Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 35 - 33: Day Three - The Final Test

Severus woke up aching. Every muscle in his body protested as he got dressed, his limbs feeling like lead from two days of relentless training.

By the time he and his friends stepped onto the training floor, exhaustion was etched onto every face. Yet the moment they walked in, the shift in atmosphere was undeniable.

There was no chatter, no warm-up, no easing into the lesson. The instructors stood waiting, their expressions unreadable. The air was thick with tension, like the charged silence before a storm.

This wasn't a lesson. This was a battlefield. The realization sent a rush of anticipation and unease down Severus's spine. He forced himself to shake it off. If he was going to survive today, he couldn't afford hesitation.

Marchand stood at the center, eyes sweeping over them all, the sharp gaze of a predator analyzing prey.

"For the last two days," she said, voice cutting through the room like a blade, "you've learned to move. To think. To stop fighting your own magic."

She twirled her wand once before slipping it into her belt.

"Today," she continued, "we see what you've got."

She smirked. "No wands."

A hush fell over the group.

The rules were simple. The students were divided into pairs for one-on-one duels. They had no wands, only what little wandless magic they had managed to grasp. The instructors would not interfere—unless someone was on the verge of serious injury.

"You will fight," Holt said, voice steady. "You will adapt. If you can't, you lose."

Severus exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers. He was still struggling, still fumbling in the dark when it came to this kind of magic. But he had no intention of failing. His opponent stepped onto the dueling platform.

Damian Connors. The Wampus duelist rolled his shoulders, his easy smirk never slipping.

"I was hoping for a rematch," he said, cracking his knuckles. "No wands this time. Just skill."

Severus tilted his head.

"We'll see if you have any."

A whistle cut through the air.

Begin.

Damian moved first—and he moved fast. Severus barely had time to shift his weight before his opponent closed the gap, his footfalls light, precise, a predator slipping through shadows. There was no hesitation.

Damian's first attack wasn't magical—it was physical. A feint to the left, before pivoting sharply, forcing Severus to compensate. Then came the magic. A pulse of raw energy crackled between Damian's palms, coiling like a living thing before he released it in a sharp burst. No incantation. No wand. Just magic, flowing through his body as naturally as breathing.

Severus barely dodged. He turned his body at the last second, twisting away so that the attack grazed his ribs instead of hitting him head-on. The impact burned, not like a curse, but like compressed air hitting skin with the force of a hammer.

Severus clenched his jaw. Damian was already moving again—his momentum seamless, pressing forward in a relentless onslaught of quick, consecutive bursts of magic.

There was no time to think. Damian didn't stop to aim—he attacked mid-motion. Every step was measured, each movement flowing into the next. Severus, in contrast, was fighting to keep up.

Severus gritted his teeth. Every instinct screamed at him to counter, to control the pace of the fight.

But every time he tried, Damian was already gone, slipping through his reach, forcing Severus to react instead of lead. Severus had dueled hundreds of times before. But never like this.

Severus' breathing was sharp, measured—but beneath it lurked frustration. What was he doing wrong? His body was fast. His reflexes were sharp. He had spent years perfecting dueling techniques that should have been able to counter this.

And yet—His spells didn't come fast enough. His movements weren't fluid enough. His mind was trapped in the rigid structure of British dueling.

His fingers twitched, his muscles screamed at him to reach for his wand—the one thing that had always been his anchor.

He could almost hear his professors back at Hogwarts:

"A duelist must always be prepared—wands raised, stance firm, precision in every spell."

But this wasn't Hogwarts. This wasn't a classroom exercise with structured, measured exchanges. This was something else entirely.

No precise incantations. No structured spellwork. No safety net.

My magic only knows how to move through my wand.

The realization hit him like ice water. His body knew how to fight—but his magic did not. It was trapped, locked behind years of rigid training, behind a lifetime of formal dueling stances and textbook precision. Every spell he had ever cast relied on refined calculation.

But This? This required instinct. And his magic didn't know how to obey that command. Damian pressed the attack. Another pulse of kinetic energy surged toward him.

Severus tried to block it—the force slammed into his chest. His feet slid backward, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp as his ribs burned from the impact.

He staggered but didn't fall. He wouldn't fall. He refused.

Damian was already moving in for the finisher. His body blurred forward, his stance low, another pulse of magic coiling in his hand like a loaded crossbow.

Severus had seconds. Seconds to do something. For two days, he had tried to force the magic from his body. For two days, he had relied on logic, theory, calculation. And it hadn't worked.

This time? He let go. He stopped thinking. He stopped analyzing. He let his magic move before his mind could catch up.

Damian threw the spell forward—and this time—Severus moved with it. He twisted his body with the momentum instead of resisting it. He let magic rise on its own, not pushing, not pulling—just allowing it to flow.

And then a pulse of pure energy erupted from his palm. It wasn't precise. It wasn't controlled. But it was real.

Damian's eyes widened in shock before the force slammed into him, sending him stumbling backward. He caught himself, breathing heavily, but the smirk on his face had grown wider.

"Finally," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Now we're talking."

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Severus stood still, his hand tingling, his chest rising and falling sharply. The sensation was already fading. But he had felt it. For the first time, his magic had answered without his wand. It had obeyed. It was small. But it was a beginning.

The duels continued, each student tested until there was nothing left to give.

Some collapsed from exhaustion, their bodies unused to the strain of continuous combat. Others remained standing but visibly shaken, their limbs trembling with exertion. The smell of burned ozone and sweat filled the air, remnants of spell clashes still lingering.

By the time the last match ended, the room was a battlefield of worn-out students and drained magic.

Severus felt every muscle protest as he rolled his shoulders. His limbs were leaden, his magic flickering in protest. But beneath the exhaustion was something else entirely.

Satisfaction. Because for the first time in his life, he had fought without relying on structured dueling techniques. For the first time, he had allowed his magic to move beyond the precision of textbooks and calculations.

It was raw. It was imperfect. But it was his.

Marchand and Holt stood at the front of the hall, watching as the last duel ended. The noise in the room faded to silence, the only sound left was the heavy breathing of students catching their breath.

Marchand's gaze swept across them, assessing, judging. She didn't speak for a moment, letting the weight of the workshop settle in their bones.

Then, she crossed her arms.

"You've learned something in three days that most wizards take years to grasp," she said. "Some of you are naturals. Others... still need work." Her golden eyes flickered to Severus for the briefest of moments before moving on.

Holt, the grizzled duelist beside her, exhaled. "Each of you fought. Some better than others. But every single one of you learned. And that? That's what matters."

With a flick of his wrist, a stack of parchment floated into the air, hovering before them. "Your evaluations."

Severus caught his before it could drop. The paper was thick, embossed with the Cirque du Combat's official insignia. But what mattered were the contents.

Each student had been observed carefully over the three days, their strengths, weaknesses, and areas for improvement meticulously recorded.

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Severus's Evaluation-

Strengths:

Exceptional spell control.

High-level precision casting.

Strategically adaptable—quick thinker under pressure.

Vast knowledge of curses, counter-curses, and magical theory.

Weaknesses:

Over-reliance on structured casting techniques.

Lack of movement fluidity—too stiff in dueling exchanges.

Slow adoption of non-traditional spellwork.

Wandless magic proficiency: Beginner Level

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Severus exhaled slowly as he read through the notes. They were right. He had power. He had knowledge. But he was still trapped in rigid British dueling habits. That had been evident in every duel he fought here.

Damian's words echoed in his head. "You're thinking too much."

He hadn't understood then. He did now.

Marchand smirked, surveying the worn-out but determined faces before her.

"For those of you who want to keep improving—" she gestured to a stack of parchment beside her, "—Cirque du Combat offers long-term specialized training. Applications are open."

A ripple of excitement spread through the room. Several participants immediately stepped forward, eager to take one. Some flipped through the forms, their eyes alight with ambition.

Severus didn't move. Not because he wasn't interested—he was—but because he knew he wouldn't be here long enough to commit.

Tomorrow, he and his friends would be back in Massachusetts. They wouldn't be part of this world anymore. And for the first time, that frustrated him.

Holt, watching the eager applicants, snorted. "Don't fool yourselves—just applying won't make you duelists. Most of you will never last past the first month."

Marchand's smirk widened. "But if you do? You'll be trained by the best."

Severus exhaled sharply. He could see Aurora and Ben exchanging a look—clearly, they were just as frustrated as he was.

Alessandro, ever the opportunist, sighed dramatically and muttered, "Pity. I could've been a star."

Jonas nudged him. "You mean you could've flirted with professional duelists."

Alessandro grinned. "That too."

Marchand didn't waste any more time. She clapped her hands together. "That's it. You're done."

The training hall doors swung open, and just like that—The workshop was over.

Severus glanced at his evaluation one last time before slipping it into his robes. He wasn't strong enough yet. He wasn't fast enough yet.

But he was better than he had been yesterday. And that? That was a start.

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