The lab was quiet except for the faint hum of containment wards and the steady crackle emanating from the enchanted fireplace. Afternoon shadows stretched long and deep across the cold stone floor, broken only by the radiant gleam of polished copper cauldrons and the orderly rows of crystalline vials that caught the waning light. Before Severus lay a parchment, opened wide, its surface marred where his quill had faltered mid-sentence—ink pooling into dark, jagged scars like spilled shadows.
But his mind was elsewhere. Not here in California, nor within the worn walls of Prince Manor. His thoughts remained trapped in Geneva, endlessly circling through the hollow theater of the ICW chambers.
There, tensions had flared with uncompromising force. Voices thundered, postured, demanded justice. The Americans roared with calls for vengeance, the French pushed vehemently for strict sanctions, while the Germans muttered about legal precedent and caution. Then, Selwyn had stood, his voice smooth and commanding as polished silver, to unveil Voldemort's absurd scapegoat: an "American cabal" of purist fanatics. Lies so transparent they ought to have withered under the lightest scrutiny. And yet, the Confederation had chosen to nod in acceptance, to acquiesce to the falsehood.
Dumbledore had ensured this outcome. With calm, measured words invoking sovereignty and the need for restraint, he had sealed the fate of the debate. Britain emerged unscathed by consequence, bearing only a faint scar upon its international reputation—and even that, Severus knew with grim certainty, would not deter Voldemort.
Severus's jaw clenched tightly. He had faced Voldemort's mercenaries and ravenous wolves right in his own garden, cutting them down swiftly and without hesitation. He was more than capable of doing it again. Yet, even with his skill and resolve, he was not arrogant enough to believe that such brutal duels could ultimately win a war.
No, Voldemort's true advantage lay not in his personal power, but in the terrifying creatures bound to his will. Vampires compelled by ancient blood debts, werewolves shackled to an unbreakable curse, giants cowed into submission by fear, and dementors that thrived on despair itself. Armies like no Ministry or guild could ever hope to match.
Giants? Untouchable, at least for now. To fell one required entire legions armed with fire and steel. Dementors? They remained a mystery to all. No one truly understood what these shadowy fragments of death were — shadows given form and perpetual hunger. No biological sample had ever been captured or studied; no alchemist had the courage to even attempt it.
But the others… Vampires and werewolves. They were not born into their monstrosity. They had been made, twisted by curses and blood in dark alchemical rituals. And what was a curse if not a flawed alchemy of the soul itself?
A memory stirred, sharp and piercing like a knife slicing through the fog of his thoughts.
Vienna. Two summers past. The grand Zabini estate loomed, its walls whispering secrets. The ink on contracts was still fresh and glistening, the air thick with curling smoke from enchanted candles and heavy with the rich scent of aged wine.
Salvatore Zabini leaned forward, eyes steady, voice calm yet charged with the weight of centuries embedded in every measured syllable. "Do you plan to stop at Surge Noir and Velaris Dust?"
Severus, younger then but no less composed, met the question without hesitation. "For now. They are not merely potions—they define whole categories. Each demands its own rigorous refinement."
A faint furrow crossed Salvatore's brow, curiosity peeking through his practiced composure. "No ambitions beyond them?"
Severus tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady and analytical, dissecting the older man's every nuance. "I dream plenty. But I do not construct my work from dreams alone."
Salvatore nodded slowly, deliberately. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a quiet urgency. "Then we would like to offer you one."
Arcturus had remained as still as stone, but his eyes sharpened, alert to every word.
When Salvatore spoke again, his tone was heavy, his words dropping like lead weights into the still waters of the room. "A cure. For vampires. And for werewolves."
The silence that followed was profound and laden with unspoken tension. Severus recalled his own response, soft yet unwavering: "That's not a potion. That's a legacy."
And it is a legacy I can no longer postpone.
He forced his focus back to the present, to the softly glowing vials pulsing faintly within their sealed containment cases. One shimmered with a pale, ethereal silver hue—Prototype L-0, labeled clearly as Lycanthropy. The other radiated a deep, restless crimson—Prototype V-0, marked Vampiric Bloodlust.
His fingers hovered just above the smooth glass, sensing the faint thrum of volatile magic entangled beneath. The power was dangerous, unstable, incomplete—a raw force on the brink of transformation. Yet, within that chaos lay possibility, potential waiting to be shaped.
This was not about firestorms or curses, nor was it the path of open war. No, his chosen course was sharper, more patient. If Voldemort's strength arose from his monstrous legions, then Severus would unravel that foundation. He would strip his enemies' curses away. Cure their afflictions. Free their minds. Deny the Dark Lord the very heart of his armies.
Three birds with one stone: the path to his own Mastery, the cementing of a legacy beyond mere power, and a strategic strike at the core of Voldemort's brutal campaign.
Severus's lips twitched into something that hovered on the edge of a smile—cold, precise, and resolute.
"Very well," he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, filled with quiet menace. "If Voldemort wants war… then I will take away his soldiers before he even has a chance to march."
The vials pulsed once in response, as if acknowledging their shared purpose.
And with that, Severus Shafiq began to weave the first threads of his calculated retribution.
The fire in the Prince study flickered warmly, casting long, dancing shadows across the richly paneled walls and the scattered stacks of ancient tomes. Arcturus stood resolutely by the hearth, his hands firmly clasped atop the polished handle of his cane, his gaze steady and unreadable. Nearby, Eileen sat close to the firelight, her posture tense yet composed, with Julius curled comfortably against her side. The boy's eyes shifted between the crackling flames and the worn pages of his book, half-absorbed in the story, half-drawn by the gravity of the conversation unfolding around him.
Severus's voice broke the silence with resolute clarity, each word weighted with unwavering intent. "I am going to pursue it. A cure. For vampirism. For lycanthropy."
At this, Eileen's hand stiffened mid-motion, her fingers tightening instinctively around Julius's shoulder as if anchoring herself to the moment. Her eyes rose to meet Severus's, filled with a mixture of pride and a deep, palpable fear. "Severus… you're already marked by him. Do you intend to paint a target twice as large upon your back?"
Arcturus's expression grew sharper, his features hardening in response. "This is not merely alchemy," he said, voice low and measured. "This is politics. If you succeed—" He tapped his cane decisively against the cold stone floor, the sharp crack echoing through the stillness. "—you will render half the Dark Lord's allies irrelevant overnight."
Severus met Arcturus's gaze evenly, his voice dropping to a quiet, almost solemn tone. "And if I fail?"
"Then you will die with more honor than most ever taste in their entire lives," Arcturus replied bluntly, his words carrying the weight of a grim but noble certainty.
"Don't," Eileen snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and urgency. "Don't speak like that." She turned back to Severus, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I cannot lose you, not after everything we've been through. Do you understand me? Not for some… experiment." Her words hung heavily in the air, charged with raw emotion.
Severus's voice softened, though the steel in his eyes remained unyielding. "This is not an experiment," he said quietly, his tone firm despite the softness. "It's a war. And I refuse to fight it on his terms."
Julius, who had been silent until now, gently closed his worn book and looked up at them. His young voice, clear and innocent, broke the heavy tension like a lone bell cutting through the fog. "If you cure them… will they be free?"
The room fell into a heavy stillness. Severus crouched down slowly to meet the boy's gaze, his black eyes steady and unwavering. "If I succeed," he answered, his voice almost gentle, "they'll be more than free. They'll be human again."
Julius nodded solemnly, as if the hope in that promise alone was enough to sustain him.
The silvered surface of the communication mirror rippled softly, and the sharp-boned face of Lorenzo Zabini materialized, framed by the warm, flickering glow of his study's lanterns. His dark eyes, always calculating with a hint of icy detachment, flicked briefly to the side before he inclined his head with deliberate precision. Standing silently beside him was Salvatore Zabini, tall and statuesque, his posture rigid and commanding as if carved from marble. His presence exuded the quiet authority of a seasoned patriarch, a man who had outlasted countless rivals and outgrown crumbling empires. In the dim background, leaning against a pristine white marble column with arms folded tightly across her chest, Isadora lingered half in shadow. Her storm-grey eyes bore into the glass with an intensity both unreadable and unnerving.
"You're certain," Lorenzo said, his tone curt and resolute, leaving no space for doubt or negotiation. It was not the tentative question of a cautious ally seeking reassurance — this was a demand, a challenge pressed with firm insistence.
On the other side of the mirror, Severus inclined his head in acknowledgement. He straightened with measured composure, squared his shoulders, and responded in a low, steady voice charged with quiet conviction.
"I am. Voldemort's true power does not lie in his wand, not in its entirety. It stems from the monstrous creatures that follow him — the werewolves bound by unbreakable blood oaths, the vampires ensnared by their endless hunger. The giants he intimidates, the dementors he feeds — they are only pieces of his strength. But those others..." He allowed the sentence to hang, trailing into a heavy silence that spoke volumes.
Salvatore's eyes glittered like polished obsidian embedded deep within the mirror's surface. A faint curl tugged at the corner of his lips, a smile just shy of crossing the threshold into mockery. "So, you intend to set his beasts free from their chains."
Severus's long, slender fingers drummed lightly against the worn surface of the desk. "I would deny him his army," he said evenly. "Werewolves did not choose their affliction; it was forced upon them by fate. Vampires, however, are not born—they are enslaved through blood, bound by a curse that can be broken. If I can unravel that binding, I will do more than merely brew a potent potion. I will shatter the very foundation upon which his war is built."
A charged silence settled between them. Lorenzo's head tilted slightly to the side, his sharp features tightening into a skeptical line. "You mean to resume what we discussed in Vienna," he said quietly.
The memory hazed over but the weight of those words lingered, echoing through the present moment like a distant drumbeat growing nearer.
Severus inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "If I am to attempt this, I will require more than mere ingredients. I need every record your family possesses—every ancient scroll, every fragment of research, every failed experiment conducted by the masters your house has sponsored over the centuries. Their notes, their theories, their errors, and even their disappointments. Nothing must remain hidden."
Lorenzo arched a single brow, a mixture of challenge and curiosity in his gaze. "You presume much, ragazzo. This is centuries of knowledge, guarded as fiercely as the treasures locked away in our vaults."
Severus met his gaze, voice steady and unyielding, as cold and sharpened as tempered steel. "Then the choice is yours. Will you treat me as a mere supplier, a means to an end? Or will you trust me as a true partner in this endeavor?"
For the first time, a flicker of surprise briefly softened the elegance of Lorenzo's reserved mask. Salvatore, standing silently nearby, inclined his head with quiet pride, his narrowed eyes reflecting a complex approval.
"You ask as a lord would ask," the patriarch said slowly, his voice heavy with age and authority. "And you answer like a man who understands the price of power. That, Severus, is why we offered you the dream in Vienna."
Severus allowed a faint shadow of acknowledgment to cross his face. "I will also need volunteers," he said, his tone deliberate.
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed even further, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity flickering within their depths. "Volunteers?" he repeated, incredulous.
"Yes," Severus affirmed firmly. "Not prisoners. Not slaves. Not broken bodies meant for cruel experiments. If this work is to hold any true meaning, it must offer hope, not perpetuate suffering. Your family's network stretches across the werewolf packs and the enclaves of the old bloodlines alike. Somewhere within those circles lie individuals desperate enough to risk everything for this chance. Bring them to me. But do so quietly."
Salvatore studied Severus intently, his gaze unwavering as if weighing the weight of his request. After a long moment, he leaned toward the mirror, his voice low and sonorous, laden with the gravity and authority accumulated over centuries.
"Then so it shall be. We will open the vaults, and through discreet inquiries, we shall find them. But understand this, Severus: the moment you reveal to the world that you can tame the wolf or starve the serpent, you will no longer be the boy we once sponsored. You will become… something vastly different. Something no man can control."
From her quiet position in the background, Isadora's voice slipped into the charged silence, cool and cutting as a blade.
"Something more than he ever expected."
Her steely grey eyes locked with Severus's through the wavering glass, and for an instant, he felt the same unsettling gravity that had gripped him back in Florence. She was no longer the girl lurking in the shadows. She had become the storm incarnate, fierce and unyielding.
Lorenzo's mouth twisted into a thin, knowing smirk, though his gaze drifted sideways toward his niece, shadowed with a flicker of irritation. "Be careful, Isadora. Dangerous things cut both ways."
Her responding smile was slow, deliberate, tinged with dark promise. "Dangerous things are the only ones worth wielding."
Severus did not—and could not—tear his eyes away.
The mirror shimmered once more before its surface darkened, leaving only his own reflection behind—a pale, hollow-cheeked figure, his eyes sharp and hard as polished obsidian.
For the first time, the truth seared through Severus's mind with piercing clarity. This was not a mere dalliance or another experiment to be shelved once the Guild bestowed him a title. This was his chosen path.
A cure would not merely mark the completion of his Mastery. It would unravel Voldemort's greatest advantage—his army of soldiers twisted into monsters, stripped of their humanity.
With this, he could turn the tide: three birds with one stone—Mastery. Legacy. War.
Severus's hand hovered uncertainly above the pulsing vials on his desk—one shimmering silver, the other a deep, vivid blood-red. He whispered into the charged, expectant air, each word sharp and resolute like a cutting blade:
"If he means to forge an army of monsters… I will take them from him. I will salt the earth beneath his feet."
The vials trembled in response, their faint light flickering like the first sparks of a fire, hungry to be fed.
The lab was shrouded in an almost reverent silence, pierced only by the low, constant hum of the containment wards guarding their precious secrets. On the worn wooden workbench, two vials rested beneath delicate glass domes, each glowing with an otherworldly light. One shimmered with a restless silver gleam, as if it held within it the fractured reflection of a broken moon, fragile yet hauntingly beautiful. The other pulsed with a faint but steady red glow, reminiscent of a heartbeat buried deep beneath layers of stone—persistent, unwavering. Prototype L-0. Prototype V-0.
Severus stood over the table, his hands planted firmly on the surface, fingers splayed as if seeking stability. His head hung low in concentration. There was no sound of speech, no rustle of parchment, no quill scratching out intricate formulae. Only the quiet, electric thrum of possibility hung in the air—raw, unshaped, brimming with latent power.
His pale reflection wavered within the curved glass of the domes—sharp features, eyes burning like black fire, haunted by memories of the boy he once was and the lord he had become. Perhaps soon, something more.
The vials pulsed again in unison, their flickering light casting shifting shadows across Severus's face. He did not smile. He did not utter a single word. But in the profound silence of Prince Manor's deepest chamber, Severus Shafiq forged a vow deep within his soul.
Not to defend. Not to endure. But to unmake.
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