Harry Potter: Prince of Shadows

Ian really didn't like dealing with riddlers.

He much preferred being one himself.

Thankfully, although the mysterious witch had adopted some of the wizards' annoying tendencies, her penchant for cryptic riddles wasn't all that severe. When she saw Ian's confused, wide-eyed expression, she decided to clarify her earlier statement.

"You and that little girl, over the years, often sat by the riverside discussing a certain dark wizard named Tom. You talked about how dangerous it would be to attend Hogwarts… Perhaps next time, you should keep your voices down." The witch's tone was calm, almost indulgent, as if she had grown used to Ian's apparent "cluelessness."

Her response caught Ian completely off guard.

But then again, it made perfect sense.

Observation? More like eavesdropping!

Ian silently cursed her in his heart but managed to plaster a stiff smile on his face. "I didn't realize you'd been observing me for so long," he said, feigning politeness.

What else could he say? Of course, he had to fall back on clichéd lines from "The Civil Servant's Guide to Career Advancement!" He had studied it before his reincarnation but never imagined he'd use it in such an absurd context.

"Observing? Yes… let's call it that," the witch replied with a sly smile. Her crescent-shaped eyes glimmered, not with innocence but with a fox-like cunning that sent a chill down Ian's spine.

"We've been talking for quite some time," the witch began, her voice taking on a more languid tone. "I've answered many of your foolish questions. Yet, to this moment, I have not heard you call me 'teacher.'"

Though her voice remained soft, there was an unmistakable sharpness hidden beneath its smooth surface.

Ian's instincts kicked in. "That's because you haven't told me your name yet," he replied quickly, bowing slightly to show his respect. He wasn't as dull as he seemed.

"You may call me… Mara," she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. It wasn't a comforting smile, though; it was more akin to a bloom in the rainforest—beautiful but concealing its thorns.

"Mara, Teacher Mara," Ian said, wasting no time. His tone was obedient, his expression appropriately earnest, projecting the image of a perfect student.

Yet inwardly, Ian couldn't help but wonder: Why had he never heard of a famous witch named Mara in the Harry Potter lore? Was this a fake name? Or had her true name been erased by the passage of time?

Perhaps she wasn't an exceptionally powerful witch—after all, legendary figures like the Hogwarts Founders and Merlin had names that transcended time. Then again, maybe Mara hailed from an era so ancient that her legacy had simply faded into obscurity. Or perhaps she had chosen this name herself, a moniker adopted in the afterlife as her true memories slipped away.

Ian's mind raced as he recalled Mara's earlier words. Curious and cautious, he asked, "Teacher Mara, you mentioned that you no longer have the powers or magic you once possessed while alive?" His tone was careful, though it earned him a sharp, scrutinizing gaze from the witch.

"Are you questioning my ability to teach you?" Mara's lips curved into a smile, though her eyes hinted at something far more dangerous.

"Of course not," Ian replied hurriedly. "I was just wondering about the magic behind those animated utensils. Surely, they were enchanted?" He glanced around, pretending to examine the room as an excuse to avoid her piercing gaze.

"This world can strip me of my magic, my powers, and even my bloodline," Mara said, leaning back in her chair. She raised a hand and pointed elegantly to her temple. "But knowledge? Knowledge never betrays its owner. Remember this, my apprentice: Knowledge is the most precious treasure we possess. It will accompany us through every journey… even to the end."

Her voice, for the first time, carried a solemn gravity. It was clear this was more than a lesson—it was a philosophy she lived by.

"The end?" Ian asked, his gaze meeting hers.

"For me, and for all the souls in this realm, it represents the unknown beyond." Her tone was soft yet tinged with anticipation, as though she eagerly awaited whatever lay ahead.

Every soul in this realm clung to some lingering regret or attachment. Though Ian was burning with curiosity about what held Mara here, he dared not ask. He had learned that such questions could touch upon sensitive wounds.

"Teacher Mara, what kind of knowledge can I learn from you?" Ian asked eagerly. Since he'd already addressed her as "teacher," he saw no reason not to dive headfirst into the opportunity to learn.

"Magic and potions," Mara replied, her confidence radiating from every word. "Which would you like to begin with?"

"You're skilled in potion-making too?" Ian was genuinely surprised.

He couldn't help but wonder how Mara's expertise compared to Snape's. Surely, Snape—a product of centuries of progress—would surpass a witch from an earlier era?

"Of course," Mara said, nodding. Then, with a faint smile, she added, "But potion-making is a demanding art. Few have the patience to master the delicate balance required—the subtle simmering of a cauldron, the aromatic whispers of success, the thrill of channeling magic into liquid form."

Her words carried the cadence of an ancient storyteller. To Ian, however, they sounded eerily familiar.

"Wait… Are you about to tell me that as long as I'm not a dunderhead, you can teach me how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death?"

The words spilled from Ian's mouth before he could stop himself. How could they not? Snape had delivered nearly the same speech to every batch of Hogwarts first-years.

Mara seemed taken aback at first, but then she chuckled. "So, it seems my words have lingered in the mortal world," she mused, her expression softening.

Ian's mind raced as the pieces fell into place.

Snape was a copyist?

"Did you write those words down somewhere?" Ian asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. His inner gossip enthusiast had been awakened.

"I believe I left behind a book," Mara said softly. Her voice carried a wistful note, as though she were chasing memories she could no longer fully grasp. A faint sadness flickered across her face, though Ian, too caught up in his revelation, failed to notice.

Snape must have stumbled upon Mara's book!

It all made sense now. Snape, with his love for potions and pursuit of excellence, must have come across Mara's ancient text during his studies. Her words must have ignited the spark of his ambition, inspiring him to borrow her phrasing to impress generations of students.

The more Ian thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

After all, Mara—a ghost from a bygone era—couldn't possibly have stolen lines from Snape. On the contrary, it was Snape who had likely repurposed her wisdom to craft his infamous opening lecture.

Ian felt triumphant. He had uncovered a secret about Snape that no one else knew—a secret that felt like a golden ticket to blackmail or at least a fantastic joke.

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