Chapter 53: Chapter 53: The Healing

In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey’s wand moved in increasingly complex patterns as she cast diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell. With each new incantation, her expression grew darker.

“Mr. Hayes,” she finally said, lowering her wand, “I’m detecting numerous hidden injuries throughout your body. Partially healed fractures in all your bones, micro-tears in your muscle tissue, and what appears to be cellular degradation consistent with extreme destructive magic exposure.”

Arthur remained silent as she continued. He was shocked by Madam Pomfrey’s diagnosis. He knew he was badly injured, but hadn’t realized it was this severe. If he hadn’t taken those emergency potions, he would have likely crumbled entirely.

“Most concerning is your magical core. It’s recovering, but at an alarmingly slow rate.” She fixed him with a stern look. “No experiment could cause this pattern of injuries. I’ve been a healer for over thirty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. What have you experienced in the few days since your NEWT exams, Mr. Hayes?”

“It was a magical ritual gone wrong,” Arthur offered weakly.

Madam Pomfrey’s lips thinned to a tight line. “Mr. Hayes, whatever caused these injuries was far more traumatic than any ritual. This looks more like you were nearly destroyed from the inside by something.”

When Arthur didn’t respond, she sighed. “I won’t press you further. It’s clear you won’t tell me the truth. However, this is beyond my expertise. You need specialized care.” Though visibly angry, she pushed it aside for now. The scolding could wait until he was fully healed.

“What do you suggest?” Arthur asked, sitting up slowly.

“St. Mungo’s. Immediately.” Her tone left no room for argument. “The Head of Magical Core Trauma should examine you.”

“Shouldn’t we inform Professor Dumbledore or—”

“There’s no time,” she interrupted, already moving toward the fireplace in her office. “Your core’s condition could deteriorate if left untreated.”

Without further discussion, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder, gestured for Arthur to join her in the large fireplace, and threw the powder down.

“St. Mungo’s Hospital, Emergency Reception!” she called clearly.

Green flames engulfed them, and with a disorienting swirl, they vanished from Hogwarts.

—

The reception area of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was surprisingly quiet for a morning hour. A bored-looking witch at the desk barely glanced up as they arrived.

“Magical Core Trauma, fourth floor,” she said automatically upon seeing Madam Pomfrey’s uniform.

Madam Pomfrey guided Arthur through pristine corridors that reminded him of a Victorian hospital merged with a wizard’s study. Portraits of famous healers watched their progress, some offering unsolicited diagnostic opinions as they passed.

“Looks like magical exhaustion to me!” called one particularly ancient-looking wizard.

“Nonsense, it’s clearly a case of splinched magic!” countered another.

Arthur ignored them, focusing instead on the hospital itself. Everything was immaculately clean, yet distinctly old-fashioned like the rest of the wizarding world. After being on an advanced alien spaceship, the contrast was striking. Gas lamps instead of electric lights. Floating quills taking notes instead of computers. Healers in lime-green robes bustling about.

They finally reached a door marked “Healer Bartholomew Cadwallader, Specialist in Magical Core Trauma.” Bit of a mouthful, that name, Arthur thought.

The healer himself was a tall, gaunt man with piercing blue eyes and a neatly trimmed silver beard. He greeted Madam Pomfrey warmly but assessed Arthur with clinical detachment.

“So this is our mysterious patient,” he said, gesturing for Arthur to sit on an examination table. “Poppy has sent me a quick overview via Patronus. Let’s have a proper look, shall we?”

His diagnostic spells were even more complex than Madam Pomfrey’s, creating shimmering patterns of light that hovered over different parts of Arthur’s body. Where Madam Pomfrey’s spells had taken minutes, Healer Cadwallader’s examination lasted nearly an hour.

Arthur, despite considering himself quite good at healing, had no knowledge of these spells. It was a stark reminder of his limitations. He could work hard and use the Ravenclaw diadem to study faster, but he lacked the books and masters to learn from. Advanced knowledge was kept too secret in the wizarding world, particularly difficult for a Muggle-born to access.

“Young man,” the healer finally said, setting his wand down, “I need to know exactly what happened to you. No half-truths or vague explanations. The condition of your magical core is unlike anything I’ve seen in forty years of healing.”

Arthur met the healer’s stern gaze and sighed. There was no avoiding it.

“I came into contact with an artifact of great power,” he admitted reluctantly. “At first I was able to control it using my magic, ensuring there was no direct contact. Then my magic was consumed and there was direct contact with too much power. It nearly killed me from the inside out.”

“What kind of artifact?” Cadwallader pressed.

“I don’t have it anymore. A mysterious and powerful wizard took it after saving me.”

The healer’s eyes narrowed. “Did the artifact have any specialties?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied carefully. “It wasn’t magical and felt like something else entirely. I cannot say anything more.”

Cadwallader nodded. “I understand. Secrecy oaths and all that.” He picked up his wand again. “What matters now is your treatment. The potions you took after the incident have helped with the surface injuries, but they’re inadequate for your condition. You are hurt too badly and too deep.”

“What do I need?” Arthur asked.

“A comprehensive magical reconstitution ritual.” Cadwallader began sketching complex runes on a piece of parchment. “It’s a bit like a rebirth ritual. It will address the hidden injuries and restore your magic core at the same time.”

Arthur recognized some of the runes. “Are magical rituals legal?”

“Yes, when performed under supervision of a master at ritual arts.”

“But I’ve never heard of rituals being used for treatment,” Arthur said skeptically.

“This isn’t standard treatment,” the healer confirmed. “It’s reserved for cases of extreme magical trauma. The ritual requires rare magical ingredients and is quite costly.”

“What’s the cost?” Arthur asked directly.

Cadwallader wrote a figure on the parchment and slid it across to Arthur.

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly. It cost a fortune. The amount represented approximately one-quarter of what he’d earned from selling the basilisk parts—a sum utterly unaffordable for most wizarding families.

“The ingredients are rare,” Cadwallader explained. “Phoenix tears, powdered horn of a Ukrainian Ironbelly, essence of belladonna harvested during a solar eclipse…” He hesitated. “If it’s too much, we can attempt a partial healing with standard methods, though I cannot guarantee the results.”

“No,” Arthur said firmly. “I’ll authorize the full amount from my Gringotts vault. I want complete healing.”

Arthur didn’t want to leave behind hidden injuries. He might be getting ripped off, but not by much. The ingredients were genuinely costly, and with rituals being restricted knowledge, the high price made sense. If it worked, he wouldn’t care about the money. If not and he was being scammed, then the healer should hope he never recovered.

Relief flickered across the healer’s face. “Excellent. We’ll begin preparations immediately. You’ll need to remain here overnight while we prepare the ritual chamber and gather the ingredients.”

—

Arthur spent an uncomfortable night in a private room at St. Mungo’s. Healers came and went, administering preliminary potions that tasted progressively worse. By morning, his tongue felt coated with a mixture of ash, sour milk, and what he imagined troll earwax might taste like.

“It’s time,” announced Healer Cadwallader, appearing at dawn.

Arthur followed the healer to the ritual room. On the way, Healer Cadwallader said, “Now, I must warn you—this ritual will be unpleasant. Possibly quite painful. Your body and magic will resist the forced reconstitution.”

Arthur wasn’t concerned. He felt nothing could match what he had experienced a few days ago. He would be soon proven wrong.

They entered a circular chamber deep within the hospital. The room was dominated by an intricate runic circle inscribed on the floor, glowing faintly blue. Crystal vials containing substances of various colors were positioned at specific points around the circle.

“Remove your hospital gown and lie in the center,” instructed Cadwallader. “The ritual works best with direct contact to your skin.”

Arthur complied, and then some assistant healers positioned themselves at cardinal points around the circle while Cadwallader took the northernmost position.

“We begin,” he intoned, raising his wand.

The ritual started slowly, with a gentle warmth spreading through Arthur’s body. Rather pleasant, actually. Then the heat intensified, becoming uncomfortable, then painful, then agonizing.

Arthur clenched his jaw to keep from screaming as liquid fire seemed to flow through his veins. The sensation was disturbingly similar to what he’d experienced when the Tesseract’s power consumed him—that same feeling of being unmade from within. The pain was almost identical.

Through watering eyes, he watched the runic circle flare with blinding light. The contents of the crystal vials rose into the air as liquid streams, spiraling toward him before sinking into his skin.

Just when he thought he couldn’t endure another second, a new sensation emerged—like cool water flowing through his burning body, soothing the pain. His magical core, damaged and weak, seemed to pulse in response, drawing in the healing energies.

The ritual lasted three excruciating hours. By the end, Arthur lay exhausted but strangely invigorated. He felt better than he had in months—perhaps better than he had ever felt.

“Remarkable,” murmured Cadwallader, examining him afterward.

“Has anyone survived this ritual before me?” Arthur asked weakly. “That was rather intense.”

“To tell you the truth, the survival rate is less than 10%.”

“Brilliant. Why didn’t you mention that before I agreed to it?” Arthur’s tone was dry.

“The ritual was your only option for complete healing,” Cadwallader replied. “Any other method and you would have lived only for a few years before your body collapsed.”

Arthur didn’t like this omission, but since it was over and he had recovered as promised, he decided not to hold a grudge.

“Your body has accepted the healing completely,” Cadwallader continued. “The fractures are mended, the cellular damage reversed.” He frowned slightly. “Your magical core, however…”

“What about it?” Arthur asked, alarmed.

“It’s healed, but… changed.” The healer performed another diagnostic spell. “The energy signature is different. Not damaged, just… altered. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Can you try casting any spell?”

Arthur didn’t have his wand with him, so he tried wandless magic, but nothing happened. He borrowed a wand from an assistant, but still nothing happened.

“This is odd,” Cadwallader muttered, then started casting more diagnostic spells.

“There’s nothing wrong with you physically,” he finally said. “I’m stumped. The only explanation I can think of is that your body is too weak to handle your magic. The size of your core is bigger than any I’ve seen in my life. Even Dumbledore has a core smaller than yours.”

Arthur took the news surprisingly well. He was relieved it wasn’t a hopeless situation. The Marvel world had many ways of gaining physical strength, and he could work on that.

The good news was that he was completely healed otherwise. The bad news was that he had a tournament to take part in, and now it looked like he had to do it without magic.

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