61. Old Man, Saint.
Dumbledore's mind reeled as he reached into his desk drawer, fingers closing around the polished wood of his old mahogany wand. For the first time in a long while, he had been caught flat-footed—and by a student, no less.
The moment Ryan had taken the Elder Wand, he had felt the connection sever. The loss was unsettling, but the familiar weight of his old wand offered some small comfort. Still, the implications of what had just occurred left him deeply uneasy.
With a grave expression, he waved his wand over the objects on his desk. Each diagnostic spell returned results more horrifying than the last, confirming his worst suspicions. The mystery of how Tom Riddle had survived all these years was no longer a mystery at all—Horcruxes. Soul anchors. Worse yet, there was another one—deep in the vaults of Gringotts. That, in itself, presented a problem. The goblins were never easy to deal with, even under ideal circumstances.
Then there was the Elder Wand. Losing it wasn't just a matter of pride—it had been a reservoir of power, and its absence left a noticeable void. A wand steeped in bloodshed, passed from master to master through conquest and death. And now, it had chosen Ryan.
With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore conjured several lead-lined boxes, sealing the corrupted artifacts away for the time being. Then he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. The balance of power in the wizarding world had shifted.
And he had no idea what Ryan intended to do with it.
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What did Ryan intend to do with all that power? Nothing at all. He had already thrown everything onto Dumbledore's shoulders and washed his hands of any further responsibility.
What happened from now on was none of his concern. He certainly didn't care for the wizarding world's sheeple. Hell, he wasn't even from this world, so as the saying went:
Not my circus, not my monkeys.
He had done more than enough.
He had rescued the Philosopher's Stone from theft and destruction, ensured Peter Pettigrew's capture—preventing that pervert from sharing a dorm with young boys—and secured Sirius Black's freedom years ahead of schedule. He had indirectly caused Lucius Malfoy's death, inadvertently freeing Dobby in the process. He had gotten Lockhart jailed, ensuring justice for his victims while sparing Hogwarts from the man's pompous incompetence. He had prevented a Basilisk from running loose, saved Ginny Weasley from a year-long possession, and gathered four Horcruxes, handing them to Dumbledore on a silver platter.
Not only that, but one of those Horcruxes had even led to the old man's premature death in the future—so in a way, he had saved Dumbledore's life too!
By all accounts, he should have earned multiple Orders of Merlin. And yet, he hadn't even taken the time to kill Snape! That alone should qualify him for sainthood—or at the very least, balance out any so-called 'good deeds' by allowing the dour man to continue slithering through the dungeons, greasy hair and all.
Making his way back to the Ravenclaw common room, he entered his trunk, not seeing the girls. They were probably in the library or something, while Serenity was who knew where.
Sitting at his workbench, Ryan pulled the Elder Wand from the Gate of Babylon. A thrum of power flowed through his body as he held the last of the Deathly Hallows.
He also retrieved the Cloak and the Stone, but as soon as he did, something happened. A gray smoke emerged, swirling around him before shooting into his chest. A stinging sensation spread over his heart as something tried to connect to him. His Ancient Stone Talisman deemed it not a threat and allowed the process to continue.
Then, the connection formed.
"What the fuck, bro?"
Lifting his shirt, he found a new tattoo over his heart—a black symbol of the Hallows, a triangle, circle, and line intertwined.
Knowledge surged into his mind. He now understood how to properly use the Hallows.
Standing, he felt a cool sensation spread through him. Looking down at his hands, he watched them vanish completely. The Cloak's abilities were now innate. It concealed not just his body, but his soul, scent, sounds, magic—everything. It could also transform into a normal cloak or other garments, was self-repairing, immune to summoning, and self-cleaning.
The Wand, of course, amplified spells, increased reaction time, and adapted perfectly to any form of magic. It could change shape and color at will. Even more intriguingly, it absorbed a fraction of the magic from foes it defeated, growing stronger with each victory.
As for the Resurrection Stone, it allowed him to freely summon spirits without harming them. It could exorcise entities like ghosts, poltergeists, ghouls, and wraiths—sending them to the afterlife or even binding them to haunt others.
"Neat."
His hand became visible again as the sleek wand reappeared in his grip. The artifacts were now bonded to him, unable to be stolen, always summonable, and their allegiance unchanging unless he died.
They didn't offer immortality or mastery over death, as legend claimed.
They were simply immensely powerful artifacts.
And now, they were his.
Sadly, the day wouldn't end with sunshine and rainbows. His decision to confront Dumbledore alone would earn him another severe tongue-lashing from his little wives and another lonely night on the couch in his trunk.
While not as dangerous as eating two devil fruits, it was still a foolish thing to do alone. His punishment would extend through the week, and he was only forgiven after buying all of them flowers, chocolates, and apologizing profusely for his reckless actions.
Luckily, the girls missed him and had trouble sleeping without him, so they reluctantly accepted his apologies and offerings before allowing him back into the bed.
This time, with a solemn promise that he would consult them first before doing something like this alone. They were, after all, partners in all of this and wanted to be involved.