"Excuse ," Arthur said to a harried-looking witch rushing by. "What happened here?"
She glanced around nervously before answering. "Where’ve you been, dearie? Death Eaters are running wild since Dumbledore passed. Three attacks just this week."
"The Aurors—?"
"Stretched thinner than parchnt." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "Without Dumbledore, they’re emboldened. Mark my words, dark days ahead."
She scurried off before Arthur could respond.
Wonderful, he thought darkly. The wizarding world’s falling apart. Serves them right.
—
The Leaky Cauldron at least maintained its usual dingy charm. Tom the barkeeper barely looked up as Arthur entered.
"Room for the night."
"Five Galleons." Tom slid a key across the bar. "Third floor, end of the hall. No visitors after midnight."
Arthur took the key without comnt. The room was exactly what five Galleons bought—cramped, musty, and featuring a bed that had seen better centuries.
Perfect for his needs.
"Winky," he called softly.
The house-elf appeared with her usual efficiency. "Master Arthur needs Winky?"
"Guard duty. Anyone tries to enter—"
"Winky stuns first, questions later!" She posed in so weird attacking pose. "Winky has been practicing!"
"Where did you—never mind." So questions were better left unasked. "Just keep my body safe."
Arthur lay back on the questionable bed and let his astral form slip free.
The sensation never got old—that mont of weightless liberation as his consciousness separated from flesh. He drifted through the wall, leaving his body under Winky’s watchful gaze.
Gringotts lood ahead—white marble arrogance and goblin pride incarnate. The grand doors stood open, guards stationed with sharp eyes and sharper spears.
Arthur glided past them like smoke. No protections against this kind of magic—not yet.
Now, to find the vaults. Yes—vaults, plural. Since this trip was reconnaissance, Arthur decided he might as well map out where other families kept their treasures. That knowledge could prove invaluable later.
Besides, doing all this just to locate Dumbledore’s vault alone wouldn’t justify the effort.
Still, he had no intention of looting any vaults tonight. Doing so now would bring the full wrath of the wizarding world down on Gringotts, potentially sparking a three-way war between the Ministry, Voldemort, and the goblins.
Arthur wasn’t fond of wizarding society, but he had no desire to see it reduced to ash. And the deaths of goblins—creatures who had done him no harm—would weigh on his conscience more than he cared to admit.
No, his plan was far more elegant. He would wait. When the war was over and the Death Eaters lay dead or rotting in Azkaban, a mysterious thief would sweep in to empty their vaults. The goblins could plead ignorance, and a Ministry weary from war would have little appetite for a full-scale investigation into the missing fortunes of convicted terrorists.
—
The main hall of Gringotts buzzed with activity. Goblins tallied coins with ticulous precision. Witches and wizards whispered over contracts, all of them pretending the world outside wasn’t on fire.
Arthur drifted deeper into the bank. He needed to know the locations of the vaults of Dumbledore’s and the rest of his would be targets. Which ant finding the room where these records were kept.
It took patience. Gringotts was a maze of tunnels and chambers, each more confusing than the last. But goblins loved their order. Eventually, Arthur found what he was looking for.
A massive board covered one wall, nas and vault numbers arranged in perfect columns. The goblins’ obsessive need for organization worked in his favor.
He morized them swiftly. Malfoy – 506. Lestrange – 711. Nott – 423. Every Death Eater family, every neutral house, every possible ally or enemy.
Now ca the real reconnaissance.
—
The Malfoy vault showed signs of strain. The piles of gold were smaller than he expected, the heirlooms looking lonely on vast, empty shelves. Funding a Dark Lord was an expensive business.
The Nott vault held more gold, though not untouched by Voldemort’s demands.
Lestrange made Arthur pause. Inside, piles of gold and jewels lay beside cursed objects that pulsed with dark magic. But the one thing he sought was missing.
Hufflepuff’s Cup was not there.
Bellatrix, paranoid as ever after Sirius’s failed attempt, must have moved it. A minor setback.
Carrow. Rookwood. Dolohov. He visited them all, morizing layouts and contents. One day, their riches would serve better causes.
Curiosity drew him to the older vaults.
The Black family vault made him whistle silently. Sirius hadn’t exaggerated—centuries of accumulated wealth glittered in the torchlight. Dark artifacts lined the walls, so radiating malice even in the astral plane.
The Potter vault surprised him. A decent pile of gold, yes. So family heirlooms. But for an old House? It seed... modest. The long wizarding wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort had clearly bled them dry.
Arthur then searched for vaults of extinct families—surely so ancient lines had died out, leaving treasures unclaid.
Nothing.
A quick scan of a goblin overseer’s mind revealed the reason: a joint Gringotts-Ministry law stipulated that any vault left unclaid for a century would have its contents split equally between the two institutions.
No wonder Gringotts never advertised heritage tests. Every dead family line ant profit split with the Ministry. A perfect scam wrapped in legal language.
Finally, he reached his target. Dumbledore’s vault.
Dumbledore’s vault was almost disappointing in its normalcy. A respectable stack of Galleons, so dusty books, various magical instrunts.
Then he found it.
The Golden Snitch sat innocently on a shelf, looking like nothing more than a Quidditch souvenir.
His astral fingers passed through uselessly.
Right. Need to be physical for this.
He morized the vault’s location and began the journey back to his body. The return trip always felt longer, anticipation making him impatient.
Winky looked up alertly as his consciousness settled back into flesh.
"No troubles, Master. No one ca."
"Good work." Arthur sat up, cracking his neck. "You can go. I’ll be back shortly."
Winky vanished with a pop.
Arthur didn’t waste a second.
CRACK.
He appeared directly inside Dumbledore’s vault. He moved quickly, gathering anything of interest. A rare to here, a curious silver instrunt there. Who could prove Dumbledore hadn’t removed them himself before dying?
Finally, he reached for the Golden Snitch.
There was no need for a password or a puzzle.
He simply clenched his fist.
The golden shell crumpled with a faint crunch. From the mangled wreckage, sothing small and black tumbled into his open palm.
It was a stone, rough-hewn and imperfect, with a hairline crack running down its center. It absorbed all light, a tiny piece of void in his hand.
The Resurrection Stone.
Arthur now held all three Hallows.
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