It was unusual being the youngest in the family again. To not be saddled with the title of Don.
He was showered with love and affection, his parents doted on him, grandparents adored him.
He had mastered walking by the time he was 18 months old, and he utilised this new freedom to toddle around his house. Each step was still a small adventure however, requiring concentration to maintain his balance.
The Longbottom family was old money, he understood that while walking the corridors of the manor and seeing the acreages of gardens that surrounded them. The portraits on the wall, predecessors of his line, chattered and greeted him as he passed them.
It was the sort of wealth you would see when meeting old nobility. The polished mahogany banisters gleamed with centuries of careful maintenance, the marble floors imported from Greece . His small fingers traced the intricate carvings on the furniture, feeling the smooth indentations left by master craftsmen long dead.
The morning light filtered through tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished floor..
"Good morning, young master," called a portrait of a stern-looking wizard with a monocle and elaborate mustache. "Off on another expedition, are we?"
Michael nodded solemnly. The portraits had ceased to frighten him; now they were simply another peculiarity of this magical existence. He continued his journey, trailing his fingers along the wainscoting, feeling the subtle variations in the wood grain beneath his fingertips.
The manor was quieter than usual this morning. His mother had mentioned something about his father working a double shift at the Ministry, whatever that meant in this strange world. Michael had gathered that Frank held some position of authority, an "Auror," though the exact nature of the role remained unclear to him.
He paused at an intersection of hallways, considering his options. To the left lay the familiar path to the kitchens, where house-elves, creatures whose existence still unsettled him profoundly, would likely offer him sweet treats despite his mother's instructions. To the right stretched a corridor he had not yet fully explored, lined with doors that remained mysteries.
Curiosity won out. Michael turned right, his steps careful but determined.
The first door he encountered was slightly ajar. He pushed it open with both hands, the heavy oak swinging inward to reveal a study bathed in emerald light from stained glass windows.
A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with parchments and what appeared to be maps. Michael approached carefully, his eyes wide as he took in the strange symbols and moving lines that crisscrossed the yellowed paper.
Standing on tiptoe, he reached up to touch one of the documents. The parchment felt rough beneath his fingers, nothing like the smooth paper of his former life. The ink lines shifted slightly at his touch, reorganizing themselves like living things.
"What are you doing here Michael?"
Michael startled, nearly losing his balance as he turned to find his grandmother Augusta standing in the doorway. Her tall frame was silhouetted against the light from the hallway. As always Augusta was dressed to impress. The stuffed vulture on her hat creating a strange, elongated shadow on the wall.
"Exploring," he managed, the limitations of his infant vocal cords still frustrating him daily.
Augusta's severe expression softened slightly as she swept into the room, her robes rustling against the carpet. "Exploring, are you? A proper Longbottom trait. Your grandfather was the same way, couldn't keep him from poking his nose into everything."
She knelt beside him, her knees cracking slightly with the effort. Despite her advanced age, Augusta moved with the confidence and vigor of a much younger woman. Michael had noticed how other adults deferred to her, even his parents. There was power in her bearing, in the way she wielded her wand with practiced precision.
"These are the family estates," she explained proudly, tapping one of the maps. The lines glowed briefly at her touch. "Longbottom land has been in the family for thousands of years. Someday, you will be responsible for all of it."
Michael stared at the map, trying to comprehend the scale of what she was showing him. In his previous life, he had amassed considerable wealth and power, but this was different, this was legacy, inheritance, bloodline.
"Come along," Augusta said imperiously, standing and offering her hand. "If you're to be wandering the manor, I should show you the proper places for a young wizard to explore."
Michael placed his small hand in hers, feeling the paper-thin skin stretched over strong bones. His grandmother led him through corridors he had never seen before, pointing out portraits of ancestors with names he struggled to remember.
"That's Harfang Longbottom, who served as Chief Warlock in the 1700s. And there's your great-great-grandmother Callidora, who married into the Black family.
The portraits nodded or waved as they passed, some calling out greetings that Michael acknowledged with solemn nods.
"The family library," she announced, pushing open the doors to reveal a cavernous room lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. "Not many children your age would appreciate such a place, but their are different expectations of the heir to House Longbottom?"
The library was enormous.
lobes floated gently between the stacks, illuminating the titles on spines too high to reach. Some books were chained to their shelves, while others fluttered like trapped birds when they passed.
"Your father spent hours here as a boy," Augusta said, guiding him toward a section where smaller, more colorful volumes were arranged on lower shelves. "Though I daresay you'll advance to the upper shelves much faster than he did."
She selected a book bound in midnight blue leather and set it on a low table. It read "The Tales of Beedle the Bard." Augusta opened it with careful fingers, revealing pages adorned with delicate illustrations, a hopping pot that seemed to dance across the parchment, three brothers facing a cloaked figure by a river, and a cackling fountain that sparkled even on the flat page.
"These stories have been read to wizarding children for centuries," Augusta said, tapping one illustration of a hairy heart held aloft by a wizard with a mad gleam in his eyes. "Your father enjoyed them greatly when he was your age."
Augusta snapped the book closed suddenly. "Now let's get you outside, boy. You need to get big and strong. You can read the book later."
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Michael's time with his grandparents became a steady rhythm in his life as the calendar turned to 1979. At first, he'd thought nothing of these visits, children often spent time with grandparents, after all. But as winter deepened into a bitter January, he began to notice patterns, to piece together fragments of a troubling puzzle.
His parents would return from work with shadows under their eyes, whispering in corners of rooms they thought he couldn't hear from. They checked the windows constantly, reinforced the doors with strange incantations that made the air shimmer and pulse around the house's perimeter. At night, Michael would lie awake, listening to the soft murmur of protective spells being renewed, feeling the magic settle over the house like an invisible blanket.
"Constant vigilance," his father would mutter, a phrase Michael heard with increasing frequency.
One evening, as Alice tucked him into bed, her wand slipped from her sleeve. It clattered to the floor, and in the wandlight, Michael saw the angry red slash across her forearm before she could hide it.
"Just a scratch," she said, forcing brightness into her voice when she caught him staring. "Mummy had a bit of an accident at work."
But Michael had seen wounds before, in another life. That was no accident.
The next morning, his parents were gone before dawn, and Augusta arrived to collect him for another "visit." This had become so routine that Michael already had a small trunk of toys and clothes waiting by the fireplace.
On the eve of his second birthday, Michael woke early at his grandparents' home. The manor was silent save for the soft creaking of centuries-old timber adjusting to the morning chill. He slipped from his bed, bare feet padding across the cold floor as he made his way downstairs.
Voices drifted from the kitchen, his grandfather Archibald and someone else, their tones hushed but urgent. Michael approached carefully, the skills of his former life serving him well as he moved silently down the corridor.
"—fourth attack this month," a voice Michael didn't recognize was saying. "The Department is stretched thin, Archie. Frank and Alice have been on rotation for thirty-six hours straight."
"Merlin's beard," his grandfather muttered. "Have they made any progress identifying—"
"You know I can't discuss that," the visitor cut in. "But I will say this, your son and daughter-in-law are among our finest. If anyone can help bring this madness to an end, it's them."
Michael froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. The suspicions that had been gathering in his mind crystallized into certainty. His parents weren't simply working long hours, they were fighting. Fighting in a war he didn't understand.
The next morning at breakfast, Michael watched his grandfather more carefully than usual. Archibald sat in his customary chair at the head of the table, The Daily Prophet spread before him, his brow furrowed as he read. The newspaper partially obscured his face, but Michael could see the tightening around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he turned the pages.
When Archibald finally set the paper aside with a heavy sigh, Michael seized his opportunity. He climbed from his chair and toddled over to his grandfather, raising his arms in the universal gesture of a child wanting to be lifted.
"Up, please," he said, his vocabulary expanding daily though still constrained by his young physiology.
Archibald's weathered face softened as he hoisted Michael onto his lap. "Good morning, young man. Sleep well?"
Michael nodded, then deliberately turned his attention to the newspaper. The headline screamed in bold black letters, DARK MARK SPOTTED OVER MARSBURY, impossible to miss even for a child who shouldn't yet be able to read. The photograph beside it showed chaos, buildings ablaze, people running, and above it all, a terrible symbol floating in the night sky, a green skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth.
"What that?" Michael asked, pointing at the ghastly image, feigning childish curiosity while his mind raced to understand.
Archibald hesitated, clearly debating how much to explain to a child not yet two. "That's... a bad sign," he finally said, his voice grave. "Put there by bad wizards."
"Bad wizards hurt people?" Michael pressed, his finger moving to the text that described the death toll.
"Yes," Archibald admitted, surprising Michael with his honesty. "Very bad wizards who hurt people who can't do magic."
Michael absorbed this, connecting it to the snippets of conversation he'd overheard for months. "Mummy and Daddy stop bad wizards?"
The question hung in the air. Archibald's arms tightened around Michael, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "That's right, my boy. Your parents are very brave. They're Aurors. They protect people."
Magical Law enforcement. Wizard police.
"They come home soon?" Michael asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.
"I hope so, lad," Archibald said, closing the newspaper and turning Michael to face him. "Your birthday is tomorrow, and they wouldn't miss that for all the gold in Gringotts."
That night, Michael lay awake in his bed at his grandparents' home, his mind too full for sleep. In his previous life, he had been no stranger to violence. He had ordered it, witnessed it, participated in it. But now, helpless in a child's body, he could only wait while his parents, these people who had shown him nothing but love and tenderness,risked their lives fighting an evil he was only beginning to comprehend.
The irony wasn't lost on him. In his former existence, he had been the threat, the danger that good people fought against. Now, he found himself desperately hoping for the safety of those who stood against darkness.
Perhaps this was his penance after all, to love those who fought against the very sort of evil he had once embodied. To feel the fear and helplessness of those left behind.
As dawn broke on his second birthday, Michael heard the distinctive crack of Apparition from downstairs. He scrambled from his bed, nearly falling in his haste, and rushed to the landing.
Below, in the entrance hall, stood his parents. Their robes were torn and singed, their faces smudged with soot, but they were alive. Frank had his arm around Alice's waist, supporting her as she favored her left leg.
"Michael!" Alice called, spotting him on the stairs. Despite her obvious pain, her face lit up with joy. "Happy birthday, my darling boy!"
Michael flew down the stairs and into their arms, breathing in their scent of smoke and sweat and something acrid that must have been spell residue. They enfolded him in an embrace that spoke of relief and love and the desperate joy of reunion.
Over his mother's shoulder, Michael caught sight of the front page of The Daily Prophet, discarded on a side table. The headline proclaimed: "Aurors Thwart Death Eater Attack in Yorkshire, Three Captured."
Death Eaters. The name sent a chill through him. These were the enemies, then, the followers of this mysterious "You-Know-Who" whose name was spoken only in whispers.
As his parents held him, Michael made a silent vow. He would learn everything he could about this world, about this war. He would prepare himself. Because one thing was becoming increasingly clear, the peaceful childhood they wanted for him was an illusion, as fragile as morning mist.
War had found him, as it always did.
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