Prince Manor – California, Private Potions Laboratory
California's new Prince Manor still carried the scent of fresh-cut oak and polished stone—a crisp, lingering aroma that spoke of recent construction and careful hands. The sea breeze drifted in through enchanted windows, sharpening the air with its briny tang and mingling unexpectedly with the faint bitterness of dried dittany and the metallic whisper of bottled dragon scale.
Severus moved deliberately through his new workspace, taking quiet satisfaction in ordering his shelves. Volatile reagents were placed on the highest shelves and sealed behind sturdy locks. Temperature-sensitive brews nestled safely in the charmed cold storage, where gentle blue sigils glowed in the dimness. Runed cauldrons—each one battered and familiar—stood with their rims angled away from the morning sun, ensuring no stray shaft of light would ever interfere with a precise reaction. The arrangement was a ritual in itself, one Severus had missed during his restless years at Ilvermorny, when supplies were always shared and nothing was entirely his own.
It had been seven days—just seven—since graduation. Seven days since he'd turned his back on the press of exams, the omnipresent gaze of his professors, and the echo of countless footsteps on endless stone corridors. Now, silence reigned here at Prince Manor: weighty, nearly solemn, yet wholly his own.
Four original potions. Ten documented improvements. He listed them silently, reassuring himself of the substance behind his aspirations. The Rejuvenation Elixir and Vigorem Draught—completed in his sixth year. The Clarity Draught and Neurocalm Serum—perfected in his seventh. Just one more original invention, and the International Potioneers' Guild would be forced to recognize his mastery, regardless of his bypassed apprenticeship.
Two ideas already simmered at the edges of his thoughts, bright and insistent. But Severus had promised both himself and his mother that he would allow himself a short respite before plunging back into the relentless focus of creation. For now, he walked the sunlit expanse of his workroom and breathed in—the mingled scents of magic, ambition, and new beginnings.
A sharp knock at the laboratory door shattered his concentration.
"Come in," Severus called, closing his hand around his quill.
Eileen was the first to enter, soft footsteps accompanied by the gentle upward curve of a secretive smile. Behind her came Arcturus, cane tapping out a steady rhythm on the marble floor—his entrance always deliberate, as though he refused to let anyone forget his presence. Julius, the youngest of the trio and Severus's cousin, lingered in the doorway, eyes wide and brimming with unfiltered curiosity, half-hidden behind Arcturus's imposing figure.
"We have news," Eileen announced. Her tone was light—almost careless—but her eyes glittered with the hint of a joke she had yet to share.
Severus arched a skeptical brow. "Let me guess: this is the sort of news where the two of you have made decisions without even the pretense of including me?"
Arcturus's mouth curled into a knowing smirk. "Of course. In exactly two weeks, Prince Manor will play host to a celebration in your honor. Graduation, recent achievements—formal recognition, the works."
Severus shut his ledger with a snap. "A party?"
Eileen's features softened, affection replacing mischief. "Not just any party, Severus. This is for you specifically. You've carried burdens far beyond your years, and it's time someone acknowledged it. You should be celebrated."
Arcturus remained unmoved by sentiment; his gaze stayed sharp, a clear undercurrent of calculation in his posture. "And more than that, it will be an excellent occasion to present you—properly—to a select group. Individuals whose favor will prove crucial to your professional and political standing in the coming years."
Severus reclined against the workbench, arms crossing as he appraised them all. "So, we're calling this a graduation party, but it sounds more like a debutante ball."
"Debutante Ball?" Julius echoed from his corner of the room, wrinkling his nose in clear distaste. "Isn't that something for girls?"
Arcturus's reply was laced with dry wit. "The principle is the same," he said, folding his hands neatly. "And it serves young men just as well—especially those who have, let's say, attracted attention."
Severus tried not to sigh, though the urge was strong. "What if I refuse?"
Eileen fixed him with a sidelong glance, her meaning obvious even without words: refusal wasn't on the table. "You won't," she said quietly. "I know you'd rather spend time with your cauldrons, but you understand how important alliances can be."
Severus sought a retort, but before he could answer, Julius burst in, his excitement barely contained. "Can I invite some of my friends? Please? Just a handful—they'll be on their best behavior, I swear."
Arcturus regarded Julius with an expression that managed to blend amusement and faint warning. "This is not a casual gathering for games, Julius."
Julius pressed on, undeterred. "They're respectable! And they already think my cousin is brilliant. Really, they'd be properly impressed." His bright eyes flicked over to Severus with a hopeful grin.
Severus allowed the faintest quirk of his lips, an expression so subtle it might almost be missed. "One condition — if they spill even a single drop of pumpkin juice on the carpet, you'll be the one scrubbing it out. No magic allowed."
Julius grinned, utterly unfazed by the threat. "Deal!"
Arcturus sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile, and muttered something under his breath about "youthful enthusiasm" and "ruined upholstery." Straightening, he fixed Severus with a direct look. "The guest list is already underway. Expect the Zabinis, several well-connected ICW representatives, and at least half the West Coast alchemical guild to attend. Dress accordingly—and discreetly."
Severus drew in a slow breath, letting it out as he glanced back to his workbench. There, two sealed containment units pulsed with a dull, inner light — the cores of his next potions, each humming with potential energy. Dangerous ideas, he thought. Ambitious ones, almost alive beneath the glass.
"I'll be ready," he said quietly, conviction steadying his tone.
Eileen moved beside him for a heartbeat longer, her hand squeezing his shoulder in silent encouragement before she followed Arcturus toward the door. Julius, already plotting which friends to invite, trailed behind, whispering gleefully as his footsteps faded.
The lab fell into quiet once more, the hush settling around Severus like a familiar cloak.
He studied the containment units, their glow reflected in the dark glass of his eyes. "Not yet," he murmured under his breath.
The potions shimmered in response, silent but waiting — as if biding their time until he was ready to unleash them.
Zabini Estate, Northern Italy – Isadora's Study
The letter lay on her desk like a relic from an earlier age, its thick parchment catching stray rays of the late afternoon sun. The red wax seal, once pristine, had been broken hours before, yet the embossed impression of the Prince family crest lingered with a dignity of its own, as if the weight of the lineage could be felt through the paper.
It was an invitation to Prince Manor—a summons to a celebration in honor of Severus Shafiq's graduation. The weight of the occasion was unmistakable. Isadora leaned back in her chair, her long, elegant fingers absentmindedly spinning the heavy card between them. The gold-inked script shimmered each time it caught the light, subtly luxurious, elegant without ostentation—an apt reflection of the man at the center of such distinction.
Nearly a year had slipped by since Salzburg. She still remembered the charged atmosphere beneath the towering arches of the dueling coliseum, the distant roar of the crowd reverberating through the stone, and Severus himself—a solitary figure in the center—methodically dismantling his opponent. The precision of his movements had fascinated her, a kind of ruthless beauty that was impossible to look away from.
But what had lingered far longer was that brief, unpredictable instant when their eyes had met across the arena. Through the press of strangers, his gaze had found hers—dark, searching, almost arresting in its intensity. For a heartbeat suspended between one breath and the next, Isadora was convinced he might leap the barrier of bodies, compelled solely by the force of that connection.
Instead, she had looked away, retreating before that possibility could unfold, disappearing into the shifting crowd. She'd told herself it was strategy—a scholar's need for distance, observation without intrusion, that the clearest truths revealed themselves when unobserved. Yet even now, as her lips twisted into a faint, self-mocking smile, Isadora could not quite banish the quieter truth: beneath every calculation, there had been hesitation—an uncertainty she wasn't ready to name.
If she went to this party, there would be no more hiding. Her uncle Lorenzo and Mateo Ricci were already set to attend on behalf of the Zabinis; their names, weighty with reputation, were printed in elegant script on the guest list. Her father, Salvatore, remained ensnared in yet another round of delicate negotiations in Venice, his absence a silent mark of the family's ceaseless ambitions. Technically, her presence was not required; she could have stayed invisible, just as she always had, a whisper in the corridors, a shadow at family gatherings.
But tonight, the urge was different. She wanted to go—badly. She was tired of silent observation, tired of being a phantom hovering on the edge of his life. She yearned to speak to him directly, to stand before him without the safe shield of distance or anonymity. She wanted to know if Severus Shafiq, whom she had studied from afar with near-scholarly intensity, was truly the same when viewed at arm's length, his eyes meeting hers without pretense.
Rising from her chair, she straightened her back and smoothed invisible dust from her black silk robes. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching the afternoon light filtering through the tall windows, the rich folds suggesting power and discretion in equal measure. The gold pin at her collar — a stylized serpent bearing the Zabini family crest — glinted as she adjusted it, a small yet potent reminder of the name she bore, and the burdens that accompanied it.
But in this family, desire was never enough. Not even for her. The chain of tradition wound tightly around each decision, and before she could act on her longing, she needed permission. No request to Lord Vittorio Zabini, her grandfather — head of the family and architect of their far-reaching empire — was simple, not even one that sounded like mere formality.
She tucked the heavy parchment of the invitation into a slim leather folder, its surface embossed with her initials, and squared her shoulders. The marble beneath her shoes echoed her determination as she made her way down the corridor toward the east wing. There, behind an imposing door guarded by a pair of silent house elves, her grandfather's study awaited.
Her heartbeat had already begun to drum in her chest—not with fear, but with the quiet certainty that whatever choice she made, tonight's decision would mark a turning point. Once taken, this step could not be unmade.
Zabini Estate, Northern Italy – Lord Vittorio Zabini's Office
Vittorio Zabini distrusted gut feelings. They were unruly things, impossible to quantify or command. Yet when they wormed their way into his thoughts—persistent and unbidden—he could not wholly ignore them.
Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, slicing bright angles across the deep polish of his ebony desk. The gold-embossed Zabini crest hung behind him, its intricate patterns blazing in the late afternoon glare. Opposite, Isadora waited, every inch composed in her sweeping black silk robes, her hands clasped with deceptive ease before her. Though her face betrayed nothing, her eyes remained vigilant, catching every nuance.
At length, Vittorio broke the silence. "You will go," he pronounced, each word deliberate and absolute. His tone offered no refuge for hesitation. "Our associates will be present in number. Your presence serves us—it is useful that you are seen."
Isadora regarded him, her gaze sharply perceptive. She measured the meaning behind his words, parsing loyalties and intentions. "To be seen by them," she asked, drawing out the words, "or is there someone else whose attention you value more?"
A shadow of amusement flickered across Vittorio's lips, barely there and gone in an instant. "Does it truly matter? Either way, their notice—and yours—moves us toward the same objective."
She inclined her head, but a hard edge threaded through her answer. "I will go. Do not mistake me for a pawn, Father. I dance to no one's tune—not theirs, and not yours."
Vittorio leaned back, folding his hands together, studying her as though committing every line of her posture to memory. "You are a Zabini, Isadora. Every stride you take shapes the melody, whether you deign to listen to it or not. Do not forget that."
She gave a small nod—acknowledgment, not surrender—and turned away, her footsteps quiet against the polished floor. The door closed behind her with a gentle click, but Vittorio's gaze lingered, as if he could still see her silhouette in the wood. Only when the silence stretched did he move, pressing the inlaid silver bell set into the corner of his desk.
It chimed softly, and within moments, the door swung open again. Lorenzo entered, his presence a whirl of restrained energy. The youngest Zabini's eyes were wary, sharp with the restless awareness of someone always weighing curiosity against caution.
"You called for me, Father?" Lorenzo asked, his demeanor respectful but edged with intrigue.
"She will accompany you to California," Vittorio said, wasting no time on pleasantries.
Lorenzo's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Isadora? I wasn't expecting that."
"And," Vittorio went on smoothly, his voice leaving no room for argument, "you'll take ten members of the Shadow Squad with you."
That gave Lorenzo pause; his expression flickered, surprise translating into skepticism. "Ten? For a party, Father?"
Vittorio steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing as he studied his son. "I have a feeling," he said, voice low.
Lorenzo's mouth lifted in a crooked, almost teasing smile. "One of your famous feelings."
Vittorio's expression softened, but his eyes remained hard. "My feelings, as you call them, have saved this family more than once." He paused, letting the words settle between them. "Something is coming. I do not know what yet. But I will not risk my blood unguarded, not now."
Lorenzo watched him closely, gauging the gravity behind each word. "Then I'll choose every one of them myself. Men and women I trust completely. No outsiders."
"Good," Vittorio replied, his voice low and intent as he leaned forward. "They must remain invisible. If there's any sign of danger, I want it dealt with swiftly—over before anyone even knows it started."
Lorenzo's easy smile disappeared, replaced by a harder edge. "It's clear."
The Shadow Squad—ten operatives moving like mist, trained to kill as efficiently as they protected—would land on California soil days before any guest set foot on the estate. Every post would be secured, their lines of retreat memorized, contingency plans rehearsed until they were instinct.
If trouble found them, the Shadow Squad would be the thin line holding back chaos, the difference between the family's survival and utter ruin.
Prince Manor – California, Private Potions Laboratory
The manor was quiet once more. In the laboratory, two sealed containment units emitted a faint, pulsating glow—within each, the iridescent beginnings of what would become his next two groundbreaking creations shimmered with potential. One was meticulously designed to shatter the ancient curse of lycanthropy, offering hope where none had existed before; the other, a daring and perilous experiment, sought to alter the very nature of vampiric blood addiction.
Severus placed his hand gently upon the cool surface of the containment glass, his reflection wavering amid the shifting colors inside. "Very soon," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. The potions, swirling silently in their capsules, gave no reply. But Severus did not need their reassurance. The world was unprepared for what he had orchestrated, and he anticipated with a subtle thrill the chaos and revelations that would soon unfold—nonetheless, he intended to savor every moment.
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