Year 6 (pt.1)
Herminone, Michael thought.
Their heads throbbed, their limbs ached, and they were no longer on the cliff. Cold air crept over stone walls, and the sound of dripping water echoed in the dim, torchlit chamber of a dungeon. The last thing Michael remembered was running toward Hermione after hearing Stupefy—then darkness.
Now, he was chained in the center of a dungeon. His arms were raised above his head, wrists shackled, feet barely brushing the floor. Torture devices lined the damp, mossy brick walls. From the shadows, Bellatrix emerged holding a whip embedded with metal spikes.
“We’re going to play a little game,” she smiled. “Unlike the game you played years ago… I’ll be using this.”
She cracked the whip once in the air, then stepped closer. “First question: why are you destroying Horcruxes?”
Michael didn’t answer.
CRACK
This time, the spikes drew blood. Bellatrix’s face twisted with fury.
“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING FOR HORCRUXES, Michael?” she screamed.
Michael stared at her—and spit in her eye.
Enraged, she whipped him over and over. Each strike landed harder than the last, until her arms tired. His chest was covered in open wounds, blood dripping down his abdomen. He didn’t say a word.
Eventually, she left, and another Death Eater came in. They unshackled him—just long enough to knock him down, beat him, and hit him with the Cruciatus Curse. Pain exploded through his nerves like fire. Michael screamed as they bagged his head and re-chained him to the ceiling.
The next day, someone new entered.
The hood was yanked off his head. Michael blinked through the light to see a pale figure with slitted nostrils and red eyes.
“What do you want, weirdo?” Michael growled.
The man tilted his head, snake-like. “I am Lord Voldemort—”
“I know who you are,” Michael cut him off. “You killed Viktor. You sent someone to kill me.”
He spit toward Voldemort’s feet. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed before he lifted his wand.
“Crucio.”
Agony shot through Michael's body. Voldemort tortured him until Michael went limp again. Then Voldemort grabbed his chin and asked coldly, “Ready to talk, boy?”
Michael nodded, panting.
“Why are you destroying Horcruxes?”
Michael whispered, “Come closer.” Voldemort leaned in.
“Fuck you,” Michael hissed—and sank his teeth into Voldemort’s ear, tearing a piece off. Voldemort roared, staggering back as blood streamed down his neck. He cast Crucio again, over and over. This cycle continued for months—beatings, curses, and torture. But Michael never cracked.
Until they changed the game.
This time, when they removed his hood, it wasn’t Voldemort or Bellatrix waiting for him—it was Hermione. They dragged her into the room and chained her opposite him.
Michael’s eyes went wide. “NO. DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HER!” Bellatrix smirked. “Tell us what we want to know—or we whip her.” Michael clenched his jaw.
CRACK
Hermione whimpered.
CRACK
“STOP IT!”
He thrashed in his chains, eyes blazing.
“I SAID DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HER!”
With a roar, Michael grabbed the chains above him and pulled. His muscles strained, and the chains ripped from the ceiling, crashing to the ground. A Death Eater raised his wand, but Michael swung the chain into his skull. Bone cracked. The man dropped, dead.
Everyone froze
“I’m going to kill all of you,” Michael said, voice like steel.
Bellatrix vanished in a puff of smoke. The two remaining Death Eaters stood frozen.
Michael grabbed one by the throat and snapped his neck. The other stammered, “W-we can talk about this—” Michael put a hand on one side of his head, grinned, then slammed the other hand into the opposite side. Skull crushed. Silence.
Michael turned to Hermione, still bleeding but alive. He knelt. “Can you walk?” She shook her head weakly. Michael hoisted her onto his back. “Hang on. I’m going to save us.”
He kicked the dungeon door so hard it blasted off its hinges and crushed two guards outside. Then he picked up the door and hurled it like a discus down the hallway, taking out another Death Eater. He sprinted through the manor like a tank, smashing anyone in his way. At the end of the hall stood Draco Malfoy.
Michael stopped in front of him. Draco raised his wand with trembling hands.
“Draco,” Michael growled, “I could kill you in one second. But I won’t. So in return, you’re going to tell me where we are—and where our stuff is.”
Draco gulped. “Malfoy Manor. Your stuff is down the hall.” Michael nodded. “Here. You can say you tried to stop us.”
He punched Draco across the face and moved on. He found the room, strapped his armor back on, and slid his sword into its sheath. Hermione was still silent, but her hand gripped his shirt. She was hanging on. Michael wasn’t done. Not until Voldemort paid for what he’d done. He hunted down Death Eaters for information, cutting through them until he fell through a floor, landing in the center of a room full of them.
The Death Eaters looked at him in terror. He rose slowly, towering at nearly seven feet tall, his armor soaked in blood.
One screamed, “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US?!”
Michael looked up, eyes glowing with fury. He yanked his sword from the floor and drove it straight into the man’s chest. Then—he laughed. And he cut through the rest like they weren’t even there. Bodies dropped, split clean in half. Blood soaked the stone. Only one man remained—Chad.
He braced for death… but Michael paused. The sword stopped beside his head.
“Where is Voldemort?” Michael asked.
Chad just stared. Michael sighed. “Fine.”
He muttered something and punched Chad’s face into oblivion. And then, with Hermione still clinging to his back, Michael walked out of Malfoy Manor, covered in blood. Not a single soul dared stop him.
~
Over the next few weeks, Michael and Hermione remained hidden deep in the forest. The days passed slowly, filled with silence, pain, and the gradual healing of wounds—physical and emotional. Hermione, though still shaken from her torture, was slowly regaining her strength, thanks in part to Michael's constant care. He never strayed far from her side, always keeping an ear out for trouble and a fire going for warmth. He used Essence of Dittany potion on her, ignoring his own open wounds until Hermione cursed him out to use it on himself as well.
Michael spent most of his days chopping wood, scouting the perimeter, and training. Even injured, he moved like a machine, massive muscles flexing beneath his now-patched armor as he swung his giant sword through the air. Hermione often watched him from the tent, quietly grateful he was on their side
One morning, while on a water run, Michael stumbled across something strange in a frozen pond—something glinting beneath the surface. It was unmistakable: a silver blade, shining with an ethereal light, resting serenely at the bottom of the icy water.
He smashed the ice with one mighty swing, reached in, and pulled it free.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
Michael turned it over in his hand, inspecting the runes etched into the blade, the perfect balance, the way it almost hummed with magic. It was a beautiful weapon, lethal and pure, but he had no need for it. His own massive sword, forged in dragonfire suited him better. He had no use for something so… elegant.
So he brought it back to camp. Hermione was sitting by the fire when he walked in, her face lighting up at the sight of him. But then she noticed what he was holding.
“Is that—?” she began.
Michael nodded, walking over and kneeling in front of her. “The Sword of Gryffindor,” he said simply, offering it to her. “Found it frozen in a pond. Must’ve been waiting for someone worthy.” Hermione blinked in disbelief, hesitant to touch it. “Michael, this—this could be what we need to destroy the rest of the Horcruxes…”
“I know,” he said, setting the sword down beside her. “And I don’t need it. You do.”
She looked up at him, surprised. “But you’re the one who—”
“I’ve got my sword. And my strength. And you’ve got that big brain of yours… and now, this.” He smiled slightly. “Besides, you’re braver than most Gryffindors I’ve met. You’ve earned it.”
Hermione touched the hilt with reverence, and when her fingers curled around it, the sword gleamed brighter—responding to her magic. A quiet hush fell between them as she held it in her lap, unsure whether to cry, laugh, or hug him.
“You really are insane,” she whispered, staring down at the sword.
Michael laughed and tossed another log on the fire. “Yeah. But I’m your kind of insane.”
They spent the evening by the fire—Hermione tracing the sword’s details, Michael sharpening his own blade. For the first time in what felt like forever, they weren’t just hiding. They were preparing.