The first six months passed in a blur of sound and sensation as the fog of infancy shrouded Michael's mind. His consciousness, old, vast, and aware, struggling to rise through layers of infant consciousness.
It began in a moment of sudden clarity. The recognition of the pale blue ceiling above his crib and a mobile of glowing stars that spun without a breeze.
Then came comprehension, terrible and disorienting
The panic that followed was primal, overwhelming. His limbs flailed uselessly, his voice producing only the helpless cry of an infant.
This is wrong. This is impossible. I died.
Terror clawed at Michael's insides, his mind reeling with the impossible realization. His infant body responded to his distress as he began to wail, the sound tearing from his throat. The mobile above his crib began to spin wildly, the stars blurring into streaks of light as his magic responded to his emotional turmoil
What sort of judgment am I facing? Michael cried. God, what is this punishment? This prison of flesh and helplessness?
Suddenly,he felt strange, weightless. The sensation only intensified his panic as he realized he was no longer touching the mattress. His tiny body rose from the crib, suspended in mid-air as his cries echoed off the nursery walls. The stuffed animals around him began to vibrate, then lift, joining his ascent in a bizarre constellation of floating toys.
"Great Merlin's beard!"
The exclamation barely registered through Michael's hysteria. His limbs flailed uselessly as he continued to rise, now nearly touching the ceiling, his magic pulsing around him in invisible waves.
"Oh you'll be a powerful wizard all right." A woman's voice chuckled from below. "Frank, come quickly!
Arms reached up toward him, and Michael felt himself drifting downward, as if his body recognized safety even while his mind remained in chaos. The descent was gentle, guided by an unseen force as he floated into waiting arms.
Warm hands cradled him against a chest that smelled of cinnamon and cloves. Through tear-blurred vision, Michael made out a heart-shaped face framed by blonde hair, blue eyes wide with concern as they searched his face.
"Shh, my sweet boy," she murmured, her accent unmistakably English. "Mummy's here."
Mother, he thought in disbelief. His mind reeled with the impossibility of his situation.
He began to hiccup as his sobs subsided, the simple rhythm of her heartbeat against his ear working to calm the storm within him. His tiny fingers clutched at her robes, anchoring himself to this new reality.
"There now, Michael," the woman who called herself his mother murmured, gently bouncing him. "You've given us quite a fright with your little display."
"Well, I must say," a deep voice cut through the air. "The boy has quite the flair for dramatic reactions. Augusta will be positively beside herself when she hears she missed his first display off accidental magic."
Michael tried to turn to see the voice, but his body remained unresponsive.
"Archie, please," his mother said chidingly, her voice vibrating through her chest against Michael's ear. "He just had a fright, that's all."
"A fright that sent him levitating six feet in the air! At six months!" Archie's voice held unmistakable pride. "That's more than accidental magic, my dear. That's raw power."
The door burst open with a bang, and Frank Longbottom rushed into the nursery, his Auror robes billowing behind him like dark wings.
"What did I miss, Alice?" he panted, his eyes darting between his wife and son. "I heard shouting."
Alice turned toward her husband, Michael still cradled against her chest. "Our little Michael just had his first show of accidental magic," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "He was floating, Frank. Nearly touched the ceiling." She nuzzled Michael as she said this, and kissed his cheeks.
Michael, calmer now, lay still, grasping at thoughts too large for his tiny vessel. His limbs refused his commands, when he tried to speak, only babbles emerged from his lips.
Frank stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth slightly open as he processed her words. Then, as if a spell had been lifted, a beaming grin spread across his handsome face, transforming his features. His high cheekbones caught the light as he laughed, the sound rich and joyful in the small nursery.
"Six months old!" he exclaimed, crossing the room in three long strides. "Six months!"
He wrapped his arms around both Alice and Michael, enveloping them in his embrace. The scent of autumn air and leather still clung to his robes as he began to sway, turning them in a slow, impromptu dance around the nursery. Michael found himself sandwiched between his parents' warmth, his father's jubilant voice vibrating against his tiny body.
Our little Michael's a powerful wizard, isn't he? Just like his mother," Frank said, pressing a kiss to Alice's temple before looking down at his son with undisguised pride.
The motion was oddly soothing to Michael, despite his lingering confusion. His parents' joy washed over him, a tangible force that momentarily pushed aside the existential horror of his situation. The rhythm of their dance grounded him in this strange new reality.
"Frank, be careful," Alice cautioned, though her voice held no real concern. "You'll make him dizzy."
"Nonsense," Frank replied, his steps slowing but the dance continuing. "He's got Longbottom blood in his veins. Strong as they come."
Michael felt himself being lifted from his mother's arms as Frank raised him toward the ceiling, his father's face beaming up at him. "You're going to be extraordinary, Michael," Frank said, his voice softening with emotion. "Already showing us what you're capable of."
"Augusta will be beside herself," Alice giggled, reaching up to smooth Michael's soft black hair. "She's been predicting powerful magic from him since before he was born."
"And right she was," Frank agreed, lowering Michael back to cradle him against his chest. "Though I must say, I didn't expect it quite so soon. Most children don't show signs until they're toddlers at least."
There was a loud snap and flash, as Michael was forced to blink. He turned his weak neck to see an tall elderly man looking to be in his late seventies, with twinkling eyes, and magnificent snow white beard, holding a large oddly shaped camera.
"Adorable," he grinned.
Michael's infant eyes struggled to focus through the lingering spots of light dancing across his vision. The camera's brass fittings gleaming in light of day and a thin curl of purple smoke rose from an aperture.
"Archie!" Alice admonished, though her tone held only amusement , "A little warning next time? You've startled him."
"Had to capture the moment," Archibald unrependantly grinned. He waved the developing photograph with a flourish. "First display of magic! This is one for the family album."
"Let me see," Alice said, reaching for the photograph. She studied it with a soft smile before holding it where Michael could see. "Look, sweetheart. That's us and you"
Michael stared at the moving image in shock. The figures shifted positions, adjusting their stances with subtle, fluid movements.They blinked. They breathed. His parents danced and
smiled and waved as they held a baby in their arms. Him.
Impossible, Michael thought. What witchery is this. What sort of technology could create such an effect
"I'll take more at his party tomorrow," Archie promised, patting the camera affectionately. "Augusta's been planning this half-birthday celebration for weeks. You'd think the boy was turning seventeen instead of six months."
Frank chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest against Michael's ear. "Mother does love her celebrations. Especially when they give her a chance to show off her extraordinary grandson."
"She's invited half the Ministry, I think," Alice said, her fingers gently stroking Michael's cheek. "Though I've told her we want to keep it small. These are dangerous times we live in.
The conversation flowed around Michael as he tried to process this new information. Names and places unfamiliar to him, mentions of "magic" as if it were commonplace.
"The wards are strong," Frank reassured her. "And with Dumbledore coming to pay his respects, no one would dare cause trouble."
"Dumbledore?" Archie raised his eyebrows. "The Headmaster himself is coming to a six-month celebration? Augusta has been busy indeed."
Alice sighed, but there was fondness in the sound. "She's quite determined that Michael should know all the right people from the start. Says connections made early are the strongest."
Michael felt himself being lowered back into his crib, his father's large hands gentle as they arranged him among the soft blankets. His tiny body, exhausted from the magical outburst and emotional turmoil, began to succumb to the heaviness in his limbs despite his mind's desperate need to understand more.
"Rest now, my brave boy," Frank murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to Michael's forehead.
His last thought before sleep claimed him completely was a bewildered question: What kind of second chance, or punishment, was this existence to be?
________________________________________
Six months later, Michael stared at the candle flickering atop his birthday cake, its single flame dancing in the warm June air. The gathered faces around him, his parents, his paternal grandmother Augusta, her husband Archibald. Great-uncle Algie, and several family friends, beamed at him.
"Go on, darling," Alice encouraged, her hands steadying his small body in the high chair. "Blow out your candle."
Michael felt the peculiar disconnect between his mature consciousness and his infant body lessen with each passing day. The last six months had brought gradual mastery over his rebellious limbs. He could now direct his gaze with intention, could grasp objects with increasing dexterity, could even, most miraculously, stand and walk, albeit with the lurching uncertainty of the very young.
He leaned forward and blew weakly at the candle. The flame wavered but held. A second attempt proved more successful, plunging them momentarily into darkness before the lights flared back to life amid cheers and applause.
"That's my grandson!" Augusta proclaimed, her vulture-topped hat bobbing dangerously as she nodded in approval. "Did you see that control? Perfect aim!"
Michael accepted their praise with the practiced smile he had perfected. It was strange how quickly one could adapt to the impossible.
His first steps at eight months had been a revelation. After weeks of bruised knees and wounded pride, he'd finally found the delicate balance between intention and execution. He remembered the moment with perfect clarity: standing at the edge of the sofa, releasing his grip on the cushion, and taking one trembling step toward Alice, then another, and another.
The room had erupted in cheers. Frank had scooped him up, tossing him gently into the air while Alice clapped her hands in delight. Augusta had immediately owled everyone she knew.
Michael felt the familiar twist of guilt at this charade. At this mockery of existence.None of them suspected the truth, that behind his infant eyes lurked a consciousness that remembered another life, another death.
"Cake for the birthday boy!" Alice singsonged, placing a small portion before him.
Michael looked at his mother, her kind face, her gentle hands, and felt the familiar pang of guilt. She deserved a real child, not this aberration, this twisted experiment of fate or divine cruelty. Both his parents did. They were good people who had somehow been cursed with him.
In quiet moments, when the house slept and Michael lay awake in his crib, the horror of his existence pressed down upon him like a physical weight. What divine or infernal power had thrust his consciousness into this vessel? What purpose could be served by such a perverse second chance?
He dipped his fingers into the frosting, bringing the sweetness to his mouth as expected. The sugar burst across his tongue, momentarily distracting him from his existential dread. Small pleasures, he had discovered, were sometimes the only respite from the horror of his situation.
He remembered his previous life in fragments, flashes of memory that came unbidden and departed just as swiftly. A study lined with leather-bound books. The weight of a signet ring on his finger. Children's faces, blurred and distant. The metallic scent of blood. A cardinal's robes, crimson as sin against the white altar cloth.
And his own voice, desperate, all those years ago to the cardinal, "I swear on the lives of my children, give me a chance to redeem myself and I will sin no more."
Had God heard that plea? Was this bizarre rebirth an opportunity for atonement? Or was it the Devil's mockery, a punishment worse than hell itself?
"He's so well-behaved," a witch Michael's mother had referred to as Emmeline Vance remarked to Alice. "Most children his age would be smearing that cake everywhere."
Alice laughed, the sound like bells. "Oh, he has his moments. You should have seen him yesterday with his porridge."
Michael had indeed deliberately upended his porridge the previous morning, an act of childish rebellion against his unchildlike existence.
After the cake came presents, toys that would have delighted any normal child. Michael accepted each with appropriate enthusiasm, though the colorful blocks and animated stuffed animals held little appeal for his adult mind.
As the adults talked, his mind mused over the second overwhelming truth of this existence, that he had parsed together after his seventh month of rebirth.
He was reborn in a family a witches,
He watched as his mother casually reached into her flowing sleeve and withdrew a long, polished wand. The wood gleamed with a rich teak color in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. With an elegant flick of her wrist, Alice levitated the remaining cake, sending it drifting through the air to slice itself neatly before settling onto waiting plates.
Initially, he had looked desperately for hidden effects, for wires and mirrors and clever deceptions that would explain away the impossibilities he witnessed daily. But as weeks turned to months, he could no longer deny the truth of his situation.
Just yesterday, he had watched his father transform a brick Michael had been playing with into a sparrow that took flight around the nursery, its wings beating a gentle rhythm before settling back into Frank's palm and becoming solid brick once more.
Magic. Real, undeniable magic.
The realisation had settled into Michael's bones with a terrible weight, he wondered if God had condemned him to this existence precisely so he would find no forgiveness or sanctuary from the Church.
The biblical admonition echoed in his mind: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'
The portraits that lined the manor walls were not mere paintings but windows to something akin to that magical photograph his grandfather had taken those months ago. They were imbued with spirit, personalities that spoke and chattered and moved from frame to frame as if visiting neighbors.
His grandfather Archibald seemed to take particular delight in demonstrating magic for Michael's benefit. He would levitate Michael up into the air, spinning him gently while conjuring small multicolored lights that danced around them like fireflies, their soft glow reflecting in Michael's wide eyes.
Most disturbing of all was the growing certainty that he himself was also a witch, or wizard, as the men seemed to be called. His infant body, so sensitive to stimulus, to discomfort, to uncontrollable emotion, betrayed him regularly. In moments of frustration or delight, strange things happened around him: objects would change color, levitate, occasionally even catch fire.
In his old world, a child with such abilities would have been hidden away in shame, perhaps even killed, suspected of harboring a demon within their innocent form. Yet here, his caretakers laughed with joy and clapped their hands when they witnessed these unnatural acts, as if each were a milestone to be celebrated rather than an abomination to be exorcised.
As the party continued around him, Michael remained lost in contemplation of his new reality. He was a witch, born into a world where magic was not only real but commonplace. A world with its own rules, its own dangers, its own concept of normalcy that defied everything he had once believed.
"Time for one more surprise," Alice announced, breaking through his reverie. She flicked her wand again, and this time a small wrapped package floated down from a high shelf to land gently before Michael.
"This is special," Frank explained, kneeling beside Michael's high chair. "It's been in the Longbottom family for generations. Given to each firstborn son on their first birthday."
With clumsy fingers, Michael unwrapped the package to reveal a small silver pendant on a chain. The medallion bore an intricate engraving of what appeared to be a shield with a crossed wand and sword.
"The Longbottom family crest," Frank continued solemnly. "Enchanted with protective charms that have guarded our family for centuries."
As Frank fastened the chain around his neck, Michael felt a strange warmth emanate from the medallion, as if it recognized him somehow. Another impossibility in a world that seemed built upon them.
"Welcome to the family legacy, Michael," Frank said softly, his eyes reflecting both pride and something deeper, a shadow of concern that Michael couldn't quite interpret.
Legacy. The word echoed in Michael's mind as the party continued around him. What legacy awaited him in this world of witchcraft?
As the party wound down, and his parents took his up to his room to sleep, one question haunted him. It had haunted him since his new reality crystallised in his mind. It was not whether he could adapt to this strange new existence, but whether his soul, if he still possessed one, was damned for it?
Was one such as him, a creature of sin. Destined to live a life of blasphemy. Heaven's gates forever out of his reach.