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With Ariana’s identity revealed, Professor Mara remains the greatest enigma troubling Ian.
Much like his other acquaintance, Pandero of the Twilight Realm, neither the Nameless Bookshop nor Hogwarts’ vast library holds any trace of their existence.
They are absent from history.
They are absent from wizarding chronicles and even from old folktales whispered in common rooms.
The only certainty is that both lived before the founding of Hogwarts— a fact confirmed by the school’s thousand-year-old student records.
Of course, it’s possible that both have long forgotten their names, but considering Professor Mara’s methods of instruction and Pandero’s peculiar behavior, it’s easy to see they might have walked the earth in the same era.
The early Middle Ages.
This is the one fact Ian can be sure of.
After all, Barnabas thee Barmy once remarked that Ian’s mannerisms, shaped by his studies with Witch Mara, bore the air of an itinerant scholar from those ancient times.
Furthermore, neither Witch Mara nor Pandero recognized Hogwarts or any of its houses. Had they been trained within the school’s walls, surely their student days would have left an indelible mark upon their memories.
All signs point to Professor Mara and Pandero belonging to an age far older than Hogwarts itself. Thus, Ian never placed much hope in uncovering their pasts.
After all, the journey that began in the Twilight Realm marked a new beginning. Insisting on unearthing the long-buried past seemed futile. There was something to be said for simply cherishing the bonds forged in that realm.
This was how Ian consoled himself after his fruitless search.
However—
He never expected that the moment he ceased his relentless pursuit, a clue to Professor Mara’s true identity would surface in such an unexpected and astonishing manner.
“These are the books I’d like to borrow. Thank you, Madam Pince.” Ian, filled with quiet urgency, watches as Madam Pince meticulously logs each title.
“Take great care of them. Most books in the Restricted Section contain powerful enchantments, and many are the last of their kind. To lose even one would be a grievous loss.” With an exacting hand, Madam Pince records each title, then carefully wraps the borrowed tomes in several layers of protective parchment.
She is, without a doubt, someone who reveres books. “Although I trust you wouldn’t be so careless, I must remind you— no eating while reading. If I find so much as a single crumb defiling these pages, not even Professor Dumbledore will be able to shield you from my wrath.”
The feather duster in Madam Pince’s grip carries an unspoken menace, stirring something deep in Ian’s memory. He shivers involuntarily and nods with fervent obedience, like a fledgling pecking at a seed.
“I swear I’ll treat them as if they were my finest robes.” He solemnly vows, borrowing the dramatics of his ever-exuberant roommate.
William likely wouldn’t mind. In fact, he might even take pride in it.
“Very well.”
Satisfied, Madam Pince hands over the wrapped books. Ian clutches them tightly and dashes towards the library doors.
“?????”
Watching him flee, Madam Pince momentarily wonders if she has forgotten to register one of the books, prompting the young wizard to make a hasty escape before she realizes.
“Let’s see what secrets you’ve been hiding, my dear mentor.”
Ian rushes back to the dormitory, usually deserted at this hour, and eagerly opens the ancient tome.
”Mind’s Dominion: From Legilimency to Soul Enchantment”
The title alone hints at magic well beyond the bounds of ordinary wizardry. As Ian suspected, Witch Mara was unlikely to have followed the path of a conventional, light-aligned witch.
“The author’s name… it’s blurred… the gilded letters have nearly vanished.”
Had the cover been intact, Ian wouldn’t have needed to borrow the book in the first place. Still, he feels no disappointment— because the author’s identity is unveiled on the very first page. It is not Mara herself.
As Madam Pince warned, some books carry magic of their own. This one is no exception. The moment Ian turns the first page, an aged voice fills his ears.
It narrates.
It tells a story.
“When I was her apprentice, I always felt unseen. My fragile, wounded pride twisted within me, filling me with resentment— jealousy of her, jealousy of the others who studied under her. It clouded my mind and shut me off from her, even as she tried to guide me in the ways of magic.
“Who would wish to expose the ugliness within themselves? My teacher— she was brilliant, radiant. Even my vanity, my pride in my own beauty, paled in her presence.”
“The longer I stood beside her, the deeper my inferiority festered. I knew I would never match her brilliance, her power.”
“Dark thoughts brewed within me. Perhaps I could blame them on magic’s influence, but deep down, I have always known— this darkness was mine alone.”
“From my elder sister to my younger sister, I have envied them all. Anyone more gifted than I, I have begrudged. Even her, whose power was leagues beyond my own, I resented simply because fate did not favor me as it had her.”
“Looking back, there are many things I regret. But above all, the sin I cannot forgive myself for—”
“Is the theft.
The betrayal.
I stole her most prized treasure on the day I turned my back on her.
That mirror.”
“None of us ever understood why she cherished that mirror so dearly. She kept it in her chamber at all times, gazing into it, whispering of its wonders.”
“It was merely an enchanted mirror— one that could reveal certain truths. With the right incantation, one could glimpse reality; without it, only their deepest desires.”
“How could that be called a miracle?”
“I may never understand it, but in my youth, I was convinced that mirror was the key to her unparalleled power.”
“Jealousy, distortion, madness— I stole it, betrayed her. I foolishly believed myself cleverer than all the others, thinking I could disappear to a place where she would never find me.”
“Far from home.”
“I wed a man I did not love. I loved only his wealth and influence. He could provide me with the means to become the formidable witch I had always longed to be.”
“This, perhaps, sealed my fate. From the moment I abandoned my homeland, I used my husband’s status to watch for any sign that she was pursuing me.”
“And, of course, the mirror helped. When I asked it who the most powerful witch in the world was, it always revealed her face and her whereabouts.”
“In those days, I thought the chaos of the age worked in my favor, keeping her too preoccupied to seek me out. I lived in peace for a long, long time.”
“Until… the news of her death arrived. I had long anticipated this day, but when the mirror confirmed it, despair settled upon me like a shroud.”
“Grief consumed me. Memories of the past resurfaced. I realized then that I had never truly forgotten the years I spent learning magic at her side.”
“Only there, in her presence, was I free from a husband who coveted my beauty or from ignorant Muggles who feared my magic. She may have been the only genuine soul I ever knew.”
“With this realization came regret. Each day, I gazed into the mirror, willing her image to return, hoping that it had all been a deception— that she was merely lying in wait to strike me down.”
“If that were true, I might have felt relief. But each morning, when I asked the mirror, it showed only my own reflection.”
“I should have been pleased. Yes, I should have… Perhaps she had only ever wished to see me fulfilled. She was that kind of person. How could someone as powerful as her truly be gone?”
“She was the one who taught us how to brew the Elixir of Life!”
“I asked the mirror every day, seeking solace, until one morning my husband’s ever-radiant daughter replaced me as the answer.”
“That shattered my final illusion! The child of a lustful man! How could she be worthy? Fury and madness clouded my reason during those days.”
…
The monologue stretches on, long and impassioned.
Even in committing her words to parchment, the author’s emotions are barely contained. From the cadence of her voice, Ian discerns that she is an elderly witch, preserving the knowledge she once learned from her teacher, yet simultaneously wrestling with the weight of her past.
“This story sounds oddly familiar.” Ian frowns. The “she” that the author speaks of— could it be Witch Mara of the Twilight Realm?
By lineage, the book’s author would be Ian’s predecessor. No, more precisely— his senior sister. This forgotten student recorded all she had learned in her twilight years, leaving behind a testament of her knowledge.
As for why Witch Mara’s likeness adorns the cover, it seems a final tribute to the mentor she once betrayed. Ian finds himself tangled in a complex web of emotions as the preface’s voice fades.
After all—
The more he listens to the author’s tale, the more familiar it seems.
“The fair, regal stepmother from Muggle fairy tales… is actually my ancient senior sister!?”
At last, Ian understands why the author’s words ring so vividly in his mind.
He never imagined that Muggle folklore might hold fragments of wizarding history. Absurd? Unbelievable? Like something from a dream? He doesn’t quite know how to describe the feeling.
“Professor Mara, just what sort of students have you trained, oh…” Ian has uncovered fragments of the past, yet they still leave many questions unanswered.
The latter half of ‘Mind’s Dominion: From Legilimency to Soul Enchantment’ consists primarily of advanced knowledge in the field of mental magic. It begins with Legilimency as a foundation, gradually unveiling the training required to master the art. By the time she penned this book, Ian’s senior sister had become a formidable mind mage in her own right.
However—
Ian is in no rush to study its secrets. There is always time for learning. For now, he continues flipping through the pages, searching for what he truly seeks.
And finally, near the very end, just as he is about to curse the heavens for leading him in endless circles—
He finds it.
“Only as my life nears its end do I finally summon the courage to write this book for her.”
“She taught me so much, and even before my betrayal, she had already shaped the course of my life. I cannot bear to let this knowledge be lost with me.”
Perhaps I no longer have the right to call myself her apprentice, but please forgive my final selfishness— this book is dedicated to my teacher, Morgan le Fay.
On the path you paved, your unworthy apprentice can only go this far… May we meet in the land of souls, and may the ravens of the afterlife guide me to your side.
—
The final pages.
Another lengthy monologue from the author.
Regret is its dominant theme.
But Ian has finally found the truth hidden within these words.
“Morgan le Fay!”
Ian is stunned. He had steeled himself for the possibility that Professor Mara was a dark witch, but he had never imagined that his teacher was ‘that’ infamous.
Wizards have their legends.
Perhaps Albus Dumbledore has already earned his place in history, but it’s clear he has yet to reach the level of a true legend. Morgan le Fay, however, is already enshrined in magical lore as one of the most formidable dark witches to ever live.
Having spent enough time in the magical world, Ian is well aware of the epic tales surrounding her. He never dreamed that he would have a direct connection to such a historical figure!
“Merlin’s beard, Mara… My mentor, Morgan le Fay— she really could have rivaled Rowena Ravenclaw!” Ian recalls his idle musings when he stood upon Rowena Ravenclaw’s island. He had assumed his first teacher was merely an ancient witch lost to time.
Who would have thought the truth would be ‘this’ outrageous?
Ian doesn’t believe he’s being disrespectful to Hogwarts’ founder.
He simply thinks that if the two had ever clashed, Rowena Ravenclaw’s chances of victory might not have been as certain as he once believed.
“Blimey, I’ve gone and apprenticed myself to one of the most powerful witches in history without even realizing it!” Ian can barely contain his excitement at the thought of returning to the Twilight Zone, bringing Dumbledore’s message, and confronting his teacher with her own identity.
Her reaction will be priceless!
“Ugh, I still have a few days left before I can return. There must be a way to shorten the cooldown period.” Ian has never felt time move so sluggishly.
Perhaps it’s because so much has happened since the start of term.
—
The afternoon class is Herbology.
Nothing unexpected happens.
In fact—
For three consecutive days, Ian’s school life remains undisturbed by new revelations. Apart from the still-vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts position, everything is strangely calm.
Rumor has it that Snape personally petitioned for the role, but Dumbledore rejected him outright, stating that he was too steeped in the Dark Arts to teach proper defense.
This rumor, of course, originates from Gryffindor, making its credibility somewhat dubious— especially when it concerns the head of Slytherin House, the professor Gryffindors love to loathe.
“I love this kind of peace!”
…
Another morning dawns.
The Dementors and Ministry officials have withdrawn. No formal announcement has been made, but Professor McGonagall offered a reassuring remark at dinner, telling students there was no need to worry.
Most younger students take her words at face value.
However, Ian and the older students can see through Professor McGonagall’s carefully measured tone. The culprit behind the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s murder has likely not been caught. At best, they have a suspect; at worst, they are completely in the dark.
The so-called “no need to worry”
Is simply to prevent mass panic.
“Not my problem!”
After breakfast, morning classes begin with Potions.
Ravenclaw is once again paired with Slytherin.
Michael, failing to secure a spot with the sisters, reluctantly teams up with William, who has no other options. Aurora, whom Ian hasn’t seen in a while, arrives early and seats herself among the Ravenclaws.
As Ian enters the classroom, Aurora nods at him, waves her wand to duplicate her “limited edition” textbook, and gestures toward the empty seat beside her.
“I’ve got a notebook full of notes from the Half-Blood Prince. I’ll make you a copy next time. The Half-Blood Prince is brilliant, definitely sharper than your grandfather’s Acolyte-rank Potions Master.”
Ian flips through the duplicated textbook and compares it with the notes he left in his dormitory. It’s not that Snape surpasses the Acolyte’s Potions Master in every aspect—
But at least in terms of clarity, the Prince’s annotations are much easier to understand. Snape’s true talent lies in modifying potion recipes.
Perhaps because he wasn’t well-off in his youth, Snape frequently discovered cheaper substitutes for expensive ingredients without compromising—or even improving—the potion’s effects.
“Who is the Half-Blood Prince?” Aurora tilts her head, intrigued.
“Just a relative of mine who happens to be good at potions.” Ian, for once, exercises caution. Revealing Snape’s embarrassing self-proclaimed title wouldn’t do him any favors.
“Huh? Isn’t your relative Snape?”
Aurora narrows her eyes in confusion.
Her heterochromatic gaze reflects Ian’s momentary panic as he glances around the classroom, sighs in relief, and swiftly covers her mouth with his hand.
“Mmm~”
Aurora makes a muffled noise.
“Keep it down, don’t let him hear. I saw him brewing potions late last night while I was out for a little nighttime ‘wandering’. It smelled atrocious. I think he’s concocting something foul just to use against me.”
Ian’s voice carries a note of indignation.
Snape did, after all, threaten to force-feed him the most revolting potion in his stores.
“You sneak about at night too?”
Aurora’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Huh? Are you questioning my character?” Ian huffed, suddenly feeling as if he might be even more devious than Aurora. With a smirk, he pulled out a parchment he had prepared in advance and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
Aurora peered at the map, her name appearing alongside Ian’s. Other dots were scattered about, though only those in the immediate vicinity bore names. Further away, mere dots flickered, but the professors were distinct— each name accompanied by a small moving illustration.
Snape, predictably, was depicted as a bat. Professor McGonagall, a tabby cat. And Dumbledore… a bee in a nightcap.
The artwork was… abstract.
But not unrecognizable.
“I did my best,” Ian muttered, noticing the odd look Aurora was giving him.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe I should update the icons later.” He sighed, knowing his artistic prowess left much to be desired. He had, after all, just unlocked a Level 0 [Drawing] skill— he needed time to hone it properly.
Breaking free from the artistic clutches of a troll and surpassing even the medieval tapestry weavers wasn’t impossible. Just improbable.
“Is this a gift in return?”
Aurora blinked, as though she’d been waiting for something.
“Not at all. It’s a promotional item.” Ian’s grin turned sly. “You can keep it, but your job is to spread the word in Slytherin— say it’s a relic left behind by You-Know-Who, from his student days.”
Aurora’s eyes widened.
“Really? How did Voldemort’s belongings end up with you?”
She had taken the bait— hook, line, and sinker. Perhaps because she trusted Ian too much.
“…”
Ian stared at her for a long moment.
“You’re too gullible,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Of course, it’s a lie. A well-crafted story makes for a better sale, don’t you think? You should know by now that I don’t have the best reputation in Slytherin.”
Aurora folded her arms, listening intently.
“But Voldemort? Even if we don’t like him, plenty of Slytherins are still obsessed with his legacy. If they believe this was once his, they’ll pay a fortune for it.” Ian smirked. “The more expensive, the better. I’ll give you two— no, ten percent commission. Any more, and you’ll struggle to handle that much gold at your age.”
Aurora scoffed, amused.
“I’ve got Cho Chang handling sales in other houses. She gets a flat rate of two Sickles per map. These take time and effort to make, you know, and the materials aren’t cheap. They should go for at least five Galleons each.”
Yes.
Aurora wasn’t Ian’s first “business partner.”
Cho Chang had been roped in before her. The house Prefect would have been the obvious choice, but that was too risky. A clever, rule-abiding senior might see right through the scheme. No, better to stick with peers who have a taste for bending the rules.
Aurora leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“So that’s your grand plan? Time-consuming, labor-intensive, and— what was it? Precious materials?” She grinned. “Ian, you’ve been a scoundrel since you were small, haven’t you?”
“Nonsense!”
Ian scoffed. “I’m still small.”
Aurora chuckled but suddenly hesitated, as though remembering something important.
“Dumbledore spoke to me yesterday.”
She lowered her voice, her expression turning thoughtful. “He wants me to be his Apprentice. And if necessary—” she paused, watching Ian’s reaction, “—to eliminate you if you ever go down the wrong path.”
A textbook-level misinterpretation of Dumbledore’s words.
“…What?”
Ian froze.
“What in Merlin’s name?”
His brain screeched to a halt. Hadn’t he just had a perfectly pleasant conversation with Dumbledore last night? Wasn’t he supposed to be the headmaster’s favorite student?
“Dumbledore’s worried that your talents might attract a following— like my grandfather did,” Aurora continued, tilting her head. “He wants me to act as a balancing force. A ‘white wizard,’ as he put it, to keep you in check.”
Ian’s eye twitched.
“Blasted old codger is playing both sides!”
It suddenly all made sense.
And yet, Ian still felt vaguely betrayed.
“If he’s that worried, why not just lock me in the Hogwarts kitchens and throw away the key? Why go through all this?” Ian grumbled, arms crossed.
Aurora’s expression turned serious.
“So… you don’t want to be eliminated?”
Ian gave her an incredulous look.
“I shouldn’t have stopped Dumbledore from hanging himself!” he declared dramatically.
Aurora blinked.
A beat of silence passed.
“Dumbledore wants to hang himself?” she asked, confused.
She had a feeling she was missing something important.
Before she can ask any more questions, a visibly flustered Snape storms into the classroom. As usual, he flicks his wand to slam the door shut behind him, leaving several students stranded outside.
All of them are Slytherins.
Who would’ve thought Snape had a selfless streak?
“Today, we will be brewing the Invigoration Draught.”
Snape looks worse for wear, as though he spent the entire night brewing potions. His teaching style remains as incomprehensible as ever to those less gifted in the subject.
As he strides past Ian, explaining the potion’s finer details, he suddenly reaches out and yanks a fistful of hair from Ian’s head.
“Oi! Enough already!”
Ian swallows his retort. Confronting Snape in class is a surefire way to lose House points, and he has no intention of making Ravenclaw suffer for his troubles. He glares instead, his hand subtly brushing against his robe, where something hidden shifts slightly.
Just a precaution.
If Snape was going to play dirty, Ian wasn’t above a little retaliation.
“Now, gather your ingredients. This is a simple potion, so I expect no catastrophes. If anyone repeats the last class’s disaster, I will personally ensure they regret it.”
As he speaks, Snape turns his glare toward the Slytherin table, eyes narrowing at Sinjid and Giggs— the duo responsible for last week’s cauldron explosion. Their continued partnership clearly unsettles him.
Everyone rushes to gather their ingredients. Ian had planned to let Aurora handle the potion-making while he merely stirred, hoping to gain some brewing practice without too much effort.
Unfortunately, Snape’s eyes are practically glued to him.
With a sigh, Ian resigns himself to setting up his cauldron.
“Dittany leaves need to be finely chopped.”
“Mr. Parker, are you certain that’s Horklump juice? Or are you trying to have a chat with your dearly departed great-grandmother?”
“You’re brewing a potion, not brewing snot! Toss that disgusting mess out and start again— my Dittany leaves have been contaminated by your wretched sneezing!”
…
For this particular restorative potion, Horklump juice and Dittany leaves are the key ingredients. The brewing process is relatively straightforward, yet the Slytherin table is quickly descending into chaos.
“Fools! You disgrace my house!”
Snape’s frustration grows as he glances between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. The difference is stark— while Slytherin students flounder, the Ravenclaws, particularly those who had private tutoring, work with methodical precision.
His eyes narrow.
“Who taught you to extract essence like that?”
Something feels off.
Snape’s suspicion deepens as he watches a Ravenclaw student handle the ingredients with a level of skill uncommon for fourth-years.
He seizes the student by the shoulder.
“Ah?”
The startled student glances nervously at Ian, who shakes his head frantically. But under Snape’s intense scrutiny, the student caves and blurts out the explanation Ian often gives during their study sessions.
“It’s the Half-Blood Prince, Professor.”
The words tumble out before the student can stop them. He isn’t entirely sure where the title comes from— only that after every one of Ian’s lessons, they’re expected to express gratitude to their ancestors, Hogwarts, and the so-called ‘Half-Blood Prince.’
“IAN PRINCE!”
The roar reverberates through the classroom.
Snape stiffens, his face darkening as his gaze snaps to Ian with more fury than ever before.
He had heard rumors of Ian running secret tutoring sessions for a tidy profit. But to teach potioneering under that name— his name— was outright blasphemy!
You insolent brat.
Do you not have a name of your own?!
“Professor! My potion’s finished!”
Ian, completely unbothered, hands over a freshly bottled sample of his brew.
Meanwhile, his robes feel noticeably lighter.
Snape eyes the bottle with open suspicion.
“Hmph. No visible mistakes, but your technique is mechanical. There’s no heart in this work— just empty precision.”
Despite himself, he notes the potion is far superior to last class’s disaster. His expression softens ever so slightly, though he refuses to let Ian off without criticism.
“If you ever grasp that potion-making is an art that demands heart and instinct, you may finally rise above those bumbling imbeciles you call classmates.”
His tone is slow, deliberate, laced with his usual withering sarcasm. He swirls the potion in its vial, then uncorks it to inspect the scent.
And then—
“Surprise!”
A translucent figure bursts from the bottle.
Peeves the Poltergeist slams his face right up against Snape’s.
(End of chapter)
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