The moments played out in his mind, waltz by waltz, dance by dance.
Smiles and laughs, a graceful though unrestrained dip of her head to match the dimply smile on her face.
A look of fondness on his face that could not hide how precious he found her and her youthful smiling face, eyes that sparkled under the crystal lights with delight, her kind, good and vulnerable hands gripped gently with his own and he felt like howling
'stay' 'don't her let go, for the love of god, don't ever let her go' but he stood by, a bystander in his own memory, his own life, helplessly watching the moment end and his nightmare began as it so often did when he tried to remember the good, the great.
His daughter standing there with a hole in her chest, her weak call for him, her call for her father to save her when she realised she was dying, bleeding out from the hole pierced through her heart, and he watched with fresh horrified agony when life faded from her eyes, the same colour of eyes as his own, laying dead and slack in his arms, the brutal physical consequence of his sins and crimes.
'Your sins are terrible, it is just that you suffer…'
His weary eyes creaked open, light from the dusk sun entering his sight as the light from his heart seeped out from his heart.
He opened his mouth but no sound came out, not even a hint of breath as the pain struck at his heart again with the violence of a thousand scorching knifes. He let the breath go, let the pain of his burning heart thrum. He had learnt to live with it.
He glimpsed at his old hands that held his glasses, hands that were veiny and bore liver spots, and he moved to put them on. His breathing reduced and his heart slowed.
He had tried, hadn't he?
To forge a path away from darkness and sin, he tried.
A path of darkness and sin he had to choose to protect his father, his family and himself. A path of no return he had to tread when his brother had fallen and with him the erasure of any other path he may have once been able to walk.
A path he took with silent vengeance and anger in his heart for his Appollonia died for him. Because of him.
A path he tried to alter for decades with sweat blood and sheer will towards legitimacy and away from that existence of crime and sin that took so much away.
He became what he had to be, for his family for himself.
In the end, what he became, became all he could be.
'You will not change'
The memory of his daughter dead in his arms flashed before his closed eyes. The old regret he felt for the murder of his brother, for his inability to forgive Fredo, sunk into his old worn bones.
His father would have said that he had missed too much, he had been blind for too long. He agreed. His father would have seen Fredo's tormented soul when he had not. His father would have lifted their family's burden when he had been callous.
He'd lost himself to his pursuits and the business, losing sight on the personal. He swallowed the darkness for his family and in the end he became bereft of anything but darkness, cautioning him from them and them from him.
And it had not been enough. Not for his daughter.
He let off a breathless sigh, one of his last.
His family were safe, now. His remaining family.
They were free from the legacy he had inherited and refused to bestow onto them.
Perhaps if he had been more like his father in the ways that mattered…
He breathed his last breath, his mind crawled to a halt and life passed from his flesh.
-Break-
May 13th, 1957
Dorea Potter POV
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.
His tiny milky brown eyes were closed and she was so tempted to have him awaken again, his cries instead of grating, something to be tolerated, would be a lullaby to her ears, a comfort, a joy but the urge died down as she heard the soft breathing of her sleeping baby and she instead allowed herself to be mesmerised into crystalized contentedness to just hold him, to feel him breathe…her child. Her son.
It took so long. So very long, to have this miracle in her arms.
Her finger went towards his cheek, his small fragile cheek, barely visible in the cocoon of wool, softly, gently stroking it like it didn't feel real, as if it was a dream that she was too afraid to wake up from.
She felt a swell of emotion rise from within her and tears swelled in her eyes. It was unmitigated joy, of tearful joy that felt like it made her a thousand times lighter, mixed with an unconditional love that tugged at her in a way that would have her ready to sacrifice the world for this little fragile bundle of joy that was in her arms, that was held against her bosom, ready to face down a thousand wands without fear.
The door opened, the quiet click of the door feeling like a hammer wishing to break this mirror of time she wanted to be frozen for all eternity.
"Oh…he's beautiful."
She heard Euphemia say in a hushed non-hush as she busied over towards her bed, peering, looming over Dorea's half sitting, half laying form.
For the past two weeks, Euphemia had practically lived in hers and Charlus' home, eager to assist in any way. Neither she or Charlus had the will to refuse her, not when she was as kind as she was.
Cassiopeia, her sister, had only visited thrice in the past month in comparison.
"He is." Dorea whispered, her expression filled with unbound love as she gave her child one last look before finally managing to peel her eyes off of him and cast them towards Euphemia.
Euphemia's gaze was fixed on her baby boy, looking equally mesmerised as Dorea had been only moments before, her eyes filled with happiness and relief though there was a glimmer of envy behind that happiness, a hidden envy that couldn't be sheltered away by the light of happiness and it was borne from a longing that Dorea had felt all too keenly for so long. She hoped Euphemia wouldn't lose hope.
She hadn't lost hers, not fully, and now look.
Euphemia looked towards her, her expression shifting into a broad smile "You look so beautiful, Dor." And Dorea let off a breathless silent laugh.
"My hair feels like its stuck to my face. I must look a horror."
"Oh, nonsense. You have a glow about you." Euphemia dismissed and Dorea smiled at the good natured lie that escaped from Euphemia.
"Is Charlus coming?" Dorea asked keenly.
"He is just waiting outside with Fleamont and Lord Black."
"Archie's here?" Dorea asked surprised. She didn't think he'd be here this soon.
"Yes, Charlus flooe'd him to let him know." Euphemia said with an exasperated though amused look on her face and after a questioning look Dorea sent her way, Euphemia expanded.
"Charlus was a ball of nerves, pacing up and down the hallway almost nonstop. I'm sure he would have worn the floor down had Lord Black not gotten him to calm down, thank Merlin!"
Dorea smiled at that. The two of them were two peas on a pod. Made from the same stem but still so different. Perhaps that was why they tolerated the other's candidness in a way they would not from others.
Of course, their history in the war together helped.
"Would you go get him please?" Dorea asked and Euphemia smiled.
"Of course. I will make sure you won't be disturbed until Charlus comes for us." She promised and Dorea sent her a grateful smile, a silent thanks.
She left shortly and she returned her attentions back to her baby, a soft tender smile split across her face as she returned to what had become her favourite pastime.
It wasn't long before the door opened and closed with a click.
"Charlus." She called out, her eyes remaining fixed on her, on their, sleeping baby boy. "Come see your son." She said, her head slightly turning towards the forthcoming heavy though steady steps.
Her eyes met the gaze of her beloved brown eyes, a gaze that belonged on a rugged face that wore an expression of fondness and happiness, a gaze they broke as his eyes fell on the bundle and she could practically feel the joy he felt at the miracle they made.
She raised her arms, angling their son towards him and he slowed his steps and with tentative unsure movement, an act she thought strange and alien of a man she knew as assured and confident, and he carefully swept their boy into his arms, their son softly cooing and making noises that sounded like music to her ears.
"Gentle…place your hand underneath his head." Dorea advised him gently and he followed. She watched him carefully, already feeling the ache of missing their baby in her arms, as his expression cycled from being somewhat afraid to tentative joy to adoring pride.
"He's perfect." Charlus said quietly and she could hear the hint of thick emotion coating his usually steady voice.
"He is." Dorea agreed with a happy smile as she sat up a little.
He turned his gaze to her, the corner of his eyes creasing at the intensity by which he was looking at her "You're perfect. Thank you." He said and she felt the sincerity in his words.
She only smiled though this time a little more teasingly.
"I didn't do it alone you know." She said with a hint of levity and his expression shifted to a mild grin before he looked back at their son.
"What do you think suits him?" he asked finally.
"I thought maybe Henry, after your father, but he doesn't feel like a Henry." She told him honestly.
Charlus hummed softly. "I agree. How about James?" Charlus suggested.
She considered it before she rejected it. "No…it doesn't feel right either." She said pausing for a moment as she mulled it over.
Charlus moved to sit on her bed and she made way for him to sit next her. With him next to her, their boy in his arms but close enough for her to gaze again at his beautiful little face, she felt like she found the name.
"Michael." She finally said and it felt right.
"Michael." Charlus repeated, testing the name on the tip of his tongue before he looked down at their son. "Michael Charlus Potter." He said, this time quieter, surer.
He turned to her, a smile on his face "The name of our son."
"Our Michael." Dorea agreed and she rested her face against her shoulder, both of them watching their Michael sleeping in Charlus' arms and she wished this moment never ended.
-Break-
15th of June, 1971 – Hogwarts Express
Elijah Smith POV
"As if Sarah Goldstein would say yes to you!" Sam Orpington said with a laugh in his voice to a scowling David Fawley.
Sam was a short fellow, blond haired and plain looking if not for his striking blue eyes. David was near opposite, cocky and brash, growing confident as he grew in tall frame and aristocratic looks that was heightened by thick curly brown locks.
"Why wouldn't she? I'm handsome and they all know it. And I'm funny. Anyone would be lucky to have me take them to Hogsmeade" Fawley said arrogantly.
"They also know you're an insufferable idiot" Smith said with an amused grin.
"Says the guy who got rejected by Mary Abbott who is desperate for a date!" Fawley returned, Orpington almost howling at the insult. Was it an insult if it was true?
No matter, he decided it was an insult, a rather harsh one "Didn't she also reject you?" he pointed out with a grin on his face.
"Not the point" Fawley said and jibes and insults were shared as the train jerked and sped towards Kings Cross station.
Amidst all of it, the fourth companion in the carriage remained silent, seemingly unaware of the banter and laughter that was shared in the compartment though they all knew that he kept a silent ear on their conversation.
They had known him long enough that little escaped his notice.
"Great, that firstie is at the door." Orpington groaned with a laugh in his voice.
"Which one?" Fawley asked even as he lunged a little forward to look.
"Oh, Livingstone. What could he want now?" Fawley said with a laugh.
"Let him in." Michael cut in, his calm voice causing all laughter to die out as they turned towards him. His gaze was still on his tome on spell creation, his brown slicked back hair bearing a shining sheen, struck by the midday light.
His legs were crossed, oozing a relaxed grace as his Hufflepuff robes fell by either side of his legs, a serene authority about him that seemed like it had been with him from the moment he'd been born.
He looked up from his old tome, his stormy brown eyes setting on Fawley, unspoken commands commanded with only a look. His handsome features, the sharp wide angular face with fair skin that sent girls and women swooning and smiling, were set in a peerless silent stare.
Fawley's expression shifted, all levity gone and all seriousness, nodding and confirming he understood.
Fawley swept up to his feet and towards the door of the carriage.
"What do you want, firstie?" Fawley asked as he turned on his heel, leaving the carriage door ajar before falling back into his seat beside Orpington.
The boy was mouse-like, in stature and in demeanour. Coursing blood beneath his cheeks coloured his pale skin in a sullen red on a mousey unassuming face.
His worn robes that looked like they'd been washed countless times, the faint but observable light grey that spotted the otherwise dark grey robes drawing attention to his poorness, frayed at the bottom.
Only his yellow tie and his Hufflepuff badge looked like they retained their vibrancy.
The boy's gaze was dashing from one side to other, the nervousness vibrating out him in what he could only compare to the vibrating beating wings of Snitches.
Smith could see Orpington biting his words back and he wondered how long it would take until he snapped. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the boy managed to find his words "Thank you Mr Potter. I-I don't know how to thank you or repay you." The boy, named Ray Livingstone managed to say.
He was an orphan, a muggleborn orphan at that, and life at the orphanage from what he heard wasn't all that great. The boy dreaded returning to the orphanage, away from magic, away from Hogwarts and had come to Michael for help.
Smith turned his eyes towards Michael who had been silently watching the entire time. Michael was someone who everybody could come to for help and they left never disappointed.
He never lied, he did not deceive nor did he make empty promises.
He did not let a problem get in the way of his promises and never asked for repayment. Only that he had your friendship and acknowledge that you owed him a small debt that he may ask from you some day to redeem through a small service.
Michael dipped his head slightly, the act miniscule but the acknowledgement tremendous as the boy smiled happily. "Mr Goshawk is a good man. Work hard and well and he will take care you. Write if there is a problem."
Goshawk's Library was a small bookshop in Horizon Alley, the more affluent shopping areas of Wizarding Britain. It was somewhere muggleborns rarely visited.
"I-I will!" the boy said with a fervent bobble of the head. His hand went into his inside pocket and brought out a pendant of a kind. It was silver, the chains embroidered with elaborate twirling silver "This belonged to my grandmother. Please have it."
"No." Michael denied "Keep it. It belongs with you. It is a priceless gift from your grandmother. She died when you were four, correct?" the boy nodded glumly.
"Keep it. Cherish it. For now, live your life." Michael said with a glimmer of a smile.
The boy seemed emotional as he returned the pendant back into his pocket and with another hasty effusive thank you, he left the carriage, closing the door behind him.
The warm smile left Michael's face as he returned his attentions back to his tome.
Michael was an oddity even for Hufflepuff. Often considered to be the dump of Hogwarts were all those lacking in courage, in ambition and in smarts were sent.
Yet looking at him, you instinctively knew that wasn't the truth, even if you ignored that he had been the number one student since the first semester of their first year.
It didn't take long for him to develop a reputation of excellence, so much so that he'd been invited by Slughorn in his first year, something that had been unheard of.
Well, until someone mentioned that a muggleborn named Tom Riddle had been given the same treatment.
In any case, most once considered him to be a 'sorting mistake' yet in his own words he claimed he was in the right House.
The House of Integrity, Loyalty and Strength.
An ethos many in Hufflepuff had taken to heart especially as he showed those traits again and again, including for him when he'd helped him against a few Slytherin bullies who thought him an easy victim. Now no one attacked a Hufflepuff without being extra careful.
"I would like to be alone." Michael stated calmly, his gaze never leaving the tome.
He shared a glance with Orpington and Fawley. Sometimes he got like this.
"Alright, let's go find Elliot and the rest of those idiots." Fawley said with a slap against his back and soon enough they left Michael to his tome and his thoughts.
-Break-
15th of June, 1971
Michael Potter POV
Endless seas of green, dull and vibrant green, clusters of stone islands nestled in trees, rolling hills and farmed lands, all rolling by in a stretched out horizon in this peaceful land, this peaceful time.
Drawing ever closer to his peaceful life to his 'parents'.
He slowly blinked, his eyes blanketed away with dark shadowy remembrance.
The feeling bore shades of Sicily.
A beautiful story of beautiful peace in beautiful country with beauty personified.
His gaze followed the vivid greens roll on by.
He knew better to let the feeling overwhelm him lest grim reality break beauty into shattered pieces with sudden and explosive heartbreak.
His head fell back against the back of the carriage seat and his eyelids drooped low.
God works in mysterious ways.
It took him a long time to realise that this wasn't purgatory like he thought it was when he'd awakened at six amongst godless heathens with the sin of magic.
At times he wondered if God condemned him to this existence so that he'd find no forgiveness or sanctuary from the Church.
That his sinful charity to buy their forgiveness granted on His behalf would not work this time should they ever learn of his…talents. Of his nature.
'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'
It took him long to accept that this wasn't hell or purgatory. That this was an another existence, another life to live that only God could have orchestrated.
It kept him from falling into a pit of despair.
Only God could work in such strange unfathomable ways for him to be reborn to good but godless parents in a world that was as beautiful as it was wicked.
A world so very symbolically like his Sicily…
And his father's world.
The dark shadowy haze fell away and a sombre glint took its place.
At his worst, moments after awakening from his nightmares, he had wondered…
Where had He been when he would have forsaken everything if only to spend one more day with his daughter?
Michael's eyes drooped even lower, barely staying open.
He was not ungrateful.
He could never be ungrateful.
Not when only God could have given him this second chance however undeserved.
Not when he believed that his beloved daughter, innocent and pure, could only have been sent to God's waiting arms for she was the best out of all of them and earned her place amongst God unlike Michael.
It was that thought, that belief, that began healing his broken heart and his cracked soul. Michael reopened his eyes, once more staring out the window.
Who was he to deny God this second chance to earn his passage to His Embrace?
Perhaps this time – perhaps a foolish hope – nothing can pull him into a life that blackened his soul with every sinful choice he took for family. For power.
His fingers traced the surface of the book and he cast his gaze down, a glimmer of contemplation leaking through his expression.
He'd always been excellent with mathematics – once upon a time, in different circumstances, may have, could have, would have, taught it – so naturally he'd taken to spell creation quite well yet it one field that he was obsessed with…Soul Magic.
The Soul…
It was one thing to believe that it existed yet it was another to know it.
Even if he was reborn, the stone in his stomach only disappeared after he'd used Homino Revelio, the spell to find someone's presence through their soul, on himself.
The wizards and witches in this strange world knew that the soul existed, had spells to find someone's soul yet they were godless.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the irony feeling sweet in his mind.
It highlighted that despite the sheer ridiculousness of this world, it was astonishing.
Spells and potions and artefacts that were miraculous were common and unremarkable. A lost limb could be regrown should it be lost through conventional means, food could be duplicated and one never needed to go hungry.
The faint smile faded away and one slow blink later, a cold glint entered his eyes.
Minds and actions could be controlled and manipulated.
Through spells and potions and artefacts. Torture worse than anything he sanctioned done with just a wave of a wand. Murder in a mere thought and flick of the wrist.
In the darker colder recesses of his mind, plans and schemes scratched at his mind, a hungry craving to exploit this naïve world for all its worth pushing against his will.
'Both' worlds were just laying across a king sized bed, naked, like a virgin queen desperate for him to fuck her into blissful unconsciousness and make her his.
The possibilities were endless and no doors were closed to him.
The 'muggle' world could do little to defend against him.
Fabrication of papers could be done with a wave of the wand, officials could be compelled into doing anything he wanted and businesses could be sold to him as easily as thieving a candy from a child.
Even if he discovered that in this world there was no Corleone family, there were still criminal Sicilian families in New York that he could rip apart if he cared for it.
He did not care for it…
The 'magical' world was his to influence as the pureblood son of Dorea Potter nee Black, the beloved sister of Lord Black – the closest approximation to a Royal mob family in the magical world – and Charlus Potter, war hero, who personally fought Grindelwald in Poland and lived to tell about it when most did not.
Of course…it would hardly be easy. Not when there were others who could do what he could do but then again…
That had been the same before. And he ended on top when he rose to the challenge.
He blinked again, this time his eyes softening and the breath he held was released.
But that was not his life. Not this time.
God had given him the chance to be at rest, to be at peace with himself without the weight of constantly being at war and the sins that came with it blackening his soul.
His gaze returned back towards the scenic lush greenery of northern England.
The unsettled feeling returned.
Beautiful Sicily…
Beautiful England…
He would be made to make a choice once more.
Would God's plans ever include Michael being at peace?
Michael closed his eyes momentarily, the weight balancing on his shoulders with familiar discomfort though firmly settled.
It was coming.
He knew that it was coming in his very bones.
The warning signs were as apparent as when Sonny slipped. When his father was shot. When Appolonia died in fire and ash.
The bells were growing louder and louder as seasons fell and days faded into history.
Michael reopened his eyes with trepidation but with grim acceptance.
God would be left disappointed if He thought Michael good enough, forgiving enough, to make the virtuous choice.
A choice once made, would be made again.
He only hoped God merciful to not ask this of him, to ask that he walk away should his new family be caught in what was coming.
A choice once made…
The faint noise of someone at the carriage door drew him out of his thoughts, a measured side glance was all he spared before he returned his gaze towards the moving nature.
The door opened moments latter "Potter."
Her voice was even but he sensed the hesitant nervousness in her voice and the quiet rustling of her robes. He turned towards her calmly, his expression unchanged.
She was pretty, in a nonconventional way. Once you looked. Sharp features, a slightly too long and wide chin that accentuated her smaller lips somewhat unflatteringly.
Her blond hair was short, barely reaching her shoulders and it framed the oddities of her looks more than it should. Still, in time, he expected her to grow into her face with just a glimmer of her nonconventional prettiness remaining.
It wasn't what made her interesting to him.
"Miss Bones" he acknowledged a polite incline of the head, a searching curiosity filtering through, a curiosity she noticed and took her cues from.
"My family is holding a summer gala this year." She started, the nervousness deepening slightly, a curious state of affairs of the normally composed and firm girl that she was "My parents will send you and your family an invitation."
This new world of his was not so different. Beneath the wonder of magic.
Alliances, traditions and family were centre in this world just as it once had been in another life. And just as in that life, there were struggles for power that burbled underneath the surface of civil society.
"I shall be there." Michael promised, a shadow of a smile gracing his fair skin.
It delighted her, the way he was given a smile she struggled to contain before she made her excuses and departed, leaving him once more to his lonesome self.
The Bones' were a neutral aligned House, an old wealthy noble House claiming ancestry back over two thousand years, almost as old as House Potter. Largely old money with shares in fairly successful businesses and with a seemingly familial inclination to tend towards law and frequently produced aurors and ministry persecutors.
That along with links with both Progressive and Traditionalists made them a useful family to have friendly relations with. Amelia Bones was likely to follow suit and join the Auror Department. An uncharacteristically authoritative girl with a core of steel that he only wished he'd seen more often in his men.
Unfortunately, he doubted he could turn her, at least without magic, if she ever became useful. Still, he would remain close to her so that the opportunity and necessity presented itself, he would be able to exploit whatever weakness she had.
He'd speak to his parents if he needed to convince them just as he'd speak to his uncle about attending. As it was, it was unlikely they or his uncle would reject the invitation once he convinced them. They would be aware and made aware of the importance to tighten new friendships for the difficult times to come.
He returned his attentions to the serene nature that passed by, the dark shadowy remembrance returning to his misty brown eyes.
Hours later, he stepped off of the train, his goodbyes said and his acknowledgements given, before he strode quietly towards the waiting crowd of parents.
He saw them, soft smiles on their faces, and he returned a faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. A faint grip on his heart tightened immeasurably.
Every man has but one destiny. Everyone walked a path. A first path. A second path. Chosen or otherwise. It seldom was their destiny. Michael knew this dreadful truth.
And as he returned the loving hug of Dorea, and felt the warm grip of Charlus' hand on his shoulder, he feared the bells of destiny.
Bells that called him. Bells that contrived him to once more walk the path of destiny that any Michael, in any life, was expected to walk.
He feared the bells of destiny.
For he knew…he would heed their call.