Chapter 124: Chapter 124: Boy Who Lived Reborn

Three days had passed since Arthur suggested the magical reconstitution ritual, and he hadn’t expected to hear from Sirius for at least a week.

Surely they’d need time to research, to agonize, to prepare for such a monumentally stupid decision.

But then, a letter arrived.

Delivered by Kreacher, it was short and to the point.

We met Healer Cadwallader. He confirmed the ritual is our best option. We’ve decided to go through with it. The ritual is scheduled for tomorrow morning. The Healer asked about you and wants to see you again. I think it would help Harry if you’re there when it happens.

Honestly… it would help me too.

— Sirius Black

Arthur hadn’t expected the invitation, but since he had nothing pressing to do except reorganize his collection of forbidden tomes, he decided to witness the excitement firsthand.

So, here he was, standing outside the lime-green stone entrance of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on a chilly summer morning, cloak billowing slightly around his dark robes. The building was quieter than it had once been. The war had changed that. With St. Mungo’s being regularly targeted by dark forces, people only came here when absolutely necessary these days.

Arthur stepped through the enchanted doors just as Sirius approached from the opposite direction.

“You made it,” Sirius said, managing a quick smile. “Thanks.”

Arthur returned the gesture. “Where is he?”

“Already in pre-ritual preparation. Cadwallader’s being thorough—checking him three times over.”

“Smart man.”

They were interrupted by approaching footsteps. Amelia Bones swept down the corridor in formal navy robes, the Ministry crest gleaming on her collar. Beside her walked a young woman with flame-red hair and worried amber eyes—Susan Bones.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect the Minister herself to attend. Don’t you have a war to run?”

“Harry’s survival is crucial to our fight against the Dark Lord,” Amelia said crisply, then her voice softened slightly. “And Susan wanted to be here for moral support.”

“How thoughtful.” Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “Speaking of the war, I notice you’re calling him ’the Dark Lord’ now. Has Tom put a Taboo on his name?”

Amelia’s jaw tightened. “As of two nights ago. Seven locations were hit within hours—anyone who said the name.”

Arthur “Want it gone?”

Sirius blinked. “How? We don’t even know how he cast it.”

“Don’t need to know how he cast it,” Arthur said with casual confidence. “Getting it removed is simple. Set up ambushes, use his name as bait. A few groups of dead Snatchers will teach him the foolishness of the move.”

“We considered that strategy during the first war,” Amelia said carefully. “But he started showing up personally to destroy our ambush sites. After losing half a dozen Auror teams, we stopped trying.”

“None of us could match him in direct combat,” Sirius added grimly.

Arthur’s smile turned predatory. “Leave the pest control to me. I’m bored, and I don’t appreciate anyone restricting my word choices.”

“I don’t condone unnecessary killing,” Amelia said cautiously, “but I’ll assume I misheard any borderline illegal suggestions.”

Sirius grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now can we focus on making sure Harry survives?”

—

The ritual chamber hadn’t changed since Arthur’s own rebirth—still cold, clinical, and thrumming with barely contained power.

A massive runic circle dominated the floor, each symbol carved deep enough to channel rivers of magic. Racks of charged runestones lined the walls like silent sentinels. Crystal vials sat at cardinal points, filled with ingredients worth more than most people’s homes: phoenix tears, powdered dragon horn, lunar belladonna essence.

The air itself vibrated with restrained magical energy.

Harry Potter sat cross-legged in the circle’s center, looking remarkably calm for someone about to undergo magical reconstruction. He spotted them entering and smiled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Quite the audience,” Harry managed, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

“We could sell tickets,” Sirius quipped. “The Boy Who Lived: The Rebuilding. Has a ring to it.”

“Don’t give Rita Skeeter ideas,” Susan said, moving to Harry’s side. She took his hand without hesitation. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m about to be turned inside out.”

“Accurate,” Healer Cadwallader interjected, approaching with two assistants. His gaze found Arthur. “Mr. Hayes. All recovered and powerful, I see. We must discuss your recovery sometime. For academic purposes.”

“Some other day.” Arthur replied. “How’s our patient?”

“Miraculous.” Cadwallader’s wand traced diagnostic patterns over Harry. “Young Mr. Potter is quite the miracle case. Hosting a piece of a dark soul for sixteen years. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t consume him entirely. He’ll need complete re-fortification. This ritual will hurt—more than he expects. It usually does.”

Arthur gazed down at Harry. “He’s stronger than he knows. And stubborn. He can handle pain.”

“Maybe,” Cadwallader muttered. “Everyone out. It’s time.”

They filed out reluctantly. Harry’s eyes followed them until the door sealed with a definitive click.

—

The waiting was agony.

Sirius paced like a caged animal, wearing grooves in the floor. Amelia stood statue-still, only the occasional tap of her fingers betraying her nerves. Susan had claimed a bench, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Arthur leaned against the wall, outwardly relaxed but internally monitoring the magical fluctuations from within.

The ritual began with a low hum that seemed to emanate from the building’s bones.

Then came the screaming.

Harry’s voice, raw and desperate, echoed through the stone walls like a physical blow. Susan jerked upright as if struck. Sirius stopped pacing, his face going pale. Even Amelia flinched.

Arthur forced himself not to react, though memories of his own experience threatened to surface. That pain wasn’t something that could be described—every cell torn apart, examined, and rebuilt according to new specifications while you remained conscious throughout.

The screaming continued for what felt like hours.

Gradually, the cries became grunts of determination. Then blessed silence.

Arthur checked his watch. Three hours and seventeen minutes. About what he’d expected.

When Healer Cadwallader finally emerged, his robes were soaked with sweat but his expression was triumphant.

“It’s done,” he announced with a tired smile. “He’s stable and conscious. You may see him now.”

—

Inside, they saw Harry already half-upright, propped up against the ritual dais. His skin glistened faintly, almost as though repolished. Susan rushed forward and knelt at his side, helping him sit up fully.

“You scared me,” she whispered.

“I scare everyone. Mostly dark lords,” he managed, voice hoarse.

Sirius reached him next and ruffled his perpetually messy hair. “Still making jokes after being magically disassembled and rebuilt. Typical Potter arrogance.”

Harry grinned weakly. “Had to make sure all the important bits were still attached.”

Arthur stood nearby, folding his arms. “You look better. Core’s stabilized. Energy… denser. More dangerous.”

“Can I finally beat Sirius in a duel?” Harry asked.

Arthur smirked. “With some training? Maybe.”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius protested. “I’m not losing to a seventeen-year-old, godson or not. My reputation would never recover.”

Everyone laughed, even Amelia.

For a brief moment, the war and the world outside were forgotten.

And then….

Arthur sensed a monitoring charm go off. The one keyed to Aurora.

“Something wrong?” Sirius asked, noticing the shift.

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Amelia asked.

Arthur was already moving toward the corridor. “Aurora. She’s in trouble.”

Harry opened his mouth—to ask, to protest—but Arthur was gone in the blink of an eye.

“Did he just…” Susan stared at the empty space. “Through St. Mungo’s wards?”

“Impossible,” Cadwallader breathed, looking genuinely shaken for the first time. “Those wards are centuries old, layered by—”

“Not for him,” Sirius said grimly, remembering other impossible things he’d seen Arthur do. “I pity the fools stupid enough to threaten someone he cares about.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken dread.

Somewhere in London, someone was about to learn exactly why crossing Arthur Hayes was a fatal mistake.

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