Castello Degli Schiavi, Sicily, Italy
Memories, like ghosts, refused to remain buried. They haunted the periphery of his consciousness, taunting him with what once was, what could have been. Michael Corleone traced a finger along the worn edge of the photograph frame on his nightstand, not daring to look at it directly. The pain had become a companion, familiar in its consistency.
He rose from the bed, joints protesting as he shuffled to the window to watch the night sky.
The Sicilian sun had long since set on Michael Corleone's empire.
He had never been one for sentimentality, yet as the chill of mortality crept through his bones, his thoughts turned inexorably to the past. He had begun as the reluctant son, the war hero who wanted nothing of his father's legacy. How swiftly that had changed after the bullets that nearly took Vito's life. The memory of that night at the hospital still visited him, standing guard in the darkness, the cold certainty that had settled over him when he realized what must be done.
The restaurant. Sollozzo's eyes widening in that final moment of realization. The first time his own hands had been bloodied in service to a family legacy he'd sworn to reject. The beginning of his damnation.
He had become more ruthless than Don Vito could have imagined, his vengeance more complete. The image of Apollonia, beautiful and doomed, consumed by flames meant for him, had hardened something essential within his soul. After that, there had been no half-measures. His enemies fell one after the other. The other Dons eliminated in a single afternoon of blood, Hyman Roth dispatched after years of patient waiting. Business, after all, was not personal. Except when it was.
Michael's breathing grew more labored as a sharp pain emerged in his chest. There would be no absolution, no final confession to wipe clean the slate of his sins. He had chosen this path with eyes open, had walked it without hesitation. And now, at its end, there was only the cold comfort of knowing he had protected what his father built, even as he had transformed it into something Vito might not have recognized.
The moments played themselves out in his mind like a sequence of dances. He recalled the wedding, his daughter's celebration, how the fragments of time had waltzed by, one after another.
He remembered her laughter, pure and uninhibited. The way she had dipped her head when pleased, a gesture that illuminated her dimpled smile. Michael had watched her that night with a tenderness he rarely allowed himself, unable to disguise how precious she was to him. Her eyes had captured the light from the crystal chandeliers, reflecting both their brilliance and her innocence. When he'd held her hands in his, those gentle, vulnerable hands, something within him had wanted to cry out, to plead with fate or God or whatever force might listen.
Stay like this. Don't let her go. For the love of God, don't ever let her go.
But he remained silent, a mere observer to his own joy, knowing what would follow in this cursed recollection. The memory shifted, as it always did, from celebration to catastrophe. The scene transformed before his mind's eye.
His daughter stood before him, confusion replacing joy as crimson blossomed across her chest. Her voice, weak and bewildered, called for him, "Papa", a desperate summons for protection he could not provide. Michael felt again the weight of her body as she collapsed into his arms, saw the light fade from eyes that mirrored his own. The bullet meant for him had found her instead.
"Your sins are terrible," a voice whispered in his memory. The priest from so long ago. "It is just that you suffer."
The faces of those he had sacrificed for his empire paraded before his mind's eye. Carlo, strangled for his betrayal of Sonny. And Fredo, poor, weak Fredo with his desperate need for respect. "I know it was you," he had told his brother with a kiss that sealed his fate.
"Your life could be redeemed, but I know you do not believe that. You will not change."
Michael Corleone closed his eyes for the final time. His last conscious thought was not of power or vengeance, but of a young man in military uniform, standing proudly beside his family at his sister's wedding, still innocent of the blood that would later stain his hands. Then darkness fell, complete and eternal, and the last of the great Dons was gone.
x___________________________________________x
May 23, 1987
She felt his chest rise and fall, the thick soft bundle wrapped around him unable to hide the soft tremors she felt from him as he breathed softly, nearly inaudible, against her chest.
Alice Longbottom traced her finger along the delicate curve of her newborn son's cheek, marveling at how something so small could transform her world so completely. His presence a balm to wounds left by years of war and uncertainty. The St. Mungo's maternity ward, despite its sterile efficiency, seemed transformed into a sanctuary of quiet wonder.
Frank stood beside her,he now hovered tentatively over the woolen blanket as if afraid his touch might disturb the fragile perfection of their son.
"He has your eyes," Alice whispered, though those eyes were currently closed in contented slumber. She had glimpsed them earlier, a deep warm brown.
The door to their private room creaked open, and Augusta Longbottom entered with the commanding stride. Behind her followed her husband Archibald, his steps more measured, his smile warming his weathered face.
"Let me see my grandson," Augusta said, her voice softened by the gravity of the moment. She moved to Alice's bedside with unusual gentleness, her typically stern features yielding to a rare vulnerability that Alice had rarely witnessed.
Archibald placed a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder as they both gazed down at their grandson. The room filled with a silence that spoke volumes, generations connected by this tiny being, this continuation of their legacy.
"He looks like a Longbottom," Augusta declared with satisfaction, adjusting the vulture-topped hat that sat at a precise angle on her iron-gray hair. Her high cheekbones and aquiline nose, formidable features softened as she gazed at her grandson. .
"He'll be strong," Augusta pronounced, not as a wish but as a certainty. "A worthy heir."
Frank's hand found Alice's, their fingers intertwining above their sleeping child. In this moment, the darkness that had shadowed their world, was distant, powerless in the presence of this new light in their life.
"He has a fighter's look," Archibald added, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room. The weathered lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting beneath his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. His tall frame bent slightly as he leaned in closer, studying the infant's features with undisguised wonder.
Alice adjusted the blanket around her son's tiny form, allowing herself to believe, if only for this sacred interval, that they might raise him in a world without fear. That the sacrifices they made as Aurors would secure him a future brighter than their present.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the gauzy hospital curtains, painting golden rectangles across the sterile floor. In this light, Alice could see the faint birthmark behind Michael's left ear, a small crescent shape like a waning moon. She traced it with her thumb, memorizing every contour of this new life they had created.
Frank's hand trembled slightly as hereached out to touch his son's cheek. The Healers say we can take him home tomorrow," Frank said, his voice catching. The war had etched permanent lines between his brows, but today those furrows had eased. His broad shoulders, always held with the tension of combat, had relaxed incrementally since Michael's birth.
Augusta leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with impatiance. "And, have you chosen a name?" she asked, a question that seemed to fill the quiet hospital room with expectation.
Alice hummed thoughtfully, cradling her son closer to her chest. The weight of him, so small yet so significant, seemed to anchor her to this perfect moment. She glanced up at Frank, a playful smile tugging at her lips despite her exhaustion.
"I've been thinking," she said, her voice lilting with a tenderness reserved only for the love of her life. "What about naming him after my grandfather?"
Frank moved to sit on her bed, and she shifted slightly to make room for him beside her. With him next to her, their child nestled between them, Alice felt a certainty settle over her like a warm cloak.
"Michael," she said, the name emerging as naturally as breath. It felt right, solid and true.
"Michael," Frank repeated, testing the name as if tasting fine wine. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked down at their son. "Michael Longbottom," he said, his voice quieter now, surer.
Augusta nodded approvingly, reaching out with to gently hold the sleeping infant's hand. "A strong name," she declared. "Worthy of a Longbottom."
"Little Michael," Archibald murmured. "May you know better days than these."
"He will," Alice said with quiet determination, drawing the blanket more securely around Michael. "We'll make sure of it."
Alice pressed a gentle kiss to Michael's forehead, and made a solemn vow. She would protect this child with everything she possessed. She would do everything she could so that her son would know light, and love, and peace. She swore this to herself in the sacred silence of her heart.
x__________________________________x
Michael Corleone reborn as Neville's older brother. I love The Godfather, Mario Puzo is a literary genius, and the Godfather movies, especially 1 and 2, are some of the greatest movies of all time. I'm going to enjoy exploring Michael's journey in the Harry Potter World.
This may be a little slow burn, we're going to explore the Harry Potter universe and try to do justice to it.
Hope you guys enjoy the story.