Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 65 - 62: The Weight of Names

Yet Severus remained silent. His gaze was focused, keenly observant as the opening ceremony of the Vienna Summit unfolded with precise elegance. Nations were introduced in thoughtful clusters—Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas—each announcement followed by brief, polite introductions and the gracious applause of the assembled crowd. Some inventors offered humble nods of acknowledgment, their faces reflecting the weight of their accomplishments. Others, however, exhibited a more fervent enthusiasm, waving with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. Severus noted with interest that the veterans, the true pioneers of their craft, were rarely ostentatious; they bore an innate confidence that rendered extravagance unnecessary.

As he surveyed the room, a few stark realities emerged: Legacy names occupied the spotlight, their significance emphasized in every corner. Lesser-known delegates were tactfully pushed to the periphery, their presence barely acknowledged. In this gathering, prestige, rather than actual innovation, dictated where the attention fell.

The ICW Potioneering Council's representative—a thin, sharp-featured man wearing obsidian spectacles—ascended the central podium and initiated the customary address with practiced ease. "Today, we convene not as rivals, but as collaborators. Innovation must walk hand in hand with integrity. The future of our world hinges on the potioneers who mold it."

Severus's expression remained stoic, betraying no emotion. Empty words, devoid of true substance. His gaze drifted toward Arcturus, who was seated a few rows back amid the independent delegates. The old man revealed nothing—merely the slightest flicker of light in his eyes, reminiscent of a hawk perched quietly on a branch, observing the chaos of a battlefield below.

It was all a meticulously choreographed dance. Ritual masquerading as significance. And Severus had mastered the steps of this intricate dance well.

Later, the great doors to the Portfolio Hall swung open, unveiling a vast chamber brimming with soft, ambient lights and intricate arcane enchantments. Booths sparkled with a myriad of magical sigils, each one telling its own story. Cauldrons, seemingly animated by their own will, stirred gently behind protective glass, while holographic chains of ingredients floated ethereally in mid-air, vividly displaying the brewing processes in mesmerizing three dimensions.

As Langford and Severus traversed the hall, they took in the wonders around them at a leisurely pace.

"I want you to see everything," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Especially what isn't being said."

They approached a booth showcasing the talents of a silver-haired alchemist from Kyoto, who passionately detailed a potion designed to suppress werewolf symptoms during the full moons. However, he cautioned about the trade-off: a cost of temporary emotional numbness, a plight that accompanied the relief.

Next, a duo from South Africa enthusiastically demonstrated their creation—a vibrant emerald solution known for its ability to accelerate magical plant growth, even in soil tainted by curses. "Perfect for restoring war-ravaged lands," the girl remarked, her eyes sparkling with hope and determination.

Their journey continued as they came upon a Brazilian student, proudly presenting a set of ancient runes meticulously etched into a floating obsidian circle. "No cauldron required," he announced, his chest swelling with pride. "All heat is controlled through resonance charms." The innovation shimmered in the air, a testament to the transformative power of magic.

Severus observed intently, his eyes scanning the room as he absorbed every detail. He listened closely to the conversations swirling around him, nodding occasionally as he pieced together the intricate dynamics at play. He meticulously cataloged the information that unfolded before him. Who among them were the genuine prodigies, their brilliance shining through like stars in the night sky? Who were the ones receiving backing from powerful institutions, driven by a relentless desire for recognition and credit? And who, he mused, were the truly dangerous individuals—those who thrived in obscurity, untouched by the need for validation?

As he contemplated these questions, the world around him expanded beyond the boundaries of his initial perceptions. It was vast and complex, filled with a myriad of players, each as driven and ambitious as he was, all vying for their own form of greatness.

Near a glass-encased potion display from Mongolia, Langford paused, her presence a silent anchor beside Severus. The air around them buzzed with the whispers of delegates, a heady mix of ambition and intrigue.

"Watch who speaks too much," she murmured, leaning slightly closer so only he could hear, "and who says nothing at all." Her gaze scanned the room, taking in faces both familiar and foreign, each one cloaked in its own agenda.

Severus didn't need to reply; her words resonated with his own suspicions, already swirling in his mind. He understood the layers of conversation that lay beneath the polite smiles and casual nods.

"Some of these delegates are here for politics, not potions," she continued, her tone low yet urgent. "Some will pretend not to know you. Others will know far too much." A flicker of concern shadowed her eyes, causing her to give him a long, searching look.

"I won't hover. You're ready," she assured him, though the worry lingered in her expression. "But don't let anyone box you into being the boy genius. They'll call you that to disarm you." Her warning hung in the air, a reminder of the delicate dance of perception and expectation that they both understood all too well.

He smirked faintly, confidence igniting within him. "They can try." The hint of defiance in his voice belied the tension around them.

Langford smiled, the corners of her lips lifting slightly, a flicker of pride in her expression. Then, with a subtle nod, she left him to navigate the crowd alone, weaving through the throng of delegates as the weight of the evening settled firmly upon his shoulders.

It was later in the afternoon, nearing the conclusion of the open session, that Severus sensed it. A shift. Not within the confines of the room, but rather in the very air surrounding them. It felt like a ripple coursing through the atmosphere, as if an unseen storm had just stepped across the threshold.

He turned his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. Across the expansive chamber, close to where the Italian delegation sat, a figure had emerged.

Tall and commanding, he was impeccably dressed in tailored attire that bespoke both elegance and authority. In his mid-thirties, he bore sculpted features and possessed eyes that gleamed like polished marble, cold and captivating.

Lord Lorenzo Zabini.

He didn't announce himself with fanfare; he didn't need to. The aura surrounding him was magnetic enough that those in close proximity instinctively parted without any spoken command. Aides fell in behind him like shadows, ever dutiful, moving in synchronization with their master.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Lorenzo's penetrating gaze swept across the room and then settled, unwavering, right on Severus.

It wasn't a hostile look. Nor was it welcoming. It was... measured, as if weighing the very essence of Severus in that moment.

A flick of attention, sharp and fleeting. And then, just as swiftly, he moved on, leaving an electric tension in the air.

Severus remained perfectly still, his body tense as he concentrated on the scene unfolding around him. He then heard a quiet, almost ghostly whisper beside him—Arcturus had approached without making a sound.

"Careful," his uncle cautioned, his voice as dry and crackly as aged parchment, carrying a weight of experience. "That man seals deals with a handshake, yet he buries his rivals with a deceptive smile."

Severus didn't flinch, his gaze unwavering. "He saw me," he stated with a steady resolve.

"Good," Arcturus replied, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "That means the game has begun."

As the hall gradually emptied, Severus observed the British contingent clustered near the exit—comprising several senior Guild members along with a handful of apprentices. They remained stationary, seemingly waiting for something, yet they did not approach him.

Their furtive glances were unmistakable, laden with curiosity and perhaps judgment. Among them, one person leaned closer to another, stealing discreet looks between Severus and Arcturus. Severus sensed the whispered disdain, as if the silence was thick with unspoken words: Ilvermorny's prodigy. The one that slipped through their fingers.

Resolutely, he turned to meet their gaze directly. With deliberate calmness, he offered a polite nod—neutral and poised, the very picture of composure. Yet they did not reciprocate the gesture. Instead, they maintained their stares, unwilling to look away, their intrigue palpable in the air.

That night, as the summit grounds settled into an almost palpable stillness, Severus meticulously reviewed his notes under the flickering light of an enchanted lamp. The air was thick with unspoken tensions, and the shadows danced around him, echoing the complexities of the gathering. So many names floated through his mind, each representing a web of alliances and rivalries that pulsed beneath the surface like a restless sea. But he didn't feel overwhelmed; rather, he felt an exhilarating clarity. He was calculating, analyzing every piece of information with the precision of a chess master anticipating his opponent's moves. Because in every room, there were predators, lurking and waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. And Severus Shafiq had entered Vienna fully aware of the stakes, armed not just with knowledge, but with his own fierce determination and sharp intellect.

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