Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 69 - 66: The Hand Beneath the Table

Lord Vittorio Zabini's POV

Zabini Manor – 11:00 PM

The old manor exuded an air of solemnity and profound silence.

Lord Vittorio Zabini stood solitary in the circular chamber beneath the estate—an ancient space hewn from volcanic stone many centuries prior, where generations of his lineage had gathered to whisper dark secrets, conspire, and subtly mold their destinies in the shadows. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of aged parchment, rich black cedarwood, and a faint metallic undertone of ancient enchantments still infusing the very walls with their lingering power.

His fingers rested lightly on the serpent-headed cane that was as much a part of him as his own flesh—a cherished heirloom that had belonged to his grandfather. As his fingertips traced the intricate gold coil of the cane absentmindedly, his gaze remained fixated on an expanse of unadorned marble wall, its surface cool and impassive.

To anyone else, it would merely appear as a solid piece of stone, nothing more than an artifact of the manor's long history.

To Vittorio, however, it was a dramatic stage set for an unfolding scene yet to come.

Something was stirring, he could sense it.

Not within the confines of the manor, but in the vast, throbbing world outside.

He felt its presence, not through the clarity of reasoned thought, nor through the balance sheets of ledgers or the bindings of blood contracts, but through a deeper, more primal intuition. It was the unsettling chill that crept beneath his collar whenever fate chose to pivot upon its axis, heralding change that was both inevitable and ominous.

Lorenzo had sent the message, a simple act that, on the surface, seemed unremarkable. However, the tone was urgent, infused with a sense of unease that was palpable even through the written words.

Lorenzo was his second son—charismatic and sharp-minded, a young man known for his eloquence and quick wit. Yet, he was not one to jump to conclusions or to react impulsively. The fact that he had summoned both his elder brother and their father indicated that he had witnessed something significant, an event or revelation that caused him to pause and seek counsel. Lorenzo did not hesitate lightly; if he was reaching out in such a manner, it meant that whatever he had encountered was a challenge too substantial for him to confront alone.

This realization struck Vittorio with clarity. He understood instantly that the situation was serious. He stepped forward, the base of his cane tapping softly against the cool stone floor of the dimly lit hallway, a sound that echoed his rising determination.

This meeting was going to be unlike any other, filled with weighty implications and urgent questions. He would not leave any stone unturned nor depend on the flawed retellings of others to grasp the full gravity of the situation.

"Benedetta," he said, his voice as smooth and rich as poured oil, filling the space around them with a sense of calm authority.

The poised woman stepped gracefully from the shadows of the alcove housing the communication mirror, her posture impeccable, always attuned to his needs. "Yes, my lord?" she replied, her tone both respectful and attentive.

"I want a full view of tonight's meeting. Live," he commanded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the importance of the gathering.

Benedetta tilted her head, a subtle gesture of inquiry. "Do you wish to use the Oath Mirror, or—"

"No." His voice sliced through the air, both firm and serene. "Not overtly. We'll observe without being observed."

A flicker of understanding ignited in her eyes, brightening her expression. "The wall, then."

He gave a single, deliberate nod, the weight of his decision settling in the air between them. "Layer it well. Hidden behind the marble. Untraceable. No echoes. No aura trails. I want full visual and sound. Make it appear to be just another wall in that villa—one even a Prince wouldn't think twice about."

Benedetta bowed her head once in acknowledgment, her focus sharpening as she turned briskly on her heel to execute his orders, her mind already crafting the intricate spells needed for their covert surveillance.

Vittorio, now alone with his thoughts, returned his gaze to the smooth surface of the marble, contemplating the events that would soon unfold behind its facade.

He was nearly a hundred and twenty years old, a living testament to the passage of time. To the outside world, he was the esteemed patriarch of the Zabini empire—calculating, composed, and seemingly untouchable. Yet, beneath that polished exterior, a primal instinct still thrummed within him. It was the instinct that detected the scent of blood in water long before the events unfolded.

Tonight, something was destined to change in the complex tapestry of his life. He could sense it in the air, a palpable shift that stirred the atmosphere around him. And he would be watching closely, his keen eyes ready to decipher the ripples of fate as they began to unfold.

He turned toward one of the guards stationed at the door, his gaze piercing through the dim light of the chamber. "Fetch Isadora," he commanded, his voice low and firm. "Tell her I want her in the chamber before midnight."

The guard hesitated for a fleeting moment—just a blink that hinted at uncertainty—then bowed his head and swiftly departed, the soft clatter of his armor echoing down the hallway.

Vittorio remained rooted in place, his thoughts swirling like shadows around him. He wasn't standing as a patriarch, carrying the weight of family legacy on his shoulders. Nor was he merely a father, filled with protective instincts. Instead, he felt more like a specter, lingering at the edge of an unknown precipice—a boundary between the past he knew and an uncertain future.

He had no clear understanding of the kind of boy Lorenzo had brought into that villa, nor did he grasp the deeper game lurking beneath the surface of the wine they would soon share. But one thing was certain: answers would come, whether he was ready or not.

And if the Shafiq heir truly possessed the fierce ambition and cunning his reputation suggested...

Then the horizon of his family's future might appear vastly different by the time the sun rose, casting its light on the unfolding possibilities.

Zabini Manor – The Observation Chamber – 11:30 PM

The chamber doors parted soundlessly, creating an almost reverent atmosphere. Vittorio Zabini remained unmoving, his focus unwavering. He sensed the faint click of polished heels on the stone floor, accompanied by the almost imperceptible inhale of a sharp, calculating breath. His fingers tightened around the head of his cane, feeling the cool gold serpent beneath his touch, which seemed to pulse with warmth as a subtle shift in the air signaled her presence. Power entered the room—not with a loud entrance or a brash display, but with an unmistakable aura of patience, poise, and a legacy that was undeniable.

Isadora Zabini was always precise. She was exactly on time.

She glided into the room with the elegance of a future meticulously crafted by his own hands—not like Salvatore, who thrived on raw ambition and ruthlessness; not like Lorenzo, who charmed with silver-tongued ease. Isadora embodied something altogether different, something transcendent.

At just fifteen, she bore herself with the composed restraint of a woman twice her age, possessing the instincts of someone three times as lethal. Tonight, her robes were a rich midnight-blue, adorned with nearly invisible silver thread that traced the seams—strikingly elegant yet resolutely strong. Her dark hair was coiled neatly back into an obsidian clasp, a stark contrast to her fair complexion. Her wand, conveniently holstered at her wrist, subtly shifted with each step she took—always alert, always ready, embodying an acute awareness of her surroundings.

Vittorio allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. Though he would never voice it aloud, the sentiment lingered in the unspoken air between them.

"You called for me, Nonno?" she asked, her voice steady and calm, reflecting the stillness of a winter's mirror. She dipped her head in a gesture of respect—strong and poised, yet never diminished.

Vittorio turned to her at last, fully confronting her presence. His gaze swept over her, taking in every detail, measuring her demeanor and character with an approving eye.

"You're here to observe," he stated, his tone carrying the weight of significance. "There's a meeting—a gathering of minds and intentions. One I believe will prove... instructive."

He gestured toward the distant wall, where the enchanted marble now pulsed softly, its faint glow illuminating the edges in a mystical aura. The surface of the mirror shimmered to life—silent, yet exuding an air of perfect clarity.

Within its depths lay a grand chamber, hidden away deep in the villa district at the summit. A single table stood at the center, surrounded by five chairs arranged around it. Strikingly absent was any crest on the wall, a conspicuous lack of visible allegiance marked by the emptiness that surrounded the scene. In stark contrast to the grandeur of the room, a lone boy dressed in black sat, isolated yet seemingly at ease, flanked only by four members of Vittorio's bloodline.

"Severus Shafiq," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she stepped forward, drawn in by an invisible force.

She didn't seek permission to intrude upon this private gathering. She never needed to.

Vittorio, seated nearby, offered no response. His silence spoke volumes, an understanding that neither of them needed to voice.

Isadora Zabini's POV

She had heard whispers about the Shafiq boy, the youngest dual-inventor whose talents had already gained him ICW certification at such a tender age. His lineage tied intricately to the illustrious Prince family, he wore the Shafiq name as if it were a crown, untouched by the shadows of old blood and quiet infamy that often marred a family's reputation. Yet, whispers were merely fleeting breezes, lacking substance. freeweɓnovel.cøm

Now, here was her first opportunity to truly see him. To her surprise, he appeared younger than she had anticipated. Slim and composed, he carried an air of stillness that was almost palpable, like smoke contained delicately within a crystal vial. His gaze didn't flit about the room; instead, it pierced through the distractions, keenly observant of the world around him. Sitting across from her father, Salvatore, he held himself with an ease that suggested a sense of parity between them, as if he were not outnumbered four to one by the adults around him.

Interesting, she thought.

With a deliberate motion, she folded her arms, opting to stand rather than take the chair nearby. Standing felt more empowering, allowing her to command her space while the conversation unfolded.

The meeting commenced in the typical fashion of influential gatherings: with an array of small talk, polished glasses of wine, and a veneer of perfumed civility. Uncle Lorenzo took the lead, weaving through conversations with the grace of a seasoned dancer, effortlessly charming those around him. In contrast, Father remained silent, a vigilant observer, his demeanor predatory as he lurked behind a towering bookcase, eyes fixed on the interactions like a hawk surveying its domain.

And the boy? He played the game, yet he was far from submissive. When he presented his terms, there was no trace of apology or hesitation in his demeanor. Instead, he exuded an air of unwavering confidence, his resolve sharp and gleaming like obsidian.

"He's negotiating from ground he hasn't even claimed yet," Benedetta whispered, a thought that slipped from her lips more to herself than to anyone else in the room. It was a bold maneuver—or perhaps reckless.

Then came the pivotal moment. The atmosphere shifted unexpectedly as the topic arose. Surge Noir.

He did not need to label it as a weapon; its implications were clear enough. Benedetta noticed the subtle change in her father's posture, a near imperceptible stiffening at the mere mention of it. Her fingers, poised over her parchment, tensed involuntarily, and even Ricci Senior's eyes, usually hidden behind thick spectacles, lifted with curiosity and concern. The air grew thick with tension, marking a turning point in their negotiations.

And still, the boy did not boast. He simply extended an invitation. A challenge. A sample. Like a serpent revealing its glistening fang for just a fleeting moment. Then—he placed the second box on the table, its surface gleaming, trimmed with obsidian and secured with intricate rune locks that glimmered faintly in the light.

With a voice so calm it sliced through the tension in the air, he declared: "Velaris Dust."

She inhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the silence, not merely at the mention of the name, but at what he revealed next. It was a substance unlike any other—a narcotic designed specifically for magical beings, yet it held the ability to affect Muggles too; a groundbreaking creation, the very first of its kind.

Her heartbeat gradually slowed, settling into a steady rhythm. She prided herself on her composure; surprises rarely rattled her. But this? This was different. It wasn't just another tactic or ploy. No, this was something far grander—a vast market filled with untapped potential. A sprawling kingdom devoid of a ruler. And there, amidst the chaos of opportunities, Severus Shafiq had just extended an astonishing offer: a chance for her family to seize the throne.

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