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The fate of the poor senior sister was indeed rather tragic.
A lifetime burdened with guilt.
A lifetime of feeling indebted, shackled by remorse, unable to grant oneself forgiveness.
Who could have imagined that, in the end, all of this was merely a curse woven by the witch Morgan? How deeply must one grasp the workings of a human heart to craft such a cruel and intricate snare!
Wasn't it said that Morgan only raised golden pawns for her enemies? The books in the library weren't just idle gossip in the Daily Prophet or tales passed around the Three Broomsticks— could the biographies truly be misleading?
Ian spared the unfortunate senior sister a fleeting three seconds of sympathy before shifting his concern to the one who mattered most— himself. After all, the methods employed by a wicked witch to punish disobedient students were nothing short of ruthless.
If he wanted to avoid the same miserable fate as the beautiful, tormented senior sister, then he absolutely couldn't afford to be caught by this capricious sorceress.
Seeing the witch still propping her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, Ian swiftly decided to pick a side.
"Your student has committed many wicked deeds in her lifetime, so it's only fair that she faces retribution. Professor, your intentions are clearly just— I imagine she'll have learned her lesson by the time she's reborn."
Ian thought his quick-witted response was rather clever.
However.
The witch arched a delicate brow before speaking. "You think I'm punishing her? Heh. I studied her soul-draining enchantment, so I have a certain... fondness for her."
He had to admit, that was an unexpected angle. If it wasn't a punishment, then... was it a reward? Ian had no idea how to respond to that.
"Isn't that your soul-draining spell?" He asked, grasping at anything to shift the conversation. At that moment, Ian finally realized just how simple the girls at Hogwarts were to deal with by comparison.
"I have always studied the nature of souls— not the crude act of seizing another's will. This is merely an offshoot of that craft. Still, for you, learning it might not be a bad idea."
"She actually had some talent." The witch's expression softened with an almost wistful air, as if reminiscing about days long past, when she had still walked among the living.
At her words, Ian blinked, then leaned in ever so slightly.
"What about me? Do I have talent?"
It wasn't a matter of pride— just curiosity. Were wizards of bygone eras truly superior to those of the present, or did magic, like all things, evolve over time?
"If you can stop using your Pigwidgeon-sized brain for nonsense, master the spells I teach you quickly, and repair those guardian wards that were wrecked by interlopers, I might just consider you my best student." The witch did not outright discourage Ian.
In fact, she seemed almost amused— an attitude far more palatable than Snape's ever had been.
All things considered, Ian was quite pleased.
"Keeping the enchantment in an 'active' state for long durations is tricky, but it's nothing I can't handle." He glanced at his steadily improving alchemy proficiency and felt rather confident.
"The key lies in transfiguration. The bond between alchemy and transfiguration is intricate— after all, when alchemy first emerged, its practitioners sought to reach the domain of the divine."
The witch yawned.
"Are you tired, Professor? Do souls even experience fatigue?" Ian was genuinely surprised as he asked this question.
The witch regarded him with a sidelong glance. "I am merely bored. Perhaps I've lingered in this place too long. Bring me something worth reading next time."
That was unmistakably a request.
"How about 'Secrets of the Darkest Art'?" Ian wondered if the book Aurora had sent him contained curses he had yet to master. Perhaps he could find time to visit Hogsmeade and pick up a copy.
"I want books with proper story arcs, something engaging to pass the time." The witch squinted at Ian, her tone laced with mild displeasure.
"Do you take me for some dark sorceress obsessed with studying the Dark Arts?"
Faced with this obviously dangerous question, Ian immediately shook his head so fast it nearly blurred.
"I see now! You're looking for books like Three Wild Wizards, The Imperious Witch Falls for Me, or The Hogwarts Headmaster and the Man Who Must Not Be Named!"
Ian had always been rather quick on the uptake.
The witch nodded in satisfaction. "That's right, my apprentice. It's been insufferably dull in this place— you mustn't slander me like the others do."
"I don't enjoy studying Dark Magic," She continued, as though this were a widely misunderstood fact. "I simply take pleasure in teaching it to others. It's merely a hobby."
This, of course, was far more disturbing than any fascination with the subject itself.
Ian wisely refrained from commenting.
Instead, he quickly launched into an enthusiastic string of flattery and well-placed compliments. However, thanks to his earlier so-called "slander," the petty witch Morgan took it upon herself to casually test his progress in alchemy.
Fortunately, Ian had been diligent in his studies. His knowledge held up well under scrutiny, leaving Morgan without an excuse to subject him to any of her usual minor punishments.
"Are you not curious why I became so fixated on that mirror only after my death?" The witch asked suddenly, catching Ian off guard just as he had begun to relax, relieved to have passed her impromptu assessment.
She didn't wait for him to answer. Instead, as if speaking more to herself than to him, she murmured softly, "That mirror holds a secret. I believe I only truly understood it not long ago."
There was something wistful in her voice. And more than that— something barely perceptible, something that, in a witch like Morgan, was utterly astonishing.
Sadness.
"Was it a secret of life and death?" Ian's curiosity was immediately piqued.
The witch exhaled lightly, her gaze settling on him for a fleeting moment before shifting to the dim, never-changing illusion beyond— a world that had never known true sunlight.
"It is the unpredictability of fate, my apprentice."
Many spoke of fate, and the greater the wizard, the more reverent their tone became because of it. But in Morgan's voice, there was something else— something he couldn't quite define.
Was it connected to King Arthur? To Merlin?
Ian doubted she would answer even if he asked, but some things could only be learned by trying.
Just as he was about to speak, the witch raised a single, elegant finger, silencing him.
"Perhaps you should visit your friend's town."
It was a clear dismissal of the subject. Ian, being nothing if not perceptive, tactfully held his tongue.
Still, there were two questions he wanted to ask this legendary sorceress.
"Professor, there are two matters I'd like to consult you on," Ian said, mentally calculating how much longer he could remain here. Ever since his magical abilities had strengthened, he could now linger in this realm for nearly half a day.
"Ask away."
The witch leaned back against the bench, her hands resting lightly on either side of her.
Her posture was effortless, poised— an elegance as natural as breathing. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink, its wild beauty only accentuating her already striking, almost otherworldly appearance.
"Well, I've been working on a bit of magic, but I seem to have hit a rather frustrating dead end."
Ian followed her gaze, noticing the faintest flicker of interest in her sharp eyes.
His wand— transfigured from a picture frame— still retained its form. Without hesitation, he raised it, swishing the length of wood in a well-practiced motion as he spoke the incantation.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Though it wasn't his usual wand, the spell responded. A silver mist coiled from the tip like swirling moonlight, shimmering with an ephemeral glow. But that was all.
(To Be Continued…)