Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 72 - 69: Designs in the Dark

The Zabini negotiation chamber carried a subtle aroma of obsidian ink, intertwined with hints of citrus-oiled wood and the metallic scent of iron-rich wards. The atmosphere was neither warm nor cold; it felt starkly clinical, like a space designed for deals that would outlast the lives of those who brokered them.

Severus sat at the oval table, his posture impeccably straight, fingers poised yet relaxed against the parchment laid out before him. Beside him was Arcturus Prince, who appeared ageless, his expression an inscrutable mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts. Facing them across the table was Salvatore Zabini, calm and unflinching, with a gaze that bore an intensity beneath its placid surface. Lorenzo leaned back slightly in his chair, a wine glass resting untouched in his grip, embodying an air of quiet observation. Benedetta was busy, her quill swiftly dancing across the parchment, jotting down notes in a hushed urgency. Mateo stood sentinel just behind the chairs, positioned near the heavy drapes, his watchful presence adding an unspoken tension to the gathering.

The contract had been signed only a few hours prior, yet the room felt charged with the anticipation of a significant shift, as if something profound was on the brink of unfolding.

It was Salvatore who finally shattered the taut silence. "Do you plan to stop at Surge Noir and Velaris Dust?"

The question sounded casual at first glance, but Severus detected the underlying weight carried within it. He remained composed, not allowing even a flicker of emotion to surface.

"For now?" Severus replied smoothly, his voice steady. "Yes. They aren't merely potions. They represent entire categories. Each requires careful refinement, thorough testing, and precise containment."

"No dreams beyond them?" Salvatore inquired, his brows furrowing slightly in curiosity.

Severus tilted his head, studying Salvatore with an intensity that seemed to sift through the layers of his thoughts. "I dream plenty. But I don't build with dreams," he replied, his voice steady and measured.

Salvatore offered a single nod, the movement subtle yet deliberate, and leaned in a fraction closer. There was a new energy to his voice, still soft but now charged with a sense of urgency. "Then we'd like to give you one."

Arcturus remained still as a statue, but the sharpness in his gaze intensified, suggesting that he was fully immersed in the unfolding conversation.

Severus, ever the embodiment of patience, remained silent, allowing the weight of anticipation to settle around them.

When Salvatore spoke again, his words resonated like heavy stones dropped into still water. "A cure. For vampires. And for werewolves."

The silence that enveloped them was not one of shock but of profound awareness. It pressed against the walls, coiling beneath the table like a sentient entity, palpable and thick.

Severus didn't blink, displaying an exterior calm, but within the depths of his gaze, something narrowed and sharpened as if preparing for the implications of Salvatore's proposition. "That's not a potion," he said quietly, each word deliberate. "That's a legacy."

A hint of satisfaction flickered across Salvatore's lips, though it did not form into a smile. "Good, then we are on the same page."

Then Salvatore began to explain, his voice steady yet laden with the weight of history. The Zabinis had brokered blood deals with various vampire enclaves and werewolf packs for over a century, weaving a web of alliances that were both silent and unbreakable. These were not mere transactions; they were insidious protections, hidden payments that spanned generations, and strategic interventions that kept the fragile peace intact.

"We don't rule them," Salvatore stated firmly, his gaze unwavering. "But they owe us. Some were rescued from dire fates. Others are indebted due to past favors. And there are those who are simply shrewd enough to align themselves with those who hold the gold and the means to shield them." He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in.

"None of them chose their curse. It was thrust upon them by forces beyond their control, and none can break free from its grasp. Every few decades, some brilliant theorist emerges, claiming they've found a way to stabilize moon-binding or develop a cure for blood compulsion. But it always ends in failure, or worse—it often kills."

Severus, lost in thought, interjected, "Because they treat the condition like an infection," his voice distant yet tinged with awareness. "They don't see it as a transformation."

Salvatore met his eyes with a knowing look. "You understand," he affirmed, recognizing the depth of Severus's insight.

"I understand what it would entail," Severus replied, his tone shifting to one of seriousness. "You're asking for more than just a brew or potion. You're seeking a complete reversal of magical identity. This requires nothing less than a remapping of the soul itself."

"And if we granted you complete freedom," Lorenzo interjected, a hint of an enticing smirk on his lips, "along with all the unfortunate test subjects you could possibly require...?"

Severus's jaw clenched tightly, his expression resolute.

"No forced experimentation," he replied in a firm, unwavering tone. "No black-bonded subjects. No manipulation. If I'm to engage in this, it has to be as a healer. Not as a master manipulating lives."

Arcturus remained silent, yet the weight of his unspoken approval hung in the charged air, a silent agreement that resonated with the gravity of the moment.

Salvatore, recognizing the seriousness of the conversation, didn't offer any objections. Instead, he gave a nod of acknowledgment. "That seems fair."

The atmosphere shifted, thick with unspoken tension.

Mateo stepped forward, his presence more purposeful now. "Are you fully aware of what you've just committed to pursue?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

Severus straightened, his resolve unyielding. "A cure," he stated, each word infused with conviction.

"No," Mateo replied softly, a shadow crossing his face. "You're pursuing a myth. Or perhaps, a leash."

Severus's smile was fleeting but strained, a thin line that barely hinted at his determination. "Then let's embark on this journey and discover which it truly is."

Later that night, Severus sat alone in his dimly lit quarters, the vibrant city lights of Vienna flickering like distant stars beyond the high-arched windows. He had changed into a robe, its fabric as dark and quietly unassuming as the thoughts swirling in his mind. Beside him, his research notes floated in stasis, a shimmering collection of ideas and discoveries waiting to be explored.

He absently flipped through old case files, poring over the frustrated attempts of potion masters who had once endeavored to "alleviate lycanthropy" or "counter vampire bloodlust." The record was grim—most had failed outright, while those few who succeeded invariably left behind nothing but corpses, a chilling reminder of the stakes involved in their work.

But suddenly, one footnote caught his eye—an old thesis penned by a Japanese soulcrafter. Its content sparked a flicker of interest within him. "The curse reconfigures the subject's magical imprint. Not a virus. A fusion."

A soul-warping, he mused to himself.

It was not simply a disease, nor an infection. It was something far more profound and insidious, something that nested deep within a person, rewriting their very essence—an alteration of their aura that fundamentally changed their magical identity.

He stared intently at the words on the page, his mind racing with implications. Then, with newfound determination, he summoned a fresh scroll and, with a steady hand, wrote three words across the top in bold, elegant script. "Not a cure."

He hesitated for a moment, contemplating the weight of that phrase. Finally, he underlined it with purpose and added a clarifying note: "A rewrite."

Zabini Villa, Isadora POV

Isadora sat curled up in one of the plush, high-backed chairs near the flickering fire, the warm glow illuminating her thoughtful expression as Salvatore and Lorenzo returned to their suite. She had already meticulously reviewed the transcript—every line, every pause, lingering on each nuance of meaning.

Her gaze remained fixed on the steaming cup of tea in her hands.

"He didn't reject it," she announced, her voice steady.

Salvatore raised an inquisitive brow, leaning slightly closer. "Hmm?"

"He reasoned it," she replied, swirling her cup gently to let the aromatic steam waft towards her. "Which means he's the right one."

Lorenzo chuckled, his laughter rich and warm as he hung his coat on the nearby hook. "So long as he doesn't fly too close to the sun," he added, a hint of mischief in his tone.

"Then we just need to ensure he doesn't venture too far alone," she murmured, her eyes distant as she contemplated the possible consequences.

From the far corner of the room, Lord Vittorio Zabini, who had remained silent and watchful until now, finally spoke up. His cane tapped once against the polished marble floor, the sound resonating with authority.

"You don't tame someone like Severus Shafiq," he said softly but firmly. "You walk beside him until the path turns."

In the flickering firelight, a palpable sense of understanding passed among them, and no one dared to argue.

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