Harry Potter: Prince of Shadows

Faced with the imposing elegance of the mysterious woman before him, Ian couldn't help but feel a twinge of nervousness.

Though he possessed the unique ability to enter the Limbo Realm, his encounters here had been sparse. Including the woman before him, Ian had only met three individuals in this strange world.

This was the domain of the dead. Who knew what kind of history or power this lady might possess?

"Who are you?" Ian asked, subtly preparing to bolt at a moment's notice.

The woman arched a delicate eyebrow at his question.

"That poor little girl has gone off with your wanderer friend, chasing after the ridiculous golden apple. As if such a thing could exist in this forsaken place."

Her words were laced with disdain and mockery.

Wanderer friend?

Ian quickly pieced it together. The person she was referring to must be his other companion in this realm—Pandero Natteg.

The name was unremarkable, and the boy himself was an adventurer brimming with youthful energy. It made sense that this woman would call him a "wanderer."

Pandero, even in the Limbo Realm, was ceaselessly exploring, claiming to have been doing so for countless years. He often joked that he'd forgotten how long he'd been here. Despite being a soul that had existed for millennia, his appearance remained that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Such was the peculiar magic of this realm.

According to Ariana, Pandero had looked exactly the same when she first met him. Ian couldn't help but wonder if Pandero had crossed paths with this mysterious woman before—and in what circumstances.

Did they have history? What kind of history?

Ian's curiosity was piqued.

His knowledge of Pandero was limited to his impressions of him as a wise elder with youthful exuberance—and occasional foolishness. Pandero's name didn't appear in any history books or Harry Potter canon Ian could recall. Whatever kept him tethered to the Limbo Realm remained a mystery.

Chasing "golden apples" certainly sounded like something Pandero would do. Ian could vividly remember the time Pandero had excitedly tried to recruit five-year-old Ian for a quest to find the infamous Herpo the Foul, one of the wizarding world's most notorious dark wizards.

Me? Five years old? Taking on Herpo the Foul?

The memory was so absurd that Ian still found it difficult to believe.

"Golden apples? Like the ones from fairy tales?" Ian asked cautiously, trying to mask his trepidation.

The woman's elegant features twisted into a smirk as she regarded Ian with a mixture of disdain and amusement.

"Trivial nonsense. Do you expect a golden apple tree to bloom in a place like this?" she retorted, her tone dripping with arrogance.

"The last apple tree was chopped down when I was alive. As for the Limbo Realm, such a thing could never exist here." Her voice carried a certainty that was impossible to question.

"So golden apples did exist in the living world?" Ian asked, genuinely surprised.

At this, the woman turned to face him fully. Her breathtakingly beautiful face drew closer, and she took two deliberate steps forward. The scent of roses wafted toward Ian.

He instinctively took a step back.

Her aura was overpowering, a mix of regality and menace.

"And what do you think a fairy tale is? Do wizards count?" she asked, her words cutting through Ian's thoughts like a blade.

The question left Ian momentarily speechless.

The woman's lips curled into a smile, as if she relished his discomfort.

"You may be foolish, as clueless as a child, but who can blame me for finding you intriguing?" she said, lifting a slender finger to point toward the distant forest. Hidden within the trees was the silhouette of a looming castle, its ancient facade both foreboding and captivating.

"If you wish to learn magic, come find me there," she declared.

Ian followed her gaze to the shadowy outline of the castle. Its weathered exterior radiated an aura of mystery and menace, and he suddenly realized who she was.

The witch from the castle.

Ariana had often spoken of her. Ian's instinct to flee wasn't cowardice—it was the innate response of a sorcerer sensing danger. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

"What's the price?" Ian asked warily. He knew better than to believe in free favors, especially from someone so enigmatic.

The witch raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. She stepped closer, circling him as her long black robes trailed across the ground without picking up a speck of dirt.

"It seems you're unaware of just how special you are," she mused, her voice tinged with mockery.

After a pause, she added, "Still, for someone your age to grasp the rules of the wizarding world… it's not entirely disappointing."

The witch finally stopped, locking her piercing gaze on Ian.

"If you insist on adhering to the principle of equivalent exchange, then bring me my magic mirror."

A flicker of nostalgia passed through her eyes as she mentioned the mirror, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Her tone returned to its usual indifference.

"Find my mirror and bring it to me… and I will teach you the most powerful magic."

"A mirror?" Ian repeated, confused.

The witch didn't elaborate. Instead, she smiled mysteriously.

"Of course, even if you fail to retrieve it, you can still come to me for lessons," she said with a sly grin.

"After all, who could resist the temptation of toying with a little boy?"

The playful malice in her voice sent a shiver down Ian's spine.

Before he could respond, Ian felt the telltale sensation of time running out. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was the witch's enigmatic smile as she watched him fade away.

As silence reclaimed the deserted town, the witch's expression softened. She turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing against the cobblestones as she disappeared into the forest.

Her castle loomed ahead, a stark contrast to the serene town. Vines crawled up its weathered stone walls, and sharp spires pierced the stormy sky. The air here was heavy and oppressive, a far cry from the peaceful atmosphere of the village.

Inside, the castle was a different world entirely. Lavish and resplendent, it seemed untouched by time. A grand hall stretched before her, adorned with intricate marble tables, crimson silk tablecloths, and gilded utensils. The glow of a roaring fireplace brought the painted tales of knights and princesses on the walls to life.

As the witch moved through the castle, everything around her seemed to stir to life. Candles lit themselves one by one, tablecloths floated into place, and plates arranged themselves meticulously. A golden roast pig hovered into the dining room, only for the witch to dismiss it with a single disdainful glance.

"I've already dealt with one exasperating nuisance today. I have no need for another," she muttered.

The pig vanished, replaced moments later by a roasted lamb. The witch, however, showed no interest in dining. She ascended the grand staircase to her chambers.

Sitting at a vanity devoid of a mirror, she traced the wooden frame with her fingers.

"Mirror, mirror… who is the fairest of them all?" she murmured, her voice tinged with melancholy and irony.