June 7, 1987
The morning sun cast long shadows across the sickroom as Michael adjusted his grandfather's blanket. St. Mungo's had released Archie to die at home three days prior, the healers having exhausted their considerable arsenal of remedies against the insidious curse that had lain dormant in his blood for decades. Now, as March winds rattled the windows of Longbottom Manor, Michael maintained his vigil beside the four-poster bed where generations of his family had been born and died.
"Water," Archie rasped, his once-commanding voice reduced to a whisper.
Michael reached for the glass on the bedside table, gently supporting his grandfather's head as he brought it to the old man's parched lips. Archie's skin felt like parchment beneath his fingers, fragile and translucent, the blue veins visible beneath.
"Thank you, my boy," Archie said after taking a sip, his brown eyes focusing on Michael with surprising clarity. "You've been here all morning again."
"I don't mind," Michael replied, setting the glass down. The room smelled of medicinal potions and the lingering scent of tobacco that seemed embedded in the very walls after years of Archie's pipe smoking.
His grandfather's hand sought his, fingers trembling slightly until Michael clasped them firmly. The contrast was stark, his own small hand, still bearing the softness of childhood, against Archie's weathered one, spotted with age and mapped with the raised scars from a lifetime of magical accidents and wartime injuries.
"Where's your brother?" Archie asked, his gaze drifting toward the doorway.
"With Gran in the greenhouse. I can fetch him if you'd like."
Archie shook his head slightly. "Let him be. Plants bring him joy. Too little of that in this house these days." A coughing fit seized him, and Michael quickly reached for a potion vial, administering three drops as the healer had instructed.
When the coughing subsided, Archie sank back against the pillows, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. Michael had read enough about the particular dark curse afflicting his grandfather to understand its progression, it fed on magical energy, turning a wizard's own power against him, gradually consuming him from within. The more powerful the wizard, the more virulent the curse became. And Archie Longbottom had once been formidable indeed.
"Tell me," Archie said after a moment's rest, "what were you reading yesterday? Looked rather advanced."
Michael hesitated. "Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes."
A ghost of a smile touched Archie's lips. "Bit heavy for bedtime reading, isn't it?"
"I find it interesting," Michael replied simply.
"Always did have an old head on young shoulders," Archie murmured. His eyes took on that faraway look that had become increasingly common. "You remind me of myself, before..."
Before the war. Before Frank and Alice. Before everything had changed. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.
Michael remained silent, allowing his grandfather the space to drift in his memories. These lucid moments had become precious, increasingly rare islands in a sea of pain-induced confusion. The resurgence of mental clarity this past week had surprised the healers, a final consolidation of strength before the end, they'd explained in hushed tones to Augusta when they thought Michael wasn't listening.
"I fought alongside Dumbledore, you know," Archie said suddenly, his grip tightening on Michael's hand. "Against Grindelwald. Terrible business. Dark magic leaves its mark, even on the victors."
Michael nodded. He'd heard snippets of these stories over the years, though Archie rarely spoke of that time directly.
"The curse should have killed me decades ago," Archie continued, a hint of his old strength returning to his voice. "Fought it off through sheer stubbornness, your grandmother would say." His attempt at a chuckle dissolved into another bout of coughing.
"Grandfather?" Michael leaned forward, noticing that Archie's eyes had taken on a distant, glassy quality. The old man's breathing had grown shallow, each inhale a labored rasp that seemed to scrape against his lungs.
Archie blinked slowly, returning from whatever far-off place his mind had wandered. His gnarled hand tightened around Michael's with surprising strength.
"I was just remembering," he whispered, voice like parchment rustling. "The day I saw them. Dumbledore and Grindelwald."
Michael felt a chill run through him. His grandfather rarely spoke of that battle, the one where he'd received the curse that was now, decades later, consuming him from within.
"You never told me what it was like," Michael said quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile moment.
Archie's lips curved into a pained smile. "Because there are no words, my boy. No words to describe gods at war." He coughed, a wet sound that made Michael wince. "I was just a soldier, part of the advance team. We were supposed to secure the area. Fools, all of us. When they clashed... it was like watching the world end and begin again in the same moment."
The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting long shadows across the bedroom. Outside, Michael could hear Neville in the garden with their grandmother, her sharp voice instructing him on the proper way to prune the Flutterby bushes.
"The curse," Michael prompted gently when his grandfather fell silent again.
"Wasn't even meant for me." Archie's laugh turned into another cough. "Just... debris. Magical fallout. Caught me in the chest when one of Grindelwald's spells shattered. The mediwizards patched me up, said I'd recovered. But dark magic..." He tapped his chest weakly. "It hides. Waits. Like a seed planted in winter."
Michael nodded, thinking of his parents in St. Mungo's, their minds fractured beyond repair. Different curse, same principle. Magic that damaged the very essence of a person never truly left.
"I need you to promise me something," Archie said suddenly, his eyes clearing, burning with an intensity that startled Michael. "Your brother—Neville—he'll need you. Augusta doesn't see him clearly. Never has."
"I'll look after him," Michael said firmly. "Always."
Archie shook his head impatiently. "Not just look after. Understand him. He's not weak, just different. The quiet ones sometimes carry the most strength." He squeezed Michael's hand. "Promise me you'll see him for who he is, not who everyone expects him to be."
Michael swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. "I promise."
His grandfather relaxed back against the pillows, seemingly satisfied. For several minutes they sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner and Archie's labored breathing.
"There's a box," Archie said finally. "Under the floorboards in my study. Third plank from the window." He fixed Michael with a penetrating stare. "For you. Not Augusta. Not yet."
"What's in it?" Michael asked.
"Memories. Knowledge. Things a boy your age shouldn't need." Archie's face twisted with regret. "But the world doesn't care what we should need, does it? Only what we must face."
Michael nodded solemnly. At nine years old, he already understood too well that childhood was a luxury some couldn't afford. The weight of his family name, the legacy of his parents' sacrifice, the responsibility for Neville, these weren't burdens that waited for adulthood.
"I'll find it tonight," he promised.
Archie nodded, then motioned toward the water glass on the nightstand. Michael helped him take a sip, supporting his grandfather's head with gentle hands that belied his youth.
"You know," Archie murmured as Michael lowered him back to the pillows, "I always thought Frank would be here when my time came. Funny how life works out."
Michael felt his chest constrict. "Dad would be proud of you."
"And of you," Archie countered. "So very proud." He closed his eyes, seeming to gather his strength. He started coughing violently again.
When the coughing subsided, Archie's eyes found Michael's with sudden intensity, a clarity breaking through the fog of illness.
"I have a gift for you," Archie said, his grip tightening on Michael's hand with surprising strength. "Pass my wand, Michael."
Michael reached to the bedside table where the wand lay, its dark polished surface reflecting the morning light. He carefully placed it in his grandfather's waiting palm, feeling a strange resonance as their fingers briefly touched.
Blackthorn and Dragon Heartstring. Michael had memorized its composition years ago, fascinated by the stories his grandfather told of the battles it had seen. A warrior's wand, Archie had always called it, suited for combat magic and protective enchantments.
With trembling fingers, Archie pointed the wand toward the ornate wardrobe across the room. "Accio," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Michael watched in fascination as the wardrobe seemed to shimmer and transform. A hidden compartment materialized from what had appeared to be solid wood, sliding open with mechanical precision. From within, a stone basin emerged, hovering in the air as it drifted toward them, filled with a strange, dark liquid that looked like ink.
The basin settled gently on the bed between them, the surface of the mysterious substance rippling slightly before becoming still again.
"What is it?" Michael asked, leaning forward to examine the strange object, his curiosity overwhelming his usual reserve.
"This is a Pensieve," his grandfather replied, each word labored but deliberate. "And this is my last gift to you, so you can see the heights to which you must reach, my boy." Archie's gaze pierced him with uncomfortable intensity. "I can see the fury in you, the anger that drives you every day."
Michael drew back slightly, unsettled that his carefully maintained façade was so transparent to his grandfather.
With a shaking hand, Archie brought his wand to his temple. Michael watched, transfixed, as his grandfather closed his eyes in concentration. When he withdrew the wand, a silvery-white strand clung to its tip, neither liquid nor gas, glowing with an inner light of its own.
The strand dangled, twisting slightly in the air like a living thing. Archie guided it to the basin, where it merged with the dark substance, creating swirling patterns of light and shadow.
"These are memories," Archie explained, his breathing becoming more labored. "My memories. Things I've never spoken of, things you need to see."
Michael stared at the swirling contents of the Pensieve, mesmerized by the shifting patterns. "How do I...?"
"Put your face in the water," Archie instructed. "Your consciousness will be drawn in. You will witness, but cannot change or interact with what you see."
Michael hesitated, glancing at his grandfather's increasingly pallid face. "Should I get Gran first?"
Archie shook his head firmly. "These memories are for you alone. Augusta carries enough burdens." He gestured weakly toward the basin. "Some truths are better shown than told, Michael. Some lessons must be experienced to be understood."
Taking a deep breath, Michael bent down toward the shimmering surface. The moment his face made contact with the strange substance, the room around him seemed to dissolve. He felt a sensation of falling forward, tumbling through darkness and light, until suddenly solid ground materialized beneath his feet.
He found himself standing in what appeared to be a battlefield. The air smelled of smoke and something metallic, blood, he realized with a jolt. Around him, witches and wizards dueled with ferocious intensity, spells crackling through the air like lightning.
In the center of the chaos stood a younger version of his grandfather, perhaps thirty years old, his face unmarked by age but bearing the same determined expression Michael had come to know. Archie moved with fluid precision, his wand slashing through complex patterns as he dueled three opponents simultaneously.
"This was Germany, 1945," his grandfather's voice whispered in his ear, though the fighting Archie showed no signs of speaking. "The final push against Grindelwald's forces."
Michael watched, awestruck, as his grandfather deflected a purple curse back at its caster, the purple light rebounding and striking the man. The wizard screamed, and his throat began rotting, and Archie immediately pivoted to engage the next threat without hesitation or remorse.
Michael watched, transfixed, as the scene shifted. The battlefield dissolved around him, reforming into a new location. He was standing on a ridge overlooking what appeared to be a ruined industrial park. Berlin, he somehow knew, though he'd never been there. The sky above was choked with black smoke, thick and oppressive. In the distance, a rhythmic drumbeat echoed, Muggle artillery, his grandfather's voice supplied in his mind.
But what drew Michael's attention was much closer.
Two figures stood amidst the wreckage of a factory below. The first was tall and imposing, wearing a long grey coat that billowed slightly in the acrid wind. His hair was a shock of auburn turning grey. Even having only seen him once, all those years ago, Michael recognized Albus Dumbledore. The man held a wand and stood deceptively still, but the air around him distorted and bent like heat waves rising from summer pavement.
Facing him was a golden-haired man whose laugh carried up to Michael's position on the ridge. He spun his wand between his fingers, it was a long knobbled thing.
Michael's breath caught as Grindelwald slashed his wand through the air without uttering an incantation. The very fabric of reality seemed to scream in protest.
A wave of blue fire erupted from the ground, a tsunami of flame, a wall three hundred feet high that crested and crashed down toward Dumbledore. The steel girders of the factory vaporized instantly as the fire approached.
Michael instinctively flinched, feeling phantom heat sear his face though he knew this was only a memory.
Dumbledore didn't shield himself. He raised his wand and twisted his wrist in a subtle motion. The earth in front of him liquefied, the concrete slab of the factory floor rising up, thousands of tons of rock, curling over him like a breaking wave.
The blue fire collided with the earthen shield. The sound was like nothing Michael had ever heard, a deafening hiss like a dying star. The rock barrier turned to molten glass under the heat, forming a cocoon of superheated slag around Dumbledore.
Then, the glass exploded outward.
In mid-air, Dumbledore transfigured the shrapnel. One moment, it was molten rock; the next, thousands of silver falcons streaked toward Grindelwald faster than Michael's eyes could follow. Their shrieks sounded like tearing metal.
Grindelwald's laugh rose above the chaos. He spun the his wand in a tight circle.
The air around him compressed visibly, the falcons never reached their target. They collapsed into a ball the size of a marble before they could touch Grindelwald's coat.
With a casual flick, Grindelwald sent the marble hurtling back toward Dumbledore. It hit the ground and expanded instantly.
BOOM.
A crater the size of a Quidditch pitch opened where Dumbledore had been standing a moment before.
But Dumbledore was already gone. The crack of Apparition echoed across the battlefield.
He reappeared behind Grindelwald. Another crack as Grindelwald vanished.
They were Apparating in combat, Michael realized, his mind struggling to process what he was witnessing. They materialized for microseconds, just long enough to unleash spells that could level city blocks, then vanished before counter-curses could land.
Green light erupted from Grindelwald as he reappeared. The signature colour of the killing curse, that Michael had only read in books.
Dumbledore conjured a polished bronze shield that intercepted the curse, absorbing it completely before it melted into a puddle of liquid metal. In the same motion, he transfigured it into a swarm of daggers that whistled toward Grindelwald from all directions.
A younger Archie appeared at the edge of Michael's vision, crouched behind the remains of a concrete wall. His grandfather's face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wide with the same awe that Michael now felt.
"Fall back!" someone shouted nearby. "All units fall back!"
"This is beyond us," another voice agreed, terror evident in their tone.
Michael understood now what his grandfather had meant. This wasn't a duel, it was gods at war. The magic being wielded was beyond anything he had imagined possible, beyond what any textbook described. This was magic at its most primal and terrifying.
Grindelwald created a dome of golden light that incinerated the daggers on contact. With his free hand, wandless magic at a level that made Michael's breath catch, he tore a chunk of earth from the ground and compressed it into a jagged spear of obsidian that he launched at Dumbledore.
The air around the two wizards crackled with raw power. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp and bend under the strain of the magic being channeled.
Michael watched as his grandfather and the other soldiers retreated, clearly understanding they were witnessing a confrontation far beyond their abilities to influence.
Grindelwald didn't wait. He conjured the falling smokestack debris into a flock of razor-winged gargoyles that shrieked as they dove toward Dumbledore. Their stone wings sliced through the air with a sound like knives being sharpened.
Dumbledore swept his wand in a horizontal arc. A ring of golden fire erupted around him, expanding outward in a perfect circle. The gargoyles hit the flames and transmuted, not destroyed, but transformed, into a swarm of golden butterflies that briefly illuminated the battlefield before dissolving into ash.
Grindelwald's laughter echoed across the ruined factory. He raised his wand above his head and brought it down in a vicious slashing motion.
The ground beneath Dumbledore's feet split open. Revealing a chasm filled with molten lava. Heat distorted the air as magma bubbled up from impossible depths. Dumbledore leapt back, but the fissure followed him, widening, hungry.
With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore conjured a bridge of ice that crystallized across the gap. He stepped onto it, and the ice didn't melt despite the infernal heat rising from below. Another flick, and the bridge became a serpent of frost that lunged at Grindelwald, its jaws wide and glistening.
Grindelwald didn't dodge. He pointed his wand directly at the ice-serpent's maw and whispered something. The serpent shattered into a million crystalline shards that hung suspended in the air for a heartbeat before reversing direction, flying back toward Dumbledore as a blizzard.
Dumbledore vanished with a crack, reappearing atop a half-collapsed wall. The shards of ice embedded themselves in the concrete where he had stood a second before.
"You've improved, Albus!" Grindelwald called, his voice carrying an almost fond tone that made Michael's skin crawl.
Dumbledore didn't respond with words. Instead, he traced a complex pattern with his wand. The air around him thickened, darkened, coalesced into what looked like living shadow. It wrapped around his arm like a serpent, then shot toward Grindelwald with the speed of a striking cobra.
Grindelwald slashed downward, creating a shield of white light. The shadow struck it with a sound like thunder, and for a moment the two forces struggled against each other, darkness pushing against light, neither yielding.
Then both spells collapsed in a shockwave that shattered every remaining window in the factory. The blast knocked young Archie and several others off their feet. Michael watched his grandfather scramble back up, blood trickling from his ears, wand still clutched tightly in his hand.
Grindelwald was already moving again. He swept his wand in a wide circle, and the very air began to crystallize. Ice formed not in sheets but in three-dimensional fractals that grew exponentially, engulfing everything they touched. A nearby wizard screamed as the advancing ice caught his leg, freezing him in place.
Dumbledore responded instantly. He conjured a ring of fire around himself and the trapped allies, but this was no ordinary flame. It burned with a strange purple light and gave off no heat that Michael could feel. Where it touched the ice fractals, they didn't melt but simply ceased to exist, as if the fire was consuming the very concept of cold.
"Enough games!" Grindelwald roared, his earlier playfulness vanishing. He raised his wand high. "FIENDFYRE!"
A massive serpent of cursed flame erupted from his wand, its maw gaping wide enough to swallow a house. Behind it formed chimeras, dragons, and basilisks, all composed of the same malevolent fire. The heat was so intense that Michael could feel it across time itself, burning his face as he watched the memory.
The Fiendfyre surged toward Dumbledore, consuming everything in its path. Steel beams liquefied. Concrete vaporized. The very air seemed to burn.
Dumbledore stood his ground. He raised his wand, not in a defensive posture but straight up, like a conductor about to begin a symphony. His face showed no fear, only intense concentration.
As the wall of cursed fire bore down on him, Dumbledore brought his wand down in a single, decisive movement.
The sky opened.
Not metaphorically, literally split apart, revealing a void of perfect darkness. From this void poured a torrent of water unlike anything Michael had ever imagined. Not a stream or even a waterfall, but an ocean suspended above the battlefield, descending all at once.
The Fiendfyre rose to meet it, hissing and steaming in rage. For a breathless moment, the two elemental forces collided in perfect stalemate, water and fire, creation and destruction, locked in combat above the ruined factory.
Then Dumbledore twisted his wand, and the water began to spin. It formed a vortex, a whirlpool suspended in mid-air that consumed the Fiendfyre bit by bit, drawing it inward and extinguishing its cursed flames.
Grindelwald snarled in frustration. He jabbed his wand forward, and the remaining Fiendfyre compressed into a single point of blinding white heat. The condensed fire shot toward Dumbledore like a meteor, leaving a trail of superheated air in its wake.
Dumbledore didn't try to counter it. Instead, he Disapparated again, appearing directly behind Grindelwald. Before the dark wizard could turn, Dumbledore had already cast his spell, a silent curse that manifested as bands of golden light wrapping around Grindelwald's body.
But Grindelwald was ready. He spun within the constricting bands, his wand slashing outward. The golden restraints shattered, and in the same movement, Grindelwald launched a barrage of silver spears that flew at Dumbledore from all directions.
Dumbledore conjured a shield dome that the spears struck with metallic clangs. Each impact sent ripples across the shield's surface. As the last spear hit, Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the shield inverted, becoming a wave of force that surged outward.
Grindelwald met it with a wall of his own magic, black as night and writhing with symbols that hurt Michael's eyes to look at. The two spells collided with a sound like the world splitting apart.
The shockwave threw young Archie backward. Michael saw his grandfather slam into a concrete wall, and cough blood.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald circled each other now, their wands leaving trails of light that hung in the air like auroras. The ground beneath them had been transformed into something alien, parts glass, parts stone, parts substances Michael had no names for. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp around them as their magic saturated the air.
"You still don't understand, do you, Albus?" Grindelwald called, his voice somehow carrying clearly despite the chaos. "This resistance is futile. The old world is dying. I am merely hastening its inevitable end!"
Dumbledore's response was another spell, this one manifesting as a phoenix made of pure golden light that launched itself at Grindelwald. The dark wizard countered with a serpent of shadow that met the phoenix in midair. The two magical constructs tore at each other, light and darkness intermingling in violent swirls.
While Grindelwald's attention was focused on the battle between phoenix and serpent Dumbledore vanished with a thunderous crack. Michael searched frantically, finding him reappearing atop a half-destroyed smokestack that loomed over the ruined factory. The tower of brick swayed precariously beneath Dumbledore's feet, but he stood perfectly balanced, wand raised to the darkening sky.
Grindelwald's eyes narrowed as he tracked Dumbledore's movement. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he thrust his wand skyward.
The air pressure plummeted. Michael's ears popped painfully as the atmosphere itself seemed to bend to Grindelwald's will. Above them, the clouds blackened and swirled, forming a vortex directly over the battlefield. The sky groaned like a wounded beast as Grindelwald pulled the very ionosphere downward.
"Witness this, Albus!" Grindelwald roared, his voice somehow carrying over the howling wind.
Lightning exploded across the sky, not in single bolts but in sheets that illuminated the entire landscape in stark white relief. The hair on Michael's arms stood on end as the air charged with electricity. This wasn't spell-craft—it was nature itself answering Grindelwald's call, a cataclysm made manifest by sheer magical will.
Dumbledore stood unflinching as the first bolt struck, a pillar of blinding light that connected heaven and earth. But instead of incinerating him where he stood, the lightning found the tip of his wand. It coalesced there, a star of pure energy that should have reduced the wizard to ash.
Yet Dumbledore remained. With a subtle twist of his wrist, he began to manipulate the lightning.The electricity braided itself under his command, forming a whip of white-hot plasma that crackled and hissed in the rain-soaked air.
Grindelwald's eyes widened, the first sign of genuine surprise Michael had seen from the dark wizard.
Dumbledore lashed out with the plasma whip. It extended impossibly, crossing the distance between them faster than thought. Grindelwald conjured a shield of darkness, but the lightning-whip sheared through it like paper, catching him across the chest and sending him tumbling backward.
Before Grindelwald could recover, Dumbledore leapt from the smokestack, descending through the air with impossible grace. The lightning whip danced around him in protective spirals as he landed.
Grindelwald rose, blood trickling from his lips, his coat smoldering where the plasma had struck. For the first time, true rage contorted his features.
"ENOUGH!" he bellowed.
Both wizards moved simultaneously, their wands meeting in a final, cataclysmic attack. Grindelwald's spell, black as the void between stars, collided with Dumbledore's blinding light. The point of impact expanded outward, a sphere of pure magic that consumed everything it touched.
The last thing Michael saw was his grandfather diving behind a concrete barrier as the wave of energy expanded. Then whiteness, absolute, overwhelming, filled his vision.
Michael gasped as he was violently ejected from the Pensieve. He staggered backward, his heart hammering against his ribs, lungs heaving as though he'd run for miles. His back was soaked with sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin.
"Now you understand," Archie whispered from the bed, his voice barely audible.
Michael nodded wordlessly, unable to find his voice. His mind reeled with what he had witnessed. Was this the peak of magical achievement? Was this what wielding magic truly meant? The question that haunted him most: was this what Voldemort had been capable of?
They weren't men. They were forces of nature, elemental powers barely contained in human form.
A verse from his previous life surfaced unbidden in his mind: "And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, and prevailed not." Revelation 12:7.
The biblical imagery seemed fitting, angels and demons locked in cosmic battle, powers beyond mortal comprehension clashing above the world of men.
"They weren't just fighting with spells," Michael finally managed, his voice hoarse. "They were bending reality itself."
Archie nodded weakly. "That's why... why I needed you to see. The heights..
Michael's mind raced as Archie's feeble voice trailed off. The memory still burned in his consciousness, not just images but sensations. The raw power that had saturated the air.
Outside, the garden gate creaked. Neville's voice drifted up, excited about something he'd found among the plants. Augusta's response was too faint to hear.
His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his grandfather's blanket. Everything he had understood about magical warfare suddenly seemed laughably inadequate. Armies of wizards, strategic positioning, numerical advantage, all meaningless in the face of what he'd just witnessed.
Cloak and dagger operations, scores of soldiers, were valuable, even in this world, but in this new world, magical power had the final say. Dumbledore, Voldemort, Grindelwald, he was coming to understand they were the equivalent of human nuclear weapons. The pinnacle. To save oneself from these monsters of magic, you needed to become one.
What is better, to be born good or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?
Michael's fingers twitched involuntarily as he recalled the newspaper clippings he'd collected about the last war. Entire villages destroyed. The world bent to the will of a single individual wielding enough magical power. To stand against such forces required becoming something equally terrifying.
While his mind was racing, Michael changed the topic to talk about other simpler topics, his grandfather's energy had also waned after the the memory.
Michael kept talking, even as his grandfather's eyes grew heavy. Even as his responses became fewer and farther between. Even as the shadows lengthened across the room.
The least Michael would make sure his grandfather wasn't alone in his final moments.
That, at least, was within his power to give.
Michael moved closer to the bed, taking his grandfather's hand again. "Thank you for showing me."
"The box," Archie reminded him, his eyes drifting closed. "Remember the box. And remember... what true power looks like. Not just... destruction. Dumbledore's restraint... was his greatest strength."
Michael sat silently, holding his grandfather's hand as the old man's breathing grew more labored. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the room. In the garden below, he could hear Neville's voice, excitedly showing their grandmother something he'd grown.
Life continued, even as death approached. The world turned, oblivious to the gods who had once waged war across its surface.
The shadows lengthened as grandfather and grandson sat in silence, one at the end of his journey, the other just beginning to understand the true magnitude of his own.
_______________________________
The winter sun cast long shadows across St. Mungo's sterile corridors as Michael walked beside his grandfather's floating wheelchair. The healers had administered a Vitality Potion that morning, a final mercy that granted Archie Longbottom a few precious hours of clarity and strength before the inevitable end. Michael could see the effort it took for his grandfather to sit upright, his once-powerful frame now skeletal beneath hospital robes that seemed to swallow him whole.
Augusta walked ahead, her back ramrod straight, vulture-topped hat bobbing with each determined step. To anyone else, she appeared as formidable as ever, but Michael caught the slight tremor in her hands, the way her knuckles whitened around her handbag's clasp. She was crumbling inside, piece by piece, though she'd rather die than show it.
"Fourth floor," she announced unnecessarily, her voice slightly higher than usual. "Spell Damage."
Neville shuffled along beside Michael, his round face pale, eyes darting nervously between the adults. He clutched a small pot containing a flowering plant with silvery-blue petals, something he'd been nurturing in the greenhouse for weeks specifically for this visit.
"Do you think Mum will like it?" he whispered to Michael, anxiety threading through each word.
"She'll love it," Michael assured him, though his chest tightened at the question. Their mother wouldn't recognize the gift, wouldn't know who Neville was, wouldn't remember that she had sons at all. But he couldn't bear to dim the fragile hope in his brother's eyes.
The Janus Thickey Ward loomed ahead, its enchanted doors recognizing Augusta's approach and swinging open with a soft hiss. The familiar antiseptic smell washed over them.
"Mr. Longbottom!" Healer Strout hurried toward them, her lime-green robes fluttering. Her eyes widened at the sight of Archie. "I... we weren't expecting you today."
"Last requests shouldn't require appointments," Augusta said sharply, though Michael detected the faintest waver beneath her crisp tone.
The healer's face softened with understanding. "Of course. They're having a good day, relatively speaking. Your timing is fortunate."
Michael's hand found Neville's shoulder, steadying his brother as they followed their grandmother past the rows of beds. Some patients stared vacantly at the ceiling; others muttered to themselves, lost in private realities that no one else could access. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, not wanting to see the pity on the faces of the healers they passed.
And then they were there, at the two beds partially concealed by privacy screens. Two beds that contained what remained of Frank and Alice Longbottom.
His father sat propped against pillows, gaze vacant, hands methodically folding and unfolding a scrap of parchment. Frank Longbottom's once-handsome face was gaunt now, prematurely aged, his hair more gray than brown. In the bed beside him, Alice hummed tunelessly, her fingers twisting in her thin white hair.
Michael felt the familiar surge of rage, quickly suppressed. Bellatrix Lestrange might be in Azkaban, but her work remained here, displayed in living testimony to the cruelty humans could inflict upon one another.
Archie's breath hitched. "Frank," he said, his voice stronger than it had been in days. "My boy."
The man in the bed didn't respond, didn't look up, just continued his endless folding task.
Augusta guided Archie's wheelchair between the two beds. "Alice, Frank, look who's come to see you," she said with forced brightness that didn't match the grief etched into every line of her face.
Michael watched his grandfather reach out with trembling hands, one to his son, one to his daughter-in-law. The gesture, connecting them all one last time, made Michael's throat constrict painfully.
"Neville has something for you, Alice," Augusta prompted, her voice gentler than Michael had heard in months.
Neville stepped forward hesitantly, the small potted plant clutched in his hands like a shield. "I-I grew this for you, Mum," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's a Lunar Lily. They only bloom at night, and they glow in the dark. I thought... maybe it would be nice to have something pretty to look at when you can't sleep."
Alice's humming stopped. Her head tilted like a curious bird's as her gaze fixed on the silvery-blue flowers.
She reached out, fingers fluttering, and Neville carefully placed the pot in her hands, his eyes wide with hope.
But just as quickly, Alice was already drifting again, her attention shifting to a loose thread on her blanket, the plant forgotten in her lap. Neville's face crumpled slightly before he controlled it, putting on the brave expression Michael had come to recognize all too well.
Michael turned to his father, approaching the bed with careful steps. "Hello, Dad," he said quietly, knowing there would be no response. There never was. He reached out, his small hand covering his father's larger one, stilling the endless folding motion momentarily.
Archie wheeled himself closer to Frank's side, his breathing labored now despite the potion's effects. "My son," he said, voice breaking. "I'm sorry I'm leaving before... before you come back to us."
The raw grief in his grandfather's words made Michael's chest ache. They all maintained the fiction, that Frank and Alice might recover someday, that this wasn't permanent, that somewhere inside these hollow shells, their parents still existed.
"I wanted to say goodbye properly," Archie continued, gripping Frank's unresponsive hand. "I wanted you to know how proud I am of you. How proud I've always been."
Frank's eyes drifted past his father's face, focusing on something only he could see. The paper in his hands remained half-folded, forgotten.
Augusta made a small noise, something between a cough and a sob, quickly stifled. Her hand rested on Alice's shoulder, fingers trembling against the hospital gown.
"They know," Michael said suddenly, the words spilling out before he could consider them. "They know you're here. They know you love them."
He didn't believe it, not really, but the lie felt necessary, a small mercy on this day of endings.
The visit continued in quiet conversation, mostly one-sided. Archie reminisced about Frank's childhood, about his wedding to Alice, about the day Neville and Michael were born. Augusta occasionally added details, her voice growing steadier as she recounted happier times.
Michael watched his brother carefully arrange the Lunar Lily on Alice's bedside table, explaining in soft tones how to care for it, though she had already turned her attention to making small piles of empty Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrappers.
Time slipped by, measured in Archie's increasingly labored breaths and the lengthening shadows across the ward floor. When Healer Strout finally approached with an apologetic expression, Michael knew their time was ending.
"We should get your grandfather home," Augusta said, her voice carefully controlled. "He needs to rest."
Archie nodded, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. The potion was wearing off; the brief reprieve coming to its end. He leaned forward with tremendous effort, pressing his lips to Frank's forehead in a final farewell.
"I'm leaving them in good hands," he said, looking directly at Michael. "You'll watch over them, won't you, my boy?"
The weight of expectation in those words pressed down on Michael's shoulders. He was nine years old, yet in his grandfather's eyes, he saw a passing of responsibility, a torch being handed down.
"I will," he promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
As they prepared to leave, Alice suddenly became agitated, her hands searching through her collection of gum wrappers with increasing urgency. With unexpected deliberation, she selected two wrappers from her pile. Michael watched as she pressed one into Neville's small palm. Neville's eyes widened, his bottom lip trembling slightly.
Then, with the same vacant expression, Alice extended her hand toward Archie, offering him the second wrapper. It was just a small square of colorful paper, crinkled and worn from being handled repeatedly. But as Archie's withered fingers closed around it, tears welled in his eyes.
"Thank you, Alice," he whispered, voice breaking. He carefully folded the wrapper and tucked it into his breast pocket, right above his heart.
The journey home was silent. Archie's strength had faded completely, the potion's effects exhausted. By the time they reached Longbottom Manor, Dotty and Augusta had to levitate him to his bedroom, his breath coming in labored gasps.
As Augusta prepared his evening potions, Archie beckoned his grandsons closer. His voice was barely audible now, each word an effort.
"Come here, boys."
Michael helped Neville climb onto the edge of the bed. The wrapper from Alice was still clutched tightly in his brother's hand.
Archie reached out, his fingers brushing Michael's cheek first, then Neville's. "My boys," he murmured. "Remember what matters... family... love... these are the strongest magics." His eyes fixed on Michael's with sudden intensity. "The box... remember the box."
"I will," Michael promised, his throat tight.
With tremendous effort, Archie raised himself slightly from his pillows. He pressed dry lips to Michael's forehead, then Neville's, before sinking back, exhausted by even this small gesture.
"Sleep well, Grandfather," Michael said, helping Neville down from the bed.
Augusta shooed them from the room after that, insisting that Archie needed rest. Michael led Neville to their shared bedroom, helping his younger brother change into pajamas and tucking him in with a story, though his mind remained in Archie's room, with the labored breathing and fading light in his grandfather's eyes.
When Neville finally drifted to sleep, Michael slipped out of bed. He had a promise to keep.
The manor was silent as he crept to his grandfather's study. Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the leather-bound books and ancient artifacts that had fascinated him since childhood. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he approached the window.
"Third plank from the window," Michael whispered to himself, kneeling down.
The wood was worn smooth from generations of Longbottoms pacing this same floor. He pressed his fingers along the edges of the third plank, feeling for any irregularity. Near the far end, he found it, a slight depression that yielded to pressure. The board pivoted upward, revealing a narrow space beneath.
Inside lay a small wooden box, unadorned except for the Longbottom family crest burned into its lid. Michael lifted it carefully, surprised by its weight. Whatever it contained was heavy for its size. He tucked it under his arm and replaced the floorboard, leaving the study exactly as he'd found it.
Back in his bedroom, with Neville's soft snores providing cover, Michael examined his prize. The box had no visible lock, yet resisted his attempts to open it. He ran his fingers over the crest, remembering his grandfather's hands doing the same countless times over the years.
Michael set the box aside, sliding it under his bed. Whatever secrets it contained could wait until morning.
When dawn broke, Michael woke to Dotty's wailing. The house-elf's cries echoed through the manor, high-pitched and heartbroken. He knew immediately what had happened.
Archibald Longbottom had passed away in his sleep.
Michael sat upright, his chest constricting. Despite the inevitability, despite the weeks of preparation, the finality of it struck him like a physical blow. He glanced at Neville, still sleeping peacefully, unaware that their world had just shifted beneath them.
For a moment, Michael allowed himself to feel the full weight of grief. His grandfather, mentor, protector, link to their parents' past, was gone. The man who had shown him what magic could truly be, who had entrusted him with memories and responsibilities beyond his years, would never again share wisdom or stories by the library fire.
He took a deep breath, composing himself before waking Neville. There would be arrangements to make, relatives to notify, a funeral to prepare. Augusta would need support, though she would never ask for it directly.
Michael slid from his bed, kneeling to retrieve the box from its hiding place. In the early morning light, the crest seemed to shimmer slightly. He placed his palm flat against it, thinking of his grandfather's final gift, his final trust.
The lid clicked open.
Inside lay several objects: a journal bound in worn leather, a small silver key, a velvet pouch that clinked when moved, and a sealed envelope with Michael's name written in Archie's elegant script. Beneath these items rested something wrapped in cloth, something long and familiar in shape.
Michael's fingers trembled as he unwrapped it, revealing exactly what he had suspected. Archie's wand, blackthorn and dragon heartstring, twelve and a quarter inches, the warrior's wand that had seen him through two magical wars.
Somehow, his grandfather had arranged for it to pass to him, bypassing the usual custom of burial with its owner.
He carefully rewrapped the wand and returned everything to the box, closing it before Neville could wake and see. There would be time to examine the contents properly later, to read his grandfather's final words and understand what knowledge he had deemed so important it needed to be hidden beneath floorboards rather than shared openly.
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