The days following Neville's birth settled into a rhythm. Michael observed his brother's development with the keen eye of someone who had watched children grow before. Neville was a quiet baby, rarely crying except when hungry or uncomfortable
By November, the crisp autumn air had given way to winter's first chill. The gardens of Longbottom Manor stood barren, trees stretching skeletal fingers toward a steel-gray sky. Michael had spent the afternoon in the library, reading a book on magical creatures, when he heard the front door open with unusual force.
The sound of urgent voices pulled him from his reading. He recognized his parents' tones immediately, but there was something different about them, an edge he hadn't heard before, not even during their most serious discussions of the ongoing conflict. Setting his book aside, Michael slipped from his chair and made his way silently toward the foyer.
His parents had just entered, their faces tight with tension. Behind them walked a tall, elderly man unlike anyone Michael had ever seen. The stranger wore robes of deep purple embroidered with silver stars that seemed to twinkle with actual light. His beard was extraordinarily long and silver, cascading down his chest like moonlight made tangible. Half-moon spectacles perched on a crooked nose, and behind them, eyes of piercing blue surveyed the entrance hall with calm authority.
His parents' faces were pale, their movements stiff and hurried as they removed their traveling cloaks. Something had happened—something significant.
"Michael," his father said, noticing him standing in the doorway. "Come here, son. There's someone you should meet."
Michael approached cautiously, studying the old wizard. There was power here, not the brash, intimidating force of a capo or enforcer, but something deeper and more profound.
This is a leader.
The old wizard knelt down, bringing himself to Michael's level. His blue eyes twinkled with kindness, but Michael recognized the sharp intelligence behind them, this was a man who missed nothing.
"Hello, Michael," the wizard said gently. "I'm Albus Dumbledore."
A name from his parents' conversations, Michael realized. The headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A name spoken with reverence and respect. A wizard of great power and wisdom.
"Hello, sir," Michael replied, offering his small hand with the gravity of a much older person.
Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly at the formality, but he took Michael's hand and shook it solemnly. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Your parents have told me what a remarkable young man you are."
Frank placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Michael, why don't you go up to your room for a bit? We need to speak with Professor Dumbledore privately."
"Is Neville still napping?" Michael asked, already knowing the answer but seeking confirmation that his brother was safe.
"Yes," Alice said, her voice tight. "Your Grandmother is watching him. Go on now, sweetheart."
Michael nodded, but as he climbed the stairs, he veered not toward his bedroom but toward a small alcove on the second-floor landing. From there, he could hear conversations in the study below if he pressed his ear to a particular spot in the woodwork, a secret he had discovered during his explorations of the manor.
Settling into position, Michael closed his eyes to focus on the voices drifting upward.
"—absolutely certain?" His father's voice, strained and disbelieving.
"As certain as one can be about such matters," came Dumbledore's measured response. "The prophecy was specific, Frank. A child born as the seventh month dies, to parents who have thrice defied him."
"But that could be Harry as well," his mother interjected. "Lily and James's' son was born just a day before Neville."
"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "Which is why both families must take precautions."
There was a pause, and Michael strained to hear more.
"You're certain he knows?" Frank asked, his voice dropping lower. "Voldemort knows about the prophecy?"
Michael felt a chill at the name. Even he, at three, knew that name was rarely spoken aloud.
"A spy overheard the prophecy being delivered," Dumbledore replied gravely. "He was caught before hearing it in its entirety, but what he did hear, he reported to his master. I have no doubt that Voldemort is now aware that a child born at the end of July poses a threat to him."
A threat? Michael's mind raced. How could a baby, Neville, barely four months old, threaten anyone, let alone the darkest wizard of the age?
"It's only Neville or Harry," Frank said, his voice hollow. "We have to go into hiding like Lily and James have."
Michael heard footsteps pacing—his father, no doubt, a habit when agitated.
"The Fidelius Charm would be advisable," Dumbledore suggested. "It has already been implemented for the Potters."
"This is madness," Frank muttered, his voice growing louder as he approached Michael's listening post. "Why would You-Know-Who want Neville? What could a baby possibly do to him?"
"Prophecies have their own power," Dumbledore said softly. "Voldemort fears what he does not understand, and he understands least of all the power of innocence."
"I'm calling Mad-Eye," Alice declared suddenly. "We need to discuss this with him."
A prophecy? Michael frowned, retreating from his hiding spot with silent steps.
His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to reconcile the pieces of information he had overheard.Could magic really extend to predicting the future? He'd seen his parents perform incredible feats, objects floating through the air, wounds healed instantly, rooms cleaned with a flick of a wand. But telling the future seemed different, far less tangible.
Yet his parents and this Dumbledore were taking it deadly seriously. Serious enough to go into hiding. Serious enough that they feared this You-Know-Who, whoever he was, would target Neville, a baby who couldn't even hold his head up properly for more than a few minutes.
Downstairs, he could hear his mother's voice rising as she spoke through the Floo Network, presumably contacting this "Mad-Eye" person. His father's footsteps continued their anxious path across the study floor.
Michael could hear the fireplace flare suddenly, and a figure stepped through with a distinctive rhythm that caught Michael's attention immediately.
Step. Clunk. Step. Clunk. The sound echoed through the manor.
Michael pressed his ear harder against the wall, straining to catch every word. The new arrival's voice was gruff, gravelly, like stones being dragged across concrete.
"Albus told me everything," the rough voice said. "Bloody mess, that's what this is."
A sudden sensation like ice water being poured down his spine made Michael stiffen. Something was wrong. The air around his ear crackled with energy, and before he could react, an invisible force slammed his head sideways, plastering his ear firmly against the wooden panel. Pain shot through the side of his face as he realized with horror that he was stuck, truly stuck, his ear fused to the wall like it had been glued there.
Michael's mind raced. This wasn't accidental magic. Someone had cast a spell deliberately. He tried to pull away, but the movement only increased the burning sensation in his ear.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" The same gravelly voice bellowed from below, now much louder and directed upward.
"Alastor!" His mother's voice shrieked with a mixture of outrage and alarm. "Are you out of your mind?"
"There's a small body listening into this room," the gruff voice replied, unrepentant. "Did neither of you notice?"
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, his father's, Michael recognized. Michael struggled against the spell, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he remained firmly attached to the wall, caught like a fly in amber.
His father rounded the corner, wand already drawn. Frank Longbottom's face, usually quick to smile, was set in lines of grim concern as he took in the sight of his son pathetically stuck to the wall. No laughter brightened his eyes as it might have under different circumstances, no joke sprang to his lips. Instead, his brow furrowed deeply as he raised his wand, murmuring an incantation. A jet of red light struck the junction where Michael's ear met the wall, and suddenly he was free, stumbling backward from the release of pressure.
"Have you been listening in, Michael?" Frank asked, his voice unusually stern.
Michael stood up straight, rubbing his throbbing ear. There was no point in lying. "Yes, Dad," he answered solemnly, meeting his father's eyes.
Frank's brow furrowed deeper, the weight of the situation evident in the lines of his face. After a moment, he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Well, come and meet your godfather, at least," he said, resignation coloring his tone. "After that, you're going straight to bed, mister."
Michael followed his father down the stairs, his ear still stinging from both the spell and the sudden release. In the living room, another strange sight awaited him.
A man dominated the space, not through height alone but through sheer presence. He wore a heavy trench coat that had seen better days, and beneath it, Michael glimpsed a wooden peg where a leg should have been. The man leaned on a thick, gnarled cane, but it was his face that captured Michael's full attention. Scars crisscrossed the weathered skin like a map of old battles, and while one eye was normal, dark and beady, the other was a bright electric blue bulb that fizzed and whizzed independently, spinning in its socket as if searching for hidden threats.
His mother moved toward him, her cool fingers gently probing his ear where the spell had struck. "Are you hurt?" she whispered, concern evident in her touch.
A man of war, Michael thought, ignoring his mother's ministrations as he studied the stranger. Not the polished generals who directed troops from comfortable headquarters, but the scarred veterans who had seen combat up close, who had survived by cunning and brutality.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" the scarred man roared again without warning, the sound filling the room like a thunderclap.
Michael didn't flinch. He kept his gaze steady, studying the man who had detected him so easily through solid walls. This was someone to learn from, he realized, someone who understood the value of awareness, of never being caught off guard.
"Serious little tyke you've got there, haven't you, Alice?" the man observed, his normal eye fixed on Michael while the blue one spun wildly.
"Mad-Eye," his mother chided, her hand still protectively on Michael's shoulder, "stop trying to scare Michael." She turned to him, her expression softening. "Michael, this is Alastor Moody, my former commander and your godfather."
Michael inclined his head formally, falling back on the manners that had served him well in another life. "Pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice clear and steady despite his youth.
Moody studied him with suspicious intensity, both eyes momentarily focusing on Michael's face. Something in the man's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, a fractional relaxation that most would have missed.
"You look like a smart kid, boy," Moody growled, tapping his bright blue eye with a gnarled finger. "Always keep your eye out for trouble."
"I try to, sir," Michael responded, feeling an unexpected kinship with this battle-scarred warrior.
"He's been listening to our conversation about our current situation," Frank explained to Moody, his hand coming to rest on Michael's other shoulder.
Moody's magical eye swiveled to fix on Michael with unnerving precision. "And what did you hear, lad?"
Michael considered his response carefully. "That someone bad wants to hurt Neville," he said, simplifying but not lying. "And that we need to hide."
"Perceptive," Moody grunted. "Too perceptive for your own good, perhaps." He lowered himself with some difficulty into an armchair, his wooden leg sticking out at an awkward angle. "Well, since you've heard this much, you might as well understand what it means."
Alastor," Alice protested, "he's just a child."
Moody's scarred face twisted into what might have been a smile. "A child who managed to eavesdrop on a conversation between three fully trained wizards," he pointed out. "Don't underestimate him just because he's small, Alice. That's the kind of thinking that gets people killed."
"Who is You-Know-Who?" Michael asked suddenly. Frank and Alice immediately tensed and exchanged uncertain looks, a silent conversation passing between them. Michael recognized this wordless communication. His mother's eyes flickered with concern, while his father's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Mad-Eye's magical eye stopped its perpetual spinning, fixing directly on Michael. The scarred Auror studied him for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable, the silence stretching uncomfortably.
"You-Know-Who is—" Mad-Eye began, then paused, his normal eye darting toward Alice as if seeking permission.
"I'm not too young to know about what's happening outside these walls," Michael countered, straightening his small shoulders. The childish pitch of his voice undermined the gravity he attempted to convey, but his eyes remained steady, challenging.
Mad-Eye's scarred face twisted into what might have been approval. He leaned forward, his wooden leg scraping against the floor.
"He's a no-good dark wizard who we're fighting against," Mad-Eye said bluntly. "Can't say his real name because of the Taboo on his name that allows him to track anyone who says it. Fancies himself a lord. Believes wizards with pure blood are better than everyone else."
Michael absorbed this information, adding it to the fragmented picture he'd been assembling. "And he wants to hurt Neville."
"Smart lad," Mad-Eye nodded, his magical eye swiveling toward the ceiling where Neville slept in his nursery. "He believes your brother might be his downfall someday. And men like him, men who crave power above all else, they eliminate threats before they grow."
The words resonated with Michael. How many times had he ordered similar preemptive strikes in his previous life? How many potential threats had he neutralized before they could materialize? He understood this Voldemort's logic with uncomfortable clarity.
"But Neville is just a baby," Michael said, allowing childish indignation to color his voice while his mind worked through the implications.
"Doesn't matter to him," Mad-Eye replied. "Fear makes men do terrible things. And despite all his power, You-Know -Who fears death above all else."
"Yes, You-Know-Who believes your brother might be the one prophesied to defeat him," Moody explained, addressing Michael directly. "That makes Neville a target. You understand what that means?"
Michael nodded slowly. "We need protection. Strong protection."
"Smart lad," Moody approved, his blue eye spinning to check the windows and doors before returning to Michael's face. "Your parents are arranging just that. But remember" he leaned forward, his scarred face intense, "—wards can be broken. Secrets can be betrayed. Trust must be earned, not given."
"That's enough, Alastor," Frank interrupted, his voice firm. "He doesn't need to hear all this tonight."
Michael recognized the dismissal but remained seated. "I want to help protect Neville."
Alice's expression softened. She moved to kneel beside his chair, bringing her face level with his. "The best way you can help right now is by being a good boy and letting us handle this. We're trained for this, sweetheart."
The condescension grated on him, but Michael nodded obediently. He knew when to retreat strategically. "Yes, Mother."
As he slid from his chair, Mad-Eye's gruff voice stopped him. "Boy."
Michael turned, meeting the Auror's mismatched gaze.
"Remember what I told you. Constant vigilance. Keep your eyes open, even at home."
"I understand, sir," Michael said quietly to Moody, earning a surprised look from his parents and an approving nod from his godfather.
x_______________________________________________—-x
May 31, 1981
The floorboards creaked beneath Michael's feet as he tiptoed down the darkened hallway, careful not to wake Neville. The safe house was smaller than he'd expected, a modest two-story cottage with weathered stone walls and windows too narrow for comfort. Michael had memorized every inch of it within the first day: the loose step on the staircase, the cupboard door that wouldn't quite close, the window in the kitchen that rattled when the wind blew from the east.
Three weeks had passed since their hurried relocation from Longbottom Manor. Michael was now four years old. The move had been chaotic, with his parents casting furtive glances over their shoulders as they'd packed essential belongings. Michael had watched, silent and observant, as his father had sealed important documents into a charmed lockbox while his mother had carefully wrapped photographs and keepsakes.
"Only what we need," Frank had instructed, his voice tight with seriousness. "We can't risk bringing anything that might be traced."
Michael had nodded, selecting only his most treasured books and the stuffed dragon his grandmother had given him. He understood sacrifice; he'd made far greater ones in another lifetime.
Now, as predawn light seeped through the curtains, Michael paused at his parents' bedroom door, listening to their hushed voices. They often spoke in these early hours, perhaps believing their children were still asleep.
"—getting worse," his father was saying. "Three more disappearances reported yesterday. The McKinnons—" His voice broke.
"Frank, don't." His mother's voice was gentle but firm. "We can't help them now."
"If we weren't trapped here—"
"We're not trapped. We're protecting our children." A pause. "Dumbledore says the Potters are settled now too. Lily sent word through the proper channels."
Michael leaned closer, careful to distribute his weight evenly on the creaking floorboards. His parents rarely spoke of the Potters since going into hiding, though he knew the families shared a similar fate.
"I should have been there for James," his father muttered. "Some friend I am, hiding while others fight."
"You're exactly where you need to be," Alice insisted. "Neville needs you. Michael needs you."
Michael stepped back from the door, processing what he'd heard. The war was escalating. People were disappearing, people his parents knew. The familiar cold calculation that had served him well in his previous life clicked into place. They were isolated here, cut off from information and allies. Isolation meant vulnerability.
A soft cry from Neville's room interrupted his thoughts. Michael padded quickly down the hall, reaching his brother's crib before the whimpers could escalate into full-blown wails that would alert his parents.
"Shh, Neville," he whispered, reaching through the bars to stroke his brother's round cheek. "I'm here."
Neville's eyes, now a warm brown like their father's, blinked up at him. The baby's face scrunched momentarily before relaxing at Michael's touch. At ten months old, Neville had grown substantially since his birth, his formerly wispy hair now forming soft curls across his forehead.
Michael studied his brother's innocent face, the unblemished skin, the complete trust in those wide eyes. Something protective and fierce swelled in his chest, a feeling both familiar and new. In his previous life, he had protected family out of duty and necessity; here, the impulse ran deeper, more primal.
"I won't let anything happen to you," Michael promised quietly, repeating the vow he had made countless times since learning of the prophecy. "No matter what."
Neville gurgled in response, tiny fingers reaching for Michael's hand. A sudden flash of movement outside the window caught Michael's attention. He froze, every sense heightened as he slowly turned toward the glass.
Nothing. Just the branches of an oak tree swaying in the morning breeze.
Still, Michael remained vigilant, scanning the perimeter visible from the window. His godfather's words echoed in his mind: "Constant vigilance." Moody had visited them just once since they'd gone into hiding, arriving under cover of darkness with news from the outside world and additional protective enchantments for the cottage.
"Trust no one," Moody had growled during that visit, his magical eye spinning wildly as he'd inspected the safe house. "Not neighbors, not old friends, not even your own shadow."
Michael had nodded solemnly while his parents exchanged worried glances. He understood the sentiment better than they knew.
Downstairs, a chair scraped against the floor. His parents were up. Michael gave Neville's hand one final squeeze before slipping out of the room and heading toward the kitchen, where he found his mother preparing breakfast.
Alice's hair was pulled back in a hasty knot, dark circles shadowing her eyes. She managed a smile when she saw him, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"
Michael nodded, climbing onto a chair at the small kitchen table. "Neville's awake."
"I'll get him in a minute," she said, flicking her wand to set plates floating toward the table. "Your father's just checking the wards."
Every morning began this way, Frank inspecting the protective enchantments while Alice prepared breakfast. The routine was meant to be reassuring, but Michael detected the underlying tension in every movement, every forced smile.
Frank entered the kitchen, tucking his wand into his robe pocket. "Wards are holding," he announced, the statement carrying the weight of a prayer. He ruffled Michael's hair as he passed. "Morning, son."
"Morning, Dad." Michael watched as his father poured himself a cup of tea, noting the slight tremor in his hands. "Is everything okay?"
Frank and Alice exchanged a quick glance—the kind that passed between adults who thought children didn't notice such things.
"Everything's fine," Frank assured him, too quickly. "Just a bit tired, that's all."
Michael didn't press the issue. He'd learned that direct questioning rarely yielded useful information from his parents. Instead, he observed, collected fragments, and assembled them later into a clearer picture.
The day passed slowly, as did most days in the safe house. Michael spent the morning reading while his mother played with Neville on a blanket spread across the living room floor. His father alternated between pacing by the windows and attempting to engage with household tasks that clearly failed to occupy his restless mind.
After lunch, while Neville napped, Alice beckoned Michael to join her at the kitchen table. She held a small photo album in her hands, its leather cover worn at the edges.
"I thought you might like to see some pictures," she said, patting the chair beside her.
Michael slid into the seat, curious. His mother rarely brought out photographs these days, as if looking at the past was too painful when the future remained so uncertain.
She opened the album carefully, revealing images that moved and shifted like miniature films. The first showed a group of young witches and wizards, all smiling broadly at the camera.
"This is the Order of the Phoenix," Alice explained, her finger tracing the outline of the photograph. "People fighting against You-Know-Who."
Michael leaned closer, studying the faces. He recognized his parents, younger and carefree. Nearby stood a tall man with untidy black hair and glasses, his arm around a beautiful woman with flowing red hair.
"The Potters," Michael said.
Alice nodded, a sad smile playing at her lips. "James and Lily. They were at our wedding, you know. James and your father have been friends since their first year at Hogwarts."
She turned the page to reveal another photograph, this one more recent. A black-haired infant zoomed across the frame on a toy broomstick, hovering just a foot off the ground while the same red-haired woman laughed and a bespectacled man clapped with delight.
"This is my godson Harry," Alice said softly, touching the image of the laughing baby. "Lily sent this picture last Christmas. He's just a bit younger than Neville."
Michael studied the photograph with interest. So this was the other child of the prophecy, the boy who, like his brother, had been marked by fate before he could even walk.
"He looks happy," Michael observed.
"He is. Or was, when this was taken." Alice sighed. "They're in hiding too, just like us. Lily's letters stopped coming once they performed the Fidelius Charm."
"Will we ever meet them?" Michael asked, already suspecting the answer.
Alice's eyes grew distant, focused on something beyond the kitchen walls. "One day, when all this is over, you'll visit him," she promised.
x___________________x
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