March, 30, 1980
Michael had watched his third birthday come and go with the strange awareness that accompanied all his milestones in this second life. The passage of time felt both accelerated and prolonged, a paradox he'd grown accustomed to as memories from his past existence collided with his present reality.
His mother's pregnancy had become increasingly evident over the past months. Alice now moved with deliberate care through the manor, one hand often resting protectively on her swollen belly. She had taken leave from her Auror duties, a decision that visibly pained her professional pride but one she'd made without hesitation. The war continued beyond their protective wards, but within them, Alice created a sanctuary of normalcy.
"Would you like to feel the baby move?" Alice asked one afternoon as they sat together in the library.
Michael approached cautiously. When she guided his small hand to her rounded stomach, he felt a flutter beneath his palm, a strange, alien sensation that made him withdraw slightly.
"That's your little brother or sister," Alice said, her face glowing with a warmth that accentuated the gentle curves of her heart-shaped face. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the golden strands in her hair, creating a halo effect that seemed almost too symbolic.
Michael nodded solemnly. "A sibling," he said simply, though his mind churned with far more complex thoughts than he could possibly say in front of his bother..
The prospect of a sibling awakened a disquiet in his heart, a storm of memories he hadn't allowed himself to fully examine since his rebirth. Sonny's face flashed in his mind, not the brutal, bullet-riddled corpse at the tollbooth, but his brother alive, vibrant, protective. How Sonny had always watched over him, the civilian, the college boy, the war hero who wanted nothing to do with the family business.
"Do you like the idea of having a little brother or sister?" Alice asked, misinterpreting his pensive silence.
Michael nodded automatically, his thoughts elsewhere. Fredo's face now intruded, weak-chinned, eager to please, perpetually falling short. The memory of his brother's desperate need for respect and validation haunted him now as Alice's belly moved beneath his hand. The unborn child shifted again, a gentle ripple under his palm.
He withdrew his hand slowly, his expression carefully neutral even as his thoughts darkened. Would this new sibling look up to him as Fredo had looked up to Sonny? Would this child one day betray him, force his hand? Or would Michael become the betrayer again?
"Am I Cain, God?" The question formed in his mind with terrible clarity. "Cursed to walk a cursed existence for murdering my brother?"
The biblical story he had learnt in his first life,drilled into him seemed to mock him now. Cain, the firstborn who slew his brother Abel out of jealousy and pride, marked by God to wander the earth. Was that what this second life was, not redemption but punishment? A curse disguised as blessing?
"Michael? Are you all right, sweetheart?" Alice's voice broke through his reverie.
He nodded, forcing a smile. "They'll be strong mother" he said.
Alice laughed, the sound bright and innocent in a way that made his chest ache. She had no idea of the darkness she had welcomed into her home, the blood that stained the soul of the child she loved so dearly.
Michael remembered the last time he had seen Fredo alive, how his brother had knelt to teach Anthony to fish, patient and kind despite his failings. How Michael had watched, already knowing what would happen, already having given the order. The tenderness between uncle and nephew had changed nothing.
"I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart."
Those words had sealed his brother's fate. A betrayal answered with a greater betrayal. A kiss of death.
"Would you like a brother or a sister better?" Alice asked, smoothing his hair with gentle fingers.
Michael considered the question seriously. A sister might be safer, Connie had survived, after all, though not without scars. But a brother... a brother would be a test. Could he love a brother without controlling him? Protect him without suffocating him? Trust him without destroying him when that trust was broken?
"Either," he answered diplomatically.
"I think you'll be a wonderful big brother," Alice said, as she brought him into a warm hug.
Michael wasn't so certain. His track record spoke for itself. Sonny, hot-headed and loyal, dead because Michael hadn't been there to temper his rash decisions. Fredo, weak and foolish, betraying the family out of a lifetime of insecurity, executed on Michael's orders. Even Connie, who had survived physically but whose spirit he had crushed when he shut her out after Carlo's death.
He had failed them all in different ways. The Corleone siblings, bound by blood and business, had been consumed by both.
"Family is everything," his father had taught him. But Michael had learned a darker lesson, family could destroy you faster than any enemy.
As Alice returned to her book, Michael stared out the window at the sweeping grounds of Longbottom Manor. This magical world had its own war brewing, its own dangers lurking. The Dark Mark in the sky was this world's equivalent of a horse's severed head in a silk-sheeted bed, a message, a warning, a promise of violence to come.
And now, a new innocent would join their family, a child who would look to Michael as an example, a protector. The responsibility of it weighed on him like a concrete overcoat dragging him into the depths.
"Not this time," he promised silently to the unborn child. "You will never become a pawn in my game. You will never have to choose between loyalty and your soul."
But even as he made this vow, a cold voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had served him well as Don Corleone, whispered that promises were easily made and more easily broken when survival was at stake.
Michael turned back to his mother, studying her face. Alice Longbottom was nothing like his Sicilian mother, she was an Auror, a warrior in her own right, not a woman who turned a blind eye to the bloody business that kept her family in power. Would that make a difference for her children? Or would this magical war claim them all, just as surely as the Corleone legacy had claimed him and his siblings?
Time would tell. And Michael had learned, in two lifetimes now, that time revealed all debts, and demanded payment for each.
x_____________x
Michael sat alone in the Longbottom library. His fingers traced the aged leather binding of "Fundamentals of Magical Theory" by Adalbert Waffling as he turned another page to the chapter on accidental magic.
"Magic, in its most essential nature, is the omnipresent force flowing through our world, unseen by Muggle eyes yet palpable to those blessed with magical sensitivity. We wizards and witches serve as conduits for this force, channeling it through the realization of our will."
Michael's lips thinned. Will. Intent. Purpose. These were concepts he understood intimately from his previous life. He read on:
"The accidental magic exhibited by magical children represents the purest, most unrefined expression of magical power. It manifests as an instinctive response to overwhelming emotional states, particularly fear, anger, or joy. When a young witch or wizard experiences intense emotion, their magic reacts unconsciously, seeking to fulfill their deepest immediate desire, whether that be protection, retribution, or escape."
Accidental magic, he mused. He could clearly remember his own incidents of accidental magic, cups flying from high shelves when he needed them, windows shattering when he'd experienced one of his rare but intense moments of childish rage.
"This phenomenon is, essentially, wandless magic in its most primitive form. However, wandless magic is typically inefficient and unpredictable. Throughout magical history, various conductors, staves, crystal balls, rings, and eventually wands, have been developed to focus magical energy, allowing for controlled and consistent spell-casting.
"While wandless magic through intense concentration remains possible, few modern wizards achieve proficiency in this difficult art. The Uagadou School of Magic in Africa is renowned for its tradition of wandless spellcasting, but the magical community at large acknowledges that wandless magic is generally less reliable and powerful than magic performed through a proper magical conductor."
His eyes lingered on that passage. Less reliable, perhaps, but unexpected. And the unexpected had always been Michael's advantage.
He was three years old currently. Without a gun, without his consigliere, without the network of loyal capos and soldiers, he had only this strange power thrumming beneath his skin. And despite its heresy, one must never let a useful tool rust.
x__________________x
On March 24th, 1980, in the small village of Hogsmeade, Sybil Trelawney, makes her prophecy to Albus Dumbledore. A boy born as the seventh month dies will have the power to kill the Dark Lord.
Severus Snape overhearing part of the prophecy, before being caught eavesdropping by Aberforth Dumbledore, scrambles to inform the Dark Lord of the parts of the prophecy he overhears.
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July 30, 1980
The day of the baby's delivery arrived with an unexpected urgency. The morning had begun ordinarily enough until his mother's face had contorted with pain during breakfast, and suddenly the manor erupted into chaos. Michael found himself whisked away to St. Mungo's, the reality of his sibling's imminent arrival finally concrete after months of preparation.
The corridor outside the birthing ward gleamed with an almost otherworldly sterility. Michael sat on a hard wooden bench between his grandparents, his legs dangling above the polished floor. White walls stretched upward to a high ceiling where enchanted lights floated like captured stars. Portraits of distinguished healers lined the walls, stern-faced witches and wizards in lime-green robes who occasionally dispensed unsolicited medical advice to passing staff or peered curiously at waiting families.
One particularly officious-looking healer in a portrait directly across from Michael kept adjusting his spectacles and muttering about "proper birthing techniques of 1879" being superior to "modern nonsense." Michael had been watching him for the past hour, amusesed by how the painted man's mustache twitched when he was particularly agitated.
"Grandmother," Michael whispered, tugging at Augusta's sleeve. "How much longer?"
Augusta Longbottom straightened her vulture-topped hat and squeezed his small hand. "Babies come in their own time, Michael. Your mother is strong."
The words were meant to be reassuring, but Michael detected the tension beneath them. His grandmother's fingers drummed against her handbag, her eyes fixed on the closed door. His grandfather sat silently, occasionally patting Augusta's arm.
A muffled cry echoed from beyond the door, and Michael's spine stiffened. He recognized his mother's voice, strained and pained. Something primitive and protective surged within him. He slid off the bench, moving instinctively toward the sound, but Augusta's hand caught his shoulder.
"Patience," she murmured, though her own knuckles had whitened around her handbag.
The minutes stretched like taffy, sticky and seemingly endless. Michael watched a clock on the wall tick away another hour, its hands moving with excruciating slowness. The portrait-healer had fallen asleep, his painted snores barely audible.
Then, cutting through the sterile quiet, came a new sound, a thin, outraged wail that made Michael's head snap up.
The door to the birthing room opened, and a plump nurse with kind eyes and flushed cheeks appeared. Her lime-green robes swished as she stepped into the hallway, her face breaking into a warm smile that creased the corners of her eyes.
"You can come in now," she said softly, gesturing toward the room. "Mother and baby are doing splendidly."
Augusta rose immediately, her usual composure momentarily fractured by barely contained excitement. She reached for Michael's hand, gripping it tightly enough that he felt the bones of his fingers press together. His grandfather stood too, clearing his throat to disguise what might have been a small, emotional sound.
Michael allowed himself to be led forward, suddenly uncertain. The corridor seemed to stretch and contract around him as they approached the door. The nurse stepped aside, her smile encouraging as they entered.
The birthing room was warmer than the corridor, suffused with a gentle golden light that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere. The antiseptic smell was masked by something sweeter, perhaps a charm to ease the his mother's comfort.
His mother lay propped against pillows, her hair blonde hair darkened with sweat and plastered to her forehead. Despite this, her face glowed with a radiance that lightened her physical exhaustion. Beside her stood his father, looking as though he'd aged years, his complexion was ashen but his eyes were bright with wonder.
Between them, cradled in his mother's arms, was a small bundle wrapped tightly in white linens. Michael could just make out a tiny, reddened face, eyes scrunched closed.
"Michael," his mother called softly, her voice hoarse but joyful. "Come meet your brother."
The words sent a shock through him. Brother. Not an abstract concept anymore, but a reality, flesh and blood and new life. Michael approached the bed cautiously, each step measured as memories from another lifetime threatened to surface.
"His name is Neville," his father said, reaching down to adjust the blanket, revealing a tiny, clenched fist no bigger than a walnut. "Neville Frank Longbottom."
Michael stared at the infant, trying to reconcile this helpless creature with the brothers he had known and lost. This was no Sonny, no Fredo. This was someone entirely new. Someone untouched by the shadows of the past.
Augusta gripped Michael's shoulder tightly. "Two Longbottom boys," she said, and he heard the pride in her voice. "The future of our family."
"Would you like to touch him?" his mother asked, tilting the bundle slightly.
Michael hesitated, then reached out a single finger. The baby's skin was impossibly soft, warm with new life. Neville's fist uncurled at his touch, five perfect fingers splaying momentarily before grasping Michael's fingertip with surprising strength.
Something shifted in Michael's chest, a tectonic movement of the soul. This grip, this instinctive trust. It carried no expectation, no history, no judgment. Just connection, immediate and pure.
"He knows you're his brother," Alice whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "See how he holds on to you?"
Michael couldn't respond. The lump in his throat prevented speech. Instead, he watched as Neville's face scrunched again, his tiny mouth opening in a yawn that seemed to consume his entire being.
So vulnerable. So innocent.
Augusta stepped forward, gently lifting Neville from Alice's arms with practiced ease. The elderly woman cradled the newborn against her chest, her severe features softening as she gazed down at him.
"He'll be a fine Longbottom," she pronounced, her voice taking on a ceremonial quality. "He'll make an excellent wizard someday. Perhaps he'll follow his parents into the Auror Office, the department could certainly use more good blood. Or perhaps the Wizengamot. Your great-uncle Algernon always said our family should have more influence in magical legislation."
Michael watched his grandmother with amusement. The baby was barely an hour old, and already Augusta was mapping out his entire existence.
"I can see him at Hogwarts," she continued, adjusting Neville's swaddling with deft fingers. "Gryffindor, of course, like his parents. Captain of the Quidditch team by sixth year, prefect material without question—"
Frank laughed, a warm sound that filled the small room. He stepped forward and gently extracted his son from Augusta's arms.
"Mother," he said, his voice kind but firm, "he's barely an hour old. Let him grow up a bit before you have him running the Ministry."
Augusta sniffed but relinquished the child. "It's never too early to have aspirations for one's grandchildren, Frank."
Michael's father cradled Neville with a tenderness that surprised Michael. Frank had always seemed somewhat awkward around him, as if unsure how to interact with a child who sometimes spoke and acted with unsettling maturity. But with Neville, there was no hesitation, only a natural ease.
"Hello, son," Frank whispered, his finger tracing the curve of Neville's cheek. "Welcome to the world. Don't worry about what your grandmother says, you can be whatever you want to be."
Alice laughed weakly from the bed. "Even if it's a herbologist? Your mother might never recover from the shock."
Augusta made a sound that might have been disapproval, but Michael caught the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Frank brought Neville closer to Michael. "Would you like to hold your brother?"
The question caught Michael off guard. Hold him? The baby was impossibly small and fragile. What if he dropped him? What if the sins of his past life somehow tainted this innocent child?
"I—I don't know how," Michael admitted.
"Here," Frank said, kneeling down. "Sit in that chair, and I'll show you."
Michael climbed onto the nearby chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. Frank carefully positioned his arms, creating a cradle.
"Support his head, that's right... there you go."
And then Neville was in his arms, a familiar warm weight that awoke memories of his own children. His arms automatically adjusted to support the baby's head as Michael stayed perfectly still, afraid to breathe too deeply.
"You're a natural," Alice said softly from the bed.
Michael barely heard the exchange. His focus remained on Neville.
"The only wealth in this world is children," he had once told Kay, believing it even as he orchestrated the deaths of men who were someone else's sons. The words echoed in his mind now, truer than they had ever been. More than power or magic or the protection that came with both, this fragile life before him represented everything worth preserving.
In that moment, all his previous vows crystallized into something harder, more resolute. This wasn't just about avoiding the mistakes of his past life. This was about ensuring this new life, this innocent brother,would have a future unmarred by violence and betrayal.
"I'll protect you," Michael thought, the promise forming as a covenant written into his very being. "No matter what comes. No matter the cost."
As if sensing his scrutiny, Neville's eyes fluttered open, revealing irises of cloudy blue-gray that would likely darken with time. His gaze, unfocused and new, drifted across Michael's face without recognition.
"Hello, Neville," Michael whispered, leaning closer. "I'm your brother."
The infant blinked slowly, his expression solemn as though considering this information. Then his face crumpled, a cry building from somewhere deep in his tiny chest.
Frank gently reclaimed Neville from Michael's arms. "Time to say goodbye for now. We'll come back tomorrow."
Michael nodded, sliding off the chair. As Augusta took his hand to lead him from the room, he looked back at his mother. Alice smiled tiredly, raising her hand in a small wave.
"Be good for your grandmother," she called softly.
Michael nodded solemnly. "I will."
As they walked down the corridor of St. Mungo's, Michael's mind was already working, calculating, planning. The world outside these walls was growing more dangerous by the day. The whispers of war that had followed him throughout his childhood were growing louder, more insistent.
And now there was Neville to consider, another innocent to protect.
"You did very well in there," Augusta said as they approached the hospital's exit. "Very composed."
Michael looked up at his grandmother, studying her lined face. In Augusta Longbottom, he recognized something of himself, or rather, something of who he had been in his previous life. The steel beneath the propriety. The unyielding will. The absolute devotion to family.
"Grandmother," he said carefully, "will Father and Mother be safe? From the bad wizards?"
Augusta's step faltered almost imperceptibly. Then she tightened her grip on his hand and continued walking.
"Your parents are very skilled Aurors," she said firmly. "And they are fighting for what's right. That's what Longbottoms have always done."
It wasn't an answer, Michael noted. Not really. But then, what answer could she give that would satisfy him? The truth was too harsh for a child of three.
As they stepped out into the July sunshine, Michael squinted against the sudden brightness. Somewhere out there, dark forces were gathering. Somewhere, plans were being made, alliances formed and broken, loyalties tested.
And in a hospital room behind them, his brother slept, unaware of the gathering storm.
"When we get home," Augusta said, "we'll have some tea and cake to celebrate Neville's birth. Would you like that?"
Michael nodded, though food was the last thing on his mind. What he wanted was information, strategies, weapons, all the things that had served him as Don Corleone. But those were not things a three-year-old could reasonably request.
For now, he would watch and wait. Learn the rules of this magical world more thoroughly. Understand its power structures, its weaknesses. And above all, he would protect his new brother, the second chance he had never expected and wasn't sure he deserved.
As Augusta apparated them back to Longbottom Manor with a crack, Michael closed his eyes against the uncomfortable sensation of being squeezed through space. When he opened them again, the familiar grounds stretched before him, the ancient house standing solid and reassuring.
Michael would need to be stronger. Smarter. Better.
For Neville, he would need to become more than he had ever been before.
Michael Longbottom is three years old. Unbeknownst to him, incidents that will shape the course of his new life are set to take place over the next year.
x________________X
Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!