Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape

Isadora's POV — Midnight, Zabini Estate Grounds

The wind whispered softly through the cypress trees, their dark silhouettes swaying like sentinels beneath the luminous, moon-drenched sky. The lower obstacle coliseum—typically alive with shouts, bursts of spells, and the clash of steel—was now enveloped in a brooding silence, reclaimed by shadows and the low hum of residual magic that lingered in the air.

Isadora Zabini stood motionless behind a row of high-arched marble balustrades, her back pressed against the cool, ancient stone, her body cloaked in charm work that was woven from the legacies of her ancestors—magic older than the estate itself. The enchantment enveloped her like a layer of silk, subtle and seamless, perfected over generations of deft movements and watchful eyes.

Yet her own gaze, bright as polished silver, remained unblinking.

She observed Severus Shafiq move below—alone, shirtless, and glistening with sweat, his wand held in his hand like a blade that had seen too many battles. His physique was lean yet taut with the heat generated from hours of relentless training, every muscle defined, acknowledging the price of his arduous regimen. Each movement he executed was intentional yet weighed down, no longer honed purely by discipline, but rather propelled by a raw, unwavering stubbornness that seemed to defy fatigue.

He didn't stop. He never stopped.

Isadora tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. She had watched him before—through scrying glass, through training reports, through quiet whispers gathered by her grandfather's couriers. But this? This was unfiltered. Unshaped. Just him.

And it was fascinating. "He doesn't know how to stop," she thought, fingers resting lightly on the stone railing. "That makes him dangerous. But he hasn't broken yet. That makes him rare."

She could see the fatigue in his frame. The frustration in the way he ripped through a misfired illusion trap. The way his hair—too long now—kept falling into his face, sticking to his jaw, catching at his collar. It annoyed him. She could tell.

Then—he muttered something. She leaned in to listen.

"I'm cutting this damned hair before the tournament," he said hoarsely, a hint of frustration underscoring his tone. "It takes more upkeep than dueling itself."

Isadora allowed herself the smallest smirk—almost imperceptible, barely a flicker on her lips. At least he was self-aware, which was a rare trait. Beneath his precision and restraint, moments like these reminded her that he was still human, still… unfinished.

But then it happened.

He stopped.

He turned.

And looked directly at her.

For one brief, breath-stealing instant, their eyes locked.

Silver on silver. No barriers stood between them. No cloaks to hide their intentions. Just a line of invisible tension drawn between two minds too sharp to pretend it didn't matter.

Isadora's breath caught in her throat. It was not fear that gripped her; it was the sensation of exposure.

Severus was not meant to see her. Not yet. Not in this manner. Observation should be distant, controlled, and strategic—a careful dance of shadows and distance.

Yet, in an instant, she vanished—reflex, training, heritage intertwining seamlessly. The ancient Zabini cloaking spell enveloped her in a shroud of absence, its magic flaring to life with a silent intensity that rendered her undetectable, even to the vigilant wards guarding the estate.

But her thoughts were not as easily concealed.

"He saw me," she reflected, slipping deeper into the embrace of the shadows, her heart racing despite the flawless execution of her spell. "And he'll remember."

A weight settled in her mind, slower yet more burdening with each passing moment.

"That changes everything."

In that moment, the plans she had meticulously laid out began to crumble around her. She didn't return to her tower, the sanctuary of her thoughts and strategies. She didn't commit her observations to the dossier, where every detail mattered.

Instead, she wandered through the quiet beauty of the estate gardens, the moonlight casting silver shadows over the manicured path. Dawn was nearing, but time felt fluid as her thoughts spiraled wildly. She replayed the encounter over and over, each reflection revealing yet another layer of uncertainty.

For the first time in all her careful study of Severus Shafiq, the man she had watched from afar with such precision…

He had seen her back.

And now, she grappled with the disconcerting reality that she had no idea what he had truly gleaned from that fleeting glimpse.

The early morning sun filtered weakly through the tall mullioned windows of the Prince Manor study, casting delicate streaks of gold across the polished obsidian floor. The room was still—too still, as if holding its breath. Books lay strewn haphazardly on the floor, their once-proud spines now forgotten. Portraits had been hastily taken down, their empty frames echoing the absence of spirited gazes. Files had vanished from cabinets with a cold, clinical finality, reminiscent of a vault being closed forever, sealing away the past.

Arcturus Prince stood at his mahogany desk, meticulously sealing the last of several thick parchment scrolls. His fingers moved deftly, applying a deep crimson wax adorned with the twin crests of House Prince and Prince Holdings International. The seal hissed softly as it formed, the warm wax melding into a final impression that would lock away years of operations behind charmed fireproof barriers. One scroll was destined for the legal offices in New York, where it would surely stir discussions among the most astute solicitors. Another was bound for the wizarding trade consortium in Boston, where secrets of trade and magical commerce would be exchanged. The remaining scrolls were fated for the black-shelved archive vault, a secure repository deep beneath their new home—across the sea, a place steeped in silence and solidity.

He didn't sigh, though an imperceptible weight pressed upon his shoulders, subtly lowering them. The decision had already been made, irrevocably sealing their fate. This morning was not one of contemplation but merely the execution of plans long set in motion.

A knock shattered the silence that hung in the air. No, it was more of a thump, followed by a smaller but equally enthusiastic knock. Then, with a cheerful creak, the door swung wide open.

Julius Prince—his son—bounded into the room, his striped pyjamas a blur of color, as he held his wand clutched upside down in one hand while tightly grasping a book catalogue in the other. His eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Father! Did my new dragonhide books come in yet? The Ilvermorny orientation letter said we could request custom copies!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.

Arcturus blinked at the boy, taken aback for a moment by his infectious energy, before allowing a faint smile to break the seriousness of his demeanor. "Yes, they're in the shipping chest. Right beside your robes," he replied, gesturing toward the wooden chest that sat in the corner of the room, its surface battered from years of handling.

Julius's face lit up with a brilliant grin. "Brilliant! Do you think they'll let me study both Magical Metallurgy and Brewing Mechanics in my first year?" His voice was filled with hopeful anticipation, his imagination already racing ahead.

"That depends on whether your Headmaster fears ambition or encourages it," Arcturus replied dryly, but there was a hint of warmth in his tone. "We'll find out soon." The thought hung in the air, mingling with the boy's eager aspirations as they both looked toward an exciting future.

The boy dashed off once more before the full weight of sarcasm could settle in the air, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like a youthful promise that lingered, even as nations altered their paths.

A few moments later, Eileen Prince entered the study, her expression composed yet tender around the eyes. Her hands were gloved—not out of a sense of formality, but rather from a long-held habit that offered her a sense of security.

She took a moment to survey the room, her gaze flitting over the scattered parchments that lay strewn across the surface of the desk. "So it's done?" she inquired, her voice steady, as if this were another routine task.

"It's done," Arcturus confirmed, his tone firm and resolute. He tapped the last scroll with his wand, a faint shimmer enveloping it as he spoke. "London will be shuttered by the end of the day. New York opens on July first. We leave on the twenty-eighth."

Eileen moved toward the window, her eyes tracing the outlines of the still-misty grounds beyond, where the morning dew clung to the grass like fragile jewels. For a brief moment, silence enveloped them—a heavy kind of quiet that hinted at long nights filled with contemplation, short choices made under duress, and too many letters that remained unsent, trapped in their unspoken thoughts.

At last, she broke the silence, her voice softer now. "I'm glad," she said, the sincerity evident in her words. "For Julius. And for Severus. He won't speak of it aloud, but knowing that we're close... it will anchor him."

Arcturus nodded once, a brief but deliberate motion. "That's the goal," he affirmed, his voice steady.

She turned to him, meeting his gaze with a flicker of determination in her eyes. "It's not weakness, you know. Leaving," she insisted, her tone resolute.

"I know," he replied, acknowledging the weight of her words.

"But it feels like failure," she said, finishing the thought he hadn't voiced.

He didn't deny it; he simply allowed the moment of silence to stretch between them, the air thick with unspoken understanding.

Turning back to the imposing oak desk that dominated the room, he carefully withdrew three small envelopes, each one delicately bound together with burn-proof thread. The envelopes were nondescript, lacking any names on the front—only intricate sigils that remained hidden to all but their intended recipients.

One envelope featured a falcon, its silhouette barely visible in an elegant shade of green ink.

The second displayed a crescent ivy branch, rendered in a soft, metallic bronze that caught the light in an alluring way.

The last bore a star tipped in a luminous flame-gold, a symbol of something grand and hopeful.

"Lord Greengrass. Lord Davis. Lady Selwyn," he murmured, names that held significance and burden in equal measure.

Arcturus softly intoned a phrase over each letter, the enchantments binding them shut like heavy steel bolts. "Neutrality won't last," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he rehearsed the final lines in his mind. "The tide is already breaking. Protect your bloodlines. Choose early. Choose wisely."

With a quick flick of his wrist, the owls dissolved into wisps of shimmering essence, spatially displacing themselves into a secure courier space, ready to deliver his urgent message. Eileen once again stepped beside him, her voice laced with doubt. "Do you think they'll listen?"

Arcturus clasped his hands behind his back, steadying himself. "They're not fools. They understand the stakes. And they all have children. That's what this war forgets—" He glanced again at the stack of Julius's discarded book catalogues piled haphazardly on the chair. "—that we're not just fighting for allegiances. We're fighting to ensure our children won't have to bear the burden of choosing a side."

Outside the manor, the wind shifted with purpose, blowing eastward toward the vast expanse of the sea. And with that gust, House Prince quietly turned its gaze toward the uncertain future that awaited them.

Dumbledore's POV - Bones Cottage, North Yorkshire

The drawing room was cloaked in shadows, the flickering flames of the hearth struggling against the oppressive dimness. Heavy curtains were tightly drawn, blocking out the late summer sun, as if the world beyond had no right to witness the fraught conversations unfolding within these walls.

At the center of the room stood a war table, a sturdy oaken slab that had been meticulously transformed into a strategic map. It was adorned with colorful pins, crumpled parchment, and enchanted markers that moved restlessly, illustrating the locations of known Death Eaters and the estates belonging to suspected sympathizers. Yet today, the intricate map seemed to fade into insignificance as no one bothered to gaze upon it.

Instead, the room's occupants turned their attention towards Dumbledore, or rather, exchanged glances, each one waiting for another to voice the heavy thoughts weighing on their minds. The silence grew palpable, thick enough to cut through.

Lord Edgar Bones broke the heavy silence that had settled in the room, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. "They didn't even give us the chance to make our case. Not to Eileen. Not to Arcturus. It was all decided before we even caught the faintest whisper of what was coming."

His sister, Amelia, sat rigidly in her chair, her wand resting across her lap like a drawn blade, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. "They didn't want to choose sides," she said sharply, her tone laced with anger. "And now they've made the only choice left to them. They've abandoned us."

Dumbledore paused in his pacing, a rare flash of turmoil crossing his usually serene features. His fingers curled behind his back, not in frustration but in deep contemplation, wrestling with thoughts that weighed heavily on his mind.

Across the room, Fabian Prewett leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, completely engrossed in the conversation. "Do you really think others won't follow this lead?" he asked, addressing no one in particular and yet somehow encompassing everyone in the room. "The Bulstrodes. The Montagues. The Greengrasses… Sure, the older generation may cling to their traditions, but what about the heirs? They're watching closely. And the Princes have just handed them a clear map of their intentions."

A murmur rose among the gathered wizards and witches. Minerva McGonagall, who typically maintained her silence in tense moments like these, broke the stillness with a quiet, yet resolute voice. "This all began the day Severus Shafiq departed for Ilvermorny. He left without a word, slipping away quietly. That boy... that boy made the choice to leave seem like a future filled with promise."

"He was just a boy," Charles Potter interjected, though his voice lacked conviction, the weight of his words fading into the air.

"A boy," Alastor Moody chimed in, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension like a knife, "who not only beat the International Confederation of Wizards but also outmaneuvered the bloody Ministry. Now, he's training with the Zabini war-duelists. He's not just any boy anymore—he's become a symbol. A message we couldn't control... one Voldemort himself did not manage to restrain. It's clear now; we were simply too late to reach him."

Those words fell heavy in the room, silencing all present more effectively than the most powerful spell.

Dumbledore let out a long, weary breath as the heat in the room enveloped him, pressing down like a formidable judgment. He glanced towards the side wall, where a tapestry depicting the British Isles shimmered faintly, animated by subtle enchantments. Magical emigration trails—thin, silver lines—wove like delicate threads stretching toward far-off lands: America, France, India, and Japan. Each thread represented a magical family that had petitioned to relocate, seeking a new life beyond their homeland.

There were too many threads, far too many, and the number only seemed to grow with each passing moment.

When Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice was soft and measured, imbued with a weight of concern. "Severus lit a path," he said, his tone thoughtful. "A path that leads away from our ongoing war. This path is built on merit, not loyalty. And now, the Princes embrace it, following in his footsteps. If others join them—if Britain becomes a house stripped of its heirs—then this conflict will shift; it will no longer revolve around the notions of good and evil."

He turned, locking eyes with each of them in turn. "It will be about survival. Survival of a country, of a culture, of a people who believed that the storm raging around them would eventually pass if they simply remained steadfast." Lady Augusta Longbottom replied, her voice laced with solemnity, "But the storm has passed, and it has carried away the first bricks of our foundation."

Dumbledore did not contest her words; the weight of her statement hung heavily in the air. Instead, he shifted his gaze toward the door, as if he were anticipating someone's arrival.

But no one was coming.

The Princes were gone. And now, the future of Britain itself seemed precariously uncertain, teetering on the edge of despair.

Voldemort's POV - The Catacombs beneath Riddle Manor, Wiltshire

The room throbbed like a dying heart, each pulse echoing in the stillness. Ancient wards stirred in the shadows, their whispers weaving through the darkness that enveloped the scorched stones. They entwined the flickering torchlight into quivering blue veins, casting eerie patterns that danced against the vaulted ceiling above. Here, the shadows ran deep—his shadows, loyal and enduring, saturated with the essence of every spell ever conjured within these walls.

He stood at the center, motionless as a statue hewn from malice, embodying the very darkness that surrounded him. His fingers flexed, curling and then releasing with deliberate precision, each movement a reminder of the power that crackled in the quiet air like a charged storm.

Before him, they knelt—his Inner Circle, a circle of thirteen formidable lords, each cloaked not only in rich fabric but also in the heavy legacy of their lineage and the palpable fear that permeated the atmosphere. Their presence was marked by the unmistakable scent of inadequacy that lingered like an unwanted shadow, especially on this night of reckoning.

Malfoy was speaking, his voice scraping against the edges of Voldemort's concentration like a pebble thrown against fragile glass. "We received no indication they were planning to leave, My Lord," Abraxas said, his tone brittle and rehearsed, as if he had practiced the words too many times, trying to mask the fear beneath.

Then there was Nott, a cowardly figure attempting to offer insight that was hardly valuable. "None of our watchers inside Prince Manor noticed any movement, My Lord" he stated, but his voice trembled slightly, betraying the uncertainty that lingered just beneath the surface of his bravado.

The silence that ensued was not truly silence at all; it carried the weight of unspoken judgement, echoing off the stone walls like the tolling of a death knell. It was palpable failure, a bitter insult hanging heavily in the air.

And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not from amusement, but with a cold, cutting contempt. It was the kind of laugh that spoke of something ancient and sharp, a sound like the crack of ice beneath an unbearable weight. "Then your watchers are as blind as you are," he said softly, each word dripping with disdain. "Perhaps I should replace them with inferi. At least inferi understand when it is best not to speak."

The atmosphere in the room froze, tension mounting to an almost discernible level, even the torches flickering as if dimmed by the gravity of his words.

Voldemort let his cold gaze traverse—slowly and deliberately—across the faces assembled before him. Lestrange stood at attention, a glint of sadistic pleasure dancing in his eyes as he reveled in the atmosphere of fear. Carrow twitched nervously, his body betraying the tension that lay beneath his otherwise stoic facade. Rosier, ever the schemer, seemed to be calculating his next move, though he was always a step behind. Macnair, brutish and heavy-handed, exuded a raw power that was more intimidating than graceful. Rookwood lingered near the shadows, the lingering scent of Ministry corridors clinging to him like a second skin, a reminder of the authority he once held.

Then his gaze settled on the Blacks—Orion and Cygnus. Noble blood coursed through their veins, yes, but they were blind to the reality that the age of honor they clung to had long since decayed, leaving only whispers of what once was. "I wanted the Prince fortune," Voldemort declared, his voice slicing through the tense air with the precision of a dagger. "Centuries of gold, locked away in vaults that I do not yet possess. Now, that vast wealth sits siphoned into neutral banks under the weight of foreign laws."

He took a measured step forward, his presence commanding the attention of all present. "And I wanted the Shafiq prodigy." His voice dropped to a chilling calmness, laced with venom. "The boy who dared to defy the International Confederation of Wizards. A brilliant innovator who created battlefield weaponry before even reaching his sixteenth birthday. He slipped free of not only our control but also eluded Dumbledore's watchful eye. Now, he wears the colors of the Zabinis."

Another deliberate step brought him closer, and the tension in the room thickened like fog. "And I wanted the Prince Family Potions Formulas," he continued, his tone steeped in desire. "The archaic tomes of the old Prince Grimoire. The experimental brews—the ones that are only murmured about within the hushed walls of the Department of Mysteries. Now, those secrets lie in foreign hands, far from my reach."

His fury was not fire; fire was too loud, too crude for the depths of his rage. His fury was precision, calculated and cold as steel.

He spun—swift as a thought—and leveled his wand at Rosier's heart. "You," he hissed, voice low yet full of menace. "Deliver the message."

Rosier bowed deeply, every muscle in his spine taut with fear. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort continued, his tone harsh and commanding. "To Greengrass. To Davis. To Montague. To Flint. If they so much as entertain the idea of emigration—if they draft a single parchment, if they whisper their desires in hidden corners, if their children even dare to visit France for school interviews—I will have their heirs delivered to me in chains. Alive, if possible. Broken, if necessary."

Rosier fell silent, the weight of the command settling heavily between them.

Voldemort pivoted back toward the room, a dark shroud of menace enveloping his form. His voice softened then—dangerously low and serpentine. "They think they can leave, that they can escape the grip of my power. They believe borders mean something; that places like America, France, India, or Japan will offer them refuge."

He paused, his wand tilting casually, a casual movement belying the danger it represented. "They forget who I am."

His aura unfurled—slow and smothering, like black smoke rising from an ancient tomb. "I am not bound to Parliament, nor to treaties, nor to the ICW's laughable claims of neutrality. I do not require a portkey or a passport. I move freely where I must, and I take what I want."

He let that declaration sink in, allowing their fear to pulse through the room like a living entity.

"Let the world know," he said, his voice lowering to a chilling whisper, "leaving... is no longer an option." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over them. "There is no outside. There is no neutrality. There is only victory... or punishment." He savored the tension in the air before continuing, "And from this night forward, every prodigy, every potion, every coin that escapes my grasp will be paid for in blood."

One by one, they bowed their heads, submitting to the force of his will. They always bowed.

But tonight, beneath the oppressive silence, Voldemort sensed something more profound than mere obedience.

Terror.

It enveloped him like a dark cloak, and it pleased him immensely.

Because they had failed.

And failure, as he knew all too well, always had a steep cost.

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