Severus Snape, a man whose pride revolved around his mastery of potions, might well find his world crumbling if it were ever revealed that one of his iconic opening speeches and perhaps even some of his prized techniques were not entirely his own. Ian couldn't help but muse over the implications.
Snape—so stoic, so proud—reduced in the eyes of the wizarding community from a revered master to a mere imitator, basking in the shadow of another, a forgotten master like Mara. What would happen to his infamous pride, his carefully crafted image as Hogwarts' resident potion genius?
The more Ian thought about it, the more vivid the scene played out in his mind. Snape standing in the Great Hall, the whispers spreading among the students, professors exchanging knowing glances, and the man's cold exterior finally cracking as the truth set in. A childish grin tugged at Ian's lips, growing into a suppressed snicker that he struggled to contain.
He was so engrossed in the mental drama that he failed to notice Mara's piercing gaze until her voice broke the silence.
"You seem to be lost in some truly idiotic thoughts," observed Mara, her sharp gaze piercing through Ian's elation.
"It's nothing. Just a funny thought," Ian mumbled, snapping out of his trance.
"Funny? Or are you planning to blackmail someone?" Mara's voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of sharpness that made Ian flinch.
"I thought you couldn't read minds!" Ian exclaimed, a hint of panic creeping into his voice.
"I don't need to. You questioned me about my writings, then stood there grinning like a fool. Anyone with half a brain could piece it together," Mara replied, rubbing her temples as if Ian's sheer presence was exhausting her.
Ian had to admit, she had a point.
"Who has my book?" she asked, her tone casual but her interest clear.
"My potions professor at Hogwarts. He starts every lesson with a line you wrote. He's been using it as his own for years." Ian said, half amused, half conspiratorial.
"The one who teaches potions, you say?" Mara's voice held a faint edge of disdain. "Well, I suppose it's not a complete waste."
Her indifference stung a little. Ian expected her to care more. Instead, she merely regarded the revelation as a passing remark.
"Is it true, though?" Ian asked hesitantly, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Can potions really defy death?"
"Of course they can," Mara answered matter-of-factly. Then, with a smirk, she added, "But your professor? He could never achieve that."
"Why not?" Ian pressed, his curiosity growing.
"Because I cut down the last golden apple tree in the mortal realm. And without golden apples, no potion can truly reverse death," Mara explained, her tone laced with quiet satisfaction.
She elaborated further, "Perhaps if your professor were a true genius, he might find a substitute. But I wouldn't hold my breath."
Her confidence in the impossibility of Snape's success was obvious. Ian couldn't help but agree. If Snape truly possessed such groundbreaking knowledge, it would be evident in the wizarding world's history—and it wasn't.
Still, Ian was curious. "Why did you cut down the golden apple tree?" he asked, trying to piece together more of the mysteriousness that was Mara.
"Because I wanted to," she answered simply, her lips curling into a sly smile.
Ian sighed. It was clear she wasn't going to reveal more. "Fine. I'll bring you books on potions from my time. Maybe they'll interest you."
Mara chuckled. "Books will suffice. But don't bother bringing me ingredients. I doubt you can afford them."
"I'll figure something out. Hogwarts has plenty of supplies," Ian offered, though he wasn't entirely sure how he'd manage it.
Mara's laughter deepened. "Careful, my little apprentice. Stealing from your potions master might land you in more trouble than you can handle."
Ian flushed. "Snape's not that bad. Maybe he'll let me borrow some if I ask nicely," he muttered.
"Yet you're still planning to blackmail him," Mara teased, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "You have the makings of a fine dark wizard, you know."
Ian found himself at a loss for words. He didn't know how to explain himself; leveraging information felt important, much like possessing a potent tool—something you could choose to use or not, but undeniably advantageous if you had it.
"Never mind, I won't tease you any longer." The witch waved her hand dismissively, a playful smile returning to her lips. "Don't underestimate your teacher. I simply haven't kept up with this knowledge; all you need to do is fetch me modern potion books."
"Before long, I'll catch up with your era and, eventually... surpass it." Her confidence radiated, even audacious, shining through as she declared her intent.
Ian felt himself swept up in her enthusiasm.
Who wouldn't want a teacher who was so boastful!
The more impressive the teacher, the more the student could learn!
He envisioned a bright future ahead, bursting with potential.
"Praise you, Professor Mara!" Ian exclaimed, breaking into applause as he showered her with compliments.
"Ha, you will certainly achieve great success," she replied, her mood clearly buoyed by Ian's flattery.
"Of course! Who else can claim to have such an outstanding teacher?" Ian chimed in naturally, filled with genuine appreciation.
However…
"I was referring specifically to your talent for flattery. It will undoubtedly ease your path in the pursuit of power," the witch remarked with a knowing smile.
Was that a compliment? Ian pondered—it seemed not quite so!
"Such heartfelt praise surely cannot be deemed sycophancy…" Ian argued, his eyes wide with sincerity as if he had just heard the most absurd statement.
"See? I told you, you have a real knack for this," she countered, clearly unimpressed by his earnestness.
For someone who usually prided himself on his thick skin, Ian felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him.
"Study hard in magic. When you are powerful enough, you'll no longer need to don a facade," she warned, her gaze unwavering as she imparted her wisdom.
"I understand," Ian replied, his expression turning serious as her advice settled in.
"Now, come here, my foolish apprentice. It's time for you to learn some magic," she commanded, standing gracefully from the long bench. Striding toward him, her long legs moved with fluid elegance.
"You are currently far too weak," she stated, positioning herself beside Ian. The witch towered over him, adding to her aura of authority and making Ian feel a palpable pressure.
"But I don't have a wand," Ian stammered, a note of nervousness threading through his voice.
"A wand is merely a tool," she replied, taking note of his bewildered and helpless expression.
She sighed, clearly frustrated. "Your era… it's utterly perplexing," she muttered, shaking her head before reaching up and snapping the metallic frame of a painting from the wall.
In almost the same breath—with no incantations or any apparent effort—the frame magically morphed in her hands, gradually reshaping into a standard wand, its wood type indistinguishable.
"Magic?" Ian gasped, astonished.
"No," she corrected him. "It's knowledge."
Her voice was steady and composed.
Before Ian could fully wrap his mind around this unusual lesson, she moved silently behind him and tapped her finger against the back of his neck.
"Let's start with something simple," she instructed, her calm voice leaving Ian with an undeniable sense of dread about the impending lesson.
What kind of "simple magic" required such ominous forewarning?
"Focus on it, then recite after me…"
With her finger still pressed firmly against his neck, a surge of emotion flowed from her fingertip directly into Ian's mind, igniting a fierce impulse that coursed through his thoughts.
"Avada Kedavra!"