Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 98 - 96: When the Curtain Rips - Part 1

Severus's POV – Midday, Zabini Estate

The study was enveloped in a hushed stillness, broken only by the gentle scratch of quill on parchment. Severus leaned forward at his desk, his brow deeply furrowed in concentration as he poured his thoughts into the paper before him. He hadn't intended to draw her—hadn't put pencil or charcoal to paper for anyone in years—but the image had surged forth, unbidden, through his fingers. With each deliberate stroke of the charcoal, her likeness materialized, pulling him further into a vivid recollection.

The silver of her eyes had haunted him relentlessly, shimmering like distant stars against the night sky. Not merely gray. Not a soft pale blue. Silver. As if the very essence of moonlight had condensed into her gaze, embodying both ethereal beauty and unyielding resolve.

He tilted the sketch slightly, scrutinizing it from different angles as he sought perfection in each line and shadow. Her features were undeniably delicate, elegant like a fragile flower, yet there was nothing soft about her expression. It held a fierce intensity, a challenge that echoed the unwavering way she had stared back at him. And then there was the memory of her sudden disappearance, leaving him with an unsettling sense of longing and unresolved questions.

He set the aged parchment down on the table, suddenly becoming aware of the faint buzzing sensation in his skull—a subtle reminder of the energies swirling within him.

"Eva?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

A soft chime resonated in his mind. "Yes?"

"That girl from last night—she had those striking silver eyes. Did you manage to… log her presence, or is she merely a figment of my imagination?"

"Your mental and magical core remain stable. No hallucinogenic interference detected. No illusions confirmed within the field perimeter. Conclusion: external stimuli verified. Her presence is real."

So, she hadn't been just a mirage, a trick of the light, a curse, or some elaborate conjuration born of stress and spell fatigue.

She was undeniably real.

He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight, his gaze drifting back to the parchment, where inked words swirled in an arduous dance.

And she had seen him, too. That undeniable connection flickered in his mind like an ember waiting to ignite.

Isadora's POV – Evening, Zabini Archives

The private archives beneath Lord Vittorio's study held a history older than the estate itself, their aged walls imbued with protective runes that hummed softly against Isadora's ribs like a distant heartbeat. As a child, she had spent countless hours maneuvering between these towering shelves, meticulously cataloging sealed dossiers and absorbing the hushed whispers of her family's ambitions, intricately woven within the delicate threads of parchment and ink.

But tonight felt different; the familiar solitude was shattered.

"Cloaking yourself inside the coliseum's ward perimeter?" Lord Vittorio inquired, his voice a low murmur that resonated with a curious intensity—far more unsettling than mere anger.

Isadora pivoted away from the sturdy central archive desk, where she had just laid down the Severus Shafiq dossier, its contents secure yet laden with implications. She inclined her head slightly, the gesture a mix of respect and caution.

"I was observing," she replied, trying to steady her racing heart.

"So I gathered." He stepped into the warm glow of the enchanted lamplight, the soft golden illumination casting elongated shadows across the stone floor. His cane clicked against the ground, a sharp punctuation in the stillness. "Not through scrying or sensors. But with your own eyes."

She remained silent, a weight settling in the air between them.

"You watched him like an heirloom under appraisal," he said, his hands folding neatly behind his back, a posture both relaxed and authoritative. "But that's not what truly concerns me."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, soft yet tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "What does?"

"That you stopped appraising," Vittorio replied, intensity flickering in his eyes. "You began admiring."

Isadora flinched at the accusation, heat rising to her cheeks, but she didn't look away.

Vittorio tilted his head slightly, studying her with a calculating gaze, as if she were a strategic piece on a chessboard. "I do not forbid curiosity. In fact, it can be a useful tool. But I warn you, child—if you're going to observe him, do it as a strategist. Think like a tactician, not as a girl caught in the thrill of infatuation. Not as a rival eager to prove herself. And certainly, never as a victim of curiosity. Curiosity… loses kingdoms."

A lump formed in her throat, and she felt the gravity of his words sink in as reality reclaimed its sharp edges. She gave a small, measured nod, her expression resolute. "Understood."

Vittorio paused to catch his breath, the weight of the moment hanging in the air. Then, just as silently as he had arrived, he turned away and left the room, his presence fading like a whisper in the stillness.

She remained where she was, unmoving. Standing beside the file marked Orbis, she felt a strange pull towards the chaos within. Her hand lingered above the vivid red ink she had splattered across the page the night before, memories of her late-night struggle with the information swirling in her mind.

Her fascination was undeniable, a magnetic force drawing her in. Yet, a part of her resisted, steeling her resolve. She knew that she could not let her curiosity dictate her actions; she would remain in control, refusing to be ruled by the dangerous allure of the unknown.

The Guild Watches – ICW Business & Trade Guild, Marseille

The air in the vaulted chamber was stiff with parchment dust, polished gold, and the faint tension of too many rival nations gathered under one roof. Floating chandeliers glowed low above the ICW's Trade Guild assembly—composed of potion masters, industrialists, merchant families, asset regulators, and diplomatic observers from over forty magical nations.

At the center of the circular table, holographic sigils illuminated the room in a soft, pale blue hue, each representing the crest of a magical nation or an economic bloc. Among them, Britain's sigil pulsated with an alarming intensity, a stark visual indication of the growing turmoil.

Lord Radcliffe—Britain's Trade Envoy and a seasoned political strategist known for his unyielding demeanor—stood with an unwavering posture at his appointed place. His voice reverberated through the enchanted chamber like a dark prophecy, laden with urgency and frustration.

"In the past fiscal quarter alone, twenty-one businesses—yes, twenty-one—have registered full or partial withdrawals from British jurisdiction," he declared, his tone reflecting a mixture of disbelief and anger. "Among them are significant players: Prince Holdings, renowned for their sponsorship of various magical enterprises; Shafiq Biochemical, known for groundbreaking potions; the Peltier Transfiguration Trust, critical in spell innovation; Voclain Alchemical, a staple in alchemical advancement; and the Ainsley-Graves Academiae Cooperative, a prominent educational institution. Whether half-blood, pureblood, or neutral, they are all transferring assets, uprooting their families, and relocating trademarks abroad."

With a flick of his wand, a detailed projection sprang to life above the table—a map of Europe marked by a network of ominous red arrows streaming out of the United Kingdom. The arrows pointed toward distant shores: the coasts of North America, the vibrant markets of France and Italy, the budding magical industries of India, and the advanced alchemical centers of Japan.

"This is more than just a trend; this is an economic siege. If this body does not take decisive action, I assure you, Britain's magical economy will face catastrophic collapse within the decade," he warned, his voice carrying the weight of impending disaster.

There were a few murmurs in the room, but most eyes remained fixed and watchful. A woman draped in deep navy robes leaned forward from her seat—the unmistakable figure of Madame Lefevre, the representative for the Magical Economic Accord of Continental Europe.

"Perhaps," she said deliberately, her voice steady yet thoughtful, "it is not so much that Britain is under siege. Instead, it might be that the ship we're all aboard is sinking, leaving the passengers to frantically search for lifeboats to ensure their survival."

Radcliffe interjected sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "The ICW exists to prevent unilateral economic sabotage!"

Madison Rowe, the American delegate, responded with an unnerving calmness, her tone as cool as winter glass. "No, that isn't quite accurate," she said firmly. "The ICW exists to uphold transparency and neutrality in international economic dealings. What you are describing isn't sabotage—it's a matter of strategy. Many businesses establish companies and branch offices in international waters to foster growth and expansion. There's nothing inherently wrong with that; it's entirely legal."

Rajan Iyer, representing India, nodded calmly, his expression measured. "All relocation requests originating from the Shafiq and Prince holdings, as well as those associated with the Peltier Trust, have followed the sanctioned trade processes outlined by the International Confederation of Wizards. Furthermore, dual-citizenship petitions were submitted to facilitate smoother business operations. All business transitions were executed in accordance with the International Magical Migration Act. Your grievances do not lie with this council; they rest with your own policies and decisions."

From the far side of the opulent chamber, the delegate from Eastern Europe, Viktor Markovich, a seasoned war-profiteer adorned with an ornate obsidian tiepin, let out a dry, derisive laugh. "What you label as economic theft, Lord Radcliffe, I perceive as the workings of a free market. You've driven away your innovators; now others are poised to reap the rewards. Such is the cycle of empires—it is how they crumble under their own weight."

Radcliffe turned sharply towards the American delegation, his fingers twitching in a display of barely contained anger. "And what of the International Confederation of Wizards' responsibility to uphold stability in magical trade? If you permit this ongoing trend to persist, other prominent families will inevitably follow suit. The Greengrasses, the Davises, and the Montagues; even the Lestranges' branch in East Africa has discreetly shifted its funds offshore. If we allow this to become the norm—"

"We have normalized the situation," Rowe stated in a low, steady tone, his gaze unwavering. "Today's motion is straightforward: all magical enterprises relocating from Britain will be subjected to a third-party economic review, conducted beyond British jurisdiction. This measure aims to guarantee legality and fair trade—independent of any allegiance to political factions."

Lefevre raised her wand, the soft glow illuminating the room as she tapped the air, a signal of support. "France supports the motion."

"India stands in favor."

"Italy endorses this as well."

"Brazil is in agreement, aye."

"Japan confirms its support."

"South Africa is on board."

Even representatives from Australia and Canada nodded in agreement, their expressions resolute.

The only dissent came from Britain, alongside Germany and Russia, Australia and New Zealand who chose to abstain, as did one bloc of Scandinavian nations.

The enchanted quill glided gracefully through the air, its tip shimmering as it inscribed the ruling in elegant silver ink across the parchment:

*Motion Passed – 71% Majority.*

The ICW Economic Review Committee will oversee all outgoing British-linked magical businesses, with reviews to be conducted beyond British soil.

Radcliffe stood there, a statue of shock, his lips white with disbelief and anger. The harsh reality of what had just transpired settled heavily on his shoulders. The damage was irreparable, a wound that would take years to heal, if it ever could.

As the chamber emptied, a murmur of discontent followed the British envoy down the dimly lit hallway. Delegates exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of disdain and triumph.

"He thought he could keep them in chains," muttered one delegate under his breath, a bitter edge in his voice.

"Now even the chains are for sale," another delegate replied, their tone sharp with derision.

Meanwhile, across the vast sea, as quills scratched on parchment and files were meticulously sealed, the name Severus Shafiq re-emerged. This time, however, it was not alone; it appeared alongside the names of hundreds of others, each representing a life ready to embrace the unknown. A new map unfolded before them, revealing a network of new trade routes—pathways of possibility.

And in the eyes of the world?

Not exile, but opportunity.

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