Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape

Chapter 73 - 70: Blood and Stone

The chamber carved into the summit's oldest wing had not seen daylight in over three centuries, a dark sanctuary steeped in history and whispers. It didn't need the sun's light to thrive; here, beneath layers of cold stone and enveloping secrecy, deals were made in the shadows—the ancient way—bound by blood, solemn oaths, and the weight of consequence.

Severus loomed over a slab table fashioned from volcanic obsidian, its surface interlaced with veins of shimmering gold that caught the flicker of the dimly lit candles around them. His signature, inscribed in enchanted ink that glimmered as if alive, lay beside that of Lord Arcturus Prince. Across from them, the Zabini brothers stood poised in their regal ceremonial robes, a striking contrast to the rough-hewn stone walls, their quills ready to etch their fates into the annals of time.

To the side, Benedetta stood with utmost solemnity, her voice rising to fill the air with an echo that resonated with the weight of ancient traditions long revered. "...this pact, forged between House Shafiq, House Prince, and House Zabini, shall be sealed in flesh, word, and will. As per the Articles of Binding, Section 3 of the Magical Commercial Accord of 1372..." Her words hung in the air, heavy with significance, a moment poised on the brink of permanence.

She stepped back, her heart racing as a pulse of ancient magic stirred the air around her. Severus didn't pause to reconsider; with a determined flick, he drew the ceremonial dagger from its sheath. The blade glinted in the dim light, and he pressed it lightly to the center of his palm, feeling the cool steel bite into his skin. With steady resolve, he allowed a single drop of crimson blood to fall onto the signature inscribed on the parchment.

The scroll eagerly absorbed the offering, a faint glow radiating from it—like a contract drinking in the essence of trust itself. Next came Salvatore Zabini, standing with an air of anticipation. He followed suit, blood mingling with the ancient ink. Then Arcturus stepped forward, his expression impassive yet focused, while Lorenzo completed the solemn ritual. Four drops of blood, four pledges intertwined within one pact.

As the last drop fell, the parchment curled inward as if it were a living being. Golden runes etched themselves into the surface, shimmering with an almost sentient energy before the contract vanished in a soft whisper of magic, consumed by the flames of the summit's official archive.

The air crackled with the weight of the moment—a contract forged in blood and stone. The room held its breath, the gravity of their decision settling over them like a heavy shroud. Then, slowly, the tension began to shift, giving way to something colder. Something undeniable and real.

Power had moved, irrevocably changing the landscape of their world. And soon, very soon, the world would feel its far-reaching effects.

Behind the Mirror

Isadora Zabini stood silently at her grandfather's side, peering intently through the enchanted mirror once again. This time, however, her gaze did not merely rest on Severus's face; she observed the subtle fluctuations of his aura as it reacted to the crimson liquid that stained the page before him. Unlike others she had seen, his aura did not spike dramatically; instead, it coiled inward, exhibiting a sense of control and calculation that intrigued her deeply.

With swift precision, she made a note in her leatherbound grimoire, the runes flickering to life for a brief moment as they inscribed her observations. Magical compression observed during ritual: self-shielded core. Unusual. Possibly adaptive.

She tapped the tip of her wand against the parchment, sealing her thoughts with a whisper of magic. "He's different," she murmured, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

Vittorio, her grandfather, did not disagree. A thoughtful expression crossed his features as he contemplated Severus's potential.

"He's building a kingdom," he said softly, his voice almost reverent. "And he's laying the foundation in silence, brick by careful brick."

Villa 9 Garden

The garden behind Villa 9 was a sanctuary of tranquility—strategically distanced from the towering summit walls to ensure privacy yet close enough to bask in the heady aroma of lavender. The air was still, almost reverent, as Arcturus ambled slowly beside Severus, his hands thoughtfully clasped behind his back, conveying a sense of camaraderie and shared burdens.

"The ink of your name now sits beside theirs," he said, his voice low and measured, imbued with an air of solemnity. "And some will never forgive you for choosing your own path, for daring to carve out your own destiny."

Severus, feeling the weight of the moment, lifted his gaze to the moon, whose ethereal glow sprinkled the hedges with glimmers of silver, almost as if nature itself was etching protective runes around them.

"They never forgave me for existing," he replied, a hint of defiance lacing his tone, echoing the scars of a past filled with unyielding judgments and unrelenting expectations.

Arcturus paused for a moment, a quiet sound of approval escaping his lips. "Good," he remarked, the single word laden with meaning. It was a small but significant acknowledgment of Severus's struggles and choices.

They continued their stroll, the silence stretching comfortably between them until Arcturus halted once more. "I am proud of you," he stated firmly, his gaze steady and sincere. "Not for the deal you made, but for what you chose not to relinquish, for the parts of yourself you kept intact."

Severus nodded in response, the depth of his resolve solidifying. "I won't be owned. Not by anyone."

"See that you aren't," Arcturus murmured, a note of urgency threading through his otherwise calm demeanor. "Because the price of partnership is not always written in gold; sometimes, it's measured in the very essence of who you are."

By morning, the Vienna Summit was alive with tension—not from flames, but from whispered conversations that cut deeper than any blade. The Zabinis had pulled off the unimaginable. The Italians had entered into a deal that should have rightfully been secured by Britain, by the Guild, by the venerable names of the past. Instead, the prized agreement now rested in the hands of Severus Shafiq, a name that many were beginning to regard with both intrigue and wariness. And the world had taken notice, buzzing with disbelief and speculation. A hastily charmed headline flickered to life across the enchanted atrium scroll-board, capturing the moment in bold strokes:

Youngest Dual Inventor in ICW History Signs Global Pact with The Italian Business Giants - House Zabini

Within the hour, translated versions of the announcement circulated across the international language stones, creating ripples of disbelief and strategizing among various factions. In Paris, the once-bustling booth of the French consortium fell unnervingly silent as its members processed the implications. In Sofia, the Bulgarian Guild swiftly gathered their junior delegates in a clandestine corner for an emergency strategy session, their hushed tones conveying the urgency of the moment. Meanwhile, in Madrid, the tension escalated as two representatives from the Elixírios cartel hurled a glass against a wall in a private office, pieces of it glinting dangerously on the floor.

At the table of the British delegation, however, it was an oppressive silence that spoke volumes. Gerald Catterick, the senior envoy of the British Potioneers' Guild, stood beside his team, pale and visibly enraged, his hands clenched so tightly that his mustache appeared askew, a reflection of his inner turmoil.

"He was ours to reclaim," one of the Guild's apprentices murmured, a mix of anguish and frustration in his voice. "We raised him—his heritage—his schooling—"

"No," Catterick interjected quietly, a bitter edge in his tone. "We ignored him."

The rest of the Guild circle, a venerable assembly of seasoned potioneers, stared at the bulletin as if it had directly besmirched their lineage. The air around them was thick with disbelief and indignation. Behind them, a younger Guild assistant struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation, reading the deal aloud once more, incredulity dripping from every syllable.

"Rejuvenation Elixir. Vigorem Draught. Global exclusivity. Zabini infrastructure." He lifted his gaze, searching the faces surrounding him. "And a Prince clause."

"The Prince family endorsed this?" another elder seethed, his voice low and venomous. "We're not merely losing a prodigy—we're losing the very future of British innovation."

Someone swore in clipped, aristocratic tones, their frustration evident in every syllable. Another muttered under their breath, "Well. At least it wasn't the Russians," attempting to inject a semblance of humor into the dismal situation. But it was cold comfort for the gathered members. They all understood the implications: the British Guild had failed to secure the one voice capable of redefining their image on the global stage, a voice that could have revitalized their reputation. And even worse—it was now the Italians, with their flair and style, who were taking the lead in shaping that coveted image instead.

At the French pavilion, Madame Bellavance, the formidable head of the Franco-Austrian Consortium, reclined gracefully in her chair, sipping her rosewater tonic with an air of quiet satisfaction. Her voice, smooth and composed, carried just enough for those nearby to hear: "Brilliant. He played us all like schoolchildren."

Behind her, her keen protégé Émile, with his sharp features set in an expression of skepticism, arched an eyebrow. "He played with poison," he murmured, his tone laced with disdain. "Let's see if he can drink it."

In a dimly lit corner of the Eastern African Circle, two Kenyan enchanters exchanged tight, wary glances. "The boy's walking a blade," one of them said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let's see if he sharpens it or bleeds."

Meanwhile, the South American delegation, who had been eyeing a potential bid for the prized Vigorem Draught under a collaborative patent model, hastily dismantled their prototype table. One member leaned in conspiratorially, his voice heavy with frustration, "We were outbid before we even sat down."

In stark contrast, the Russian Alchemical Ministry chose to remain inscrutable, issuing no statement at all—only a stark, enigmatic line posted to their scry-feed: We respect power.

Later that evening, in one of the cozy, dimly lit lounges filled with the hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of glasses, Meera caught sight of Severus entering the room alongside Arcturus. Her heart quickened, and she quickly maneuvered through the scattered groups of people, drink in hand, eager to reach him.

"So," she greeted playfully, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Partnered with wolves now?"

Severus responded with a half-smile, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "They prefer the term 'strategic apex predators.'"

Meera laughed, the sound brightening the mood around them.

Émile entered next, his presence less flamboyant than usual, a noticeable shift in his demeanor. He approached them, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "The moment you signed with them," he said quietly, "every potion you've ever made became... sharper. And more dangerous."

Luka, known for his quiet intensity, stood just behind Émile. He didn't say a word but reached into his pocket and produced a folded parchment. With careful precision, he sealed it with wax and handed it over to Severus. The paper contained modifications to a stability rune formula—his neat handwriting a testament to their shared efforts and knowledge. It was a silent gesture, a nod to an alliance that remained unspoken and not yet formal.

Severus accepted it, pocketing the valuable information with a knowing look, the weight of their unvoiced collaboration hanging in the air.

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