Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape Chapter 134 - 130 – Subjects of the Moon and Blood

Location: Prince Manor – Laboratory

The new laboratory was beginning to resemble less a functional workspace and more a vault of arcane secrets. Books lay scattered in uneven stacks across the polished marble counters — leather-bound tos purchased at enormous expense from the prestigious European markets, delicate slim journals penned by obscure researchers whose nas had long been forgotten, and carefully copied manuscripts from the ancient Zabini archives, their ink faded almost to invisibility against the brittle parchnt.

Severus moved among these relics with the precision and intensity of a man who tolerated no distractions. His hands slid volus into ticulously organized categories: lycanthropy — historical accounts; vampirism — curse-theory analyses; black-market testimonials from whispered networks. Among them, the pile labeled "failed cures" grew the thickest, testant to the nurous futile attempts recorded.

Arcturus had delivered on his promise unfailingly. Every reputable text published in the Western world concerning cursed transformations, every case study that had managed to evade the scrutiny—and often the erasure—by the ICW, was now housed in Severus's lab, awaiting careful study.

Langford, true to her word, had gone even further. Within a re week, she had procured bundles of fragile notes from long-deceased colleagues — fragnts of experintal records never published, their outcos buried in ruin and disgrace. Severus traced the faded, trembling ink outlining intricate diagrams of blood runes and convoluted alchemical matrices, many crumbling into chaos midway. The margins were scrawled with ominous terminology: necrosis, soul-fracture, and other words hinting at the dark consequences of these forbidden endeavors.

The Zabinis, true to form, had gone far beyond expectations. Their couriers arrived regularly, bearing crates filled with contraband—books banned from public libraries, rare journals smuggled out of obliterated enclaves, and even personal autobiographies written by vampires and werewolves themselves. One thin, fragile volu contained the haunting confession of a werewolf healer who had desperately attempted to sever the infection from his own bloodline. The final entry, penned in a shaky, spidery hand, read: "The wolf is not inside . The wolf is ." The manuscript ended abruptly there, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

Even more unnerving were the files stamped with the distinct Zabini crest—centuries of quietly funded research, now laid bare before him. Severus's gaze settled on a faded parchnt, its ink blurred into a mottled brown with age. It recounted the work of a Potions Master long since deceased, one who claid to have found a cure for vampirism itself. According to the docunt, his potion had managed to lift the curse—along with the unnatural stillness that trapped a vampire's flesh outside the relentless flow of ti. The subject had returned to human form, but the centuries of halted aging caught up with her all at once. Within weeks, she had withered, aged rapidly, and crumbled into dust.

Severus closed the worn folio, his fingers tightening around the worn leather cover. Here lay a cure worse than the curse.

Every attempt to undo lycanthropy followed a similar, tragic pattern. Potioners and healers alike sought to excise the "infection," to burn it out or cleanse the blood entirely. Every effort ended in failure. So had killed their subjects outright. Others only deepened the curse, twisting the mind further and leaving the body trapped between wolf and man, caught in an endless, agonizing transformation. They had all overlooked one essential truth: once bitten, once bound, the wolf was no re parasite—it was a fundantal rewriting of the self. The curse was woven deep into the very fabric of the soul.

Severus leaned back, his mind sharpening with focused intensity. No spell or potion could simply erase such a profound mark without causing the very fabric of the host's being to unravel. Not unless one could reconstruct what lay beneath it—down to the most fundantal essence.

They do not understand transformation, he thought bitterly. They perceive it as a wound, a disease to be cut away. But it is far more complex than infection. It is identity itself. To cure it, I must first master the language of the body — the intricate code that shapes flesh and blood long before magic even alters them.

The laboratory around him was no longer just a workspace; it had beco a shrine to failed endeavors. Books and manuscripts spilled over every surface: stacked in teetering piles on benches, propped precariously against jars of preserved roots and brittle herbs, or spread wide open across cold stone counters as if their pages might reveal whispered secrets of their failures if left exposed.

Leather-bound tos on lycanthropy detailed histories, ancient curses, and crude attempts at suppression—each volu a grim testant to human desperation. Slim, fragile journals on vampirism offered more theory than practice; their conclusions invariably ended in death or madness. From the Zabini archives ca ancient manuscripts so delicate, their ink seed hesitant to stay affixed to those aging pages. At the core of it all stood the towering pile labeled Failed Cures, rising higher than any other.

Severus moved among them with a relentless, chanical focus. He had read enough to discern the repeated mistakes: every effort to excise the curse as if it were a simple infection. Burning it out, purging it from the bloodstream, severing what was fundantally inseverable. Each attempt had ended in failure. Many had killed their subjects outright; others had condemned them to exist as grotesque, twisted parodies of both wolf and man—creatures trapped in a tornting limbo, unable either to die or to truly live.

"They do not understand," he muttered to himself, closing one cracked folio with deliberate care. "It is not re infection. It is identity itself. To cure it, one must first comprehend exactly what it rewrites."

He paused, fingertips lingering on the worn leather cover, his mind sharpening with the weight of realization. Not just what it rewrites, but what it overwrites—erasing the essence beneath.

The enchanted mirror on the desk shimred faintly, casting a silvery ripple across its surface. Gradually, Arcturus's face appeared—stern and weathered, eyes narrowed with patient expectation. Beside him, the image of Lorenzo Zabini resolved—composed, sharp, and always faintly amused, as if privy to secret knowledge.

"You have already gathered more research than most Healers manage in a lifeti," Arcturus said without preamble. "What else do you require?"

"Everything," Severus replied flatly. "Not only wizarding lore. The Muggles have mapped the body with a precision we lack. They understand sinew, marrow, blood. They identify the fundantal building blocks of flesh—DNA, they call it. To reverse a curse that reshapes the very body, I must understand it as it was ant to be, before any magical intervention."

Lorenzo arched a brow skeptically. "You want us to buy you… Muggle textbooks?" The faint curl of his lips betrayed a mixture of surprise and amusent. "Strange weaponry for a Shafiq heir to wield."

Severus did not rise to the bait. He leaned forward slightly, his voice cold, steady, and resolute. "Their textbooks, their dical treatises, their most advanced microscopes—the kind that can magnify blood until its smallest, most intricate patterns are visible. Wizards often dismiss these as trivial or irrelevant, but they are gravely mistaken. If I can decipher how human flesh is written at the cellular level, then I can begin to understand how vampirism and lycanthropy distort that very script. Only with this knowledge can I begin to rewrite it."

Arcturus tapped his cane once against the cold stone floor, the sharp sound ringing like a note of approval. "Pragmatic. Costly, no doubt. But necessary." His eyes glead with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of pride. "Few wizards alive would have the foresight to seek science from the Muggles. Fewer still would have the nerve to wield it."

Lorenzo tilted his head, his expression sharpening into sothing more serious, more inquisitive. "And once you have acquired this knowledge? What then?"

"Then," Severus said firmly, his gaze unwavering and intense, "I compare. I study the blood of those who volunteer for this—human and afflicted alike. I observe how a vampire's marrow deviates from that of a man's, how the wolf's cycle corrupts the flesh beneath the skin with an almost poisonous rhythm. Only when I understand precisely what separates them can I hope to find the path back—to undo the curse and reclaim what has been lost."

There was a heavy silence. For a long mont, neither elder wizard uttered a word, the weight of their thoughts hanging thick in the air. At last, Lorenzo's smirk softened, shifting into a more serious, calculating expression. "Ambitious," he said thoughtfully. "But if anyone can forge a cure from a puzzle that has shattered every master before you, it might just be you."

Arcturus inclined his head with a curt nod. "Very well. You shall have what you requested. Books, rare instrunts, every scrap of Muggle science that can be discreetly smuggled within these walls."

The mirror between them dimd, their faces slowly dissolving back into ghostly silver.

Before Severus Shafiq now lay the fragile threads of two worlds: science intertwined with sorcery, flesh entwined with curse, the past stretched toward the future.

And he would weave them all into a weapon.

Location: Milan – Zabini private study

Lorenzo Zabini sat behind a grand mahogany desk, the rich grain of the wood gleaming under the dim light of the flickering candles. His hand hovered delicately over a parchnt, a quill poised with practiced precision, while layers of intricate protective runes shimred faintly upon the paper's surface. Opposite him, two werewolves stood side by side, their figures partially obscured beneath heavy cloaks that obscured more than just their forms. The air around them was thick with the tallic tang of iron mixed with the primal musk that clung to their fur. Behind these formidable creatures, a pale man with sharp features and dark hair pulled tightly into a precise knot observed silently. His eyes glowed with a faint amber hue, casting a spectral light that danced in the shadows cast by the nearby lamplight.

"Your families will be compensated," Lorenzo said with a smooth, calculated tone, dipping the quill before signing the parchnt in a sweeping flourish. "Gold enough to secure land and estates, protection substantial enough to keep the Dark Lord's hounds at bay. In return, you will swear your oath to : that you will co when summoned without question, undergo the Prince's trials without hesitation, and take no word of this agreent to any living soul."

The elder werewolf's lips curled back, revealing yellowed, razor-sharp teeth beneath a furrowed brow. "If it kills us, so be it," he growled, his voice rough like gravel. "Better to die reaching for freedom than to live in chains."

A soft, brittle laugh escaped the vampire standing nearby, his voice carrying the rasp of centuries spent in shadow. "Freedom," he echoed, a thin smile ghosting his pale lips. "If he fails… I burn in the flas of ruin. If he succeeds, perhaps I am granted enough ti to see the first light of dawn."

From her place hidden within the shadows, Isadora watched quietly, her gaze settling on the flickering fla reflected in his eyes. It was not the hunger of the undead nor the cold glare of hatred that shone there, but sothing far deeper—a profound weariness, the bitter exhaustion that even immortality itself could not hope to heal.

She said nothing aloud, but inwardly, her thoughts flickered back to Severus—his still, black-eyed gaze fixed on her across the glittering ballroom, enigmatic and unreadable. She rembered the smoke-wreathed promise they had shared in Vienna, a fragile bond forged in shadow and secrecy. Their paths, once parallel and distant, were now drawing inexorably closer, converging toward a destiny neither could fully foresee.

When the oaths were sealed and the docunts consud in a blaze of ash, Lorenzo turned sharply toward her, his sharp eyes catching the subtle shift in her expression.

"Do not let sentint soften you, nipote," he warned, his voice cold and razor-sharp like tempered steel. "These creatures are assets, nothing more. If Riddle suspects we are bleeding his ranks, the price will be paid in blood—not theirs, but ours."

Isadora t his gaze steadily, her own calm and unflinching. "You're wrong, zio. Dangerous things hold value only if you truly understand them. Severus understands."

Lorenzo's smirk was faint yet telling, a silent challenge hanging between them. "We shall see."

Location: Prince Manor – Subterranean Laboratory

The sub-laboratory nestled deep beneath Prince Manor had been fortified with every ward Arcturus could ticulously weave and every rune Severus had painstakingly carved into the ancient stone. Iron reinforcents lined the walls, while delicate silver threads shimred faintly, etched ticulously into the masonry. Intricate runic circles were inscribed across the floor and walls, dormant yet prid to ignite in fierce flas at the slightest hint of an intrusion.

As the three figures arrived through a discreet portkey, the very air around them seed to stiffen with tension, charged and heavy.

Two werewolves erged first—lean n in their twenties, their skin marked with scars that told silent, painful stories across their arms and necks. One had dark hair, his jaw sharply defined, and eyes burning yellow with a restless intensity. The other was broader and fairer, his hands betraying a nervous twitch, as if every motion kept so unseen restraint at bay. Between them stood the vampire: tall and gaunt, his hollow cheeks stretched tight like ancient parchnt, veins black as spilled ink tracing unnatural patterns beneath his pale flesh. His gaze swept the chamber with a cautious wariness, revealing the hardened vigilance of a man who had learned to survive by trusting nothing—not even the walls around him.

They stood tense, as if expecting shackles to bind them at any mont.

"You're free to walk," Severus said before Arcturus could utter a word. His voice was steady and controlled, carrying the unmistakable weight of authority and intentions clear as steel. "No chains. No collars. If you wish to leave, you may. If you choose to stay, it will be of your own will. I do not promise salvation, only the possibility of it."

The dark-haired werewolf bared his teeth—not in threat, but in sheer disbelief. "No wizard has ever said that to us," he murmured quietly, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and wary hope.

Severus's black eyes remained steady, unwavering under the dim light. "Then no wizard has ever spoken to you with complete honesty." With a swift motion, he conjured a sturdy wooden chair and sat down, pulling a length of parchnt across the table in front of him. "Nas," he commanded, his voice calm but firm.

The vampire's voice was rough from disuse yet unmistakably resolute. "Lucian. Born in Prague. Turned in 1824," he said, his tone carrying the weight of centuries.

The broader werewolf shifted uneasily, his claws clicking softly on the stone floor. "Gareth. Fifteen years carrying the curse," he admitted, a hint of weariness threading through his voice.

The other werewolf lifted his chin defiantly, golden eyes blazing with a fierce pride. "Rowan. Twelve years," he declared, his gaze unwavering.

Severus dipped his quill into the ink and inscribed each na carefully on the parchnt, each stroke clean and deliberate. "Then we begin," he said, his voice filled with quiet authority.

He questioned them not as a master to servants, but as a physician probing patients, a scholar extracting secrets from the reluctant silence of the world. To Lucian, he directed his first inquiry: "The hunger. How does it manifest? Is it constant, or only when you catch the scent of blood?"

Lucian's laugh rasped harshly, like dry leaves rustling in a cold wind. "Constant. Always there, gnawing. Like an unquenchable thirst. But when strong blood—young blood—calls, it screams louder, demanding and raw. Control is… possible. But only for a ti."

Severus absorbed every word, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And the sun? How does it affect you?"

Lucian raised a wrist, revealing faint, jagged scars etched into pale skin. "It burns the flesh," he explained grimly. "But that's the least of it. Worse is how it hollows the marrow beneath the bones. The longer I stand beneath its rays, the weaker I beco. Fire outside, collapse inside."

Severus pressed on, voice low and steady. "And death? Beyond fire and stake and fla—what truly kills you?"

A slight twitch curved Lucian's lips, almost a smirk. "Decapitation," he answered quietly. "Silver is effective, but unlike the tales, it doesn't kill outright. It poisons slowly, burning the blood from within. Holy water? rely superstition. Garlic? At best, an irritating nuisance. But vervain…" His expression darkened as he flinched at the ntion. "That burns with fire. Ingested, it paralyzes the muscles completely; applied to the skin, it feels as though acid is eating away the flesh."

Severus's quill scratched steadily across the parchnt, the sound steady and thodical in the quiet room. "Abilities?" he asked without looking up, curiosity threading his voice.

Lucian's amber eyes glead faintly in the dim light. "Speed. Strength. Senses keener than any hound's. So can hear thoughts—not clear words, but whispers beneath the mind's surface." His voice lowered, carrying a weight of caution. "That gift is rare, precious even. But others... they lose themselves in the darkness, drowning in drink until no trace of humanity remains."

Severus paused, lifting his gaze to study Lucian's face, expression carefully unreadable. "Do you still think yourself human?" he asked softly, a hint of sothing searching beneath the question.

Lucian held Severus's gaze without flinching, then exhaled slowly, his breath thin and bitter. "I think myself tired," he admitted, the weariness in his voice more profound than re fatigue.

He turned next to Gareth and Rowan.

"The full moon," Severus asked, his voice calm but probing. "Do you feel it building gradually, like a tide rising, or does it strike all at once?"

Gareth's shoulders tightened, his eyes darkening with mory. "You feel it creeping up for days. Like claws scraping beneath your skin, relentless and cold. By the ti the night itself arrives…" He swallowed, pain flickering across his face. "…it's like drowning in a sea you can't escape. You're aware, trapped inside yourself, and yet the wolf seizes every limb, every thought. You scream within your skull, but no one, not a soul, hears."

Rowan let out a bitter snort. "Drowning?" he scoffed. "It's much worse. The wolf doesn't share with you. It devours you whole. There is no partnership, no control. You don't ride the wolf—you are consud by it."

Severus's voice remained steady, concerned but composed. "And the pain?"

"Every bone shatters," Gareth whispered, his voice breaking. "Every nerve ignites in fire. And then, just when you think it's over, it starts all over again as you shift back. You wake up aching, torn to pieces inside and out, your throat raw from howling into the void."

"Wolfsbane?" Severus asked, his quill racing across parchnt.

Rowan's grimace was grim and knowing. "It dulls the violence, numbs the frenzy, but the pain never truly leaves. Afterward, it clouds your mind like a heavy fog. You feel half-dead for days, scraping the edges of consciousness."

"Silver?"

Gareth raised a scarred wrist, trembling slightly. "Silver burns both man and wolf—slower than fire, but no less rciless. The wounds don't close; they fester, refuse to heal."

Severus leaned back in his chair, the quill finally still in his hand. "Then this affliction is not rely a curse or an infection," he murmured thoughtfully. "It is a transformation—a rewriting of flesh… and soul."

Neither wolf spoke after that, but the heavy silence between them was answer enough.

At the back of the room, Eileen stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, her pale face taut with restrained emotion. She had vowed to herself she would watch, no matter how hard it was—to bear witness to the choice her son was making. But when Gareth's voice trembled, describing the harrowing sensation of drowning within his own skin, sothing hollowed her out from within. The look in Rowan's eyes—fury barely veiling profound despair—made Eileen shift uncomfortably, as if the sheer weight of his pain was almost too much to bear.

For the first ti, understanding settled deeply within her. Freedom was not simply a word to them; it was a cruel myth, sothing perpetually out of reach. And yet Severus dared to defy that myth, attempting to transform it into sothing tangible, sothing real.

When the session finally ended, the three were carefully escorted to reinforced quarters. Under watchful eyes but unbound, they moved silently, the gravity of the mont lingering in the heavy air.

Severus remained behind, seated at the desk long after the others had left. His notes were spread out before him like scattered puzzle pieces, each fragnt a vital clue toward an understanding he sought. Two vials rested under protective containnt wards, pulsing faintly—one a shimring silver, the other an intense deep red.

Now, the path forward was clearer in his mind: the wolf within, the insatiable thirst, not infections, not curses—but identities rewritten. And Severus Shafiq was resolute in his purpose, determined to rewrite those identities once more.

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