Chapter 21: The Reversal of Fate!

The Reversal of Fate!

Severus Snape might be well-versed in the art of deception, but there was no way he possessed the ability to reverse cause and effect. Ian was certain he had uncovered the truth.

Snape was a plagiarist!

This was an enormous scandal. While it might not compare to his past entanglements with Lily Potter, it was still a revelation that could socially annihilate Snape at Hogwarts.

Its impact would be akin to a middle schooler having their embarrassing online username—King's Contempt—and signature—Let the world feel pain—exposed to the entire school.

"You look like an idiot."

The witch observed Ian's foolish grin with mild curiosity.

"I just thought of something amusing."

Ian snapped back to reality under her gaze.

"Does blackmailing others make you happy?"

Her penetrating stare seemed to see right through him.

"Professor Mara! And you claim you don't read minds!"

Ian feigned shock.

"You just asked me about that phrase, and now you're standing there grinning like an imp. Any rational person could guess what you're plotting."

The witch rubbed her temples as if she found Ian's stupidity unbearable.

"Well then, tell me—who has my book?"

She seemed to care about the legacy she had left behind.

"It's one of my professors. Every year, he begins his lessons with the exact same line you wrote in one of your books."

Ian answered promptly.

"The professor who teaches you Potions at that school called Hogwarts?"

Seeing Ian nod, the witch responded with an indifferent tone.

"Well… at least it's not a total disgrace."

The implication was clear.

She took great pride in her work, and having a Hogwarts professor use her words was, at the very least, tolerable.

"Can potions truly prevent death?"

Ian voiced the age-old question that had puzzled countless Hogwarts students.

"Of course. But your professor? He certainly cannot."

The witch let out a knowing chuckle, her tone brimming with confidence.

"Why not?"

Ian pressed eagerly.

"Because I cut down the last Golden Apple tree in this world."

The witch's tone was casual, but her words carried the weight of finality.

"To create a potion that can defy death, you need Golden Apples. And without them… well, unless your professor is an unparalleled genius, he will never find a suitable substitute."

Though she left the possibility open, her tone dripped with scorn. She clearly didn't believe any modern potioneer could match the achievements of ancient alchemists.

Ian didn't believe it either.

After all, if Snape had truly mastered a potion that could prevent death, he wouldn't be widely mocked as someone who only knew how to bluff. The original story made it clear—Snape was simply incapable of creating such a potion.

However…

Now that Ian knew the origin of Snape's infamous opening line, the mystery was solved.

Snape couldn't do it.

But once, long ago, someone had.

"Professor Mara, why did you cut down the Golden Apple tree?"

Ian had heard her mention cutting down trees more than once. He was curious—was this act tied to the reason she remained in this strange, fragmented reality?

"Because I wanted to."

The witch smiled, radiating an unsettling sense of amusement.

There wasn't a hint of guilt or hesitation in her expression.

"…Alright."

Ian could tell he wasn't going to get the real answer.

"Potions, unlike magic, evolve with time. The ingredients change, formulations shift. If you wish to learn, bring me some modern potion books."

She deftly changed the topic.

"Not ingredients?"

Ian blinked in surprise.

"My dear apprentice, I may have been dead for a long time, but I am quite certain that even in your era, potion ingredients are not cheap."

She smirked.

"Do you think you can afford them?"

The truth stung.

Ian's face reddened slightly at the blunt remark. He was, indeed, broke.

"…I could probably sneak a few from the school's storeroom."

Hogwarts might not be a place overflowing with riches, but it certainly wasn't lacking in potion supplies.

"Heh. I'd rather not have your Potions professor hunting you down."

The witch, clearly an expert in the field, understood all too well how potioneers viewed their ingredients—possessively, obsessively, and with a willingness to hex anyone who took them without permission.

"Professor Snape treats me well, actually. Maybe if I beg pathetically enough, he'll lend me some. I already owe him quite a bit of money."

Ian admitted, though he wasn't sure how much goodwill he had left to exploit.

"…He treats you well, and yet you're still thinking about blackmailing him?"

The witch gave Ian a peculiar look, as if reassessing his character.

"You really do have the makings of a dark wizard."

"…"

Ian wasn't sure how to respond. He just thought of blackmail as a bargaining chip—something he might never use but was always good to have. Like a nuclear deterrent.

"Relax, I'm just teasing."

The witch waved a hand dismissively.

"Just bring me the books. Don't underestimate your teacher. I may not have practiced in ages, but once I start again, it won't take long for me to surpass your era."

Her confidence was absolute.

Ian couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement.

Who wouldn't want a teacher who was undeniably powerful?

The stronger the teacher, the more the student could learn.

Ian could already picture his own bright future!

"Praise be to you, Professor Mara!"

He clapped his hands together in exaggerated admiration.

"…You certainly have talent."

The witch assessed him with an amused smirk.

"Of course! I have an amazing teacher, after all!"

Ian seized the opportunity to flatter her further.

Naturally.

And yet…

"I was referring to your ability to grovel. With that talent, you'll go far in the pursuit of power."

Her smile deepened.

…Was that a compliment?

It really didn't sound like one.

"Genuine praise shouldn't be mistaken for flattery…"

Ian widened his eyes in feigned innocence.

"See? This is why I said you have talent."

She saw right through him.

Even Ian, whose skin was usually thick enough to ignore embarrassment, felt a twinge of awkwardness.

"Study magic well. Once you become strong enough, you won't need to hide behind deception."

Her words carried weight.

"…I understand."

Ian grew serious.

"Good. Now, my foolish apprentice, let us begin."

The witch suddenly stood, her long legs carrying her toward him with effortless grace.

"You are far too weak."

She loomed over him, taller by a full head, radiating an overwhelming presence.

"I don't have a wand."

Ian hesitated.

"A wand is just a tool."

She sighed, as if disappointed by his dependence on it.

Raising her hand, she snapped a golden frame from a painting in the grand hall.

With no incantation, no ritual, not even a flick of her wrist—

The metal seamlessly reshaped itself into the form of a wand.

Ian gawked.

"Magic?"

"Knowledge."

Her tone was firm.

As Ian tried to process what had just happened, she moved behind him, placing a single finger against the back of his head.

"Let's start with something simple."

At that moment, Ian felt it—

A wave of bone-chilling dread.

"Feel this killing intent."

Her voice was unnervingly calm.

What kind of simple magic required sensing killing intent?!

"Focus. And repeat after me."

A dark emotion surged from her fingertips into his mind.

Ian felt his thoughts becoming clouded, a powerful impulse flooding through his veins.

"Avada Kedavra."

In the grand, opulent hall—

The fire crackled in the hearth.

And the first spell she taught her student was the Killing Curse.