December 14, 1988
Michael was reading a book under an oak in the garden when he heard Neville's scream.
The sound pierced the winter air, jarring against the peaceful silence of the snow-covered grounds. Michael's head snapped up from the weatherproofed pages of "Advanced Defensive Theory" just in time to see a small figure plummeting from the third-story window of the manor.
Neville.
Michael's body turned to ice, colder than the December air around him. Time seemed to slow as his brother fell, arms flailing helplessly against the gray sky. He watched frozen, his mind reflexively calculated the trajectory, the velocity, the inevitable impact, and the conclusion was unbearable.
Then, impossibly, Neville's descent slowed. Just before hitting the ground, his body seemed to compress like a spring, and he bounced.
The first bounce sent him nearly fifteen feet back into the air, his terrified wails continuing uninterrupted. Then another bounce, slightly lower, and another, until finally Neville tumbled onto the lawn in a heap of winter clothing and tears.
The shock released its grip on Michael's limbs. His heart, which had seized in his chest, thundered back to life with painful intensity. The book fell forgotten into the snow as he sprinted across the garden.
Neville!" Michael dropped to his knees beside his brother, hands hovering uncertainly over the sobbing child. "Don't move. Let me check if anything's broken."
His fingers probed gently but efficiently, checking limbs and spine with the methodical precision of someone who had assessed battlefield injuries before. Miraculously, there were no obvious injuries, no broken bones, no blood, nothing but tears and fear.
"That's a boy!" came a triumphant shout from above.
Michael's gaze snapped upward. Uncle Algie's round face beamed from the window, his expression one of absolute delight, as if he'd just witnessed a particularly impressive magic trick rather than what could have been his nephew's death.
Apoplectic fury rose in Michael's chest, hot and choking. Uncle Algie, their eccentric great-uncle who appeared occasionally with exotic gifts and stranger stories, had been trying to force magical reactions from Neville for years. Small "accidents" designed to trigger the instinctive magic that would prove Neville wasn't a Squib: dropping him off the Blackpool pier, "accidentally" pushing him into the deep end of a swimming pool during a family holiday.
But this... this crossed a line Michael hadn't imagined even Algie would dare approach.
"I knew you had it in you, my boy!" Algie called down, oblivious to the murderous thoughts now racing through Michael's mind. "Augusta! Augusta, come quick! Neville's done magic! Proper magic!"
Michael turned his attention back to Neville, who had curled into a trembling ball, sobs wracking his small frame.
"You're safe," Michael murmured, gathering his brother against his chest. "I've got you. You're safe now."
"H-he p-pushed me," Neville hiccupped, his words barely intelligible through his tears. "I w-wasn't ready, and he j-just—"
"I know," Michael said, his voice dangerously soft. "I saw."
He helped Neville to his feet, keeping one steadying arm around his shoulders. Neville's face was streaked with tears and mucus, his eyes red-rimmed and still wide with terror. The sight fed the rage building in Michael's chest, a cold, calculating anger that demanded response.
The manor's back door flew open, and Augusta Longbottom hurried out, her expression shifting from concern to relief as she saw both boys standing.
"Is it true?" she demanded, approaching them with quick, precise steps despite the snow. "Algernon says—"
"He threw Neville out of a third-story window," Michael interrupted, his voice flat and hard. "Without warning. Without safety measures."
Augusta's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed as she looked up at the window where Algie still stood, beaming proudly.
"But he did magic," she said, her tone suggesting this fact might somehow balance the scales. "Finally."
Michael felt fury rise within him. "And if he hadn't? Would you be planning his funeral now instead?"
The sharp words landed like physical blows. Augusta flinched, then drew herself up to her full height.
"Mind your tone, young man," she said, though without her usual conviction. Her eyes drifted to Neville, still shaking against Michael's side, and something in her expression softened. "Come inside, both of you. You'll catch your death in this cold."
"No," Michael said firmly, planting his feet in the snow. He kept his arm protectively around Neville's shoulders. "We're not going inside yet."
Augusta turned, one eyebrow raised. "I beg your pardon?"
"Call Uncle Algie down here." The words emerged from Michael's lips with glacial calm, each syllable precisely formed despite the storm raging within. "Now."
Something in his tone made Augusta hesitate. She studied his face, the rigid set of his jaw, the cold fury in his eyes that looked disturbingly out of place on a ten-year-old. After a moment, she nodded once and called up to the window.
Algernon! Come down here this instant."
Michael felt Neville trembling against him. "Go inside, Neville," he said softly.
"B-but—"
"Go inside." He squeezed his brother's shoulder gently. "It's all right. I'll handle this."
Neville hesitated, then pulled away reluctantly. He cast one fearful glance toward the window where Uncle Algie had been, then scurried toward the manor door, his shoulders hunched as if expecting another attack from above.
Michael watched him go, making sure he was safely inside before turning his attention back to the house. The back door swung open again, and Uncle Algie emerged, his round face flushed with excitement, a wide grin splitting his beard.
"Did you see that?" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together as he approached. "Bounced like a rubber ball! I knew he had magic in him! Just needed the right push, eh?" He chuckled at his own joke.
Augusta drew herself up, inhaling sharply. "Algernon Longbottom, what you did was—"
"Grandmother," Michael interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll handle this."
She turned to him, clearly ready to object, but something in his expression made her words die in her throat.
Algie approached, still beaming, apparently oblivious to the tension. "Well now, young Michael, no need to look so grim! This is a day for celebration! Your brother's not a Squib after all!"
Michael felt the magic building inside him, responding to his rage. He didn't reach for his grandfather’s wand in his pocket. He didn't need it. The power flowed through him, an extension of his will, invisible but potent.
As Algie stepped within arm's reach, still babbling cheerfully, Michael struck. His hand made no physical contact, but Algie suddenly gasped, his words cutting off as his feet left the ground. His pudgy hands clawed at his throat where invisible fingers constricted.
With a flick of his thoughts, Michael sent his great-uncle flying backward, slamming him against the stone wall of the manor with enough force to knock the wind from him but not enough to cause serious injury. Before Algie could recover, Michael was upon him, a small knife, pocketed from the kitchen that morning for garden work, now pressed against the soft flesh beneath his jaw.
"Michael!" Augusta shouted from behind him. "Release him at once!"
Michael ignored her, his focus entirely on Algie's suddenly wide, frightened eyes. He could feel the man's pulse racing beneath the blade.
"You are family," Michael said, his voice terrifyingly calm despite the inferno of rage within him. "That alone has spared your life today." He increased the pressure of the knife just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "If you ever—ever—lay a hand on Neville again, if you even think about putting him in danger for one of your stupid tests, I will end you."
Algie's eyes bulged, his face purpling from the magical pressure still constricting his throat.
"Do you understand me?" Michael asked, easing the invisible grip just enough to allow speech.
"Y-yes," Algie wheezed, terror replacing the cheerful obliviousness that had been there moments before.
"Michael Longbottom!" Augusta's voice cracked like a whip. "That is quite enough!"
Michael held Algie's gaze for one more moment, then stepped back, releasing the magic that had held his great-uncle pinned. The knife disappeared back into his pocket in one smooth motion as Algie collapsed to his knees, gasping and clutching his throat.
"He could have died," Michael said, turning to face his grandmother. His voice remained eerily calm. "If Neville's magic hadn't manifested at that exact moment, we would be scraping his body off the ground right now."
Augusta's face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes darted between Michael and the still-gasping Algie.
"That doesn't justify—"
"It justifies everything," Michael cut her off. "Neville is seven years old. He trusts us to protect him. Instead, our uncle" he jabbed a finger toward Algie, "—threw him out of a window. For what? To satisfy his curiosity? To ease your fears about having a Squib in the family?"
Augusta flinched as if struck. "That's not—"
"It is." Michael's voice remained low, but it carried the weight of absolute conviction. "You've both been trying to force magic out of him for years. The pier. The pool. And now this." He shook his head, disgust evident in every line of his body. "It stops today."
Algie had managed to struggle to his feet, one hand still at his throat where a thin line of blood stained his collar. "The boy's dangerous, Augusta," he rasped. "He held a bloody knife to my throat. No child should be able to—"
"Be silent," Augusta snapped, her eyes never leaving Michael's face. For a long moment, grandmother and grandson stared at each other, an unspoken battle of wills playing out in the winter air between them.
Finally, Augusta gave a small, stiff nod. "Algernon will be leaving us today," she said. "And will not return without an express invitation."
"Augusta!" Algie protested.
"Be grateful, Algernon, that I don't report this incident to the authorities," she said coldly. "Child endangerment carries a sentence in Azkaban these days."
Michael's shoulders relaxed fractionally at her words. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough for what Algie had done, but it was a start.
"As for you, young man," Augusta continued, turning back to Michael, "we will discuss your... methods... of handling this situation after Algernon has departed."
Michael inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her authority without conceding his position. "As you wish, Grandmother."
He turned away, walking toward the manor where Neville waited, likely terrified and confused by what had just occurred. Behind him, he could hear Augusta berating Algie in harsh whispers, but he didn't look back. His rage had cooled from white-hot fury to a simmering flame, still dangerous but contained.
He would need to talk to Neville, to reassure him that he was safe, that his magic was something to be celebrated but never forced. And later, he would face whatever consequences Augusta deemed appropriate for his actions.
But he didn't regret a single moment of it. Family protected family. That was the rule that mattered above all others. And if Augusta or anyone else thought he would stand by while Neville was endangered, they would learn exactly how far Michael was willing to go to keep that rule intact.
__________________________________________________________Michael found Neville in his room, curled up on his bed with Trevor, his toad, clutched protectively against his chest. Neville's eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks still wet with tears. When Michael entered, Neville looked up briefly before averting his gaze, as if ashamed.
The sight sent a pang through Michael's chest. He crossed the room silently and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was Neville's occasional sniffling.
"Are you hurt?" Michael finally asked, keeping his voice gentle.
Neville shook his head, still not meeting his brother's eyes. "N-no." His fingers stroked Trevor's warty back nervously. "I bounced."
"Yes. You did." Michael reached out slowly and placed his hand on Neville's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"I'm not a squib, Michael," Neville whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. The words seemed to contain both relief and uncertainty, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself.
Michael's grip on his brother's shoulder tightened slightly. "It never mattered to me, Nev. Not once."
"But you're so strong," Neville protested, finally looking up. His eyes were filled with a desperate kind of admiration that made Michael's heart ache. "You've been doing magic for years, and I'm... I'm useless."
Something hardened in Michael's expression. He moved his hand from Neville's shoulder and pressed his index finger firmly against his brother's chest, right above his heart.
"It's what's in here that matters, Neville. Not how early your magic showed, or how powerful it seems." His voice took on a deeper quality, carrying the weight of experiences far beyond his apparent years. "Listen to me carefully. A man often becomes what he believes himself to be. If you keep telling yourself you can't do something, eventually you'll make that true. But if you believe you can do something and truly believe it, you'll find the capacity, even if it wasn't there at the beginning."
Neville stared at him, mouth slightly open, Trevor momentarily forgotten in his hands.
"The world is filled with meaningless moments," Michael continued, his finger still pressed against Neville's heart. "Days that blend together, hours that pass without note. Then suddenly, there comes a single moment that defines everything that follows." He lowered his voice. "Today was such a moment for you. A test of strength. And you passed it."
"I didn't do anything," Neville mumbled. "I just fell."
"No." Michael shook his head firmly. "Your magic responded when you needed it most. That's not nothing, Neville. That's everything."
Neville blinked rapidly, fresh tears gathering. "But Uncle Algie had to throw me out a window to make it happen. What kind of wizard needs that?"
"The kind who's stronger than anyone realizes," Michael replied without hesitation. "Including himself."
A tentative knock at the door interrupted them. Augusta stood in the doorway, her usual imposing demeanor softened by concern.
"Algernon has left," she announced, her eyes moving between her grandsons. "He won't be returning for some time." She hesitated, then added, "Neville, are you quite all right?"
Neville nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Augusta stepped further into the room, her hands clasped before her. "What happened today... it should never have occurred. I allowed Algernon too much liberty in his... methods." The admission clearly cost her something, her pride perhaps, but she continued nonetheless. "For that, I owe you an apology."
Michael watched his grandmother carefully, noting the stiffness in her posture, the slight tremor in her usually steady voice. This was difficult for her, Augusta Longbottom did not apologize easily.
"However," she continued, her gaze shifting to Michael, "we still need to discuss what happened afterward."
Michael inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Grandmother. But later, if you don't mind."
Augusta's lips pressed into a thin line, but after a moment, she nodded. "Very well. Dinner will be ready in an hour." With that, she withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
When she was gone, Neville released a shaky breath. "Are you in trouble because of me?" he asked, his voice small.
"No, Neville. Never because of you." Michael smiled, a rare, genuine expression that transformed his usually serious face. "And don't worry about Gran. She's angry, yes, but not entirely at me."
"I thought she'd be happy I finally did magic," Neville said quietly, setting Trevor down on the bedspread.
"She is," Michael assured him. "But even Gran has limits to what she'll tolerate, and Algie crossed them today." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "You know, your magic has always been there, waiting. It just needed the right moment to show itself."
"Do you really think so?"
"I know so." Michael rose from the bed and extended his hand. "Come on. Let's go to the greenhouse before dinner.”
Neville's face brightened immediately at the mention of his plants. He took Michael's hand and stood. "I think the Singing Pancretias will blossom soon."
As they headed downstairs together, Michael felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Neville would be all right. The path ahead would not be easy, it never was, but his brother had taken the first crucial step. The magic was there, undeniable now.
And Michael would ensure that no one, not even well-meaning family, would ever push Neville that way again. The next challenge would be helping Neville build confidence in his abilities without the desperate situations that Algie seemed to think necessary.
For now, though, it was enough to see the spark of hope in Neville's eyes as he chattered about his plants. Small steps. One day at a time. The boy who bounced would find his footing eventually.
Michael would make sure of it.___________________________________________The night fell heavy over Longbottom Manor. Michael and Augusta sat across from each other in the living room, the remains of their dinner cleared away. The crackling fire cast long shadows across the ornate carpet, illuminating Augusta's severe profile as she regarded her grandson with a mixture of concern and disapproval.
"Michael, I understand your anger, but your reaction was entirely out of proportion," Augusta said, her voice measured and deliberate. "Why would you resort to threatening Algernon with a knife, in such a muggle fashion?"
Michael said nothing for a while. Internally he chuckled mirthlessly, if only his grandmother knew that he was a muggle in his previous life, and that too a criminal, the type she so despised. The irony of it all, how horrified she would be to learn that her brilliant, magically gifted grandson had once been Michael Corleone, a man whose hands were stained with blood long before he had ever drawn breath in this new world.
"Grandmother," he finally said. "Seven years ago, I hid with Neville in the warded space mother had created for us. I watched as the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. tortured our parents into insanity."
He looked at her. Her face was stark white. He had never opened up to her or spoken of that day.
"On that day I swore vengeance," Michael continued, his voice hardening with each word. “That this tragedy is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster will come and they will pay the price of their sins."
"They may languish in Azkaban, but blood must be answered with blood." His eyes never left Augusta's face. "And I swore after that incident that I would protect Neville, with my body, mind, and soul."
He leaned forward slightly, his small frame suddenly seeming to occupy more space than should have been possible. "Were Uncle Algie anyone else, he would be dead. Being family spared him. Nothing more."
Augusta's hands trembled slightly as she reached for her teacup. The porcelain clinked against the saucer as she set it down untouched.
"You were only three," she whispered. "How could you remember it so clearly?"
Michael's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Some things burn themselves into your memory, Grandmother. Some wounds never heal."
Augusta's gaze sharpened. "And what do you intend to do about these... oaths of vengeance? You speak of murder, child."
"I speak of justice," Michael corrected her. "The kind the Ministry failed to deliver."
Augusta stood abruptly, her tall frame casting a long shadow across him. "You will listen to me very carefully, Michael Longbottom. I have lost my son and daughter-in-law to those monsters. I will not lose you to hatred and revenge."
"You won't lose me," Michael said quietly. "But neither will you change my mind."
"You are ten years old!" Augusta's composure cracked, her voice rising. "You have no concept of what you're saying!"
Michael rose to his feet, standing toe-to-toe with his grandmother despite the considerable difference in their heights. "I have all the understanding I need. I saw what they did. I heard my mother scream until her voice broke. I watched my father beg for death rather than endure more pain."
Augusta flinched as if struck.
"And today," Michael continued relentlessly, "I watched another member of our family throw my brother from a window for the crime of developing magic at his own pace."
"That was different," Augusta protested, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Was it? Violence against a child is violence against a child." Michael's eyes were cold beyond his years. "The difference is that I stopped this one."
Augusta sank back into her chair, suddenly looking every one of her years. "What happened to you, Michael?" she whispered. "Sometimes I look at you and I don't see Frank's son at all. I see someone... older. Harder."
Michael's expression didn't change, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Trauma changes people, Grandmother. Even children."
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the soft popping of the fire. Outside, snow began to fall, white flakes drifting past the windows like ghosts.
"I worry for you," Augusta finally said. "This path you speak of, vengeance, blood for blood, it will consume you."
"Perhaps," Michael acknowledged. "But I've made my choice."
Augusta studied him for a long moment, her lined face unreadable. Then she reached into her robes and withdrew her wand. Michael tensed instinctively, but she merely pointed it at a cabinet across the room. The doors swung open, and a bottle of amber liquid floated toward them, followed by two small glasses.
"This is firewhiskey," she said, pouring a measure into each glass. "Normally, I would never offer this to a child. But you haven't been a child for some time, have you?"
She pushed one glass toward Michael, who took it with steady fingers.
"To Frank and Alice," Augusta said, raising her glass. "And to justice, whatever form it may take."
Michael nodded solemnly and raised his own glass. The firewhiskey burned down his throat, but he didn't cough or sputter. The warmth spread through his chest, a momentary comfort in the cold reality of his existence.
"You remind me of your grandfather sometimes," Augusta said quietly, setting down her empty glass. "He had that same look in his eyes during the first war. That same certainty."
"Is that a compliment?" Michael asked.
"I'm not entirely sure," Augusta admitted. "Archie was a great wizard, but his convictions led him into dark places at times." She fixed Michael with a penetrating stare. "Promise me one thing."
Michael waited, saying nothing.
"Promise me you won't forget who you're fighting for. Not just against whom." Augusta's voice softened. "Your parents wouldn't want you to lose yourself to hatred."
Michael considered her words, rolling the empty glass between his palms. The Michael Corleone he had once been had indeed lost himself to hatred and vengeance, had watched his soul wither as his power grew. It was a path he knew too well.
"I promise to remember," he finally said. "But I make no promises about mercy."
Augusta nodded once, apparently accepting this compromise. "Very well." She rose again, straightening her robes. "It's late. We should both get some rest."
As she reached the door, she paused and looked back at him. "What you did today for Neville, protecting him, that was right. Your methods..." she hesitated, "we can discuss those another time. But never doubt that your instinct to shield him was correct."
Michael inclined his head, acknowledging her words.
"Goodnight, Grandmother."
"Goodnight, Michael."
The door closed softly behind her, leaving Michael alone with the dying fire and his thoughts. He stared into the embers, seeing not the glowing coals but the faces of those who had destroyed his family.
"Soon," he whispered to the empty room. "Soon enough."
Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the world in a blanket of pristine white that belied the darkness gathering in the heart of the boy who watched it from the window. A darkness that would one day consume those who had thought themselves beyond justice's reach.
Michael turned away from the window and headed upstairs to check on Neville. Some oaths could wait for fulfillment. Others, like the promise to protect his brother, required constant vigilance. And in that, at least, he would not fail.