The Longbottom manor felt hollow in the weeks that followed, the corridors stretching longer in the absence of Frank and Alice. Michael found himself unable to sleep alone, the darkness too vast, too filled with echoes of his parents' screams. Every night, he would slip from his bed and pad silently down the hall to Neville's nursery, where he would curl up beside his brother's crib on the floor, one hand reaching through the bars to touch Neville's small fingers.
His grandmother had noticed, of course. The first night she'd found him there, Augusta's face had creased with an emotion Michael couldn't name, something between sorrow and understanding.
"You should be in your own bed," she'd said, but her voice lacked conviction. The next night, she'd placed a small cot in Neville's room without comment. It was her way, Michael supposed, of acknowledging what they both knew: the brothers needed each other now more than ever.
But sleep, when it came, brought no respite.
His mother's screams would pierce the darkness first, high and inhuman. Then his father's deeper cries would join, a terrible harmony of agony. Michael would find himself back in the safe room, Neville clutched against his chest, watching through the one-way wall as Bellatrix's curse twisted his parents' bodies into impossible shapes. Only in these dreams, the wall would suddenly vanish, and Bellatrix would turn, her heavy-lidded eyes finding his with cruel delight.
"The little Longbottom," she would croon, advancing toward him. "Your turn now."
Sometimes the dreams shifted, reality bleeding into memories from another life. As his parents writhed under the Cruciatus, their faces would transform, his mother becoming Kay, his father morphing into Fredo.
Fredo's voice would drift through the chaos, a whisper beneath the screams: "You deserve this, Michael. For your sins. For killing me."
Other nights, it was Mary who came to him, her small body crumpled as it had been that day in the car, a perfect bullet hole blossoming red between her eyes. In these dreams, her eyes would open, empty and accusing.
"You are cursed," she would say, her voice echoing as if from the bottom of a well. "You must drown in your sins."
On those nights, Michael would wake with a strangled cry, his small body drenched in sweat, heart hammering against his ribs. The air around him would crackle with energy, and the bed beneath him would groan and split, wood splintering under the force of his accidental magic.
The first time it happened, the crack had been so loud that Augusta came running, wand drawn, expecting intruders. Instead, she found Michael sitting amid the wreckage of his cot, eyes wide and unseeing, still half-trapped in his nightmare.
"Merlin's beard," she'd whispered, lowering her wand. "Michael, what—"
A soft pop had interrupted her as Dotty, the Longbottom family house-elf, appeared beside the bed, her large eyes taking in the scene with practiced efficiency.
"Young Master is having the bad dreams again," she said matter-of-factly, snapping her long fingers. The broken pieces of the cot rose into the air, reassembling themselves with quiet precision. "Dotty will fix it."
After the third night of broken furniture, Augusta had summoned a healer specialized in childhood trauma. The woman had spoken to Michael in soft, gentle tones, offering him potions for dreamless sleep and suggesting exercises to calm his mind before bedtime. Michael had nodded politely, accepted the potions, and poured them down the sink when no one was looking.
He didn't want dreamless sleep. The nightmares were a reminder, a penance, and a promise all at once.
By the second week, Dotty had taken to waiting in the corner of the room each night, ready to repair whatever damage his accidental magic might cause. Sometimes Michael would wake to find her perched on the windowsill, her thin legs dangling as she hummed a tuneless melody that somehow eased the tightness in his chest.
One night, the nightmares were especially bad. Michael woke screaming, the cot beneath him not just cracked but completely shattered, splinters of wood embedded in the opposite wall as if thrown by an explosion. Dotty appeared instantly, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Young Master is needing to control his magic," she said, softly. "Dotty can fix the bed, but—"
"I know," Michael interrupted, his breathing ragged. "I'm sorry."
He wasn't just apologizing for the bed. He was apologizing for everything, for failing his parents, for bringing danger to this new family, for the curse of his existence.
Dotty snapped her fingers, and the splinters extracted themselves from the wall, flying across the room to reassemble into a cot once more. As she worked, Michael noticed for the first time how tired she looked, the droop of her ears more pronounced, the skin beneath her eyes shadowed.
"Young Master is not needing to punish himself," she scolded him one night. "What happened to Master Frank and Mistress Alice is not Young Master's fault."
Michael had stared at her, struck by the directedness of this strange creature.
"I should have stopped it," he whispered, the admission tearing from him like something physical.
Dotty's large ears had drooped slightly. "Young Master was being four years old," she said firmly. "Young Master did exactly what Master Frank and Mistress Alice wanted, he kept himself and little Master Neville safe."
The logic was impeccable, but logic had little power against guilt. Michael knew this better than most.
His grandparents were also suffering. Michael would sometimes hear his grandmother's footsteps outside their room as he slept, her usually confident stride now hesitant and uneven. One night, he watched through the half-open door as Augusta paused outside Neville's room, her tall silhouette sagging against the wall. The vulture on her hat drooped as if sharing her grief. In the dim light, the new lines etched into her face were thrown into sharp relief, making her look decades older than she had just weeks before.
Grandfather Archie was worse. Michael had caught glimpses of him sitting in his favorite armchair in the library, staring at the same page of a book for hours, his once-twinkling eyes now dull and unfocused. The hearty laugh that used to echo through the manor had vanished completely. Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it, certainly not since that night at St. Mungo's when the Healers had delivered their grim prognosis.
"They'll never recover," Augusta had whispered to Archie, not knowing Michael was listening from the shadows. "Our Frank and Alice... gone, though still breathing."
Archie had made a sound then, not a sob, exactly, but something broken and raw that Michael had never heard from his grandfather before.
Michael understood their pain on a deep intimate level. Watching his grandparents move like ghosts through the manor, Michael recognized their particular agony, the special torment of outliving the bright future of your child. It was crueler than death, this half-life Frank and Alice were condemned to. At least with death, there would be closure. This... this perpetual loss was an open wound that would never heal.
On the third week, Augusta had scheduled his first trip to St. Mungo's to visit his parents..
The morning of the visit, Michael found Augusta in the kitchen, meticulously arranging a basket of sweets and toiletries for their scheduled visit to St. Mungo's. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrapped a package of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Alice's former favorite.
"Gran," Michael said softly, "would you like some help?"
"Yes, dear. That would be... helpful." The pause betrayed how difficult it was for her to accept assistance, another small crack in her formidable armor.
Augusta looked up, startled. For a moment, her carefully maintained composure slipped, revealing the devastation beneath. Then, straightening her shoulders with visible effort, she nodded.
Michael stepped forward, taking the gum from her shaking fingers. As they worked side by side, preparing the gifts that his parents would neither recognize nor remember, he felt a wordless understanding pass between them, the shared burden of those left behind to care for what remained of the Longbottom family.
"It's time," Augusta announced, placing the last item in the basket, a small, silver comb that had belonged to Alice. "Michael, come here."
Michael stood patiently as his grandmother straightening his collar with practiced movements.
"Remember what we discussed," Augusta said, her voice softening slightly. "Your parents may not recognize you. That's not because they don't love you. It's because—"
"Because the Cruciatus curse has left them permanently mentally scarred," Michael finished in a soft voice. His eyes met his grandmother's with a steady focus.
Her breath hitched for a moment, but Augusta quickly recovered. "Exactly so. Now, we'll go by Floo. Michael, you'll go ahead first, and I'll come after you with Neville."
The fireplace in the main sitting room loomed large as they gathered before it. Augusta took a pinch of emerald powder from the ornate jar on the mantelpiece and handed it to Michael.
With practiced precision, Michael tossed the powder into the flames, which immediately turned a brilliant green.
"St. Mungo's Hospital," he said clearly, stepping forward. The familiar sensation of being sucked through a narrow tube enveloped them, the world spinning in flashes of green flame and glimpses of other wizarding hearths.
He emerged into the reception area of St. Mungo's. He stepped aside just as the flames flared again, depositing Augusta beside them with Neville in her arms, not a hair out of place beneath her vulture-topped hat.
The reception area buzzed with the quiet murmur of visitors and patients waiting to be seen. A portrait of Mungo Bonham smiled benevolently down at them from above the reception desk, where a young witch sat examining her fingernails. As they approached, she looked up, her expression one of practiced boredom. A large pink bubble expanded from her mouth, popped with a crack, and was immediately drawn back between her teeth.
"Visitors?" she asked, reaching for a clipboard without waiting for confirmation. Her eyes never fully met theirs, instead focusing somewhere just past Michael's left ear. Another bubble formed as she chewed.
Augusta drew herself up to her full height, the vulture on her hat seeming to glare down at the receptionist. "Alice and Frank Longbottom," she said imperiously, her tone brooking no nonsense.
The receptionist's bubble popped again. "Fourth floor," she replied, finally looking directly at them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in Augusta's formidable presence, and she straightened in her chair. "Janus Thickey Ward. End of the corridor."
"We know where it is," Augusta said coldly, already turning toward the lifts. Michael followed silently
The lift ascended with a series of creaks and groans, the floor numbers illuminating one by one. A disembodied female voice announced each level as they passed: "Ground floor, Artifact Accidents... First floor, Creature-Induced Injuries..."
"Fourth floor, Spell Damage," the voice finally announced, and the doors slid open.
The corridor stretched before them, antiseptically clean and eerily quiet. The walls were a pale mint green, presumably chosen for their calming properties, though Michael found the color clinical and depressing. Portraits of famous Healers lined the walls, their occupants dozing or peering curiously at the visitors who passed.
"Remember," Augusta said quietly as they approached the heavy double doors at the end of the hall, "we must be strong for them. Your parents are heroes Michael, never forget that."
Michael nodded, feeling the familiar weight settle in his chest. Strength had many forms, he knew. Sometimes it meant standing firm against enemies. Other times, it meant facing the wreckage of what could not be changed with dry eyes and steady hands.
The doors to the Janus Thickey Ward opened at Augusta's touch, revealing a long room divided by curtains into separate areas for each patient. Healers in lime-green robes moved quietly between the beds, checking charts and administering potions. The air smelled of antiseptic potions and something else—the faint, unsettling scent of minds unraveling.
A Healer with kind eyes and graying hair approached them, recognition softening her features. "Mrs. Longbottom," she greeted, "and the boys. Frank and Alice are having a good day, relatively speaking. They're by the window."
Michael steeled himself. But no matter how prepared he thought he was, the sight of his parents hit him like a physical blow.
His parents shared a room. Two beds, two nightstands, two people who looked like Frank and Alice Longbottom but weren't, not really. His mother's fingers plucked restlessly at her bedsheet, her eyes fixed on some middle distance. Her usually perfectly straightened blonde hair was disarray, her body twitched uncontrollably. His father sat propped against pillows, mouth slightly open, a thin line of drool tracking down his chin.
"Hello, Mum," Michael said softly, taking her restless hand in his. Her fingers continued their meaningless dance against his palm. "Hello, Dad."
Augusta stood rigid beside him, her face a mask of composure, tears began to shimmer in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Neville squirmed in her arms, reaching toward Alice with chubby hands.
"Ma-ma," he said clearly, the word like a knife between Michael's ribs.
Alice's gaze shifted toward the sound. For a fleeting moment, Michael thought he saw recognition in his mother's eyes, a momentary spark in the emptiness, like a candle guttering in a dark room. But then it was gone, extinguished by whatever darkness Bellatrix Lestrange's curse had cast over her mind. .
Michael released his mother's hand gently and moved to stand between the beds, looking from one parent to the other. They had been titans in his eyes once, his father's booming laugh, his mother's swift wand work and warmth. Now they were husks, emptied of everything that had made them Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Augusta moved beside him, Neville still in her arms. She placed a hand on Michael's shoulder, her fingers digging in slightly as if seeking an anchor. For once, her face showed every year of her age, the lines around her mouth and eyes deepened by sorrow.
"Your parents would be proud of you," she said, her voice rough with emotion.
The visit continued in this vein for nearly an hour. Augusta spoke in a steady stream about mundane matters, the garden at Longbottom Manor, the weather, distant relatives, as if Frank and Alice could understand and respond. Michael sat silently, the gum wrapper clutched in his fist, watching his brother interact with the strangers who had once been their parents.
When it was time to leave, Augusta gathered Neville, who protested with a whimper. "Say goodbye to your parents, boys," she instructed, her voice wavering only slightly.
"Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father," Michael said dutifully, though he knew they wouldn't understand or remember.
As they walked back down the long corridor, Neville's sniffles the only sound between them, Michael felt something crystallize within him. a cold, hard certainty. This was what evil looked like. Not the dramatic flash of the Killing Curse, but this: the slow torture of a family, the living death of loved ones, the endless grief that would never heal.
Throughout the journey home, Michael remained silent. Augusta attempted conversation once or twice, but eventually gave up, perhaps recognizing something in his expression that warned against intrusion. Neville, sensing the tension, was unusually subdued, his small hands clutching at Michael's sleeve.
The Floo deposited them back in Longbottom Manor's sitting room, the familiar surroundings feeling both comforting and oppressive. Augusta set Neville down on the thick carpet, where he immediately began crawling toward his favorite toy, a stuffed hippogriff.
"I'll have Dotty prepare some tea," Augusta announced, her brisk tone an obvious attempt to restore normalcy. "Michael, perhaps you'd like to—"
"I'll be in the library," Michael interrupted quietly.
Augusta hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. Don't forget we have dinner at six."
Michael made his way to the library, his footsteps echoing in the vast, empty hallways. Once inside, he closed the heavy oak door behind him, relishing the immediate silence. The Longbottom library was extensive, with books on every magical subject imaginable lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Another time, he would have found comfort here.
He moved to the window seat, climbing up to stare out at the grounds below. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the gardens.
Michael uncurled his fist, looking down at the crumpled gum wrapper his mother had given him. Such a small, worthless thing,yet it was all she could give. He carefully smoothed it out, tracing the colorful lettering with his fingertip
A lifetime ago, he had been Michael Corleone, a man who had sacrificed everything for power, who had lost his soul piece by piece until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. He had told himself it was all for family, all for protection, but in the end, he had destroyed the very things he'd sought to preserve.
Then he had been reborn as Michael Longbottom, given a second chance. And now, history seemed determined to repeat itself. Once again, his family was being destroyed before his eyes.
But Michael Corleone had never been a man who went down without a fight. He was a mafioso at heart.
Blood must be answered.
Purpose settled over him with perfect clarity, familiar as a well worn coat. His grief transformed into rage, cold and precise. The Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. had been captured and imprisoned in Azkaban, but that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough for what they had done.
He slid from the window seat and moved to the section of the library where his grandfather kept books on wizarding law and history. His small fingers traced the spines until he found what he was looking for: "Blood Debts and Vengeance: Ancient Magical Law."
The book was heavy, bound in dark leather that seemed to absorb the light around it. Michael struggled to carry it to the reading table, where he opened it carefully. The pages were thin and yellowed, covered in dense script that would have challenged most adults, let alone a four-year-old. But Michael wasn't an ordinary four-year-old.
"Blood debts in wizarding society," he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper, "were once considered sacred obligations, to be paid in full regardless of Ministry intervention..."
He read for hours, absorbing the ancient traditions of vendettas and blood feuds that had once governed wizarding society before the establishment of the Wizengamot. The Longbottoms were an old family, surely these traditions still held meaning within their walls.
When Dotty appeared to summon him for dinner, Michael closed the book carefully, memorizing the page number. He would return to it later, after the house was quiet.
"Young Master should not be reading such dark books," Dotty said, her large eyes fixed on the tome. "They are not being suitable for children."
Michael met her gaze steadily. "I'm not an ordinary child, Dotty. You know that."
The house-elf's ears drooped slightly. "Dotty knows," she admitted. "But Dotty worries. Young Master has seen too much sadness already."
"I'm not sad," Michael said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. The cold rage burning in his chest had consumed his sadness, leaving only purpose. "I'm thinking."
At dinner, Augusta noticed his unusual quietness but attributed it to their visit to St. Mungo's. She attempted to engage him in conversation about his studies, she had been tutoring him in basic magical theory, impressed by his precocious intelligence, but Michael answered with distracted monosyllables.
"Are you feeling unwell?" she finally asked, peering at him over her spectacles.
"I'm fine, Gran," Michael replied, pushing his peas around his plate. "Just tired."
Later that night, after Augusta had tucked them in and the house had settled into silence, Michael slipped from his bed. He padded quietly to Neville's crib, reaching through the bars to touch his brother's soft cheek.
"I'll protect you," he whispered, the words a vow. "And I'll make them pay for what they did to our parents."
He made his way to the library again, guided by moonlight streaming through the high windows. The book was waiting for him, and he opened it to where he had left off.
"The Ancient and Most Noble Houses," he read, by the light of the moon, "maintained their honor through blood retribution when wronged. The law of equivalent exchange demanded that harm to a family member be answered with equal harm to the transgressor..."
Michael read until his eyes burned, absorbing every word about blood feuds and magical vendettas. When he finally closed the book, dawn was breaking over the horizon, painting the library in pale gold light.
Augusta noticed the shadows under his eyes at breakfast but said nothing, attributing his exhaustion to nightmares. She wouldn't have understood what was taking root in his heart, the cold, calculating resolve of a man who had once ordered deaths with a nod, now trapped in the body of a child but no less dangerous for it.
That afternoon, while Augusta was occupied with correspondence, Michael slipped into his grandfather's study. Archie Longbottom was dozing in his chair, a half-empty glass of firewhiskey on the table beside him. Michael moved silently to the ornate desk and began searching through the drawers.
"What are you looking for, boy?" Archie's voice startled him, though he didn't show it.
Michael turned slowly. "Information, Grandfather. About the Lestranges."
Archie's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "What business does a child have with those monsters?"
"They hurt my parents," Michael said simply. "I want to know about them."
Something in his tone must have struck Archie, for the old man studied him for a long moment before sighing heavily. "You're too young to understand these matters, Michael."
"I understand more than you think," Michael replied, his voice steady. "I understand that they tortured my parents into insanity. I understand that they're in Azkaban but still alive, still breathing, while my parents might as well be dead."
Archie flinched as if struck. "Your grandmother wouldn't approve of this conversation."
"Gran isn't here," Michael pointed out. "And I need to know. Please, Grandfather."
Perhaps it was the "please" that did it, or perhaps it was the look in Michael's eyes, too old, too knowing for a child's face. Whatever the reason, Archie reached for his wand and summoned a locked box from a high shelf.
"The Lestranges," he said, opening the box, "are an old family, nearly as old as ours. Dark, the lot of them." He pulled out newspaper clippings, photographs, and what appeared to be official Ministry documents.
Michael examined a photograph of Bellatrix Lestrange at her trial, her heavy-lidded eyes wild with fanaticism, her mouth open in a scream of defiance. Her husband Rodolphus stood beside her, his face a mask of cold contempt. Behind them, Rabastan Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. completed the quartet of torturers.
"They'll never leave Azkaban alive," Archie said, his voice thick with rage and whiskey. "The dementors will see to that."
"But they're still alive," Michael said softly. "They're still breathing."
Archie's bleary gaze sharpened. "What are you suggesting, boy?"
Michael met his grandfather's eyes steadily. "Nothing, Grandfather. I'm just trying to understand."
But understanding wasn't enough. As he studied the photograph, memorizing each face, each detail, Michael knew that simple imprisonment wasn't justice. Not for what they had done to Frank and Alice Longbottom. Not for what they had done to him and Neville.
In his previous life, enemies of the Corleone family had met with accidents. Michael had ordered these deaths without hesitation, understanding that some debts could only be paid in blood.
Now, as Michael Longbottom, he lacked the resources and connections he had once commanded. But he had magic, he had time, and he had a will forged in the fires of two lifetimes of tragedy.
Blood must be answered with blood. This was the way of the old families, the way of the mafia. This was ancient law as old as nature. And Michael would ensure that the debt was paid in full.
He carefully returned the photograph to the box, his expression giving nothing away. "Thank you, Grandfather," he said politely. "I think I understand better now."
As he left the study, his small fists clenched at his sides, Michael began to plan. The Lestranges might be in Azkaban, believed to be suffering the worst punishment the wizarding world could offer, but Michael knew better. As long as they drew breath, justice remained incomplete.
He would wait. He would learn. He would grow stronger. And when the time was right, he would collect the blood debt owed to the Longbottom family.
But this time would be different. This time, he had wisdom born of failure, born of loss. He understood now what he hadn't before, that power without purpose was meaningless, that the ends did not always justify the means.
Michael tucked the gum wrapper into the pocket of his robes, a talisman of sorts. He would protect Neville, yes. He would become whatever he needed to be, scholar, warrior, politician, even monster if necessary. But he would not lose himself again.
He would never forget what he was fighting for.
x_X
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p a t r e o n . c o m / D a r k e B o n e s