Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape Chapter 99 - 96: When the Curtain Rips - Part 2

Zabini Estate, Italy

Severus lounged beneath the dappled shade of a cypress tree at the far end of the training grounds, where the air was thick with the faint buzz of spells that had recently been cast. The remnants of the morning’s drills still clung to him; his shirt was damp and clingy against his back, a testant to the effort exerted during practice. Beside him lay his wand, its core still radiating warmth from the relentless series of incantations he had perford. Inside the nearby building, Alessandro and Evie were resting, having pushed their limits during the session. Sofia had promised an exhilarating round of mock duels as the sun dipped below the horizon, the promise of competition lingering in the air.

But for now, Severus relished this mont of quietude, a rare chance to gather his thoughts.

Suddenly, two owls swooped low overhead, their wings slicing gracefully through the warm Italian breeze. One carried the unmistakable seal of the Prince family, while the other was marked with the distinctive blocky red-and-blue wax of Arican private couriers, a sign of important news from across the ocean.

With curiosity piqued, he carefully opened the first letter. Julius’s familiar scrawl spilled out across the parchnt, brimming with an unfiltered excitent that was both infectious and irresistible.

The new Prince Manor is absolutely enormous! I an, it’s beyond enormous—it’s almost unfathomable! There’s a real swimming pool here, Sev. An actual pool! I’ve already made a grand splash by cannonballing into it five tis today. The California sunshine feels like pure magic—so dry and warm, with no dreary grey fog in sight. I honestly think I’m permanently tanned now.

In even more exciting news, I won my first duel at our prep camp! Okay, I might have tripped halfway through and accidentally dodged a curse, but Professor Polk praised it as ’combat improvisation,’ so I’ll take the win!

Oh, and guess what? I got accepted into Advanced Magical Creatures! Do you think there’s any chance I could persuade them to let ride a thunderbird? How amazing would that be? And by the way, should I grow my hair out like yours before school starts? Auntie Eileen says it’s a bad idea, but honestly, you look downright terrifying in the best way possible, so I’m really tempted!

Please tell Alessandro that I still believe his accent makes everything sound fancier than it actually is. And remind Evie that I’m diligently practicing my shielding spells. I’ve even nad my new wand—it’s now officially called ’Ripley!’

Severus let out a quiet breath that might have been mistaken for a laugh. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of the letter for another mont before he set it down with care, as if it were a fragile artifact. He reached for his quill, its nib glistening with ink, and began to scribble a reply on a sheet of thick parchnt, the texture rough against his fingertips.

"Only grow your hair if you’re prepared to sweat through it every ti you train. And ’combat improvisation’ is a generous way to describe tripping," he wrote, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Glad to hear the pool hasn’t swallowed you yet. Please give my regards to Ripley."

With a lazy flick of his wrist, he sealed the note, the wax adhering with a satisfying crackle. Leaning back against the sun-ward stone wall behind him, he took a mont to savor the warmth on his skin, contemplating the words he had just penned.

Before he could rise, he noticed the second letter. This one bore Ben Hale’s unmistakable handwriting—bold, slightly angled, written with the confidence of soone who always had more to say.

He unfolded it.

"Sev. I have so huge news! My dad finally ca through with one of his old contacts—a real business wizard out in Colorado. This guy owed my dad a favor for settling a cursed land dispute ages ago. It’s quite the story, but the bottom line is: I’ve got a sponsor now."

"I’m officially entering the World U-19 Dueling Championship. I’ll be flying the independent banner, representing the USA. No school ties, no politics involved. Just and my skills."

"And you know what? That ans I’ll be right there with you. On that grand stage. I’ll probably be sweating bullets, regretting every mont, and likely mouthing off to the wrong people. But I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You better not get knocked out early because I want to revel in the satisfaction of publicly hexing your overly prepared face."

"Oh, and P.S. Evie still owes a rematch from last term! And Al—don’t you dare act like you don’t know when I show up. If you do, I swear I will hug you right in front of your entire family. No bluffing here. Just a friendly warning."

Severus read the letter twice, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the information contained within. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a rare glimr of amusent in the otherwise serious atmosphere. Just then, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

"Good news?" Alessandro inquired, leaning casually against the ornate marble column with a towel draped over his shoulder, as if he had just stepped out of an afternoon sparring session.

"Ben found a sponsor," Severus replied, still focused on the parchnt, avoiding Alessandro’s gaze. "He’s officially joining the tournant."

From the colonnade, Evie chid in with a teasing lilt. "Did he ntion anything about that ti I hexed his shoelaces together?"

"Only that he’s seeking revenge," Severus said dryly, tucking both letters securely into the folds of his dark robe. "Which ans you’ll likely be his first opponent in the duel."

Alessandro rolled his eyes theatrically. "Great, just what we need—him being insufferable again."

"He’s already insufferable," Severus countered with an edge of playful annoyance in his voice. For a fleeting mont, the sumr training grounds of the Zabini estate felt less like the looming edge of war and more like the beginning of sothing unexpectedly... warm.

Even with the knowledge that the world around them was on the brink of chaos, there was solace in the camaraderie they shared. At the very least, they would face it all together.

Paris, France

The rain in Paris had always been gentle—clean, crisp, and romantic, like a soft lody in the background of a bustling city. But this night, it carried an unsettling scent—a faint trace of cinders that mingled with the earthy aroma of rain-soaked cobblestones.

The Caelan family’s townhouse nestled within the winding, quiet alleyways of Rue Saint-Sylvestre stood as a modest magical dwelling, a fitting ho for a family whose na was once significant but now faded into obscurity. As half-blood potion rchants, they had long been overlooked by the high society of Britain, forgotten in the wake of grander, more powerful families. Six months prior, they had slipped away into the shadows of the night, departing with a quiet determination and ticulous care. They adhered to all necessary protocols, filing their paperwork through the International Confederation of Wizards, and took with them only what was rightfully theirs, leaving behind a world that no longer recognized their worth.

Just last week, they unveiled their new branch in the heart of Paris—a vibrant, enchanting marketplace full of untapped opportunities. They were filled with hope, stepping into a realm brimming with potential, new dreams, and the alluring scent of freedom.

However, that hope was fleeting; it took a re twenty-seven minutes for that dream to unravel.

In the stillness, no alarms rang out to herald the chaos, and no floo flas flickered within the hearths of their new haven.

When the French Aurors finally arrived—prompted by the unsettling silence of unfulfilled appointnts and an owl’s frantic return—they found the townhouse eerily intact, as if frozen in ti, concealing the dark secrets that lay within.

Every room was still perated with the warmth of residual magic, a lingering presence that spoke of yesterday’s enchantnts. In the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast hung heavily in the air, the inviting scent of sizzling eggs and freshly baked bread clinging to the hearth like a ghost of comfort. A cup of tea sat forgotten on the window sill, half-drunk, the steam from it curling upward and dissipating into the stillness.

In the drawing room, the Caelan family sat—three of them—utterly motionless, as if caught in a mont of life that had been abruptly halted. Their faces were unnaturally serene, betraying no signs of panic or pain. No blood marred their clothes; no visible wounds disrupted their peaceful expressions. Their eyes, wide open, stared into the distance, forever frozen in place, keeping secrets that would never be shared.

Above the house, the sky pulsed a sickly green, a foreboding on that draped the landscape in an otherworldly light. Amidst this unnatural glow, a fearso skull lood large in the heavens, its mouth snarling wide, a serpent writhing from its gaping jaw.

This was the Dark Mark—blazing high above in the sky over foreign soil for the first ti, a terrifying signature of malevolence and despair. France had not been spared. No, not anymore.

Voldemort’s Chambers – Wiltshire

The stone beneath his feet radiated warmth, a reminder of the wards and fury that had been cast in this hidden place. Voldemort stood before the scrying orb embedded in the far wall of the catacomb chamber, its smoky surface swirling with shadowy images of Paris, Vienna, and Marseille. His reflection in the glass was distorted, ethereal—a sight he relished.

Behind him, Lord Radcliff knelt, his complexion pale and trembling, the weight of failure evident in his deanor.

"I tried, my Lord," Radcliff whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "I lobbied extensively. I petitioned relentlessly. I pushed the Indian and Japanese delegates to the brink. But the Aricans—"

"—secured the majority," Voldemort interjected, his gaze still locked on the orb as if it held the answers to his deepest frustrations.

Radcliff nodded solemnly. "The Guild has approved patent oversight that exists beyond British control. They are establishing a neutral trade corridor across Europe. Paris, Naples, Copenhagen—these cities are all under consideration for this new initiative."

An oppressive silence settled over the chamber, stretching endlessly, like a bottomless well of despair.

Then Voldemort turned to face Radcliff, the shadows in the room deepening around him.

"So," he said softly, almost with an unsettling kindness, "you failed."

Radcliff swallowed hard, stamring, "I—"

"No," Voldemort interrupted, his voice slicing through the air like a cold wind. "You did not fail. You gave proof."

He stepped forward with an eerie grace, his dark robes flowing like whispers of velvet smoke, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

"They think a re corridor will shield them," he continued, his tone laced with contempt. "They believe that a flag, a parchnt, a stamp from the International Confederation of Wizards will render them untouchable. But they forget what I truly am."

As he raised a hand—long, pale fingers tipped with blackened, claw-like nails—he touched the edge of the shimring orb that stood ominously before him. Flas flickered to life in its center, casting a flickering glow over the room that danced ominously on the walls.

"I am not a Minister," he declared, the fire within the orb swelling with his declaration. "I am not a delegate."

The flas surged higher, licking the air with an insatiable hunger.

"I do not need permission to burn."

Paris – The Next Morning

The French Ministry was engulfed in chaos.

Ergency wards flared to life across the Seine, casting an eerie glow as magical broadcast orbs blinked with alarming red-alert runes. Aurors darted through the tumult, their movents a frantic blur as they traced elusive phantom trails, urgently shouting orders for containnt.

But it was already too late.

No trace of the assailants remained—no shattered wards to signal their passage, no signature spells to pinpoint their identities, no magical residue to follow. Just the ominous Dark Mark hovering in the sky, a harbinger of doom, and the haunting silence that surrounded three lifeless corpses who had dared to leave the scene.

And ominously, that was only the beginning.

Across Britain – The Sa Night

In Wiltshire, a Montague heir discovered their family vault eerily cracked open, flas flickering ominously from within. The once-glimring gold lay lted into a puddle of slag, a testant to the destruction wrought upon their legacy.

In Kent, a Greengrass cousin plumted from the air, his poisoned broom bindings entwined around him like sinister vines, snaring him in a deadly grip.

In Bristol, the Davis family’s owlway—a crucial conduit for their communications—erupted into a fiery chaos during the night, detonating with a deafening roar and unleashing a storm of shattered glass and ash that rained down upon the courtyard, casting a dark pall over the scene.

No one was officially declared dead in those initial waves of chaos. Yet, the ssage was unmistakable.

Loud. Clear.

"You can file parchnt. You can flee to palaces. But I will find you. And I will burn your na from your own door."

British Ministry of Magic – Panic Room, Midnight

The emigration queue, which had been steadily increasing week by week, suddenly ca to a standstill. Applications disappeared without a trace, leaving hopeful migrants in limbo. Officials stubbornly withheld their signatures, citing the lack of adequate protection for those attempting to leave. The owlrooms, typically bustling with activity, were now overflowing with countless letters, each one going unanswered, each one representing a desperate plea for safety.

A palpable fear hung in the air, sharp and nacing, cutting through the silence like a blade. And in the shadows, Voldemort observed, his cold gaze fixed on the chaos he had wrought.

Riddle Manor – Voldemort’s POV

He sat now, reminiscent of an emperor upon his throne, on the intricately carved basalt seat situated in the very heart of Riddle Manor’s inner sanctum. The air was thick with the rich aroma of incense, swirling in rhythmic patterns, intertwining with a palpable thrill—a sensation of power rekindled, pulsing through every corner of the dimly lit chamber.

He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the mont.

Thoughts of Severus Shafiq flooded his mind—a boy who had turned his back on everything he had once known. The boy who had dared to remind the world that the future of magic wasn’t confined to Britain alone, but rather expanded across horizons yet to be explored.

"You gave them a path, little alchemist," he whispered, his voice a dangerous murmur filled with twisted admiration. "So I’ve set it on fire."

He opened his eyes, sharp and gleaming with ambition, and a slow, satisfied smile crept across his face.

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