"Wingardium Levio—"
"Ding-a-ling—ding-a-ling—"
The magic that had been gathering at the tip of the wand scattered into the air like mist, the unfinished spell evaporating into nothingness. Before Slytherin could even sigh in frustration, the telephone began to ring—shrill, relentless, like a tolling bell of doom.
The receiver vibrated violently on its hook.
Slytherin scrambled to answer. The moment he picked up, a voice exploded in his ear like thunder, suppressing fury with little success.
"Slynt Page! Do you know what day it is today?"
A loud thump came through the line—the sound of Andrew slamming his fist on a table. Slytherin involuntarily flinched.
He didn't need to check the calendar. The familiar tone, the very rhythm of this exchange, told him exactly what mistake he had made.
"Ah, haha… maybe… it's not the deadline yet?"
"Wrong answer!"
Andrew's voice was icy and sharp, like a demon looming beside a molten pit, pitchfork in hand, ready to shove Slytherin into the fire.
"Perhaps everything you told me—an old, trusting man—was a lie. Oh yes, Magic is just so wonderful, isn't it? It's completely ensnared you. Fairy tales? Those are for the 'Muggle Slytherin' to write. But Grand Wizard Slytherin? He's too busy researching spells that make people explode or float into the sky!"
Slytherin's eyes sharpened. His love for fairy tales was not to be questioned! Over the past few days, he had earnestly read Merlin's Tales and The Tales of Beedle the Bard, even gritting his teeth through The Adventures of the Puffskein.
That book deserved to be buried in cobwebs. Who thought a story about a Puffskein cursed into an Acromantula was appropriate for children? Worse, the illustrations depicted the Acromantula, not the Puffskein!
He absolutely refused to recognize that author as a fairy tale writer. Clearly, it was a personal act of vengeance against the world, designed to terrify children. And it wasn't because he had accidentally set the house on fire when a moving photo of an Acromantula leapt at him. Damn magical photos…
After Slytherin had offered a patient, if frantic, defense, there was a long silence on the other end of the line.
Then Andrew asked coldly, "So, my fairy tale writer—where is your new manuscript?"
"I think, as a writer who's published thirty-two fairy tales and even made the London bestseller list, you should understand the difference between an enthusiast and a professional author."
His tone was colder than the blizzards of the Eternal Winter Kingdom and just as unforgiving.
"So, dear writer, if I don't have that manuscript by tomorrow afternoon…"
"That won't happen! Mr. Andrew!"
"Call me Mr. Depute when we're working!"
Click.
The line went dead. Slytherin exhaled, deeply relieved.
If he hadn't been diligently practicing Magic, he probably wouldn't have just gotten yelled at. He would have been pinned to his desk by now, writing a full chapter just for a croissant.
Andrew was deeply resistant to anything magical. Ever since Slytherin had returned from Diagon Alley, Andrew refused to step foot in his home. Their monthly dinners had changed too—now Andrew drove to pick him up and took him elsewhere.
Slytherin still remembered their first meeting post-Diagon Alley. He had tried to share a chocolate frog. Andrew took it, ate it quietly, but halfway through, he began to cry. He pulled a small photo from a necklace and broke into sobs.
Slytherin eventually learned that Andrew's parents hadn't died—they had abandoned him for being a Squib.
But once, they must have shared happy moments. Slytherin saw that clearly in Andrew's tear-matted beard.
After that day, he stopped showing Andrew anything magical.
Now, seated at his desk, Slytherin found blank manuscript paper, neatly arranged his quill and ink, and sat down properly. Pen in hand—
He stared blankly at the page for fifty straight minutes.
He couldn't help it. He had absolutely no idea what to write.
He had promised Andrew a compelling story, but a major problem had arisen—one beyond his control.
That was his first descent into the Eternal Winter Kingdom within the Dream World. Originally, he had planned to observe events there, then adapt them into a fairy tale. But the Queen of Blizzards had grown too powerful. Her storms blocked all entry.
Even when he managed to descend directly into the kingdom, Yetis appeared instantly, punching him straight back out. How they withstood his flames was beyond him.
No story, no inspiration—no fairy tale.
He desperately wanted to tell Andrew the truth but knew the response he'd get: righteous fury in the form of a rolled-up manuscript smacking his forehead.
After all, the papers had already run headlines: "Genius Fairy Tale Writer Slynt Page to Release New Work Soon!"
He couldn't back out now. Readers were waiting.
Slytherin raked his hands through his hair until it resembled a bird's nest. Just then, his eyes landed on The Tales of Beedle the Bard on his nightstand—and the black feather ornament hanging on the coat rack.
It was a magical item crafted by Maleficent herself, housing a dragon made entirely of flame.
The book. The feather.
Beedle's version of Maleficent's tale.
"The Crow Witch and the Poison Dragon."
Of course! Slytherin had a new idea.
Poet Peter had used Maleficent's story without her consent. As her only acknowledged heir, Slytherin decided it was his duty to correct the misrepresentation.
Maleficent once told him her story hadn't even begun yet, and out of respect, he hadn't pried. But now—he had no choice.
He dipped his quill and wrote the title:
Dragon Witch
Long ago, a distant kingdom was ruled by a foolish, tyrannical king who waged endless wars. Fertile lands turned to wastelands, and though people owned land, they had no means to cultivate it. They lived in suffering and fear.
In this chaos, a little girl lost her mother and prayed to the heavens for her return.
Though her mother did not come back, a comrade of the mother returned from the battlefield with a mysterious magical book. He studied it, became a noble wizard, and cared for the orphaned girl as if she were his own.
As the world fell deeper into war, the wizard built a tall tower to protect the girl and summoned a thorny forest around it.
People came to fear and call him "Maleficent, the Thorn Witch."
The king, greedy for power, coveted the Thorn Witch's magic. He envisioned using those thorns across every battlefield. He sent his knights to attack, but the Witch's magic—flames that burned away evil desire—reduced them to ash.
Enraged, the king turned to the Demon King of the Abyss. In exchange for his soul, the king received a suit of black clothing and a sinister prophecy:
"The black night shall conceal you. Atop the tower, a girl more precious than the Witch resides. Seize her, and the proud Witch will kneel."
On a moonless night, the king slipped past the thorns and arrived at the tower.
Feigning kindness, he cried out:
"Good people, I am hungry, lost, and alone! Is there anyone with mercy left in this cruel world?"
The girl, moved by his pleas, descended from the tower and walked straight into the king's waiting arms.
The next morning, the king dangled her above the city wall, shouting:
"Submit, Thorn Witch!"
As prophesied, the sight of the girl made Maleficent kneel. She allowed herself to be chained.
But then, the black garments the king wore caught fire. In his panic, he didn't see the girl fall from his grip.
She landed before Maleficent—lifeless.
Tears of anguish fell from the Witch's eyes, igniting a magical blaze. The fire melted her chains and forged a golden scepter.
She rose, lifted the scepter—and the kingdom was consumed by flame.
For thirteen days and nights, the fire burned. On the fourteenth night, a green dragon emerged from the flames.
This was no ordinary dragon. Its fire turned evil to ash. Its breath came from the abyss, transforming tyrants into cinders.
The dragon flew across the world, burning away war, restoring barren lands, and erasing evil.
People revered her, calling her "Dragon Witch Maleficent," the one who brought peace.
At last, the dragon returned to the tower, guarding the girl's body, as though she had never died.
And from that day on, no great war ever broke out again—for every cruel king feared the watchful eye of the Dragon Witch.
Slytherin set down his pen, exhausted. This always happened—when the story took hold, it poured out of him like truth.
And yet, he knew this was his magical rewriting.
Because the girl in Maleficent's tower was still alive—and sometimes gave him candy.
Though, she never ate any herself.