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.
___________________
October 31, 1981
The cottage had grown quiet as evening descended. It was Halloween. A night when the veil between worlds thinned, or so the old stories said.
Outside, a group of Muggle children in ghost costumes ran past, their shrieks of laughter carrying through the glass.
Michael sat cross-legged on the living room floor, arranging wooden blocks into complicated structures while his mother put Neville to bed upstairs. His father had been called away suddenly that afternoon, an urgent message delivered by Patronus that had set his parents whispering in hurried, concerned tones before Frank had kissed them all goodbye and disappeared into the Floo network.
"Just routine," his mother had assured him, though the tightness around her eyes told a different story. "Dad will be back soon."
Now, as the grandfather clock in the hall struck eight, Michael abandoned his blocks and moved to the window. The curtains were drawn, as always, but he pushed them aside just enough to peer at the slice of night sky visible between the neighboring houses. Stars winked against the velvet darkness, cold and distant.
A sudden flash of green light illuminated the horizon, followed by another of red, then gold. Michael pressed his face closer to the glass. These weren't the ominous flashes his parents had taught him to fear, not spellfire or the dreaded Dark Mark. These were fireworks, blooming like exotic flowers against the night sky.
More followed, cascades of silver stars, spiraling Catherine wheels, rockets that burst into shimmering dragons that soared briefly before dissolving into sparks.
Michael's breath fogged the window as he watched, transfixed. In their months of hiding, he had never seen anything like this. Wizards were careful about displays that might attract Muggle attention, especially now, with the war. Something had changed. Something significant.
The crack of Apparition from the front garden made him jump back from the window. His mother rushed down the stairs, wand drawn, her face pale in the lamplight.
"Stay back, Michael," she ordered, moving toward the door with the fluid grace of a trained Auror.
Michael retreated to the corner of the room, positioning himself behind an armchair where he could still observe without being immediately visible. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched his mother peer through the peephole, her body tense and ready.
Her posture changed instantly. "Frank!" she gasped, yanking the door open to reveal his father standing on the threshold, his robes disheveled and his expression unreadable.
His father stood in the doorway, his face ashen beneath its normal color. His Auror robes were disheveled, as if he'd dressed in haste.
"It's the Potters," Frank said, his voice hollow. "Lily and James. They're—they're dead."
His mother made a strangled sound. "No," Alice whispered. "No, that's not possible. The Fidelius—"
"Betrayed," Frank said, the single word carrying the weight of unimaginable treachery. "Someone betrayed them to You-Know-Who."
Michael remained perfectly still, processing this information with cold clarity. The Potters had been in hiding, just like them. Protected by powerful magic, just like them. And yet they were dead.
"And Harry?" Alice asked, her voice trembling. "What about Harry?"
Frank ran a hand through his hair, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. "That's the incredible part. He's alive. You-Know-Who tried to kill him, but... something happened. The curse rebounded. You-Know-Who is gone."
"Gone?" Alice repeated. "What do you mean, gone?"
"Dead, destroyed, vanished, nobody knows for certain," Frank said, pacing now. "But his body was gone, and Harry survived with nothing but a scar. They're calling him 'The Boy Who Lived.'"
Michael watched his parents carefully. Relief and grief battled across their faces, relief that the dark wizard was defeated, grief for their fallen friends.
"We need to go," Frank said suddenly. "We need to get to Headquarters. Dumbledore's called an emergency meeting."
Alice stood up, still holding Neville. "All of us?"
Frank shook his head. "Just us. The children stay here. The wards are strong, and we won't be long."
A cold feeling settled in Michael's stomach. "Don't go," he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Both his parents turned to look at him, surprise evident on their faces.
"What did you say, sweetheart?" Alice asked gently.
"Don't go," Michael repeated, more firmly this time. "It could be a trap."
Frank knelt before him, placing large, warm hands on Michael's shoulders. "We'll be fine, son. The danger has passed. You-Know-Who is gone."
"But his followers aren't," Michael insisted, memories from another life surfacing, of enemies who waited for the perfect moment to strike, of vengeance that came when least expected. "They'll be angry. Desperate."
A shadow passed over Frank's face. "You're right to be cautious, Michael. But we need to know what's happening. We'll be back before you know it."
Michael wanted to argue further, to explain the danger he sensed with the certainty born of a lifetime of war and betrayal. But what could he say that wouldn't reveal too much? How could he make them understand?
"I'm scared," he said instead, allowing his four-year-old self to show through. It wasn't entirely a lie.
Alice handed Neville to Frank and knelt beside Michael. "There's nothing to be afraid of anymore," she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "The bad wizard is gone. And we'll be back very soon."
Michael nodded, recognizing the futility of further argument. His parents had made their decision.
__________________________
The hours crept by. Michael refused to go to bed despite his parents' gentle urgings, stubbornly maintaining his vigil in the living room. As the clock struck twelve his parents finally made it back.
When the distinctive crack of apparition finally broke the silence, Michael stiffened. The sound of keys in the lock followed, then the door swung open, revealing his parents silhouetted against the night.
His father entered first, shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible burden. The moonlight caught the wetness on his mother's cheeks as she followed, her movements slow and unsteady. Michael had seen grief before. in another life, he had caused it, witnessed it, experienced it, but seeing it etched so deeply in his parents' faces sent a cold spike through his chest.
They spotted him immediately, huddled in the armchair far past his bedtime. No reprimand came. Instead, his mother rushed forward with a strangled sound that wasn't quite a sob.
"Oh Michael, oh no, my beautiful boy," she cried, gathering him into her arms with desperate strength. Her tears dampened his hair as she clutched him to her chest. The scent of rain and smoke clung to her robes.
His father knelt beside them, enfolding them both in his embrace. Michael felt the tremor in his father's hands, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
"What happened, Mum?" Michael asked, though part of him already knew, had sensed it in the heaviness they carried home with them.
Alice pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "He's gone, my love. You-Know-Who is dead, but our friends are gone, so we're very sad."
"And what about Harry Potter?" he asked inquisitively, remembering the photograph of the laughing baby on the toy broomstick.
His mother's expression shifted, something like wonder briefly displacing her grief. "He somehow survived, Michael."
Michael waited for more, questions forming on his tongue, but his mother's face closed like a book snapped shut. She pulled him closer, burying her face in his hair as if she could shield him from the world's harsh realities with her body alone.
His father rose, cradling baby Neville in his arms. The infant slept peacefully, oblivious to the night's weight. Frank gestured toward the stairs with a slight nod, his eyes conveying what words could not: the need for closeness, for family, for the reassurance of skin against skin in the aftermath of death.
They climbed the stairs together, a solemn procession in the darkness. No one spoke as they entered the master bedroom. No one needed to. Michael found himself placed in the center of his parents' bed, Neville settled carefully beside him. His mother curled around them both, her arm protectively spanning their small bodies. His father completed the circle, his larger frame enclosing them all.
Michael lay awake long after his parents' breathing had deepened into the rhythm of exhausted sleep.
But Michael could not rest. Would not rest, because he knew even in the aftermath of victory, danger lurked in the shadows. Victory never came without cost. Peace never arrived without sacrifice. And those who served power never accepted defeat without seeking vengeance.Michael Corleone had learned that lesson well.
Michael awoke the next morning to the sound of hushed voices. His parents were speaking outside the door. He slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb Neville who slept soundly in their mother's arms, and moved to the bedroom door. Their voices carried more clearly there.
"We can't be sure we're safe yet," his father was saying. "Death Eaters will be desperate, looking for revenge or for their master."
Michael's small hand rested on the doorframe as he listened. He internally agreed with his father's assessments.
"And Alice, I've heard rumors. Dumbledore believes that perhaps Voldemort isn't truly gone, just... diminished somehow."
His mother made a sound of disbelief. "That's impossible. Dumbledore himself said—"
"Dumbledore said he doesn't know exactly what happened that night. No one does. Only that Harry survived something that should have killed him."
Michael stepped back from the door, processing this information. If his father's fears were justified, then they remained in danger, perhaps even greater danger than before. Desperate enemies were unpredictable, and unpredictable enemies were the most dangerous kind.
He returned to the bed and hugged Nevill close
The following days brought a strange mixture of celebration and caution. Owls arrived constantly, bearing news and congratulations. The wireless played triumphant music interspersed with solemn memorials for the fallen. His parents smiled more, but their eyes remained watchful, and the wards around their safe home stayed firmly in place.
Michael observed it all with quiet attention, cataloging the changes, identifying potential weaknesses. The war might be over according to the wireless, but he recognized the dangerous period that followed any significant power vacuum.
One week after Halloween, as Michael sat reading in the living room while Neville played with blocks on the carpet, the fireplace flared green. His mother, who had been watching them from an armchair, stood immediately, wand appearing in her hand.
Mad-Eye Moody stepped through the flames, his magical eye spinning wildly before fixing on Michael with unsettling precision.
"Alice," he growled in greeting. "Frank home?"
"In the garden," she replied, lowering her wand slightly but not putting it away. "Is something wrong?"
Moody's scarred face twisted into something that might have been a grimace. "Just checking in. Strange times. Can't be too careful."
Michael set his book aside, watching his godfather with undisguised interest. Moody noticed, his normal eye focusing on Michael while the magical one continued its vigilant rotation.
"Sharp lad," Moody commented. "Always watching, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Michael replied simply.
Moody grunted in approval. "Good. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he barked suddenly, causing Neville to startle and begin to cry.
Alice scooped up her younger son, shooting Moody an exasperated look. "Was that really necessary, Alastor?"
"Better scared than dead," Moody replied unapologetically. "We've caught six Death Eaters since Halloween, but more are still out there. Some of the nastiest ones, too."
Michael listened intently, absorbing every word. Six captured. Others still free. Dangerous times indeed.
"The Lestranges?" his mother asked, bouncing Neville gently to soothe him.
"No sign yet," Moody growled. "Nor of Dolohov. Keep your guard up, Alice. I don't like it. They're planning something. I can feel it."
The conversation moved to the kitchen when his father came in from the garden, but Michael had heard enough. The names meant little to him, but the tone told him everything he needed to know. His godfather's paranoia, so often dismissed by others, aligned perfectly with Michael's own instincts.
That night, as his mother tucked him into bed, Michael caught her wrist gently. "Mom, are we still in danger?"
Alice's face softened, her eyes growing sad. "You heard Alastor today, didn't you?"
Michael nodded.
She sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "I want to tell you that everything is perfectly safe now, but I won't lie to you, Michael. There are still bad people out there. But your father and I are trained to protect you. And the worst of the danger has passed."
"Because of Harry Potter," Michael said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she confirmed. "Though no one quite understands how he did it."
"I heard you and Dad talking," he admitted. "About Neville and Harry being special. That the death eaters would come after them."
Alice was silent for a moment, her eyes studying him with a new intensity. "You understand so much for someone so young," she said finally.
Michael simply looked back at her, careful to maintain the innocent expression of a child while his mind worked through the implications of what he'd learned. The prophecy had apparently been fulfilled by the Potter boy, which meant Neville was no longer a target, at least, not specifically. But if Moody was right and the remaining Death Eaters were planning something, his family might still be at risk simply because of who they were and what they stood for.
"Will the bad people come for us?" he asked, allowing a tremor of childish fear to enter his voice.
His mother stroked his cheek. "No, sweetheart. We're safe here. The wards are strong, and your father and I are always watching. Now go to sleep, and don't worry about these things."
Michael nodded obediently, but as his mother kissed his forehead and left the room, he knew he would not, could not, stop worrying. In his previous life, complacency had led to tragedy. He would not make the same mistake again.
As days passed into weeks, the magical world slowly began to return to normal. His parents resumed limited duties with the Auror Office, though never at the same time, one always remained home with the children. The Daily Prophet proclaimed the war officially over, with special editions dedicated to "The Boy Who Lived" and lengthy features on the Death Eaters being rounded up and sent to Azkaban.
Through it all, Michael remained vigilant, watching for signs that his godfather's paranoia was justified. He memorized the schedule of their parents' shifts, noted which windows and doors were most vulnerable despite the magical protections, and kept Neville close whenever possible.
But as November faded into December, even Michael began to relax slightly. Perhaps the worst truly had passed. Perhaps this time, his family would be spared the violence that had defined his previous existence.
But he should have known better.
_________________________
It was a day like any other.
On the evening of December 3rd, Michael sat in the living room with his father, who was reading the Evening Prophet while Michael worked on a puzzle on the floor. His mother had taken Neville upstairs for his bath.
The sudden, violent shattering of their front window sent glass spraying across the room. Frank was on his feet in an instant, wand drawn, pushing Michael behind him with his free arm.
"Alice!" Frank shouted. "We're under attack!"
Michael's heart hammered in his chest as a high, cackling laugh filled the air outside. The wards were failing, he could feel the house shaking.
A thunderous explosion rocked the foundations of the house. Upstairs, Neville's screams pierced through the chaos, his terrified wails cutting straight to Michael's core.
"ALICE!" Frank bellowed again, firing a spell through the shattered window. A flash of red light illuminated the darkness outside, followed by another mocking laugh.
Michael's mother appeared at the top of the stairs, Neville clutched against her chest. Her face was pale but determined, her wand already drawn.
"They've found us," she said, her voice unnervingly calm as she descended the stairs with Neville. "Four of them, maybe more."
Another explosion hit, this time from the back of the house. The walls trembled. Pictures fell from their hooks, glass frames shattering on the floor. Neville's screams grew louder, his small face contorted with terror.
"Michael," his mother ordered, thrusting Neville into his arms. "Go into the safe room."
Michael nodded immediately. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his hands remained steady as he took his brother. He moved with purpose toward the living room while his parents positioned themselves at opposite windows, firing spells into the darkness.
A portrait hung on the wall, an unremarkable landscape of the Scottish highlands that Michael had passed a thousand times. He shifted Neville to one arm, the baby's weight substantial against his small frame, and knocked three times on the wooden frame.
The portrait swung outward like a door, revealing a small, dark space beyond. Michael climbed inside, clutching Neville tightly against his chest. As soon as they were clear of the opening, the portrait swung shut behind them, sealing with a soft click that was lost beneath the sounds of battle outside.
Inside was barely enough room for the two of them. Michael sat cross-legged on the cushioned floor, arranging Neville in his lap. The baby's face was red and wet with tears, his cries echoing in the confined space.
"Shh, Neville," Michael whispered, rocking him gently. "I've got you. You're safe now."
Before them, the solid wall suddenly became transparent from their side, like a window into the living room. The magic of the safe room activated, allowing them to observe without being seen or heard. Michael watched as his parents fought with a coordination born of years of Auror training.
His father ducked behind an overturned table as a jet of sickly purple light shattered what remained of the window. His mother moved like water, her spells precise and deadly. Four masked figures had broken through the outer wards and were attempting to enter through the windows and doors.
"Find the children!" a woman's voice shrieked, the sound sending chills down Michael's spine. There was something unhinged in that voice, something that reminded him of the most dangerous people he'd known in his previous life, those who killed not just for business or necessity, but for pleasure.
"Bellatrix, focus on the fucking Longbottoms first," a male voice commanded.
Michael recognized that name from his parents' conversations. Bellatrix Lestrange. One of the most feared of Voldemort's followers. He held Neville tighter, one hand gently covering his brother's mouth to muffle his cries, though he knew logically that the safe room was soundproofed.
Through their magical window, Michael watched as his father deflected a curse that would have struck his mother's back. They fought as one unit, protecting each other's vulnerabilities, but the Death Eaters were relentless. More had arrived, bringing the total to six against two.
"Where are they hiding them?" the woman, Bellatrix, screamed, her fury evident even behind her silver mask. "Tell us what happened to our master!"
"Your master is dead," Frank spat back, blocking another curse. "Destroyed by a child. How does it feel to serve such weakness?"
The air crackled with magic as Frank and Alice fought with everything they had. Michael watched in horrified fascination as his father's wand slashed through the air, transfiguring pieces of the shattered wall into snarling wolves and hawks with razor-sharp talons. The stone creatures lunged at the Death Eaters, buying precious seconds as his parents regrouped.
The Death Eaters blasted the transfigured animals to rubble. His mother retaliated with a sweeping motion that sent whips of ice crackling through the air, followed by earthen spears that erupted from the floorboards. Red and purple bolts flew from both his parents' wands, illuminating the room in flashes of deadly light.
One spell hit a Death Eater squarely in the chest. Michael watched the man's ribcage cave inward with a sickening crunch before he crumpled to the floor, dead instantly. The other five attackers pressed forward without even glancing at their fallen comrade.
His mother caught another Death Eater with a vicious curse that severed his left arm at the shoulder. The man's scream pierced the air, high and terrible, until a flash of green light from Bellatrix's wand silenced him forever.
Michael's stomach twisted as he held Neville tighter. Four Death Eaters remained, but his parents were clearly exhausted. Their movements had slowed, their reactions dulled by fatigue. No help had arrived despite the magical alarms that must have been triggered.
The battle resumed with renewed ferocity. This time, the pressure from the four remaining Death Eaters proved too much. A spell struck his mother's hand, sending her wand flying across the room. Before she could dive after it, another curse wrapped her in tight magical ropes that bound her arms to her sides. She fell to her knees, struggling against the binding.
His father roared in fury and rage, but outnumbered and with his attention divided between defending himself and trying to reach Alice, he couldn't hold out. A disarming spell caught him squarely in the chest. His wand soared through the air into the waiting hand of a tall Death Eater.
"The great Aurors Longbottom," Bellatrix mocked, her voice lilting with cruel pleasure as she approached Frank. "Not so impressive without your wands, are you?"
Michael's heart hammered against his ribs as he watched his parents, wandless and defenseless, surrounded by the four remaining Death Eaters. Neville whimpered against his chest, sensing his tension.
"Where is he?" demanded one of the masked figures, grabbing Frank by the collar. "Where is our master?"
"Gone," Frank spat back. "Destroyed by a baby. How pathetic your so-called lord must have been."
The Death Eater backhanded him, splitting his lip. "LIAR! The Dark Lord cannot be destroyed! You know where he is! The prophecy—your son—"
"Your master is dead," Alice said, her voice steady despite her bindings.
Bellatrix's face contorted with rage. She raised her wand, pointing it directly at Alice's heart.
"Crucio!"
His mother's screams tore through the air as she writhed on the floor, her body convulsing under the torture curse. Michael's vision blurred with tears, but he forced himself to keep watching, to bear witness to what was happening to his parents. He covered Neville's ears to shield him from the noise.
"Stop!" Frank begged. "STOP! We don't know anything about the Dark Lord!"
Bellatrix lifted the curse, leaving Alice gasping on the floor. "Perhaps you need motivation to remember," she purred. "Rodolphus, Rabastan, search the house. Find their brats. The little Longbottom boy must know something... or perhaps his parents will be more cooperative with a wand at their precious child's throat."
Michael's blood turned to ice. His arms tightened around Neville protectively, mind racing through options. The safe room would hold, it had to hold, but for how long? Would they find the entrance? Would the magic fail under sustained attack?
One of the masked figures raised his wand toward the ceiling. "Homenum Revelio!" A pulse of magic swept through the house, and Michael felt it pass through the safe room like a cold draft. Would it detect them? He held his breath.
The Death Eater frowned. "Nothing. They must have sent the children away."
Bellatrix cursed Frank again, leaving him gasping on the floor, blood trickling from his nose and ears. "WHERE IS THE BOY?" she screamed, her composure fracturing further. "WHERE IS OUR LORD?"
"Gone," Frank repeated, each syllable clearly causing him pain. "You're... following... a ghost."
"CRUCIO!"
Michael pressed his forehead against the invisible barrier, helpless rage building inside him. His parents were dying before his eyes, and he could do nothing. Nothing but protect Neville.
A distant memory surfaced, sitting in a darkened theater with Kay, watching James Cagney in "Angels with Dirty Faces." The final scene, where Cagney's character pretends to die a coward to discourage the kids who idolized him. His parents weren't pretending. This was real. And he was the child watching, powerless.
The curse continued without mercy. Frank's body convulsed less violently now, his resistance fading with each application. Frank's limbs jerked mechanically, no longer fighting the pain but simply responding to it.
Michael pressed one hand over Neville's eyes while the other cupped his brother's ear against his chest. The baby had gone eerily quiet, perhaps sensing the need for silence or simply exhausted. Michael's own screams had died in his throat, replaced by silent tears that tracked down his face and dripped onto Neville's soft hair.
"Where is the Dark Lord?" Bellatrix shrieked again, her voice cracking with desperation. "Tell us what happened to him!"
His mother's voice came as a rasp, barely audible. "We don't know... please... our children..."
"Crucio!"
Alice's back arched off the floor, her spine contorting at an impossible angle. Her fingernails clawed at the wooden floorboards, leaving bloody furrows in the wood. The scream that tore from her throat sounded inhuman, primal, the sound of something fundamental breaking inside her.
Michael bit down on his own hand to keep from crying out, tasting copper as his teeth broke skin. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but he couldn't. This was happening because of the prophecy, because of Neville, and he needed to remember every detail, every face.
The tallest Death Eater removed his mask, revealing a gaunt face with heavy-lidded eyes. "Perhaps they truly don't know," he suggested, his tone almost bored. "The Dark Lord went after the Potters, not them."
"Silence, Rodolphus!" Bellatrix hissed. "They know something. The prophecy could have meant either child." She turned back to his parents, her wand tracing lazy patterns in the air. "Let's try something different. Perhaps watching each other suffer will loosen your tongues."
She forced his father to kneel, facing Alice. "Watch your wife, Auror. Watch what happens when you defy the Dark Lord's most faithful servants."
The curse fell again. His mother's screams grew weaker, more broken. Frank's face contorted in agony that had nothing to do with physical pain as he watched his wife writhe on the floor.
"Stop," he pleaded, his voice cracked and hoarse. "We know nothing... we know nothing..."
This was nothing like the deaths he had ordered in his past life. There was no blood, no bruises or other signs that physical torture would produce. The effect of this "crucio" was prolonged, deliberate cruelty designed to break not just bodies but minds, it caused pain that he had never seen before.
Even in his darkest moments, he had understood the line between necessary violence and sadism.
These Death Eaters had no such boundaries.
Hours seemed to pass, though it could have been minutes. Time lost meaning as the torture continued, as his parents' responses grew more disjointed, their pleas less coherent. Michael watched his mother's eyes begin to roll back, watched spittle foam at the corners of his father's mouth.
"They're useless now," the Death Eater called Rabastan finally said, lowering his wand. "Their minds are gone."
Bellatrix circled his parents' broken bodies, prodding Alice with her foot. His mother didn't respond, her gaze fixed on some distant point, her expression blank. Frank's head lolled to one side, drool running down his chin.
"Pathetic," Bellatrix spat. She then giggled."The great Aurors Longbottom. Broken like cheap wands." She kicked Frank hard in the ribs, but he didn't even flinch. "Let's find the children. The boy might still be useful."
Michael tensed, clutching Neville tighter. The baby squirmed in discomfort but remained mercifully quiet.
A sudden crack of Apparition split the air outside. Multiple cracks followed in quick succession, like firecrackers.
"The Ministry!" one Death Eater shouted. "They've broken through the anti-Apparition wards!"
Bellatrix's face contorted with madness. "We need the children! Quickly!"
Before the Death Eaters could move, the front door exploded inward. Mad-Eye Moody stormed through the debris, his magical eye spinning wildly, wand already firing curses. Behind him came others, wizards and witches Michael didn't recognize, their faces grim with determination.
The Death Eaters scattered, returning fire. Bellatrix shrieked with rage, her wand slashing through the air as she backed toward the shattered window.
"Retreat!" Rodolphus called. "We have what we came for!"
"Get them!" shouted Mad-Eye, his voice thundering through the night.
Michael stood frozen as the scene before him transformed in seconds. Where moments before the Death Eaters had been disapparating, now they stumbled, their escape halted mid-spell. The air crackled with magic as witches and wizards in Auror robes materialized around the perimeter, their wands raised in perfect coordination.
"You aren't going anywhere, you filthy dark Death Eaters!" Mad-Eye roared.
Twenty people had apparated around them, their curses flying in synchronized precision. The Death Eaters fought back desperately, but surrounded and outnumbered, they stood no chance. One by one, they fell to stunning spells, their bodies crumpling to the ground like puppets with severed strings.
"Frank! Alice!" Moody's voice thundered across the devastated living room. The grizzled Auror knelt beside Michael's mother, his gnarled fingers pressing against her throat. "They're alive! Get the healers in here NOW!"
A blur of activity erupted as ministry members secured the house, casting detection spells and reinforcing wards. A witch with kind eyes and a healer's robes rushed to his parents, her wand moving in complex patterns as she muttered incantations. Michael couldn't hear the words through the safe room's soundproofing, but he saw her face grow increasingly grim.
The minutes stretched into an eternity as Michael watched, his small body rigid with tension. Neville had fallen into an exhausted sleep against his chest, tiny fingers curled into Michael's shirt. The safe room felt suffocating now, the air too thick to breathe properly.
Finally, Moody turned toward the wall behind which Michael hid. The magical eye swiveled, focusing directly on their hiding place as if the wall wasn't there at all.
"The children," Moody growled. "They're in the safe room."
Michael's heart hammered against his ribs as Moody approached the portrait. Three precise knocks, and the hidden door swung open, revealing their sanctuary to the chaos beyond.
"Michael," Moody said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "It's safe now. Come out, lad."
Michael didn't move. His eyes remained fixed on his parents as healers worked over their broken bodies. Neither Frank nor Alice moved of their own volition, their limbs positioned by the healers like dolls. Their eyes, open, vacant, stared at nothing.
"Michael," Moody repeated, reaching into the small space. "Give me Neville. Come on now."
Mechanically, Michael released his grip on his brother. Moody carefully extracted the sleeping baby, handing him to a witch who waited nearby. Then the grizzled Auror reached in again, strong hands gripping Michael under the arms and lifting him out.
The moment his feet touched the floor, Michael broke free and ran to his parents. The healer tried to intercept him, but Moody held her back with a shake of his head.
"Dad," Michael whispered, touching his father's hand. The skin was cold, clammy. "Mum."
Neither responded. Their chests rose and fell with shallow breaths, but there was no recognition in their eyes, no awareness of his presence. Michael remembered how his mother's eyes had lit up when she'd smiled at him that morning, how his father had ruffled his hair before leaving for the kitchen. Those people were gone, though their bodies remained.
"What's wrong with them?" Michael asked, his voice small in the destroyed room. "Why aren't they waking up?"
The healer exchanged a glance with Moody, her expression heavy with sorrow. "They've been tortured extensively with the Cruciatus Curse," she explained softly. "The damage is... significant."
"But you can fix them," Michael insisted. "Magic can fix anything."
Another look passed between the adults, weighted with meaning Michael understood all too well. He had seen that look before, in another life, doctors discussing a terminal diagnosis, lawyers explaining that an appeal was hopeless.
"We'll do everything we can," the healer promised, but her eyes told a different story.
Moody's hand landed on Michael's shoulder, heavy but steadying. "They're going to St. Mungo's now," he said gruffly. "You and your brother will come with me."
Michael nodded mutely, his gaze never leaving his parents as they were carefully levitated onto conjured stretchers. His mother's hand hung limply over the edge, fingers curled like a wilted flower. His father's head lolled to one side, a thin line of drool tracking down his cheek.
Something cold and brutal settled in Michael's chest as he watched them being carried away. A familiar bloodlust. This wasn't like the deaths in his previous life, quick, merciful bullets or the silent slip of a garrote. This was a living death, a perpetual torture that would continue long after.
"The people who did this," Michael said quietly, his childish voice at odds with the steel beneath his words. "Who were they?"
"Stay here. As we unmask them."
Michael watched from the doorway where Moody had positioned him, his small hands gripping the frame until his knuckles turned white. His eyes remained dry, burning with restrained violence, as the Aurors bound the unconscious Death Eaters with magical restraints that glowed silver in the darkness.
Moody limped forward, his wooden leg clunking against the debris-strewn ground. With a flick of his wand, he removed the first silver mask, revealing a beautiful woman's face peaceful even in unconsciousness.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Moody sneered, his scarred face twisting with disgust.
Michael's gaze locked onto her face, memorizing every feature. The wild black hair, the heavy-lidded eyes, the aristocratic bone structure. This was the woman who had tortured his mother until her mind shattered.
Moody moved to the next figure, ripping away another mask. "Rabastan Lestrange."
A younger man, his features similar enough to mark him as family to the next Death Eater Moody unmasked.
"Rodolphus Lestrange," Moody growled, kicking the man's limp form with his good leg.
Michael committed each face to memory, a gallery of enemies to be remembered. But it was the last figure that caused something to shift in the atmosphere. Moody's magical eye fixed on the final mask, spinning rapidly before focusing with unusual intensity.
"What in Merlin's name..." Moody muttered, reaching down more slowly to remove this last disguise.
As the silver mask fell away, Michael saw Moody's weathered face transform with shock. The grizzled Auror's mouth opened slightly, his normal eye widening while the magical one spun frantically.
Michael pushed away from the doorframe, stepping closer to see what had caused such a reaction in his godfather. The face revealed beneath the mask belonged to a young man, not even twenty, with straw-colored hair and freckles across his nose. He looked ordinary, almost innocent in unconsciousness.
"Barty Crouch Jr.," Moody said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The name meant nothing to Michael, but the reaction it provoked in the other Aurors told him everything he needed to know. Gasps rippled through the group, followed by furious whispers.
"Are you certain, Alastor?"
"It can't be—"
"Crouch's son?"
Michael moved closer still, studying the young man's face. There was something particularly revolting about this Death Eater's appearance of normalcy. At least the Lestranges looked the part of monsters. This man could have passed for anyone's son, anyone's neighbor.
Moody's face shifted from shock to an even more vicious sneer than he'd shown the others. "Should've known," he growled. "Always the quiet ones you've got to watch. And right under his father's nose all this time."
An Auror Michael didn't recognize stepped forward. "Crouch will have to be notified immediately. This will destroy him."
"Let it," Moody spat. "Maybe if he'd spent less time sending other people's children to Azkaban without trials and more time watching his own, we wouldn't be here."
Michael mind was working on autopilot, adding it to the growing ledger in his mind. Connections, relationships, leverage, these were the currencies he had traded in during his previous life. They would serve him again in this one.
"Get them secured for transport to the Ministry," Moody ordered. "I want anti-apparition cuffs, silencing charms, the works. These four aren't going anywhere except straight to Azkaban."
As the Aurors moved to comply, Moody turned back to Michael, his magical eye softening slightly as it took in the small boy standing so still amid the chaos.
Michael committed the names and faces to memory, carving them into his consciousness alongside the images of his parents' torture. In his previous life, he had kept a mental ledger of debts and payments. This debt would be recorded in blood.
"Come on, lad," he said, his gruff voice gentler than Michael had ever heard it. "Let's get you to your grandmother."
Michael nodded, but before turning away, he took one last look at the four unconscious figures being prepared for transport.This would not stand unanswered.
As Moody's hand settled on his shoulder to guide him away, Michael felt something cold and familiar settle into his chest, the calm, detached clarity that had once made him the most feared Don in America. In another life, these four would already be marked for death. In this one, justice would take a different form, but it would come nonetheless.
A verse from the book of Exodus flickered through Michael's mind: "The Lord is a man of war."
"I shall pray for God's forgiveness," Michael thought, his small hands clenching into fists at his sides, "for I shall sin." The Catholic teachings from his first life whispered of mercy and forgiveness, but those virtues seemed hollow now, meaningless in the face of such deliberate cruelty. To protect Neville, to avenge his parents, he would burn the entire wizarding world if necessary.
This retribution shall be answered in blood. I'll not rest until their last breaths fade from their lungs and they lie bleeding and broken before me.
And thus Michael experienced his third Great Sorrow.
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