Chapter 121: Chapter 121: Soul Surgery

Three days later, two weeks after Dumbledore’s funeral, Hayes Manor had a visitor.

Arthur was deep in an ancient tome on battle magic when Winky materialized beside his armchair. “Lord Black is at the door, Master Arthur. Should Winky let him in?”

“Finally.” Arthur closed the book with a soft thud. “Show him to the study.”

Moments later, Sirius Black strode in looking like he’d wrestled a dragon and lost. His robes hung askew, stubble darkened his jaw, and exhaustion had carved new lines around his eyes.

“Arthur.”

“You look like hell, Black,” Arthur didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Tea? Or something that’ll actually help?”

“Firewhisky, if you have it.”

Arthur conjured a bottle and two glasses. “What took so long? I was half-expecting Dobby with a message days ago.”

Sirius seized the glass like a drowning man grabbing driftwood and drained half in one burning gulp.

“Where do I even start?” He slumped into the opposite chair. “With Dumbledore gone, the whole bloody war effort’s been falling apart faster than a bubbling cauldron.”

Arthur poured himself a more reasonable measure. “Elaborate.”

“The Order disbanded within hours. It split into three factions—those who wanted to hide, those who wanted to attack, and those who wanted to continue playing according to Dumbledore’s rules.” Sirius’s laugh held no humor. “Took me three days just to convince them to coordinate with Amelia and her Aurors.”

“Sensible approach.”

“You’d think so. Try telling that to people who’ve spent years following Dumbledore’s every whispered suggestion like gospel.” Sirius rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Meanwhile, the Death Eaters went absolutely mental. Three major attacks the first day alone. We’ve been running ourselves ragged just keeping everyone safe.”

Arthur nodded approvingly. “That explains the delay in contacting me. What about Harry?”

“That’s the other thing.” Sirius’s expression darkened. “First three days, he blamed himself for Dumbledore’s death. Kept saying he should’ve done something, should’ve fought harder.”

“Despite it being Dumbledore’s plan all along.”

“Try explaining that to a guilt-ridden teenager.” Sirius poured himself another shot. “Then I had to tell him about the Horcrux in his scar.”

Arthur leaned forward slightly. “How’d he take it?”

“About as well as you’d expect a seventeen-year-old to handle learning he’s been carrying a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul in his head.” Sirius’s bark of laughter was entirely humorless. “Spent another three days convinced he was some sort of monster. Wouldn’t eat, barely slept, kept staring at mirrors like he expected Voldemort to stare back.”

“Did you visit Dumbledore’s portrait?”

“Eventually, yeah.” Sirius’s grip tightened on his glass. “That was… illuminating.”

Arthur’s smile turned predatory. “Do tell.”

“You were right about the manipulative bastard’s grand plan. Harry was supposed to march himself to his own execution like a lamb to slaughter. Let Voldemort kill him to destroy the Horcrux, then somehow bounce back because of their blood connection.”

“A perfect little martyr for the greater good.”

“Exactly.” Sirius’s eyes flashed with the Black family temper. “Harry told the portrait exactly where it could shove that brilliant plan. In terms that would make a sailor blush.”

Arthur actually chuckled. “Harry using colorful language? That I’d pay to witness.”

“He’s been spending too much time with me, apparently.” A ghost of Sirius’s old grin appeared. “When I mentioned you could remove the thing safely, Dumbledore’s portrait nearly tumbled off the wall. Started ranting about impossibilities and decades of research. Convinced we’re lying. Probably won’t accept it even after we prove him wrong.”

Sirius set down his empty glass. “But that’s his problem. Harry’s made his choice. We’re ready when you are.”

“Of course.” Arthur stood, already forming a portal with practiced ease. Golden sparks traced a perfect circle in the air, revealing the familiar sitting room of Grimmauld Place beyond. “Shall we?”

Sirius stared, open-mouthed. “You just—through the Black family wards—”

“Your wards are excellent against most threats,” Arthur said as he stepped through. “I’m not most threats.”

“Merlin help us if you ever switch sides,” Sirius muttered, following.

—

Harry Potter sat on the ancient sofa, head buried in his hands like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

Which, Arthur reflected, wasn’t far from the truth.

The boy looked up as they materialized, green eyes widening with surprise and relief.

“Arthur.” Genuine warmth flooded Harry’s voice. “It’s good to see you.”

“Harry.” Arthur studied the young man before him. “You’ve grown.”

Harry had indeed filled out over the summer. His shoulders were broader, his frame less scrawny.

“Two years will do that.” Harry bounded to his feet with nervous energy. “I never got to thank you properly. For everything. Leading Dobby to me, saving Sirius at the Ministry…”

He swallowed hard.

“And now this chance to not die horribly.”

“Think nothing of it.” Arthur waved dismissively. “Besides, watching everyone’s reactions when they thought Sirius fell through the veil was worth the price of admission.”

“Having fun at my expense?” Harry’s mock outrage didn’t quite hide his relief. “I thought I’d lost the last of my family.”

“You didn’t and you never will,” Sirius said firmly.

“Not with Voldy specifically targeting me.”

“You’ll manage.” Arthur’s tone suggested it was already decided. “Now tell me about your summer. First time completely Dursley-free?”

Harry’s entire demeanor brightened like someone had lit a candle behind his eyes.

“Best summer of my life, honestly. Even with everything falling apart.” He gestured around the renovated room. “No more Privet Drive. Ever.”

“And you’ll be seventeen soon,” Arthur observed. “Adult wizard, all the privileges that entails.”

His smile turned sly.

“Including officially dating Susan Bones.”

Harry’s face went nuclear. “How did you—”

“The entire wizarding world knows, pup.” Sirius chimed in with obvious glee. “That Prophet article with you two at Fortescue’s? Very cozy.”

“We were just talking!”

“While holding hands,” Sirius added helpfully. “And she was practically sitting in your lap.”

“She was not!”

“Close enough.” Arthur enjoyed watching Harry squirm. “Bones is a good choice. Smart, talented, excellent family. Plus, red hair seems to be your type.”

“Can we please just remove the Dark Lord from my head?” Harry looked desperate. “Please?”

Arthur laughed. “Fine. Business before pleasure. Do you have an empty room? Preferably with stone walls?”

“Third floor ritual room,” Sirius said. “This way.”

—

The Black family ritual chamber was perfect—bare stone infused with centuries of magic. Protective runes lined the walls, dormant but ready.

Harry stood in the center, trying not to fidget. “Is this going to be safe?”

“Perfectly safe.” Arthur began channeling dimensional energy, golden light gathering around his hands. “I’m even adding extra precautions.”

“What kind of magic is this?” Harry watched the golden energy with fascination. “It’s not like anything I’ve seen.”

“Special form of magic. Not from the wizarding world.” Arthur began tracing symbols in the air. “Trade secret, I’m afraid.”

Harry opened his mouth, probably to ask more questions, then closed it. Smart boy, Arthur thought. Did not learn bad manners from Hermione.

Golden circles materialized around Harry’s feet, intricate symbols flowing along their edges. The air hummed with power.

“What’s that for?” Sirius asked.

“Precaution.” Arthur continued weaving the protective matrix. “When I yank Voldemort’s soul fragment out, it might try to drag Harry’s along for spite. This ensures only the foreign soul gets extracted.”

The color drained from Harry’s face. “It might try to take my soul?”

“Not with these precautions.” Arthur completed the binding matrix. “Now stand still. This will hurt, and if you move, it’ll hurt more.”

The golden circles flared, locking Harry in place with bands of light. Strange letters in the language of the mystic arts spiraled around him.

Arthur gathered more energy, compressing it into a dense golden sphere between his palms. “Ready?”

Harry nodded tightly.

Arthur released the sphere. It shot forward, striking Harry’s scar with unerring accuracy. Harry gasped as the golden energy latched onto something dark within.

“Got you,” Arthur muttered, forming a chain of light between his hand and the sphere. “Now comes the fun part.”

He pulled.

Harry screamed.

Black, gaseous substance began emerging from the scar, fighting every inch of the way. The thing writhed and twisted, trying desperately to maintain its grip on its host.

“Stubborn bastard,” Arthur muttered, increasing the pull.

The soul fragment refused to let go. Worse, it began dragging Harry’s essence with it, trying to tear the boy’s soul from his body out of spite.

The protection circles flared brilliant gold. The symbols spun faster, creating a counter-force that held Harry’s soul in place while Arthur continued extracting Voldemort’s.

“Almost… there…”

With a final, wrenching tear, the black mass came free. Harry collapsed instantly, Sirius rushing to catch him.

Arthur ignored them, focusing on the golden sphere now containing the writhing soul fragment. The thing screamed soundlessly, battering against its prison.

“Hello Tom.” Arthur held the sphere in one hand while conjuring Fiendfyre with the other. The cursed flames danced eagerly, sensing prey. “Time to go.”

He fed the sphere to the hungry flames.

The screaming became audible then—a high, inhuman shriek that made windows rattle. The Fiendfyre consumed the golden sphere with gleeful violence, burning away every trace of the Dark Lord’s soul.

Arthur dismissed the flames with a casual gesture, like snuffing a candle.

“Is it gone?” Sirius looked up from where he cradled an unconscious Harry. “Really gone?”

“Completely destroyed.” Arthur knelt beside them, his eyes glowing faintly gold as he ran a diagnostic. “His soul is intact, body stable. Though…” He frowned slightly. “He’s unconscious. Deeply so.”

“What do you mean, deeply?” Sirius’s voice sharpened with concern.

Arthur’s frown deepened as the diagnostic revealed something unexpected. “He’s dreaming. Or rather… he’s somewhere else. His mind has gone walkabout.”

“Walkabout where?”

Arthur’s expression turned grimly amused. “If I had to guess? He’s having a chat with a certain bearded manipulator about life, death, and train stations.”

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