Augusta Longbottom swept through the Ministry atrium, her vulture-topped hat commanding a wide berth from hurrying employees. Three years had passed since that terrible night, yet the wound remained raw whenever she encountered reminders of those who had escaped justice. As if summoned by her dark thoughts, Lucius Malfoy appeared from a side corridor, his platinum hair gleaming under the enchanted ceiling.
"Madam Longbottom," he greeted with a slight incline of his head, silver-topped cane clutched in his gloved hand.
Augusta's fingers tightened around her wand inside her handbag. "Malfoy," she replied, her voice colder than a January frost. The impulse to hex him where he stood nearly overwhelmed her practiced composure.
Imperius Curse, my arse, she thought, maintaining her rigid posture. Malfoy was a snake, a worm just as his father Abraxas had been. The family had always been overreaching upstarts, buying their way into respectability with gold tainted by dark magic. Their loyalties shifting with the wind.
"I trust your grandsons are well?" he inquired with practiced politeness that didn't reach his eyes.
The mention of her grandsons from this man's lips made her blood boil. "Quite well, thank you," she replied curtly, unwilling to discuss Michael and Neville with this... this Death Eater who had somehow slithered his way back into society's good graces.
"My Draco is the same age as your youngest," Lucius continued smoothly. "Perhaps they might become acquainted before Hogwarts."
"I think not," Augusta said, her tone brooking no argument. "Good day, Mr. Malfoy."
She moved past him, her back straight as a ramrod despite her advancing years. The Longbottoms were weak currently, she acknowledged bitterly. Their influence had waned since Frank and Alice's... incapacitation. The Malfoys and their ilk had risen in prominence while her family struggled to maintain their dignity.
But when she looked at Michael, Augusta saw hope. At seven years old, he already showed signs of becoming everything his father had been. More, perhaps.
The memory of that morning's breakfast rose in her mind. Michael had been reading a complex text on defensive magic, his small finger tracing the lines with unusual concentration for a child his age. When Neville had dropped his porridge, Michael had cleaned the mess without comment, helping his little brother with a patience Augusta herself sometimes lacked.
She stepped into the lift, nodding stiffly to Amelia Bones who joined her. "Committee meeting?" Amelia asked.
"Yes," Augusta replied. "The proposal on cauldron bottom thickness regulations."
"Thrilling," Amelia said with a hint of dry humor. "How are the boys?"
Augusta's expression softened marginally. "Growing. Michael is quite remarkable." There was nothing she enjoyed more than boasting about the accomplishments of her eldest grandson.
Augusta considered this as the lift descended. 'Remarkable' was an understatement. Just last week, when Neville had nearly fallen from the garden wall, Michael had not only stopped his brother's fall but gently lowered him to the ground. No panic, no explosion of uncontrolled magic as was typical for wizard children. He had displayed controlled, wandless magic at the age of seven.
He is a genius, Augusta thought fiercely and proudly.
Michael was a quiet and solemn child. At seven years old, he was tall for his age, just as Frank had been, and in Augusta's eyes, there was nothing more she could ask for. He was an extraordinarily precocious child, and he did not smile easily except with Neville. There was a steadiness to him that gave him the maturity of a much older person. Archie often remarked he had an old soul.
Just last week Archie had caught him reading Advanced Defensive Magic: Theory and Practice.' A book most grown wizards wouldn't understand half of it. And this was just one of many that Michael had been devouring from their library. His appetite for knowledge was voracious, his interests wide-ranging but with a noticeable focus on defensive magic, potions, and oddly, wizarding law.
He was indeed a boy of focus and determination, qualities she had encouraged. Much to her surprise, at age five he had begun running in the morning, and not once in the past two years had he missed his morning run, regardless of weather or circumstance.
The committee chairman called the meeting to order, and Augusta straightened her papers, forcing her attention to the matter at hand. She would consider this question of Michael's burdens later. For now, there was work to be done, a family name to uphold, and two precious boys waiting at home who deserved every ounce of her strength and determination.
And if sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, Augusta permitted herself to imagine her wand pointed at Lucius Malfoy's throat, forcing a confession from his lying lips before delivering the justice the Wizengamot had failed to provide. Well, that was between her and the dark recesses of her mind.
A reckoning would come one day. That she was certain off…
x___________________________________________x
The winter sun cast long shadows across the garden as Michael turned another page of Warding: Principles and Applications. His breath formed small clouds in the January air, but he barely noticed the cold. The book had been a Christmas gift from Uncle Algie, who had remarked with a wink that it might be "a bit advanced" for a seven-year-old. Michael had already read it twice.
He glanced up from a particularly complex diagram on layering protective enchantments to check on Neville. Through the glass walls of the greenhouse, he could see his younger brother carefully repotting some Bouncing Bulbs under the supervision of Dotty, their house-elf. The plants gave little hops of protest as Neville gently but firmly pressed them into fresh soil.
Michael's lips quirked into a small smile. Neville had found his passion early, the boy could spend hours in that greenhouse, talking to the plants as if they were friends. It was good to see him confident about something, especially given how timid he could be around other children.
A flutter of movement caught Michael's eye as a Ministry owl descended, dropping a letter at his feet before soaring away again. The Longbottom seal was pressed into the wax, correspondence for his grandmother, who had left early that morning for some committee meeting. Michael tucked it into his pocket to give to her later.
He returned to his reading, tracing a finger along the intricate patterns that formed the basis of blood wards. The concept fascinated him, protection tied to family, to sacrifice, to intent. According to the text, such wards were among the most powerful known to wizardkind, though the Ministry classified many variations as borderline Dark magic.
Politics. The thought brought his grandmother's voice to mind, railing against "those Death Eater sympathizers in the Wizengamot" during dinner last week. She'd been particularly incensed after reading about Corban Yaxley's appointment to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"Claimed he was under the Imperius just like the Malfoys," she'd spat, slamming down her fork. "And Bagnold just nods and hands him authority over our laws! The fools."
Michael had listened carefully, as he always did. Information was power, and in the three years since he'd begun to truly understand what had happened to his parents, he'd been collecting it methodically, names, connections, political alignments, family histories.
The wizarding world was small, interconnected, and ruled by bloodlines that stretched back centuries. A few prominent bloodlines, The Sacred Twenty-Eight, they called themselves, were the dominant forces in the Wizengamot, the British magical equivalent of the American Congress and Judiciary System. It served as both the the supreme judiciary and legislative body within the Ministry of Magic.
Hs grandmother never spoke directly to him about Wizengamot politics, considering him too young, but he had pieced together enough through overheard conversations and the books on wizarding genealogy that he'd studied in the library.
The Wizengamot was broadly divided into three factions, each with its its own agenda and vision for magical Britain.
The Traditionalists, Houses like Malfoy, Nott, Yaxley and what remained of the Blacks, held considerable sway despite their associations with Voldemort's regime. They had money, they had connections, and most importantly, they had survived the war largely intact.
The Neutrals occupied the middle ground, families like Greengrass, Crouch and Smith to name a few, had managed to avoid taking sides openly during the conflict. They swung between progressive and traditional positions depending on which way the political winds blew.
And then there were the Progressives, his grandmother's faction. Once powerful voices for reform and muggle-born rights, they had been systematically targeted during the war. House Longbottom remained one of the few influential progressive families left standing, alongside the Abbotts and the Bones family.
He was unsurprised that certain Death Eaters had escaped prosecution with barely a slap on the wrist despite the heinous crimes they were accused of. The Lestranges were in Azkaban, yes, but how many others walked free? How many others had tortured and killed with impunity, only to claim bewitchment when their master fell?
He stared at the winter garden, frost glittering on dormant rose bushes. The justice system in magical Britain mirrored what he remembered of mundane governments from his former life, corrupt, biased, easily manipulated by those with wealth and status. Voldemort's inner circle had been comprised almost exclusively of purebloods, the upper-class nobility of this society. Just as the rich and wealthy had twisted law to their needs in his old life, purebloods wielded disproportionate power here.
In the magical world, the situation was perhaps even more pronounced, blood purity determined one's status with a rigidity that would have made Victorian aristocrats proud. Magical society had advanced far slower than its mundane counterpartsas wizards and witches lived longer lives, sometimes well past a century, making them resistant to change. Ideas had calcified over decades, prejudices hardened across generations.
His gaze drifted toward the greenhouse where Neville worked. Muggles, Michael despised that word. He had been one in his former life, before whatever cosmic accident had placed him in the body of Michael Longbottom. The term felt deliberately othering, designed to create separation between magical and non-magical people. Muggleborns remained underprivileged, second-class citizens in a world that claimed the war had changed things.
Half-bloods formed a distinct majority in magical Britain, but they held little real power. The irony wasn't lost on Michael that Albus Dumbledore, a half-blood, was one of the most magically and politically powerful people in the wizarding world. The man's very existence spat on pureblood principles, yet many of those same purebloods would bow and scrape before him.
"Master Michael!" Dotty called, her high-pitched voice carrying across the garden. "Little Master Neville is wanting to show you his new plants!"
Michael tucked the book under his arm and made his way toward the greenhouse.Inside the greenhouse, warmth enveloped him immediately. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and growing things.
"Michael! Look!" Neville's face shone with excitement as he pointed to a row of tiny seedlings. "They're Singing Sunflowers! When they bloom in spring, they'll hum when the sun hits them!"
Michael leaned down to examine the delicate green shoots. "They look healthy, Nev. You've done a good job with them."
His younger brother beamed under the praise, his round face flushed with pride. These were the moments Michael treasured, simple, pure moments where the politics and darkness of the world couldn't reach them. But they would, eventually. Neville would grow up, go to Hogwarts, and face the same prejudices and power structures that had allowed their parents' torturers to walk free.
Not if I can help it, Michael thought, ruffling Neville's hair gently. He would change things, slowly, methodically. He would learn the rules of this world. And when the time came, the Death Eaters who had escaped justice, the Malfoys, the Notts, the Carrows, would find that their money and blood status wouldn't protect them from a reckoning long overdue.
"Can I read to you tonight?" Neville asked, carefully patting soil around another seedling.
"I'd be honored," Michael replied, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the greenhouse's temperature. Neville's reading had improved considerably over the past months.
As they worked together, Michael found his thoughts drifting to his grandmother's increasingly frequent sighs whenever Neville failed to display accidental magic. Just yesterday, she had pulled Michael aside after dinner, her voice low and concerned.
"He's nearly five," she had whispered, lines of worry etching deeper into her face. "Frank had already turned his nursery ceiling into a night sky by that age. You yourself were levitating your toys before you could walk properly."
Michael had nodded, knowing better than to interrupt Augusta Longbottom when she was working through her anxieties. The unspoken fear hung in her mind, what if Neville was a squib? detestable word for non-magicals born to magical families.
Looking at his brother now, carefully measuring water for each seedling with intense concentration, Michael felt a surge of protectiveness. Augusta was a formidable witch and a loving grandmother in her own stern way, but her expectations could crush a sensitive soul like Neville's. The constant comparisons, to their father, to Michael himself, were wearing the boy down. Just last week, he'd found Neville crying in the garden after their grandmother had reminisced about how Frank had mastered a training broom at age four.
"Do you think my sunflowers will really sing?" Neville asked, breaking into Michael's thoughts.
"I'm certain they will," Michael assured him, helping to arrange the pots in optimal sunlight. "You have a gift with plants."
And he meant it. Magic manifested in different ways, and Neville's connection to growing things was remarkable. The greenhouse thrived under his care in ways that even their hired gardener couldn't match. There was magic there, whether Augusta recognized it or not.
After dinner that evening, Michael slipped away from the parlor where Neville was playing Exploding Snap with Uncle Algie. The January night had fallen early, and the moon cast long, silvery shadows across the frost-covered grounds of Longbottom Manor. Michael made his way to the small clearing behind the garden shed, his practice spot, where he could work undisturbed.
The cold air bit at his cheeks as he exhaled slowly, his breath forming misty clouds. He had been practicing consistently since his fifth birthday, determined to master his magic rather than let it master him.
Michael knelt on the frozen ground, unconcerned with the cold seeping through his trousers. He placed a single pebble before him.
Wandless magic, as Michael had come to understand, was an emotional thing, drawn by a deep desire to accomplish something. One's own internal magic sought its realization through that desire.
Michael closed his eyes, centering himself. The practice had become a ritual, a bridge between his former existence and this new, magical one. He settled his breathing into a steady rhythm, just as he had done countless times in meditation before his rebirth.
In. Out. In. Out.
He reached inward, past the physical sensations of cold ground beneath his knees and frosty air against his face. Somewhere within him resided that wellspring of power he had tapped into sporadically, accidentally, but never with true control.
There was a moment of nothingness, the familiar void of deep meditation. Then, something shifted.
A warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like tendrils of light. Not physical heat, but something more ephemeral. It pulsed with his heartbeat, a living thing coiled at his core. His magic felt bubbly if there was a word he could use to describe it. Effervescent, dynamic and alive, like bubbles in a glass of champagne.
Michael's concentration deepened. Control was paramount, he had come to understand. To undertake a specific activity, one needed to want something with perfect clarity. To draw forth the emotion necessary for expression and channel it.
The pebble nearest to him became his target. Michael extended his right hand, palm facing downward, fingers slightly curved. He didn't want to levitate the pebble, he needed it to rise.
He imagined its weightlessness, the gentle drift upward, the satisfaction of seeing it hover at his command. The sensation of his magic stirred within his chest, a warm current seeking direction.
Move, he thought, trying to will his magic toward it. Nothing happened. The pebble remained stubbornly still.
Frustration flickered through him. His control remained frustratingly inconsistent, despite months of practice.
He focused on the pebble again, but this time, instead of simply willing it to move, he allowed himself to want it to move. He channeled his desire, not frustration or anger, but pure intent, into that bubbling reservoir within his chest.
The pebble trembled. Michael's eyes widened, but he maintained his concentration. The warm sensation in his chest intensified, flowing down his arm like water seeking the lowest point. The pebble rose shakily an inch off the ground, hovering unsteadily.
Michael's lips curved into a rare smile as he carefully directed the pebble higher with minute movements of his fingers. He willed the pebble to move toward his outstretched hand. It wobbled through the air, following an erratic path until it settled into his palm.
A small smile of satisfaction crossed his face. Progress.
But it was still not good enough. The movement should be smooth, controlled. He would need to keep practicing daily, refining this connection between emotion and intent.
In his previous life, he had witnessed the destructive power of guns, knives, and human fists, physical weapons that required proximity and left evidence. But this world... this world was infinitely more perilous.
He closed his fingers around the small stone, feeling its weight. What was this simple wandless levitation compared to the terrifying arsenal of spells he'd discovered in the dusty tomes of the Longbottom library? Spells that could bend another's will completely, leaving them puppets to another's design without anyone being the wiser. The Imperius Curse, they called it.
In magical warfare, a person could be made to love against their will, their most intimate emotions hijacked by a well-brewed Amortentia. Death could be delivered with two simple words, Avada Kedavra, leaving no trace for magical forensics to detect beyond the unmistakable signature of the killing curse.
Michael's jaw tightened as he recalled the passage about the Cruciatus Curse, pain beyond imagination, torture without a single visible mark. The spell his parents' tormentors had used until Frank and Alice Longbottom's minds had shattered beyond repair.
"Restricted," the Ministry labeled such spells. "Unforgivable," they declared them. As if a label could prevent their use.
Michael internally scoffed. How naive. His past life had shown him the depths to which humans would sink when desperate or power-hungry. Rules, laws, moral boundaries, these were luxuries abandoned by those with sufficient motivation. The Death Eaters hadn't hesitated to use Unforgivables during the war. Voldemort's followers had reveled in them.
Those same Death Eaters, threats to his family, that his grandmother lambasted and cursed, now walked free, buying their way back into society's good graces.
It was essential that he understand the full spectrum of what his enemies might wield against him and his family. Knowledge was protection. Knowledge was power.
The sound of the back door opening interrupted his concentration. He quickly stood, brushing dirt from his knees as Dotty's voice called out across the garden.
"Master Michael! Mistress is saying it's your bedtime!"
"Coming, Dotty," he called back, giving one last look at his practice area.
As he walked back toward the warmth of the manor, Michael considered what he'd read about wandless magic. Most texts dismissed it as impractical for anything beyond simple spells, suggesting that wands were necessary to channel magic with precision. But Michael suspected those limitations were more about belief than actual capability. If a wizard believed wandless magic was nearly impossible, that belief became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
He had no such limiting beliefs. In his former life, he'd learned that perceived limitations were often just that, perceptions. And in this world of magic, where intent, will, and belief were fundamental components of spellcasting, he suspected the mind's barriers were far more restrictive than any inherent limitations of magic itself.
The warmth of the manor enveloped him as he stepped inside. He could hear his grandmother's voice from the study, speaking with Uncle Algie.
"Perhaps we should test him," Uncle Algie was saying. "A little danger sometimes brings the magic out."
Michael's hands clenched involuntarily. He knew what such "tests" entailed. Uncle Algie had once dangled Michael out a window when he was four as a joke, ostensibly to provoke a magical response. Michael had obliged by floating himself back through the window, much to the adults' delight. The memory made his stomach turn now.
"Not yet," Augusta replied, her voice tight. "But soon, if nothing manifests naturally."
Michael slipped away before they could notice him eavesdropping. In his and Neville's shared bedroom, he found his brother already in pajamas, clutching a well-worn copy of "The Fountain of Fair Fortune."
"Ready?" Neville asked eagerly.
"Almost," Michael replied, changing quickly into his own nightclothes. It didn't matter to him one bit if Neville never showed a spark of magic. Squib or wizard, Neville was his brother, and Michael would ensure he had every opportunity to flourish.
If Uncle Algie or anyone tried to test Neville with their dangerous methods, they'd find themselves dealing with Michael first.
"Michael?" Neville looked up at him, brow furrowed. "Are you listening?"
"Sorry, Nev. Go ahead," Michael smiled, pushing aside darker thoughts.
Their parents had fought against such prejudice, against the Dark Lord who embodied the worst of pureblood ideology. Now it fell to Michael to continue that fight in his own way, starting with protecting Neville, not just from external threats, but from the crushing weight of expectations that could be just as damaging.
"...and the fountain bubbled and sparkled, granting them all their heart's desire," Neville finished triumphantly, looking up for approval.
"Perfect," Michael said, meaning it. "You've really improved."
Neville beamed, setting the book aside. "Gran says I read too slowly."
"Gran says a lot of things," Michael replied carefully. "But reading isn't a race. Understanding the story matters more than speed."
As he tucked Neville in, Michael resolved to speak with Augusta about her treatment of his brother. It would be a delicate conversation, his grandmother was not one to take criticism lightly, but necessary. For now, though, he would continue to be Neville's shield, his advocate, his brother in every sense of the word.
Whether magic flowed through Neville's veins or not was irrelevant to Michael. What mattered was the kindness in his heart, the gentleness of his hands as they nurtured life from soil, and the courage it took to face each day with determination. Those qualities, Michael knew, were worth more than any spell could ever be.
x__________X
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