Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 64 - 61: Masks and Moves

"Only if they're lazy," she shot back playfully, a cheeky wink accompanying her words.

As the conversation unfolded, others chimed in, their questions wrapped in layers of compliments and veiled challenges. Each remark seemed to dance with curiosity, eager to probe deeper into his work.

"So your Draught enhances magical stamina. How exactly did you manage to solve the crash curve?" one voice asked, genuine admiration evident.

"Do you incorporate Soul Forge diagnostics, or do you prefer the traditional method of aura layering?" another added, leaning in as if trying to catch every nuance of his explanation.

"And tell us," a third questioner interjected, "did Ilvermorny fund your trials, or are you proudly self-backed?"

Severus navigated the gathering with an effortless grace, his responses always a step ahead of the dialogue, revealing just enough without overexposing himself. He observed the ebb and flow of conversations, keenly attuned to their subtle body language and nuanced word choices. Who deferred and who displayed bravado, who was eager to impart knowledge and who listened with intent. It wasn't a show of bravado—it was an intricate mapping of the social landscape before him.

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Langford weaved through the throngs of conversing guests like a predatory hawk clutching a wineglass, occasionally leaning closer to murmur names or gently beckoning Severus toward introductions that could prove advantageous.

"Master Chen from the ICW Research Arm. A name you should commit to memory."

"That's Saito—he reverse-engineered a binding salve specifically for blood magic. A mind that treads dangerously close to brilliance."

"And the one dressed in red? Best to steer clear. Her formulas are laced not just with ingredients, but with malice."

Eventually, Severus excused himself, making his way to the refreshment table to refill his drink—water, naturally—and it was at that moment that his gaze fell upon them.

The British Potioneers' Guild delegation arrived fashionably late, as was to be expected. They formed a tight cluster, their robes adorned with the Guild's crest, an emblem of their esteemed status. Surrounding them were their favored apprentices, eager yet nervous, and a handful of scowling elders whose faces had remained set in grim lines for decades, betraying little emotion.

Severus caught snippets of their whispered conversation drifting toward him:

"...inflated by foreign praise, no doubt..."

"...he's still untested. Let's see how he holds under pressure."

Feeling the weight of their scrutiny, he turned his head slowly, meeting their gaze with unwavering intensity, refusing to blink.

Lord Arcturus Prince materialized beside him, as if summoned by the very essence of bloodlines that intertwined their fates.

"Gentlemen," Arcturus said with an air of cool elegance, his voice smooth like fine silk. "Has the atmosphere shifted, or is that the unmistakable scent of British entitlement drifting over the wine?"

A few members of the gathering chuckled softly, an acknowledgment of his pointed remark. Others, however, stiffened in response, the tension palpable. Severus remained silent, feeling no need to respond. He stood erect, his hands meticulously folded behind his back, his expression an inscrutable mask that revealed nothing.

One of the Guild representatives—a stout man with thinning hair that reflected his waning influence—offered a thin, humorless smile. "Prince. We hadn't realized your ward was... mingling."

Arcturus's brow arched slightly in response, both amused and dismissive. "He isn't mingling. He's observing. That's precisely what inventors do: they listen and learn from the world around them."

Severus inclined his head ever so slightly. "And I find silence far more revealing than most monologues," he added, his voice steady. The man blinked, taken aback by the unexpected retort. With that, the Guild moved on, their attention shifting to the next topic, leaving the air thick with unresolved tension.

Arcturus let out a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle. "Not bad," he murmured, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "But don't waste sharp words on dull knives." The air between them crackled with an unspoken understanding.

They stood together in the grand hall, their gazes sweeping over the bustling courtyard as delegates from around the world mingled, the atmosphere alive with excitement and energy. Severus's eyes landed on the French delegation, engaged in animated conversation with a group from South Korea. The world of potions was vast, rich with history and innovation, constantly evolving before his very eyes. And he found himself standing right in the eye of this swirling storm of progress.

Later that night, Severus embarked on a quiet walk, treading softly along the polished marble corridors that wound toward the eastern terrace of the Summit Hall. Each step resonated with a subtle echo, a reminder of the weight of history surrounding him. Overhead, the stars glittered against the dark canvas of the Viennese sky, sharp and unfamiliar, as if he had traveled to another realm entirely.

He wasn't overwhelmed by the experience; the beauty, while striking, felt distant. But he wasn't settled, either—a restlessness flickered within him, an anticipation that coursed through his veins like an electric current. And perhaps that sense of unease was a good thing. It was a reminder that when you were in the process of carving your name into the fabric of the world's memory, comfort was a luxury one could scarcely afford.

Not yet.

Tomorrow marked the beginning of orientation, the starting line of a new Chapter. The game would commence, intricate and demanding, and Severus Shafiq had always played to win, driven by an unyielding ambition and a fierce desire to leave an indelible mark on this ever-shifting landscape.

As the evening drew to a close, the atmosphere was filled with the sound of polite farewells as guests began to filter out of the hall, trading contact parchments like tokens of friendship and connection. However, the British Potioneers' Guild delegation lingered behind, retreating into one of the reserved strategy chambers located at the far end of the Summit Hall, away from the dwindling crowd.

The room was cloaked in a subdued glow, the air thick with the hushed murmurs of privacy runes that ensured their conversation would remain confidential. A long, imposing table dominated the center of the space, its surface enchanted to showcase an array of moving dossiers and updates on international patents, the flickering runes casting a dance of light and shadow across the focused faces gathered around it.

Eustace Greaves, a squat and balding member of the Guild, let out a weary grunt as he removed his Guild pin and tossed it onto the table, the metallic clink echoing slightly in the stillness of the room.

"Well," he muttered, his brow furrowed in thought, "he's more composed than I expected."

Across the table, Senior Guild Officer Morwenna Bletchley—her piercing gaze framed by wisps of silver hair—interlaced her fingers atop a sealed folder emblazoned with the name SHAFIQ.

"He's not just composed," she replied, her voice steady and low, laced with a sense of urgency. "He's dangerous. And we let him slip right through our fingers."

"Don't be dramatic," someone in the shadows murmured, their tone dismissive.

But Morwenna remained unfazed, her focus unwavering.

"This summit represents our opportunity to reclaim our significance. Britain hasn't produced a new certified potion in over six years," she asserted, her eyes narrowing. "We are perceived as nothing more than traditionalists—safe, predictable, and dull. The International Confederation of Wizards views us as a relic of the past, rather than a beacon of innovation."

With a deliberate motion, she tapped the folder, emphasizing the weight of their situation.

"If Shafiq signs with a foreign entity—if he continues to align himself with Prince, Langford, or even worse—the Zabinis or the Delacours—we will lose any claim to him. And that sets a dangerous precedent for us."

Eustace's brows furrowed in concern. "So, you want us to bring him back?"

Bletchley shook his head slightly. "We want to bring him back under British influence," he clarified, his tone firm. "Even if he doesn't physically return to Britain, it's crucial that his patents and production lines must go through our approval—everything he creates must be routed through us."

Eustace leaned forward, skepticism etched across his face. "And what if he resists such measures?"

A thin smile crept onto Bletchley's lips, a hint of calculation behind it. "Everyone resists—until the right incentives are offered, of course."

With that, she closed the folder decisively, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Tomorrow," she stated, her voice resolute, "we begin laying the groundwork to ensure our influence remains strong."

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