July 1, 1987
A few days after the funeral, Michael found himself alone at last.
He slipped away from the manor after breakfast, Archie's letter burning a hole in his pocket. He needed space to read it properly, away from Gran's watchful eyes and Neville's questions. The old oak at the edge of the property called to him, its sprawling branches offering both shelter and solitude.
Michael settled against the trunk, the rough bark pressing into his back through his thin shirt. Summer heat shimmered across the meadow beyond, but beneath the ancient tree, the air remained cool and still. He withdrew the parchment from his pocket, fingers hesitating over the broken seal. He had opened it last night by wandlight after Neville fell asleep, but hadn't yet found the courage to read beyond the first line.
With a deep breath, he unfolded the letter fully. His grandfather's elegant script flowed across the page, each carefully formed letter a final connection to the man who had shaped so much of his life. Michael felt his throat tighten as he began to read, the words both comfort and command.
Dear Michael,
The older I grow the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom. I've often found that the oldest around us are the most foolish. This world is for the young, for people like you and Neville to break through and grasp it with your hands.
Remember this, if nothing else. We seem to gain wisdom more readily through our failures than through our successes. We may think of failure as the antithesis of success, but they aren't. Success often lies just the other side of failure.
This box contains two treasures beyond the wand you now hold. First is my journal detailing my encounters with dark magic during both wars. Knowledge that the Ministry would prefer remained buried, but that you must understand if you are to navigate the world that's coming.
The second is a key to my personal vault at Gringotts. Augusta knows of the family vault, but this one contains items too dangerous to keep at home. Wait until you're seventeen to access it, unless circumstances become dire. The goblins have their instructions.
As I age, I find myself thinking of the many things I wasn't able to do. Travel the world, explore magic deeply. I have seen your wandless magic practice in secret, and you must never ever lose the spark, the love for the craft.
Travel beyond the lands beyond the borders of our nation, and move outside of circles that you have been born into. This world is filled with magic, both dangerous and glorious.
I will name a few below:
In Rome, you'll find the Catacombs of Magical Antiquity beneath the mundane ruins, where sorcerers of the Roman Empire preserved spells in crystallized form. Touch them, and the magic flows into you temporarilym a sensation like drinking starlight. The hidden libraries contain scrolls that sing their contents rather than requiring you to read them, ancient voices preserving knowledge that predates Hogwarts by a millennium.
Egypt holds wonders that would make your professors at Hogwarts question everything they teach. The tombs of the magical pharaohs contain curses that bend time itself, I once spent what felt like minutes in a chamber, only to emerge and discover three days had passed outside.
In Greece, seek out the Oracle's descendants on Mount Parnassus. They brew potions using ingredients our kind has forgotten existed, creating elixirs that allow you to speak with the dead without the darkness of necromancy.
In China, Michael, there you will find magic so fundamentally different from our Western approach that it will reshape your understanding of what's possible. Their wizards don't distinguish between magical and non-magical in the same way we do; rather, they see gradients of energy in all living things. They've perfected the art of drawing power from the earth itself, channeling it through their bodies without wands. I witnessed an elderly witch who's profession was a storyteller raise an entire lake into the air and hold it suspended for an hour, the water forming intricate patterns that told stories of dynasties long fallen.
The world is so much larger than Britain's magical community would have you believe. We've grown insular, arrogant in our traditions
You have the potential of a Titan Michael. I can sense it in the strength of your magic, the keenness of your mind unlike any nine year old I've ever met. regret that I won't be there to guide you through these discoveries. But perhaps that's for the best. Each generation must find its own path, learn its own lessons. You already possess the one quality no magical education can provide: an unquenchable curiosity coupled with the courage to act on it.
Train both your mind and body Michael, for you will need it in the times to come. Augusta will hold the fort for you until you come of age.
The world is changing. I've seen the signs. Those who were once loyal to the Lord Voldemort are growing restless, testing boundaries. They believe themselves forgotten, but I know better. The darkness is patient, Michael. It waits, it watches, it plans.
You saw my memory of Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Remember that power without restraint is merely destruction. But also remember that restraint without power is merely vulnerability.
I've arranged several contacts for you abroad. Their names and locations are in the journal. Some were friends, some were rivals, all will respect the Longbottom name and teach you if you approach them correctly. Learn from them all, but trust none completely.
Your greatest asset is your mind. Your greatest weakness is your age. The first will improve with time and study; the second will resolve itself if you survive long enough.
Watch over Neville. In many ways, his path will be harder than yours. His magic develops slowly, but there's strength in him that few recognize. Augusta pushes him to be Frank, but he has Alice's heart, gentle, but unbreakable when tested. He'll need your protection, but also your faith.
Michael, I wish I could have guided you longer, watched you grow into the man I know you'll become. But know this—I am immensely proud of you already. You carry the best of your parents within you.
Live fiercely. Love deeply. And when the darkness comes, as it surely will, stand your ground.
Until we meet again,
Your grandfather,
Archibald Augustus Longbottom
Michael folded the letter carefully along its creases and slipped it back into his pocket. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the rough bark of the ancient oak. The summer breeze rustled through the leaves above, dappling his face with shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow.
"Goodbye, Grandfather," he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself. "May you find peace in whatever comes next."
The prayer felt strange on his lips. In his previous life, death had been the end of everything - a darkness from which no one returned. But now, living in a world where ghosts drifted through castle halls and portraits held conversations, he was living proof that perhaps death truly was just another journey, another transition.
Michael Corleone had seen death up close, had delivered it with his own hands. He had lived decades in that other life, accumulating power and enemies in equal measure, only to end as all men do - alone, with the weight of his choices pressing down upon him.
But here, now, as Michael Longbottom, he had been given something precious: guidance. A map through the darkness that lay ahead.
His eyes snapped open. The meadow stretched before him, wildflowers nodding in the gentle breeze. Behind him stood Longbottom Manor, solid and steadfast as it had been for centuries. Somewhere inside, Neville was probably helping Gran in the kitchen, or tending to his plants in the small corner of the greenhouse that had become his sanctuary.
Michael's hand drifted to the pocket where he kept Archie's wand, fingers tracing its shape through the fabric. The responsibility settled across his shoulders like a physical weight.
"I swear I'll follow your instructions, Archie," he said, his voice stronger now. "I'll become what I need to be. For Neville. For our family."
He pushed himself to his feet in one fluid motion, brushing grass from his trousers. The box with his grandfather's journal and the Gringotts key was safely hidden beneath the loose floorboard in his bedroom, waiting for the right moment.
Michael drew the wand from his pocket and examined it in the dappled sunlight beneath the oak. Twelve and a quarter inches of blackthorn wood, polished by decades of his grandfather's touch and care, yet it felt alien in his grasp. Cold. Distant. Judgmental, almost.
He gave it an experimental flick. Nothing, not even the faintest spark or whisper of magic. The wand remained stubbornly inert, as if refusing to acknowledge him as its new master.
"You don't have to like me," Michael murmured to the wand, running his finger along its length. "But we need each other."
He had read extensively about wand lore since finding it in Archie's box. Blackthorn—a wood of warriors, suited for battle magic and protective enchantments. Dragon heartstring—powerful but temperamental, capable of the most flamboyant spells. Together, they formed a wand that demanded respect and had to be won, not simply inherited.
Michael stood and pointed the wand at a fallen branch. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said clearly, remembering the pronunciation from his studies.
The branch twitched, rose an inch off the ground, then fell back with a soft thud. Better than nothing, but nowhere near what this wand was capable of in the right hands.
"Fine," Michael said, narrowing his eyes. "Be difficult."
He tried again, focusing his intent more sharply, channeling his magic through the reluctant conduit. This time, the branch rose six inches before dropping. Progress, but barely.
Frustration bubbled in his chest. Wandless magic came naturally to him—an extension of his will, raw and intuitive. But structured magic, the kind taught that would be taught in Hogwarts and was detailed in textbooks, required precise channeling through a wand. His wand. Except this wasn't truly his, was it? It was a borrowed tool, a stopgap measure.
Still, it was better than nothing. Without it, his options for practicing structured magic were limited. The Trace placed on underage wizards wands would detect any magic performed by them. But with Archie's wand? He could practice, prepare, learn the foundations of formal magical education before even setting foot in Hogwarts. The Ministry would assume it was Augusta performing magic in the household.
Michael slipped the wand back into his pocket, the cool wood gradually warming against his thigh. He would make this work. He would prove himself worthy of the wand's allegiance while practicing his wandless capabilities. Either way, he refused to enter Hogwarts as unprepared as the average first-year.
He started back toward the manor, mind already cataloging which books in the family library would provide the most practical spells to master first. Defense Against the Dark Arts, certainly. Charms for utility. Perhaps even some basic Transfiguration, though that branch of magic required particular precision.
The sun beat down on his neck as he crossed the meadow. Summer stretched before him, long and full of potential. In the next two years his letter for Hogwarts would come came, and by then Michael intended to have mastered at least the first-year curriculum, if not beyond. With the mind of a near centarian, to not have mastered at least the basics would be humiliating for a man of his capabilites.
And if the blackthorn wand never fully accepted him? Well, that was a problem for another day. In his previous life, Michael Corleone had learned to work with reluctant allies when necessary. This was no different.
The wand was a means to an end. And the end was protecting his family, preparing for whatever darkness his future held
As he reached the garden gate, Michael paused, looking back at the old oak tree. Its ancient branches swayed gently in the summer breeze, leaves whispering secrets he couldn't quite hear.
"I'll be ready," he promised, to the tree, to his grandfather's memory, to himself. "Whatever comes next, I'll be ready."
The blackthorn wand thrummed faintly against his leg, as if in reluctant acknowledgment of his determination. Not acceptance, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of respect.
________________________________________________________
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
You can read ONE chapter ahead on my:
linktr. ee/DarkeBones.