Year 7 (pt.1)
The forest stretched on forever, a tangled mess of bare trees and silence. Michael wandered through it like a ghost, cloaked in shadow and regret. The air smelled like rain and moss, and sometimes, if he sat still long enough, he could almost pretend everything hadn’t fallen apart.
It had been months since Hermione left. Since the vault. Since he’d felt like himself.
Every morning he woke up in a different patch of wilderness, the enchanted dragon he’d freed from Gringotts circling somewhere overhead. It never strayed far, and somehow, he found comfort in that, in knowing that even if the rest of the world had burned down, something still chose to stay by him.
He missed her.
Not just Hermione, though she was always there — in his head, correcting him, scolding him, grounding him. He missed Ginny’s laugh, Luna’s strange calmness, the way they all made things feel possible. Now, everything felt like dust.
The Hufflepuff cup sat in his pack like a tumor. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to destroy it, not yet. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his to break. It should have been Hermione’s.
But she was gone.
One cold morning, frost clinging to his eyelashes, Michael sat by a fire he barely remembered lighting. He pulled out the Sword of Gryffindor and stared at it — at the way it shimmered like blood and steel. He thought of Dumbledore. Of how he died for this mission. Of how easily Michael had started to forget the plan.
There hadn’t been a funeral. No time. No chance. Just a war that demanded everything from everyone and gave nothing back.
Michael had always thought Dumbledore was unshakable — a kind of eternal presence in his life, not just a mentor but... a compass. The person who saw past his rough edges, who believed he could be more than just a weapon.
He took out the cup. It trembled in his hand like it knew what was coming. And without saying anything, without a ceremony, he stood and drove the sword down through its center.
A scream echoed through the trees — high and inhuman — before fading into the wind.
The cup was gone. Another piece of Voldemort shattered. But Michael didn’t feel victory. Just... emptiness.
He sheathed the sword and slung his pack over his shoulder. The dragon landed nearby with a heavy, ground-shaking thud, tilting its head at him, almost curiously.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he told it, voice hoarse. “But I have to keep going.” The dragon being his only companion, the only being he talked to.
The wind stirred the ashes of the fire as he walked away, into the trees, leaving behind the broken pieces of gold. He headed towards a nearby town, Godric's Hollow.
~
Godric’s Hollow was quiet when Michael arrived.
He kept his hood pulled low as he walked the cobbled streets, the names of shops and streets meaning nothing to him. Everything felt both familiar and far away — like he was walking through someone else's memories, it vaguely reminded him of Hogsmeade.
He passed a war memorial, the statue shimmering faintly before transforming into three figures: James, Lily, and Harry as a baby. He stood there for a long time. Silent. He didn’t bow his head or whisper a prayer — he just looked, jaw tight, chest aching.
Eventually, he wandered farther into town, slipping between alleys, picking some apples from a low-hanging tree near someone’s back fence. He wasn’t sure he remembered the last time he had a real meal. He wasn’t sure he cared.
The sun was starting to sink when he saw it, a house on the very edge of the Hollow. Or what was left of one.
It was burned and broken, swallowed up by ivy and wild grass, like the earth was trying to reclaim it. The roof was sagging in places, and the walls were blackened, but something about it pulled him in. Like he knew this place.
The Potters’ house.
Michael stepped inside through the shattered doorway. The wood groaned beneath his boots, dust rising in lazy spirals around him. There were remnants of life still here, a scorched high chair, a cracked photograph frame on the floor. Everything was still. Too still.
Then, he heard it.
The hiss.
He turned just in time to see it — Nagini — her coils massive, sliding through the debris like smoke. Her eyes locked with his, yellow and cruel.
Michael reached for the Sword of Gryffindor, fingers curling tight around the hilt. The snake coiled as if to strike.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” Michael muttered, sword raised.
But before he could swing, something snapped in the corner, a crunch of wood, and a voice yelled, “Watch out!”
Michael ducked instinctively as something flew over his head, a bolt of magic, striking the floor beside Nagini. The snake recoiled, hissing furiously, then slithered fast toward a hole in the wall and vanished into the night.
Michael whipped around, eyes searching. “Who the hell—?!”
A figure stood in the doorway, panting, wand raised. Cloaked and half-shadowed. The voice was familiar…
“Hermione?” Michael asked, blinking.
But the figure was already running, disappearing into the trees.
~
Michael stood there at the edge of the trees, the air cold around him, his heart pounding from the chase. His fingers were still curled around the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor, knuckles white. He was ready for anything. Ready to fight. Ready to kill.
And then he saw him. Not Hermione. Harry.
Ragged cloak, messy hair, round glasses, and that damned scar on his forehead.
"You?" Michael spat, the word like venom. "You're the one who scared it off?"
Harry lowered his wand, out of breath. “You could’ve died. You didn’t even see her—Nagini was about to strike—”
“I had her,” Michael snarled, stepping closer. “I had her. One swing and it would’ve been over. But you ruined it.”
Harry flinched. “I was trying to help—”
Michael’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Don’t pretend you care. Where the hell have you been? While I’ve been tearing through this country, watching people die, losing Hermione—where were you?”
“I—” Harry began, but Michael was already charging forward. “You’re not part of this. Not anymore.” His voice was rising, his rage burning out of control. “You think just because you’re Harry Potter—that name gives you the right to barge in and ruin everything?”
“I’m her friend, Michael,” Harry snapped. “She told me what you did. What you’ve been doing.”
Michael froze. Just for a second. “What I did?”
“She said you’re losing it,” Harry continued, stepping toward him, hand tightening around his wand. “And now you’re alone. You made sure of that.”
Michael’s eyes flashed. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.”
Michael lunged.
The two collided in a flash of fists and fury. Harry tried to cast, but Michael knocked the wand from his hand with one punch. They tumbled into the dirt, leaves flying, Harry kicking and clawing, but Michael was too strong—too fast—driven by something twisted and hollow.
“Michael—stop—!”
But Michael wasn’t listening. In one swift, terrible motion, he grabbed Harry by the jaw and the back of his head—and snapped.
Silence. Harry’s body crumpled to the forest floor. Michael staggered back, panting. The world spun. His hands trembled. For a long moment, he just stared at what he’d done. Then…
A strange sound filled the air.
A distant ringing. Like bells. Then a piercing crack, not from a wand, but from inside Harry. A horrible gasp echoed through the clearing, high-pitched, inhuman, and a shadow burst from Harry’s chest like smoke from a pyre, screaming into the air. Michael shielded his face as it passed, watching it dissolve into nothing.
The forest was still again. Harry Potter was dead. And so was a piece of Voldemort.
Michael dropped to his knees, the cup still slung across his back, the sword heavy in his hand. For the first time, he realized: he had just killed something bigger than a person. He had killed part of the Dark Lord.
~
Days blurred into nights. The forest around Michael was still. Too still.
He hadn’t moved from where Harry’s body lay beneath a blanket of leaves. He hadn’t spoken a word. Hadn’t cried. Hadn’t screamed. Just breathed. Barely. Then, out of nowhere, the wind changed. A small rustle at his feet.
A letter. Sealed with a red wax “G.”
Ginny. His hands trembled as he opened it.
Mike—
He’s here.
Voldemort’s at Hogwarts.
They’re fighting.
People are dying.
Please. We need you.
—Ginny
He didn’t even pack. He didn’t think. He just stood, whistled once and the trees behind him shook as wings bigger than carriages unfurled. The dragon, his dragon, thundered out of the shadows like a beast carved from nightmares and smoke, iron-plated scales glinting in the low light. Michael climbed on without a word, gripping the spines behind the creature’s neck, the wind already lifting through his hair. With one guttural roar that shook the clouds, they rose into the sky.
The view of Hogwarts was like a memory sharpened to a blade.
The towers were lit with firelight. Spells streaked across the dark sky like shooting stars, colliding midair in bursts of blue and red. The Forbidden Forest glowed with the light of hundreds of wands. The lake reflected it all—flashes, shadows, destruction. Smoke curled from the battlements. A section of the north tower was already crumbling. And at the gates, the Death Eaters were flooding in. The dragon screamed. And Michael screamed with it as they dove.
The air burned around him. He landed hard on the edge of the courtyard, the stone cracking beneath the dragon’s weight. The beast reared back, wings wide, roaring at the Death Eaters below. Students, professors, Aurors—everyone was fighting. Michael leapt off the dragon’s back and unsheathed his giant sword in one clean motion, the blade and his metal arm glowing with deadly promise.
He looked toward the castle. Smoke. Fire. Screams. And somewhere in the heart of it all—Voldemort.
Michael narrowed his eyes and began to run.
This was it.