Severus POV
The California morning was crisp, the chill air carrying a briny hint of the ocean far below the cliffs. Sunlight poured generously through the high windows of Prince Manor's west hall, catching on the polished marble floors and scattering off delicate wardlight crystals mounted at regular intervals along the paneled walls. Severus strode forward with Eileen at his side, while Arcturus followed at a respectful distance behind them. Leading the way with swift assurance was Mrs. Renshaw, the dignified head of household staff, her clipboard of enchanted parchment and quill hovering just ahead of her, ready to record every detail.
As they traversed the echoing main reception hall, they passed by house-elves who hovered in midair atop softly gliding enchanted ladders. The little figures were hard at work, their nimble fingers buffing the crystal chandeliers overhead until every facet of gold and glass glittered in the morning light. Below, the long banquet tables stood like bare skeletons, draped with perfectly pressed linen cloths, and each seat marked with placeholders awaiting their enchanted nameplates. The air buzzed quietly with the anticipation and hidden magic of preparations.
"Invitations have been confirmed for eighty-seven guests," Mrs. Renshaw announced crisply, consulting her floating parchment. "This count excludes the domestic staff and, of course, your associates, Lord Prince." She offered Arcturus a brief, measuring glance before continuing, "However, there remain a handful of questionable acceptances."
Severus arched an eyebrow. "Such as?"
Mrs. Renshaw pursed her lips, tapping at a name on the list. "A Mr. Carrow, who claims affiliation with the Portuguese Alchemical Guild—though he is known to move in certain British circles. And then there is a supposed French financier. He alleges representation for an import house, but the documentation he provided is, at best, ambiguous."
Arcturus gave a low, rumbling sound of disapproval. "Fishing expeditions," he muttered. "They'll come to probe—quietly weighing your wards, sizing up your resources, and inspecting your guests—all without offering anything of real value in exchange."
Eileen's voice softened, though her message held fast. "No matter what their motives, Severus, remember: first impressions carry weight. Even those who only seek advantage must sense that they've been treated with dignity and grace."
Severus's expression tightened. "That might prove challenging, considering they're less interested in our hospitality than in pushing its limits."
A trace of dry amusement flickered in Arcturus's eyes. "Precisely why this gathering happens here, on our ground, under our terms. We dictate the rules."
Mrs. Renshaw, standing nearby with her ever-present parchment, marked something before looking up. "There's another issue to attend to: the Zabini delegation. I've received word that Lord Lorenzo Zabini himself will be arriving ahead of schedule to manage certain… logistical matters."
"By which they mean security," Arcturus interjected immediately. "A prudent move—they rarely take risks where safety is concerned."
Severus nodded thoughtfully. "Caution is a trait we can work with. Sometimes, a touch of paranoia makes for the most reliable allies."
Eileen slowed her pace as they stepped into the main gallery, where tall windows poured golden afternoon sunlight across the polished parquet floor in wide, luminous bands. She drew a slow breath, turning to meet the gazes of both Arcturus and Severus with measured seriousness. "There's something I want to make clear," she said, her voice steady but gentle. "Wards and guards are necessary, but this house cannot feel like a citadel. Our guests must step into warmth, not suspicion—if they so much as sense they're entering a fortress, the evening is lost before it begins."
Arcturus's mouth curled in a wry half-smile. "So—hospitality, but no softness."
"Precisely," Eileen agreed, the tension easing minutely from her shoulders.
Severus was opening his mouth to reply when the door to the gallery swung open and a young footman hurried in, his cheeks flushed and his hat clutched nervously in his hands. He bowed quickly. "Pardon, my Lords, my Lady—Mrs. Renshaw—one of the new house-elves reported something strange this morning."
Mrs. Renshaw straightened. "Go on," she prompted, her tone brisk but not unkind.
The footman hesitated, glancing at Mrs. Renshaw as though seeking final approval to continue, then said in a lowered tone, "At dawn, while tending to the east gardens, the elf saw—well, he described it as a 'flicker' in the wards. Like a ripple or shimmer in the air, just for a heartbeat. He thought it might have been part of the recalibration and didn't mention it at once."
Severus eyed him closely. "Did you check with the team handling the wards?"
"They confirmed, sir—there was no planned recalibration at that hour."
Arcturus's eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening. "Have the ward lines in that sector inspected again. Quietly. I want no rumors, but leave nothing unchecked."
Mrs. Renshaw immediately began jotting a note on her ever-present parchment, lips pressed in concentration.
Severus glanced up at the sunlit windows, the warm light now spooling across the floor seeming colder, edged with the memory of the elf's account. "If it's nothing, we'll learn soon enough," he said aloud, attempting reassurance. Yet privately, a knot of unease tightened in his chest—he did not believe in harmless coincidences.
Lorenzo Zabini POV
The afternoon sun stretched long, golden shadows across the rugged coastal cliffs as the Zabini convoy wound its way up the serpentine road toward Prince Manor. Lorenzo sat in the lead carriage, his posture immaculate as he gazed through the charmed, crystal-clear glass that afforded him an unbroken view of the vast Californian estate sprawled ahead. Though his expression remained inscrutable, a subtle intensity sharpened his gaze; he noted every undulation of the land, catalogued each unnatural gap in the cypress windbreaks, every subtle hint of a concealed path or magical disturbance.
Seated across from him, Matteo Ricci—the man Lorenzo trusted above all others—appeared at ease, one boot propped casually atop the other as he lounged in the seat. Yet, despite his languid poise, every muscle was ready; his attentiveness hid beneath a façade of indifference. "Three of the Shadows have already scouted the approach," Matteo said in a low voice, his words meant only for Lorenzo. "Perimeters are clear. Wards are dense—layered spells, all keyed strictly to certain magical signatures, no doubt."
Lorenzo's mouth curved in a faint, knowing smile. "Exactly as I thought. Lord Prince is meticulous—never careless enough to leave obvious vulnerabilities. That's what brings us here: we're to uncover the flaws he's hidden from even himself."
Trailing behind their carriage, the remainder of the convoy carried the six members of the Shadow Squad. To anyone outside the tightly controlled Zabini circle, these were simply business professionals—mercenaries brought in to advise on matters of 'logistics and protection' for sensitive shipments. In truth, each was a deadly operative: elite assassins and guardians, trained to disappear undetected into any throng, as adept at blending in as they were at eliminating threats in utter silence. Arcturus Prince had been discreetly told that Lorenzo's companions would handle 'arrangement coordination' during their visit, a phrase that did little justice to the reality.
When they arrived, the stately entrance to Prince Manor awaited, its meticulously-kept gardens throwing fragrant shadows over polished stone paths. There, waiting in the courtyard, stood Arcturus Prince himself, his bearing as impeccable as the manor behind him. The great-uncle of Severus Shafiq looked every inch the dignified patriarch, leaning lightly on a finely carved cane. His ice-grey eyes surveyed the arrivals with composed curiosity, their chill tempered by a courteous, if distant, welcome.
"Lord Zabini," Arcturus greeted, inclining his head with measured courtesy. "Your assistance is appreciated. I understand your presence is meant to ensure all proceedings remain orderly."
Lorenzo returned the gesture, his posture embodying polished diplomacy. "Prince Manor's hospitality is widely regarded, but sometimes a fresh perspective can illuminate overlooked details. These"—he motioned toward Matteo and the two closest Shadows—"are trusted associates from my own organization. They'll liaise with your staff to identify and resolve potential vulnerabilities as they arise."
Arcturus's gaze swept over the newcomers, discerning only the uniform elegance of tailored suits and the impassive professionalism in their demeanor. "Very well," he replied, voice cool but acquiescent. "I'll instruct my steward to make the proper introductions."
Within the hour, while guests engaged in the customary round of tours and polite conversation, Lorenzo and Matteo managed to slip away, their withdrawal barely noted. The Shadows, moving in silent, disciplined pairs, patrolled the manor's labyrinthine corridors. Their eyes constantly measured the width of each hallway and doorway, noting the strategic location of alcoves and staircases. They paused at every exit—front and rear doors, servants' passages, and even hidden egresses behind tapestries—subtly testing the wards and quietly marking the positions of each.
Every corridor's line of sight was mapped; every blind spot noted with unobtrusive nods and murmured observations.
Later, in a quiet alcove of the east library, away from the low hum of conversation, Lorenzo and Arcturus stood over a sprawling, hand-drawn layout of the manor. The parchment was marked with precise annotations. Lorenzo traced key routes with a gloved finger. "Here, here, and here—these are natural choke points. Should an armed incursion occur, these halls can be locked down quickly, minimizing risk to your staff," he explained, his tone clipped but informative. "But your north terrace—see?—is dangerously exposed. Too many possible approach vectors; attackers could exploit the angles easily."
Arcturus examined the annotated map, betraying no emotion. "We've already increased patrols in that area," he said. "It will be fortified and access restricted well before the first guest sets foot inside."
As the discussion drew to a close, Matteo approached Lorenzo with a quiet urgency, his footsteps barely audible. "We've discovered something," he whispered, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening. "One of the Shadows found traces of a scrying attempt near the east gardens—fresh, but with no signature left behind. Whoever did it was thorough. They covered their magical tracks entirely."
Lorenzo's expression remained inscrutable, but a chill entered his tone. "That stays between us for now. Double the sweep frequency—every thirty minutes, no exceptions. If you spot anything else, report directly to me."
Matteo gave a small, sharp nod before slipping silently back into the gloom beyond the lamplight.
Nearby, Arcturus watched the exchange, suspicion flickering in his gaze. "Is there a problem?" he asked quietly.
Lorenzo offered a practiced smile, his demeanor calm and unruffled. "Only what we expect in our line of work," he replied. "Better to assume we're under observation than risk being blindsided."
Unknown POV
The case was scarcely larger than a shoebox, its surface an unreflective matte black, bound at the corners with iron clasps. Not a single rune or sigil marked its lid, and yet the surrounding air shimmered, as if light itself hesitated to touch the object. Standing near it, one might feel the faintest thrumming—an illusion, perhaps, or the sense of something inside pulsing with its own silent heartbeat.
Five sets of hands had ferried it this far, none belonging to Death Eaters in any recognizable way. Voldemort's couriers were selected precisely for their anonymity: brokers and smugglers with spotless public records, mercenaries able to move through customs without raising suspicion, and resourceful opportunists who valued gold above conscience and knew better than to pry into their cargo.
The current courier, striding through a rain-damp alley behind King's Cross, looked every bit the professional businessman—clean cut, precisely tailored suit, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder. In truth, it was his fourth Polyjuice disguise in as many days. His itinerary tangled across continents: first slipping out of Britain by a mundane ferry—no apparating, no flying—then enduring the darkness and clangor of a magically shielded freighter's cargo hold as it plowed across the Atlantic. South America came next, where humid nights blurred into wary days, and from there he wound north, always circling, never granting a pattern to his movements.
At every arrival point, he adopted a new face, a new accent. His travel documents were flawless—some conjured, some forged, a few legitimate but with just enough magic layered in to pass the closest inspection. Through it all, he kept the case within arm's reach, its protections silent and unnervingly efficient; enchantments he was forbidden, or perhaps unable, to understand.
Late one night, in a sparsely populated Brazilian guesthouse, he glimpsed a figure stationed across the narrow street. The watcher hardly moved—the press of their stare icy and intent. Without a backward glance, he slipped out the window before sunrise, melting into the city's waking currents. Who observed him—ICW sorcerers, bounty hunters, or even Voldemort's own sentinels—was a question he could not answer, and did not intend to linger on. His task remained unchanged: deliver the package, nothing more.
By week's end, he disembarked from another nondescript ferry onto a Los Angeles wharf. The heat was dry and foreign, laced with the scent of brine and gasoline. He made his way into a quiet alley, away from the bustle of the port, and withdrew a tightly folded scrap of parchment from his jacket pocket. The final instructions were brief—a name, a description, a precise meeting point—and as directed, he struck a match and watched the parchment shrivel into ash on the pavement. Then, adjusting his grip on the black case, he vanished into the city's maze, the burden still nestled under his arm, as enigmatic and perilous as when the journey began.
Narcissa Black POV
The Black family's London townhouse was seldom tranquil, its sprawling corridors echoing with footsteps and arguments, but today's morning quiet fractured abruptly beneath Bellatrix's voice, sharp as a drawn dagger and twice as cutting.
"…hosting it in California, of all places," Bella raged from the drawing room, her words clipped with disdain. "The sheer gall—bringing together the Zabinis, half the ICW, every American guild whose name means anything, as though that makes them our peers! Imagine it."
Narcissa paused on the threshold, letting the rich morning light catch in the pale fall of her hair. Her poise was impeccable, her face set in an expression of affected indifference, yet behind those cool blue eyes, she weighed every word. "Who, precisely, are 'they'?" she asked, her voice light and conversational, tone suggesting only mild curiosity.
"The Princes and the Shafiqs," Bellatrix spat, the names laced with contempt. "Some so-called graduation gala—hardly. It's a recruitment masquerade, nothing more. Invitations sent to anyone they think matters—" She cut herself off, lips tightening and nostrils pinched in fury.
Narcissa let her cousin's tirade wash over her, but her mind shifted—even as she appeared disengaged—to Severus Shafiq. Regulus had spoken of Severus in their youth, describing a boy with an innate brilliance for potions—a prodigy who, by merit, should have been swept into Lucius Malfoy's circle of promising young Death Eaters. She had assumed he would take the usual path: accept a powerful patron, curry favour, advance through the Dark Lord's ranks—a clever, unremarkable addition to greater ambitions.
Instead, Severus Shafiq had refused the well-trodden road carved out for ambitious purebloods. He had forged his own legacy—amassing influence, building new alliances, achieving a notoriety without bending to the old names or their designs. He had subverted all her expectations, and in a family obsessed with predictability, that sort of defiance was rare. Rare enough, Narcissa thought, for her to take notice now.
Her thoughts sharpened and coalesced into resolve. If she could persuade Lucius that this party represented an opportunity for political gain, her parents would find no cause to object. Lucius, after all, was proud—yet his pragmatism always prevailed when strategy was at stake. He would not lightly forgo a gathering that promised the prospect of new alliances, not to mention valuable intelligence.
That afternoon, she discovered him ensconced in the Malfoy family's private library, the late sunlight gilding the spines of ancient tomes. He stood by the great window, a scroll of trade accounts unfurled in his elegant hands, brows knit in concentration. Narcissa entered silently at first, every movement measured: her footsteps were soft but purposeful, calculated to claim his attention at precisely the right moment without disturbing his deliberations.
She waited until his gaze flickered toward her, then began, her tone conversational. "Have you heard about the gathering at Prince Manor, in California? It's meant to be a graduation celebration for Severus Shafiq. I expect the guest list will be… formidable, to say the least."
Lucius looked up in earnest now, interest piqued. "The Shafiq boy? The name has circulated. I understand the International Confederation of Wizards, the Zabinis, and nearly half the American guilds will be present. Is that right?"
"Closer to two-thirds," Narcissa corrected gently as she eased herself into a chair opposite him. Her fingers traced the carved armrest absently, her expression thoughtful. "And not just guilds—there will be certain houses from Britain as well, particularly those whose relations with the Ministry have grown… tense. Many will be seeking new trade partners, some perhaps even allies. Others, I suspect, will want to air their grievances regarding how matters are handled at home." She let her words linger, meeting his eyes. "Anyone astute enough to attend—to listen carefully and discern the undercurrents—could gain much."
Lucius's eyes grew intent, sharpening with a glint of calculation. "You believe I should go."
Narcissa's response was measured, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. "I believe," she said softly, "that to be absent will stand out far more than to be present. Those who attend will remember who had the insight to appear at such a gathering."
He regarded her in silence, eyes narrowing as he sifted through the layers of her meaning. "The timing is inconvenient. The journey is long, and there are obligations here that cannot be ignored—"
Narcissa leaned in, allowing her voice to drop to a gentle murmur, as if sharing a secret meant only for him. "And yet, you've always said influence is claimed in rooms where decisions are yet unspoken, where allegiances are quietly forged. I have no doubt this will be one of those rooms." She watched him levelly, her poise unwavering. "If it would be helpful, I would accompany you. My presence might ease certain introductions, perhaps open doors that might otherwise remain closed."
Lucius's lips quirked into a faint smile—whether out of amusement or shrewd appraisal, Narcissa could not quite decipher. "Perhaps you are correct," he allowed. "I will give the matter some thought."
Narcissa inclined her head with graceful assurance, concealing the satisfaction she felt behind a serene mask. Internally, she knew she had carefully sown the idea, and Lucius Malfoy was not a man to let opportunity wither where it might prosper.
Yes, she thought, rising to her feet and smoothing the flowing fabric of her robes. She would go. She needed to see with her own eyes the man Severus Shafiq had become—and to understand why, for the first time, her certainty about someone's character had wavered.
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