Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 76 - 72: A Throne Without Applause

Hi everyone,

Thank you so much for your continued support!

I hope you're enjoying the story so far—your feedback truly means the world to me. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far and on on where you'd like the story to go next, so feel free to share any ideas or suggestions in the comments.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The final day of the Vienna Potioneers' Summit arrived not with the grandeur of a concluding ceremony, but instead enveloped in a profound silence. There was no fanfare to mark the occasion, no applause to celebrate the achievements and connections forged during the gathering. Only the sound of ink drying on parchment filled the air, punctuated by the gentle hum of portkeys as delegation after delegation disappeared in brilliant spirals of light, leaving behind only a whisper of their presence.

The once-bustling atriums now lay quiet, stripped bare of colorful banners and the vibrant life they had once harbored. Booths that had been lively with discussion and the clinking of potion vials now stood empty, their surfaces reflecting the stillness like polished marble. The space echoed with the subdued aftermath of deals struck and legacies irrevocably altered, as if the very walls bore witness to the weight of untold stories.

Amidst this palpable stillness, one figure remained—Severus Shafiq, seated thoughtfully, his presence both a contrast and a continuity in the quiet aftermath.

Severus had made his choices carefully, navigating the web of alliances and enmities with a strategist's precision. He had opted to leave behind the cloak of mystery that once shrouded him. In exchange, he had earned a position of power, yet he understood that this position was not synonymous with safety.

Not anymore.

Power shifts the landscape of your enemies, he mused, but it alters your allies first. They transform, revealing their true natures as stakes grow higher and ambitions clash. With a sense of finality, he closed the ledger, the sound of its spine snapping shut echoing in the quiet morning air.

Later that hour, Lord Arcturus Prince discovered Severus strolling through the secluded gardens, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"No longer underestimated," Arcturus remarked bluntly, without preamble. "They'll aim higher now."

Severus nodded, an acknowledgment that he had been well aware of this change.

"They won't attack you directly," Arcturus continued, his tone grave. "Not the Zabinis. Not the ICW. At least, not yet."

He pivoted to face Severus, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "But they will seek out what can be manipulated. Your friends, your mentors, even your daily routines."

Severus let out a soft exhale, a hint of resignation in his breath. "Let them look. I have no intention of being caught off guard."

"You shouldn't," Arcturus agreed, his voice steady.

He delved into the pocket of his tailored coat and produced a silver pocket-watch—its design sleek and unassuming, yet imbued with an air of significance.

With measured care, he placed it into Severus's palm. "This is enchanted to detect the magical pulse signatures of those you trust. If any of them experience a shift—be it a subtle curse, possession, or outside influence—you'll be alerted."

Severus arched an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his expression. "That's highly illegal."

"And precisely why I crafted it," Arcturus retorted, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Consider it a gift."

In the marble atrium, where the last of the prodigies lingered like shadows of memories, Severus navigated through a sea of familiar faces. Émile, leaning casually against a polished column, caught his eye with a lazy wave and a grin devoid of mockery. "Let's not wait until we're old to cross cauldrons again," he said, his tone light, but there was a warmth beneath it that Severus appreciated. Severus dipped his head in acknowledgment, feeling a flicker of nostalgia at the camaraderie they once shared.

Moments later, Luka approached him, his footsteps silent on the marble floor. He offered a folded scrap of parchment, its edges worn and crinkled, without uttering a word. There was no name, no accompanying message—only a complex fragment of a potion sequence that danced just out of Severus's understanding. "A riddle for later," Luka remarked cryptically before turning away, leaving Severus with the tantalizing puzzle in hand.

Meera, ever the one to cut through the atmosphere with her vibrant personality, broke the silence. "Next time," she called out across the vastness of the atrium, her voice echoing off the marble walls, "bring something explosive! I like chaos!" Her laughter, bold and infectious, hung in the air. Severus felt a small flutter of amusement stir within him; he almost—almost—smiled at her unabashed enthusiasm.

The Vienna Potioneers' Summit concluded not with a dramatic thunderclap, but rather with the quiet scratch of ink on parchment. There was no grand closing ceremony, no long-winded speeches to mark the occasion. Instead, the halls buzzed softly with the undercurrents of alliances formed in hushed whispers, strategic glances exchanged across the gleaming marble floors, and names delicately inscribed into official records—repositories of power that would echo through the ages.

As the final delegates slipped away, each enveloped in swirling flames, shimmering light, and curling smoke, a palpable shift filled the air. The name Severus Shafiq, once only a soft murmur in back rooms and corners, suddenly transcended into the realm of spoken truth. It was now uttered aloud, pronounced with weight and reverence—as both a looming threat and an invaluable asset. In that fleeting moment, Severus Shafiq transformed from mere obscurity into a figure of burgeoning legend, one whose reputation would leave an indelible mark on the future of potion crafting.

The portkey flared once, emitting a cool, blinding blue light, and Severus found himself standing on the windswept edge of Ilvermorny's northern courtyard. Above him, the sky hung gray and heavy, weighed down with unshed snow, creating a brooding atmosphere that matched the chill in the air. The stone beneath his boots felt more solid and reassuring than Vienna's polished marble, though it too exuded an unsettling coldness that seeped through his clothing.

He adjusted his cloak, pulling it tighter around his shoulders against the biting wind. Taking a moment, he straightened his back, squaring his shoulders in preparation for the encounters ahead. With a resolute breath, he steeled himself for the solitude that would follow.

Yet, contrary to his expectations, Headmaster Graves was already there, a solitary figure amidst the swirling elements. He stood with an air of quiet authority, waiting, his expression inscrutable, as if guarding secrets best left unspoken.

"Welcome home," Graves said, his voice low and clipped, each word conveying the weight of seriousness. "There's been an incident."

Though Severus's posture remained unchanged, a ripple of intensity coursed through him, igniting something hidden behind his eyes.

"What kind?"

Graves hesitated, his expression shifting as he weighed the implications of his words. He turned and led Severus through the central tower, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floor. They traversed a quiet, narrow corridor that felt almost alive with magic—one layered in powerful enchantments that Severus himself had meticulously reinforced just before he departed for the summit.

The moment the last set of wards sealed shut behind them, Graves halted, his demeanor serious.

"Your personal laboratory was breached."

The gravity of the statement settled heavily in the air, striking Severus like a blow of cold steel.

His heartbeat quickened and then slowed as he steadied himself. "When?"

"Two nights ago. During dinner."

Graves's voice grew firmer, an edge of urgency piercing through his calm exterior. "They didn't completely break the wards. Not this time. But someone tested them, probing for weaknesses, exploiting a fracture point, and slipping through a window in the cascade cycle. They were in and out in less than five minutes."

Severus's mind raced, calculations whirling instantaneously—runes, timing matrices, detection spells flared in his thoughts. He would have sensed if the wards had faltered; such failures were noticeable. Unless they had been peeled away rather than broken, carefully dismantled without raising alarm.

"And what exactly was taken?" Severus asked, his curiosity piqued despite the gravity of the situation.

"We're not entirely sure," Graves admitted, his brow furrowed in concern. "You'll need to inspect the vault yourself to gather more information. But we do know this much—there was a sample. Just a single vial." He hesitated, glancing around the dimly lit room as if the shadows themselves were eavesdropping. "And it wasn't registered in our archives."

Severus felt a chill run down his spine; he already knew what it was. Only one vial of its kind matched that ominous description. Only one had been left unmarked, undocumented, and buried beneath layers of shadowy wards designed to conceal it from prying eyes.

The prototype tablet of the unnamed potion—a creation so potent it was designed specifically for power, control, and manipulation. A true tool of leverage that could shift the balance of influence.

With a deliberate motion, Graves produced a sealed scroll from deep within his coat, his fingers brushing against the aged parchment. The wax seal bore the emblem of British authority: formal, ancient, and heavily weighted with significance.

"The Ministry of Magic sent this this morning," he said grimly, his voice laced with foreboding. "They didn't go through the usual diplomatic channels. They completely bypassed us, sending it straight to the ICW review board instead."

Severus accepted the scroll, his heart racing as he broke the seal with a sharp flick of his wrist. It was time to confront whatever storm was brewing on the horizon.

Inside was an official letter of inquiry from the Department of Magical Regulation in the United Kingdom, co-signed by two esteemed members of the International Confederation of Wizards' Magical Substances Commission. The gravity of the accusation was unmistakably clear.

Creation and concealment of an unregistered Class-IV magical compound.

Origin unknown.

Effects undocumented.

Suspected volatility: high.

Black-market potential: extreme.

Identity of inventor: under review.

The identity of the inventor was still under review, creating an air of urgency in the investigation.

Curiously, the potion was left unnamed. Instead, the letter contained only a clinical enumeration of various magical abnormalities that had been observed in a sample that had been stolen, further complicating the situation for those tasked with uncovering the truth.

No name was given to the potion. Instead, there was merely a clinical enumeration of the magical abnormalities observed in a confiscated sample. A troubling note highlighted its alarming capacity to bypass established anti-magic dilution protocols. Severus stared at the words, his heart pounding in silence, each line echoing ominously in his mind.

Only the Zabinis were privy to its existence; only he and Arcturus understood the intricate formula that lay buried, locked away from the world. Hidden from prying eyes and untouched by time, it had been their closely guarded secret. Yet, someone had unearthed it.

Someone had stolen his silence, his meticulous control over knowledge that was meant to remain concealed.

Graves stood across from him, arms crossed and brow furrowed in indignation. "They're not intending to ban the potion," he declared, his voice heavy with accusation. "They're attempting to seize authority over it. Over you."

"Or bury it," Severus murmured, a chill of foreboding creeping into his voice as the weight of the situation settled upon him.

"They've made it an ICW matter," Graves said, his expression twisted in distress. "This means they've got backing—serious influence. The kind that comes from old money, likely the pureblood bloc. I assume you're aware of what that implies."

Severus's gaze sharpened, a flicker of realization stirring within him.

Voldemort's reach—a chilling reminder of the power they wielded.

He meticulously folded the scroll, each crease precise, before sliding it into the inner pocket of his coat, protecting its contents as one might shield a delicate treasure.

"They believe they've discovered a weapon," Graves continued, his tone laced with concern.

"They believe they've found a weakness," he corrected, his brow furrowing. "They've glimpsed what you truly are. A force they can't contain. Now, they're attempting to claim it as their own."

Severus directed his attention toward the arched window at the far end of the corridor. Outside, snow began to fall, drifting softly in spiraling patterns against the dim, overcast sky, each flake a silent messenger of the season's chill.

"I granted them silence," he said, his voice cold and distant like the winter outside.

He glanced down at his gloved hands, contemplating the weight of his actions—everything he had constructed, the lines meticulously drawn in the sand.

His gaze shifted toward the horizon, where a tempest was brewing beyond the protective wards, the air thick with anticipation.

"But they demand obedience," he concluded, his voice a low whisper, punctuated by the looming threat of the storm.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi everyone,

Get early access to up to 15+ advanced chapters by joining my Patre on!

Stay ahead of the story, enjoy exclusive perks, and support my writing while helping this content grow!

Please visit :-

Patre on .com (slash) Maggie329