Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape

Opening Ceremony

Central Arena – Duelling Fortress, Salzburg

They stood beneath a roiling sky, thick with storm-light and vibrant banners that whipped in the gusty wind. Two hundred and twelve duelists were arrayed in the central dueling arena, each flanked by their respective sponsors, proudly displaying country flags or the familiar insignia of their schools. The courtyard's sandstone floor had been magically enchanted to amplify the ripple of every flag and magnify the flutter of every robe, creating a dynamic display of color and movement. The formidable fortress loomed around them, a stone coliseum designed to evoke both reverence and the thrill of risk, its walls steeped in history and echoes of past confrontations.

Severus stood resolute, the silver emblem of Ilvermorny etched clearly against the deep blue of his cloak, a testament to his heritage. Beside him, Alessandro maintained a rigid posture, his chin held high in a display of confidence, while Evie absentmindedly flexed her fingers at her side, as if she were tuning a delicate piano only she could hear, her mind focused on something far beyond the immediate surroundings.

Across the field, Ben Hale offered a quick nod from the American Independents' line. His smile, though warm, did not quite reach his eyes, hinting at the tension beneath the surface.

Then, the voice of the announcer swept over the crowd, clear and commanding. "Welcome to the 47th Under-Nineteen International Duelling Championship, sanctioned by the International Confederation of Wizards and hosted by the esteemed Salzburg Arcane Authority."

A wave of excitement pulsed through the audience, their applause and cheers transforming into a thunderous roar that resonated within the coliseum.

Beneath the thunderous applause, Alessandro leaned closer and whispered urgently, "They don't want children. They want champions."

Severus remained silent, his attention fixed on the judges as they gracefully ascended their elevated platform.

At the center of the panel stood Professor Filius Flitwick, adorned in rich navy and shimmering gold robes, his small stature somehow commanding attention from all corners of the arena. Even from a distance, his presence was magnetic, drawing the eyes of eager spectators.

"Seven-time champion," someone murmured from behind Severus, the reverence in their tone palpable. "He duels like poetry in motion, every strike a stanza and every parry a perfectly crafted line."

Flanking Flitwick was a Mahoutokoro dueling master dressed in vibrant coral silks, known throughout the realms for her lightning-fast counters that left even the most skilled opponents bewildered. Next to her stood a silent Uagadou spell-dancer, his broad shoulders exuding strength and readiness, his poised stance reminiscent of a bow drawn tight, prepared to unleash incredible power.

Completing the esteemed panel was an International Confederation of Wizards adjudicator, draped in sleek grey robes that flowed elegantly, holding a ceremonial tome in hand—its pages filled with the weighty traditions and histories of magical dueling. The air was thick with anticipation as the audience awaited the unfolding events.

Above them, a magical screen flickered to life, its ethereal glow illuminating the surroundings:

"Duel Format: Best of Three Exchanges.

Criteria: Tactical Execution. Spell Precision. Defensive Composure.

Warning: Permanent damage spells are banned. Pain is permitted.

Disarmament or surrender constitutes victory."

Evie let out a measured breath, feeling the weight of the moment. This wasn't merely a competition; it was a battle for survival—clothed in the guise of ritual and grandeur. The stakes were high, and the atmosphere crackled with tension as she steeled herself for what lay ahead.

Strategy Hall – Salzburg Duelling Fortress

The Strategy Hall thrummed with a subtle, almost palpable magic.

It was a circular chamber hewn from rugged alpine stone, its walls adorned with aged banners that told tales of past champions and victories. Glowing lanterns floated serenely midair, casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the space. Soft murmurs filled the air, echoing off the enchanted walls that cleverly distorted sound, effectively preventing any eavesdropping on the sacred proceedings. The polished obsidian floor shimmered like stars under Severus's boots as he moved forward with the others, organized into groups of eight for the formal opponent draw.

At the heart of the room, a luminous orb hovered, spinning gracefully and displaying names in a multitude of languages, each rotation revealing vibrant trails of colored light that snaked outward like threads of destiny, waiting to be expertly woven into the tapestry of the competition.

Severus positioned himself at the edge of his group, the anticipation palpable in the air. Names of illustrious schools filled the space around him:

Ilvermorny. Mahoutokoro. Durmstrang. Castelobruxo. Uagadou. Beauxbatons.

Completing the octet were six Independents, each clad in sleek, sponsor-branded robes devoid of any school crests, reflecting their unique status and the personal stakes they held in this prestigious gathering.

Each student displayed the same subtle tell: a stiffness in the jaw, an unnatural stillness in the shoulders, and the overly cautious way their fingers hovered just above their holstered wands. It was a tension that stemmed not from fear but from intense calculation and preparation. Severus recognized it instantly; he felt it resonate within himself as well.

The orb, at the center of the room, came to an abrupt halt, its spinning ceasing with an almost palpable finality. A low hum radiated through the air, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation. The magical voice of the draw filled the space, crisp and impartial, announcing the competitors.

"Ilvermorny – Severus Shafiq.

Opponent: Mahoutokoro – Kaito Rin."

The name was unfamiliar, a mere echo among the many that surrounded him, and Severus felt a flicker of curiosity.

Across the expanse of the room, a slender figure stepped into view. Kaito Rin bowed once, a silent gesture that held a weight of tradition and respect. His movements were fluid and precise, evoking the image of the still surface of deep water disturbed by no wind. The expression on his face was unreadable—neither a challenge nor an invitation, just an absence of warmth.

Severus regarded him with careful interest, intrigued by the calm demeanor that seemed almost unnatural amidst the palpable electricity in the room.

Shorter than average, he wore robes of soft ivory, intricately woven with an enchantment designed to deflect hexes. No wand was visibly holstered at his side, suggesting a different kind of readiness. His sleeves were long, almost impractically so, hinting at expertise in sleeve-draw casting—a technique that relied on subtlety and precision.

He stood as a still duelist, embodying a kind of poise that spoke of disciplined training. This was not a man who wasted movement; he was one who measured each gesture with care, preferring to wait patiently for the perfect moment to strike, delivering a blow that would be swift and decisive.

Severus offered a single, respectful nod, acknowledging the unspoken challenge that hung between them.

Kaito mirrored the gesture, both simple and profound.

No words were exchanged in that charged moment. Yet the message was unmistakable: I see you. I will not underestimate you. You should not underestimate me.

Evie stepped forward next, her heart racing with excitement. The orb spun again, casting shifting shadows around her.

"Ilvermorny – Evie Sterling.

Opponent: Uagadou – Tembisa Olumide."

A tall South African girl emerged from the crowd with a confident stride that spoke of both power and poise. Her skin was a rich brown, adorned with glimmering obsidian warpaint that traced intricate symbols Severus couldn't decipher. Her eyes were sharp and focused, locking onto Evie with a spark of something that resembled amusement, an almost predatory gleam that made Severus wary.

Evie tilted her head slightly, a small smirk creeping across her lips as she took in Tembisa's presence.

"I like her," she muttered under her breath, stepping back into line, a glimmer of admiration in her voice.

Next was Alessandro's turn.

"Ilvermorny – Alessandro DeLuca.

Opponent: Beauxbatons – Gaspard Delacour."

As Alessandro stepped forward, all eyes were drawn to him. The boy who emerged was handsome in the polished, gilded way that was quintessentially Beauxbatons. His pale hair framed a face that was almost too perfect, his eyes, like cold steel, carried an imposing clarity. A smirk danced on his lips, effortlessly charming, as if he were aware of the adoration surrounding him. His robes shimmered faintly under the lights, the glamour magic woven into delicate folds that added an otherworldly quality to his appearance. He held his wand with the relaxed poise of someone who had mastered the art of victory, seemingly untroubled by the prospect of the duel ahead.

"Charm duelist," Alessandro remarked quietly, a hint of disdain lacing his tone. "I hate charm duelists."

"They're unpredictable," Severus responded, keeping his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before them.

"They're smug," Alessandro corrected, a smirk tugging at his lips, the corners twitching as he fought against the inevitable irritation that came with such opponents.

The orb spun once more, casting a flickering light across the arena.

"Independent – Benedict Hale.

Opponent: Castelobruxo – Vitória Figueira."

A shorter girl from Brazil stepped forward, her bare feet grazing the surface of the ground. Her hair was intricately braided in rows that cascaded down her back, and her deep-set eyes were half-lidded, as if she were perpetually attuned to a melody that only she could hear. Tiny, glimmering sparks danced at her fingertips, flickering like fireflies in the twilight.

Ben lifted his chin, taking a moment to evaluate her presence. There was no hint of fear in her posture; instead, she radiated an air of readiness and determination.

"She manipulates pressure fronts," Alessandro murmured, his gaze fixed on her with a blend of curiosity and caution. "Weather witch."

"Lovely," Ben muttered under his breath. "Hope she doesn't bring a thunderstorm indoors."

The draw concluded, leaving a palpable tension in the air as both competitors prepared for what lay ahead.

Names sealed in gold ink. Opponents set. No more guessing. No more mystery. Only the coming storm.

As the contestants filed out one by one, Severus lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the list suspended in shimmering, magical ink. Each name seemed to pulse with energy, echoing the tension in the air.

Severus Shafiq vs. Kaito Rin.

Kaito was known as a silence-based duelist, a master from one of the most prestigious magical academies in the world. The mere mention of his name sent a thrill of anticipation through Severus; he was keenly aware of the challenge that awaited him. Perfect.

With determination setting his features, he pivoted on his heel and stepped out, merging into the throng of competitors, each one caught up in their own thoughts of strategy and fate.

Temporary Duelling Stages – Duelling Arena, Salzburg Fortress

The duelling arena buzzed with excitement and anticipation. Above the vast tournament grounds, numerous platforms floated gracefully in midair or emerged from magically conjured stone circles. Each platform was encompassed by a shimmering dome of translucent magic, a testament to the enchantments woven into the fabric of the duel. Protective wards flickered to life with each blow exchanged, illuminating the arena in vibrant bursts: brilliant red for offensive strikes, deep blue for deft deflections, and vivid green for disarming maneuvers.

Spectators thronged the balconies and tiered stands, their voices mingling into a cacophony of cheers and gasps. Enchanted perch-brooms hovered lazily overhead, capturing every moment for those unable to get closer. Magical recorders whirred and buzzed, diligently documenting each move for the judges, the press, and future spectators.

Standing just behind the ward-line, Severus surveyed the arena with arms crossed, flanked by his companions Evie, Alessandro, and Ben. They all donned the signature Ilvermorny robes, accented in silver against the sleek black fabric. However, Alessandro, true to his rebellious spirit, had discarded his cloak, opting instead for rolled sleeves and styling his hair in a way that exuded an air of casual menace.

Ben cracked his knuckles in a rhythmic, almost meditative manner, tilting his head as his name gleamed in shining letters above one of the nearby platforms. "Benedict Hale vs. Vitória Figueira – Castelobruxo," the announcement echoed.

"I'll make it quick," Ben murmured, a steely resolve in his voice.

"Don't be flashy," Severus advised, his tone measured and serious. "Just keep it clean."

Ben smirked, then vaulted effortlessly onto the platform. It ascended three feet into the air before stabilizing, a soft hum emanating from its core. His opponent, a small and wiry girl, joined him, her bare feet barely making a sound on the surface. She hummed under her breath, and brilliant sparks danced from her fingertips, illuminating the area around her.

As the starting chime echoed through the arena, an electric tension filled the air. Within moments, tendrils of green vines explosively erupted from her wand, writhing across the floor like living whips hungry for a target.

Ben didn't hesitate. He unleashed a burst of flame that spiraled from his wand in a precise arc—nothing wild or showy, but a display of brutal efficiency. The moment the flames met the vines, they hissed and curled into ashes, disintegrating into a fine, floating dust. He quickly followed up with a flare-twist spell that forced her to shift left, giving him the advantage. His third spell, a crackling disarm, sent her wand soaring high into the air, twirling uncontrollably.

In just three minutes, it was done. Ben straightened up and gave a curt bow, acknowledging the cheers and gasps from the spectators.

The judge's score appeared on the board: 92.

Professor Flitwick leaned toward the panel, his small figure animated with delight as he jotted something down, clearly pleased by the performance he had just witnessed.

Ben jogged back to his friends, a wide grin splitting his face. "Not bad for round one," he said, pride evident in his voice.

"You're a lunatic," Evie replied fondly, shaking her head at his antics. "And I'm glad you're on our side."

"Next," Alessandro said, gesturing toward the distant arena, "The Russian."

All four friends turned in unison as the name illuminated in bright red letters overhead.

"Mikhail Korolev – Russia."

He stood tall and imposing, his skin pale as if he had never felt the warmth of the sun. His movements were fluid, almost ethereal, like a figure carved from ice who glided rather than walked. His opponent barely had time to conjure a protective shield before Mikhail brought his wand crashing down onto the stone platform with a resounding thud.

The ground beneath them shifted dramatically.

Jagged spires of obsidian erupted from the earth mid-duel, sharp and menacing. Mikhail's opponent stumbled backward, trying to regain balance, but the duel could have pressed on—yet Mikhail simply stood there, wand lowered, exuding an air of cool indifference, waiting patiently.

Not a hint of emotion crossed his face; no smile danced across his lips—he didn't need to display anything further.

Evie let out a slow, shuddering breath, the sound filled with unease. "He's terrifying."

"He's efficient," Severus observed, his sharp gaze missing nothing. "Transfiguration mid-duel is a risky tactic. That wasn't merely brute force; that was calculated disruption, a strategic maneuver."

"Definitely on the threat list," Alessandro muttered under his breath, a tinge of apprehension in his voice. "I'd rather face a firestorm."

Next was Evie herself.

Her name shimmered into view in elegant silver-blue script.

"Evie Sterling – Ilvermorny vs. Tembisa Olumide – Uagadou."

With determination in her eyes, Evie sprinted up to her platform, her dark hair intricately braided and her wand poised confidently in her grip. Tembisa acknowledged her with a subtle nod, the war paint on her skin catching the light beneath the protective wards surrounding the arena.

The duel began, and it was nothing short of spectacular.

Evie moved with the fluidity of the wind, gracefully weaving through the chaos of spells that flew through the air. She ducked expertly beneath a heavy gravity hex, her body rolling into an agile flip before unleashing a stinger curse mid-air—a shot aimed with precision.

Tembisa countered decisively, her own spells swift and sharp, but Evie quickly caught onto her rhythm. After an intense series of four exchanges, she feinted to one side, calling forth a blinding flash of light that momentarily engulfed the arena. Seizing the opportunity presented by Tembisa's brief blindness, Evie executed a flawless disarm with a deft flick of her wrist.

The opponent's wand clattered to the ground, signifying defeat. With poise, Evie bowed gracefully, acknowledging her challenger.

Judge score: 88. Flitwick awarded her a commendable 9.5, reflecting her skillfulness.

From where Severus stood, Alessandro clapped twice, a grin on his face. "Told you she was scary," he remarked, clearly impressed.

"Elegant," Severus murmured, his keen eyes still trained on Evie. "She wielded light magic like a master of misdirection. That's a rarity in a duel."

Ben leaned in closer, his voice low and earnest. "That's more than technique. That's pure instinct. She has the potential to go all the way."

Then a new name appeared in bold gold across the hovering announcement dome, magnified for all corners of the fortress to see.

"James Potter – Independent Entry – Great Britain."

A noticeable shift rippled through the crowd, an electric mix of awe and anticipation. Murmurs broke out across the balconies, echoing whispers of disbelief and excitement. Even the judges, seated high above, turned their gazes toward the platform, their expressions revealing flickers of recognition.

"He's one of only two from the UK," Ben remarked, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized the bustling crowd. "The other's a Carrow kid, I believe. Not here yet, though; must be in the evening bracket."

"A Carrow?" Evie snorted, rolling her eyes in disdain. "Of course."

"Not Hogwarts-backed?" Alessandro inquired, tilting his head in curiosity, his brow furrowing slightly.

Ben shook his head with a grave expression. "No. Britain only sent two independents this year. There's no official Hogwarts team. Not since the scandal four years ago involving their internal dueling league—an incident that ended with a muggle-born duelist's tragic death in the ring. I think even the International Confederation of Wizards had serious concerns about their oversight."

Severus gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment but remained silent, his demeanor contemplative.

Down below, James stepped onto the dueling platform, his presence radiating a mix of confidence and bravado.

Every motion he made seemed meticulously crafted to impress the audience—his wand held slightly higher than necessary, exuding an air of superiority; the exaggerated roll of his shoulders, designed to convey strength and readiness; and the deep breath he took, ostensibly meant to project calmness, though it revealed a subtle tremor at the edges, betraying his nerves.

"He's performing," Severus murmured, observing closely.

"Of course he is," Alessandro replied dryly, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone. "He thinks this is his stage."

James's opponent had already established his position—a Durmstrang duellist with striking dark, cropped hair and vivid runic scars decorating both forearms. His robes were unadorned, exuding a sense of practicality, and his low stance conveyed readiness. His grip on his wand was functional, suggesting a no-nonsense approach to combat.

A fighter, indeed.

The sound of the chime broke the tension in the air.

With no hesitation, the opening act commenced.

James flicked his wand in a wide, sweeping arc, releasing a stunning charm that burst into vibrant sparks—but it was too broad, too flamboyant to be effective. The Durmstrang boy, agile and swift, ducked into a side-roll, evading the attack effortlessly. In a fluid motion, he retaliated with a pinpoint Os Frangere hex. The spell clipped James's left shoulder, and he staggered, his vision momentarily blurred as pain radiated down his arm.

"He's not reading the tempo," Evie whispered, her voice laced with concern. "He's trying to overwhelm, not adapt to the flow of the duel."

Gritting his teeth against the discomfort, James gathered his resolve and struck back—hard. A powerful blasting hex erupted from his wand, slamming into the magical ward with such intensity that the dome flared bright red and quivered ominously.

A judge raised an eyebrow, assessing the chaotic energy.

"Overcharged," Severus noted coolly, his tone level despite the turmoil unfolding. "His tutor didn't teach him the value of restraint. Or the necessity of control."

"Or how to breathe," Alessandro muttered quietly, underscoring the urgency of the moment.

Below, James circled to the left, his wand slicing confidently through the air. The Durmstrang boy reacted immediately with a jolt hex—swift and precise. It grazed James's robes, leaving behind a sizzling burn mark that stung against his skin.

In their third exchange, James finally found his rhythm. He executed a quick pivot, dodging low to avoid another incoming spell, and then unleashed a Depulso spell that struck squarely in the Durmstrang duelist's chest. The impact sent the boy stumbling backward, his wand flying from his fingers and landing on the ground with a soft thud.

Disarmed.

A win.

Yet, despite the victory, it felt like luck played a larger role than skill.

The crowd clapped, but the applause was scattered and lacked enthusiasm—muted, almost polite in its recognition of the outcome.

"He flailed," Evie remarked, her arms folded tightly across her chest, disbelief flickering in her eyes. "And got lucky."

"And now he thinks he's proved something," Ben added, shaking his head with a slight smirk that suggested he shared her skepticism.

On the judging panel, Professor Flitwick tapped his quill against the parchment, a disappointed expression creasing his features. Next to him, the Mahoutokoro master raised an inquisitive brow, clearly questioning the display he had just witnessed.

Score: 74.

A full twenty points below the leaders.

In the sponsor box, Lord Charles Potter sat rigidly, his expression a mask of composure, as if chiseled from stone. Beside him, Lady Dorea resembled a somber portrait, her demeanor betraying the turmoil within. Her hands were tightly clenched in her lap, and her lips barely parted, revealing the tension that gripped her.

Sirius, ever the embodiment of exuberance, stood and applauded with fervent pride, as if James had just achieved the impossible feat of slaying a dragon. But Remus was a stark contrast to this buoyant display; he remained seated, seemingly frozen in place. His expression was taut, mouth pressed into a firm line, and the worry evident in his eyes spoke volumes of his anxiety.

Down below, James faced the crowd, panting heavily, his complexion pale and glistening with sweat that clung to his fringe. He scanned the contestants' gallery, searching for a particular face that held so much weight in this moment.

Then, his gaze landed on Severus.

The other boy met his eyes with an expression devoid of emotion—a blank slate. There was no smile to acknowledge the achievement, no sneer to convey disdain, and certainly no look of contempt to mar the moment. Instead, there was a calm and unreadable stillness that seemed to blanket the air around them.

No hatred flickered in Severus's gaze. No sign of victory danced in his features. Just a profound sense of indifference.

And somehow, that indifference struck deeper than any cutting curse could.

James's throat constricted painfully as he fought to mask his emotions. Without offering a bow or any sign of deference, he turned away and descended from the platform, his jaw clenched tightly in frustration and defiance.

Ben, watching the scene unfold, let out a low whistle that cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "That's gonna fester," he remarked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Severus, his eyes steady and observant, replied quietly, "He came here for a duel, but he's already lost the war." His words carried an understanding that transcended mere competition; it was about pride and the weight of expectations.

The focus of their attention shifted back to the ongoing matches, where the atmosphere buzzed with excitement. On the platform, a Beauxbatons duellist had just conjured a stunning wall of crystal that gleamed in the light, effectively deflecting a menacing burning hex that had been hurled towards her. The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound swelling in volume, enthusiasm palpable in the air.

And yet, amid the spectacle of skilled fighters, the real matches—the ones of true significance—still lay ahead. An electric anticipation filled the arena, and the name on everyone's lips resonated with challenge and intrigue: Severus Shafiq had yet to step onto the stage.

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