Ian really didn't like dealing with people who spoke in riddles.
He only liked being the one speaking in riddles.
Thankfully, while the mysterious witch had clearly picked up some of the worst conversational habits of her kind, her love of cryptic remarks wasn't too severe. The moment she saw Ian's utterly lost puppy-dog eyes, she gave a more straightforward explanation.
"You and that little girl—over the years, you've often talked by the riverside meadow about a dark wizard named Tom. You've spoken of how dangerous it would be to attend that school called Hogwarts... Perhaps next time, you should speak a little more quietly."
Apparently, the mysterious witch had grown used to Ian's "slowness."
That was an answer Ian hadn't expected at all.
But… it made perfect sense.
Observation?
Sounded more like eavesdropping!
Ian muttered internally, forcing a stiff smile. "Didn't realize you've been quietly evaluating me since so long ago."
What else could he say?
Only the classic response straight out of The Civil Servant's Path to Promotion! He'd studied it before crossing over, never imagining he'd get to use it in such a bizarre situation.
"Evaluating—yes... evaluating," the witch murmured, her eyes narrowing into crescent moons. Not in an innocent way, but with a foxlike slyness.
"We've spoken for quite some time now, and I've answered plenty of your foolish questions. But up to this point... I don't believe I've heard you call me teacher even once?"
Her tone remained soft, with that usual air of lazy elegance. But underneath it, a faint edge could be felt—sharp and subtle.
"That's because you haven't yet told me your name," Ian said quickly, bowing slightly. A smooth move to show that he wasn't quite the idiot she might have assumed.
"You may call me Professor Mara."
The witch's lips curved into a faint smile. In it was a glimmer of something more—like a flower blooming in the depths of a jungle. Beautiful, but not without thorns.
"Professor Mara."
Ian echoed the name immediately.
Like a well-behaved student.
But at the same time, his mind was spinning—he couldn't recall ever hearing of a famous witch named Mara in the widely known Harry Potter canon.
A pseudonym?
Or perhaps her name had been buried beneath the sands of time? Then again, if she were truly powerful, wouldn't her name still echo through history? The greats—like the Founders of Hogwarts or Merlin—never faded from memory.
Of course—
Maybe Professor Mara came from a much older era. Or maybe she'd chosen a new name, now that her past identity had faded along with her memories.
Thinking of this,
Ian recalled something she had said earlier. Curiosity sparked, and he asked cautiously:
"Professor Mara, you mentioned that you no longer possess the powers and magic you had in life?" Ian asked delicately—though her piercing stare quickly reminded him who he was talking to.
"Do you doubt that I can teach you anything?" the witch asked, her smile ever so pleasant.
"Not at all! I was just curious—those utensils that ran off earlier, weren't they enchanted?" Ian turned his head to glance around the hall, using the motion as an excuse to avoid her gaze.
"The mortal world can strip me of my magic, my power, and my bloodline. But…"
She leaned against the bench, raising one slender hand and pointing at her head.
"Knowledge never betrays its holder. Remember that, my apprentice: knowledge is the most precious wealth we possess. It accompanies us through every journey."
"Until… the end."
It was the first time Professor Mara had spoken to Ian with such solemnity. Her words carried a weight that couldn't be ignored.
"The end?"
Ian looked at her.
"For me—and for all souls in the Limbo Mirage—that means the unknown future," she replied with a smile. There was even a touch of anticipation in her voice.
Every soul trapped in the Limbo Mirage was burdened by some lingering regret. And truthfully, Ian was now very curious—what kind of regret kept Professor Mara, of all people, from moving on?
Still, since it might be a sensitive topic, he didn't dare ask.
"Professor Mara, then… what kind of knowledge can I learn from you?" Now that he'd called her teacher, Ian wasn't about to waste the opportunity. He was ready to soak up whatever he could.
"Magic and potion-making. Which would you prefer to start with?" Mara's confidence in her abilities was clear in her tone and expression.
"You can brew potions too?"
Ian was a bit surprised.
And now he was wondering—between her and Professor Snape, who was the better potion master? Probably Snape, given the progress made over the centuries.
"Of course."
Mara nodded lightly, but then her tone shifted.
"However, potion-making is a demanding art. Few can truly appreciate the delicate white steam rising from a gently simmering cauldron—or sense the immense magic coursing through a liquid as it enters the bloodstream."
Her slow, measured tone was filled with the mystique of ancient legends.
Except—
Why did it sound so familiar?
"Uh… are you about to tell me that, unless I'm a complete dunderhead, you can teach me how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stop death?"
How could it not sound familiar?!
That was Snape's annual first-year monologue!
Do all potion masters use the same script?
"Hah."
Professor Mara blinked in surprise—then let out a soft laugh.
"Looks like I left a bit more of a mark on the mortal world than I thought."
Wait, what?
Ian's mind whirled.
And then it clicked—Snape was a plagiarist!
"You once wrote those words?" Ian's eyes lit up.
Gossip instincts: activated.
He felt like he'd just uncovered one of Snape's biggest secrets.
"Of course. I believe I left behind a book."
Mara spoke softly, lost in some vague memory she couldn't quite reach. A trace of sadness passed over her refined face.
But Ian didn't notice.
He was still basking in the thrill of his discovery.
It made sense!
Snape must've gotten his hands on Mara's old manuscript—maybe even sought it out deliberately.
After all, Snape had always been obsessed with potions. Naturally, he would dig through forgotten potion tomes, and Mara's would've been a prime find.
Just like those edgy lines—"A king may not be shamed," or "Bearing the world's burden, defying time itself." Ian imagined the Half-Blood Prince flipping through Mara's book, eyes sparkling, and thinking: Yeah, I'm putting this in my intro speech.
Gasp!
The more he thought about it, the more it added up!
Ian was certain he'd just grabbed hold of Snape's Achilles' heel.
Because really—
There's no way someone like Mara, dead for who-knows-how-long, could have stolen Snape's iconic speech.
(End of Chapter)