There once was a witch named Phee Phanshell, who once cast a powerfull spell. Her life was full of the usual stuff: angst and woe and stress although, she felt it was never enough. Her friends told her she'd lost it, gone about it the wrong way. But when she retorted she'd rather be left alone, they didn't know what to say.
So Phee went on with her melancholy life, pleased with her troubles, struggles and strife. She agonized the kids at school, and spent much time on the discipline stool. It took a detention with Minerva McG to finally and thankfully explain to Phee, that should she continue with this sulky fun, her days at Hogwarts School could quickly be over and done.
So Phee sulked and sulked some more, when a certain wizard with a taste for darkness came to her door. He came with a proposition in form of prose: a sonnet of life full of her beloved angst and woes. Phee eyed the wizard with considerable suspicion, and asked with this life came which conditions. The Dark wizard grinned and with a wave of his wand, showed her the terms of their forbidden bond.
Phee both hemmed and hawed, and dragged her feet, and told the wizard she'd get back to him in a week. The wizard quickly changed his tune and informed her of her most certain doom. "Should you make the attempt to flee," said the wicked Dark Lord to Phee, "your family will be my slaves and serve me for the rest of their days." Phee shrugged and turned a deaf ear.
"Suit yourself," said she, "you'll be sick of them within a year."
The Dark Lord was taken aback - perhaps he'd given her too much slack. "Then perhaps you'll reconsider when I toss them in a dementor's den?"
"You place my mother at that wicked thing's door," said Phee, "it's the dementor I'll be feeling sorry for."
"A Crutacious Curse to worsen the deal!"
"That might work," admitted the witch, "if Mum didn't have nerves of steel..." The wizard leered at the raven-haired witch - she was proving tiresome, and turning into a right little-
"If you're not going to used me, I might as well go," declared Phee.
The Dark Lord sneered and said, "Is that so?"
"True enough," replied Phee with a yawn. "I've got homework to skiv off and it's nearly dawn. My feet are sore, plus my arms are bare-"
"Enough!" shrieked the Dark Lord. "I no longer care!" The Dark Lord cast her a look of spite, and quickly disappeared from sight.
And that, kiddies, is how ordinary Phee: became the patron witch of Apathy. Her lack of concern for not this thing nor that, was how she kept the Dark Lord back. A word to the wise for those of you, who think Phee's idea is best to do: The lonesome witch with raven-coloured hair, is doomed to haunt the world till her bones hang bare. Because of her choice to remain deaf, she walks a path much worse than death.
And so the story of Phee Phanshell: the witch who refused to give a hell.