Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape

The California wing of Prince Manor lay in a hush, broken only by the faint scratching of a quill and the low, constant crackle from the enchanted fireplace. Slanting shafts of afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows, gilding the polished stone floors in soft, pale gold. The subtle scent of sea salt drifted in from the cliffs just beyond the protective wards, mingling with the clean resin aroma of freshly polished oak shelves, lending the room a comforting, well-kept air.
On the broad expanse of mahogany that was his desk, tidy stacks of correspondence awaited his attention: neat piles of formal congratulations, inquiries regarding his latest formulations, and a handful of more personal letters. Each was arranged with deliberate care, a testament to his precision and the orderly calm he insisted upon.
With a practiced hand, he selected the next envelope, slicing it open with a deft flick of his silver letter opener. The sheet within revealed firm, neatly spaced handwriting—an ICW secretary’s style, unmistakably precise. The formal note offered congratulations for his recent innovations—the Clarity Draught and Neurocalm Serum—then shifted to extend an "informal but earnest" invitation for him to present his work at the ICW’s upcoming winter research session in Geneva. He perused the words with a decisive nod and set the letter aside atop a separate pile, making a mental reminder to discuss scheduling with Arcturus over supper.
As he prepared to reach for another envelope, his gaze settled on one that drew his attention at once—a weighty slip of thick parchment, sealed with deep crimson wax impressed with the unmistakable Hogwarts crest. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter and immediately recognized the hand that penned it: elegant loops and carefully crafted flourishes, their warmth visible in every stroke, even if the writer’s intentions typically proved more circumspect than the inviting script suggested.
He read:
Severus let the parchment slip from his fingers, letting it drop to the desk with a muted thud before flipping it face-down, unwilling to examine whatever veiled intentions were woven into Dumbledore’s careful words. He breathed out slowly, shutting the letter away with that single gesture.
The next piece of correspondence waited atop the pile: unsigned, its surface bearing a faint gleam and the cool, metallic scent of freshly minted coin. The message, penned in thin, angled strokes, was brief:
Not all guests come to drink your wine. Some come to count your coffers.
He regarded the handwriting for several long moments, tracing the sharp rhythm of the letters with his eyes until each mark was imprinted in his mind. Then, silently, he brought one corner of the parchment to the fireplace flame. Pale orange licked along the edge, curling the letter backward as it darkened and withered, words crumbling to silvery ash before they could be read again.
A deliberate, steady knock sounded at the heavy door, echoing through the quiet study.
"You’ve been buried in that desk all morning," Arcturus announced as he entered, the tip of his ebony cane tapping in a measured cadence against the cool marble floor.
"Progress," Severus replied, not looking up from the mess of parchments before him. "Enough to know the party will be equal parts celebration—" he paused, glancing toward Arcturus, "and reconnaissance."
Arcturus moved to stand beside the desk, his gaze settling on the neatly stacked letters. "And what news of Dumbledore?" he inquired, voice even.
Severus’s lips twisted into a wry, humorless smile. "He’s written, of course. Claims he ’observes from afar,’ admires my work, and—most transparently—seeks a meeting with us."
"Of course he does," Arcturus replied, tone as arid as desert wind. He picked up one of the letters, turning it over thoughtfully. "And your response?"
"I would sooner spend a day brewing with flobberworms than offer him an invitation."
Arcturus’s mouth flattened in grim amusement, his eyes sharpening. "Nor do I wish to receive him. Recall, we left Britain having publicly declared neutrality in their little war, and we have upheld that stance on every international platform available to us. Extending Dumbledore an invitation now would be seen for what it is—a drift toward the Light, and in this climate, aligning ourselves would be a strategic blunder."
Severus’s gaze met his, steady and cold. "Even if it weren’t, I have no desire to become the subject of his next great crusade."
A subtle flicker of approval passed across Arcturus’s face. "Then we are agreed. Let him wait. If Dumbledore is so intent on conversation, it will be on our terms and in a space of our choosing—public, controlled, and utterly neutral."
Severus inclined his head, the corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly. "Control, after all, is everything."
"Indeed," Arcturus murmured, shifting his stance and folding both hands with deliberate care atop the silver handle of his cane. "That brings us to the other issue — security. Since the debut of your Neurocalm Serum, a considerable number of influential Dark faction members in Britain have become... decidedly disgruntled with our presence. The prospect of their most formidable duelists being stripped of their fury mid-battle seems to offend more than just their pride."
Severus arched an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Their sensibilities."
"Or perhaps just their pocketbooks," Arcturus replied, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Regardless, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging layered wards — some overt, most concealed. There will be extra on-site security, and guest verification charms at every entry point. And, naturally, the Zabini family will implement their own precautions."
Severus permitted himself the faintest trace of a smile. "Better safe than sorry."
"In our line of work," Arcturus responded, "it’s always preferable to be paranoid than to end up dead."
A sudden crackling resounded from the hearth, and the fire flared briefly, sending a twist of smoke spiraling upwards. The smoky air carried with it the subtle, acrid tang of scorched parchment, momentarily overlaying the room’s usual richness.
The marble hall of the Zabini estate radiated a warm, opulent glow beneath the sparkle of crystal sconces. The air carried a gentle blend of bergamot, polished cedar, and the faint trace of old books from the adjoining study. Isadora stood beside Lorenzo at the long mahogany table, where travel documents and event itineraries were arranged in meticulously ordered stacks, each pile topped with a color-coded ribbon.
"Three will be presented as aides," Lorenzo said, gesturing to a row of glossy photographs featuring Shadow Squad members inconspicuously dressed in pressed blazers and muted tones. "Two others will pose as logistics coordinators—paperwork, security, the mundane details." He tapped a second set of photos, these labeled with fabricated names and backgrounds. "The rest will remain invisible to the untrained eye."
Isadora skimmed the list of aliases and assignments, brow furrowing in concentration. "They’ll be disguised as staff, not guards," she murmured, her voice low as if the walls, too, might be listening. "That should be subtle enough."
A flicker of approval passed over Lorenzo’s face as his gaze met hers. "Subtle is safer. Appearances will keep suspicion at bay. Most guests will believe our presence is purely social, a gesture of family diplomacy."
She ran her fingers thoughtfully along the table’s polished edge, as though feeling for reassurance in the smooth grain. "You’re placing a lot of stock in our grandfather’s intuition, aren’t you?"
His lips curved in the ghost of a smirk. "He’s been at this too long to be wrong. I’ve learned it’s wiser not to ignore his hunches. You’d do well to trust them, too."
Isadora’s expression sharpened, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "I wonder if Severus has the faintest idea how many eyes will be tracking his every move that night."
Lorenzo’s smile twisted, edged with something sly and dangerous. "Oh, he knows," he said, a glint in his eyes. "The real question is—how many eyes will he dare meet, and how many will he force to turn away?"
The private meeting room deep within the Ministry’s lower levels was dimly lit and protected by wards against every eavesdropping spell Edwin Selwyn could name. Despite the heavy layers of enchantment, he kept his voice low as he snapped the slender folder in his hands closed.
"The Prince Manor," he reported, looking from one man to the next across the polished table. "California. It’s being held as a graduation celebration. The Zabinis will be there, along with several ICW delegates and leaders from a number of American guilds."
Abraxas Malfoy did not respond at once. He sat still, methodically stirring his tea with careful, measured motions. The faint chime of silver on porcelain echoed in the hush before he lifted his gaze at last. When he finally spoke, his words were edged with dryness. "The unveiling of a rival to our empire."
A bitter smile curled Thaddeus Nott’s lips. "An empire that’s grown out of reach."
Unease prickled at the back of Edwin’s neck as he adjusted himself in the uncomfortable wooden chair. "It’s more than that." He hesitated. "Certain contacts suggest that many of the families who left Britain over the past two years are sending emissaries. The Princes, the Shafiqs, the Rosiers, and not a few minor houses who’ve managed to buy themselves a respectable place in America."
Abraxas’s attention sharpened, his grey eyes glinting as he set the teacup firmly on its saucer. The sound—a soft, careful click—seemed to punctuate the tension in the room. "Do you understand what that means, Selwyn? It means they have the luxury to sit in sunlit parlours across the ocean while we’re left to pay the price for a war they’ve washed their hands of."
Thaddeus’s voice turned rough, thrumming with frustration. "We made examples of a few — burned the Lestranges’ list of targets into the public memory for all to see. We stopped several families from simply slipping away, and silenced those fools who thought declaring neutrality would spare them. But none of it has been enough. The coffers are running thin, and every new contribution feels more ruinous than the last. My own estate’s harvest last year was supposed to fund new lands and investments. Instead, every sickle of it went to finance half a battalion’s worth of cursed blades and the handlers for the Inferi."
Abraxas’s jaw set hard, a flash of irritation glittering in his eyes. "The Malfoy accounts are stretching as well. Every galleon wasted on this conflict is one we can’t use elsewhere. Influence costs gold — gold we’re burning on weapons and loyalties."
Edwin shifted, voice careful. "And now the Neurocalm Serum — Severus Shafiq’s doing, of course. Because you didn’t already have enough burdens."
Thaddeus’s lip curled in open disdain. "That potion is an abomination. A so-called cure for the Cruciatus Curse, designed to steal the advantage from our duelists? It weakens us, leaves us exposed when strength is everything. Who would choose mercy in the midst of a war?"
"Lord Voldemort is... displeased," Abraxas said, his voice sharp and measured. "He’s already dismantled the Prince and Greengrass family operations here—made sure not a drop of the Serum can be produced in Britain. But the black market is another beast entirely. Much harder to choke off than he expected."
Edwin nodded eagerly, a trace of anxiety tightening his expression. "Every prohibition breeds smuggling. Besides, the Americans have no interest in upholding British orders. They turn a blind eye, if not worse."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft crackling of the warded fireplace. Shadows flickered across their faces.
Thaddeus finally spoke, voice low. "Should we tell him about the gathering at Prince Manor?"
Edwin hesitated, glancing at Abraxas. "If word gets to him that we knew and kept silent..."
"It will be forfeit," Abraxas said, cutting him off with a flat finality, setting his teacup down with methodical care. "Pass the information on. If he chooses to act, so be it. And if he doesn’t... our loyalty remains unquestioned."
Thaddeus’s dark eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "And if he does choose to act?"
A faint, chilling smile appeared on Abraxas’s lips. "Then every glass of wine poured at Prince Manor will taste of ash."
The chamber was shrouded in shadows, illuminated only by the eerie green radiance of an orb suspended above the room’s center. Muted light flickered across a long, polished table, casting strange reflections onto the ancient stone walls. The Death Eater who had delivered the message stood motionless, shoulders tense beneath the full weight of his master’s unwavering stare.
"Prince Manor," Voldemort breathed, savoring each syllable as though weighing its significance. "California. An event... meant for the world’s attention." His voice barely rose above a whisper, but in the silence, it carried an undeniable menace.
The messenger’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Yes, my Lord. The Zabinis, delegates from the International Confederation of Wizards, and the American guilds — all convening under one roof."
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the orb’s sickly glow. "A gathering of this magnitude is dangerous to us," he mused, his tone deceptively casual. "New alliances forged in our absence, crucial decisions crafted without our influence... Such insolence cannot be tolerated."
He stood, his movement slow and deliberate, black robes sliding like midnight across cold flagstones. "Their banquets mean little to me," he said, contempt curling his lip. "But appearances... appearances are powerful. The first celebration of an upstart challenger is not merely a toast — it is a proclamation. And proclamations," he added, letting his words hang in the air, "deserve an answer."
Silence thickened throughout the chamber, pressing down until it was nearly unbearable. Voldemort finally turned, his voice soft but razor-sharp. "We shall send them a gift."
Around him, Death Eaters exchanged uneasy glances, uncertainty simmering just beneath the surface.
"A gift," Voldemort repeated, his tone a deadly caress that brooked no misunderstanding, "that the world will not soon forget."
No one dared seek clarification. It was the uncertainty that Voldemort cherished, the promise of malice left unsaid.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------