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The thing about the White Witch is that she never truly dies.
Her winter may have died, her wand and her armies and her reign of terror, but something like her can’t simply be killed as easily as that. Even as Aslan walked away from her, blood in his mane and victory in his stride, her heart simply descended back into the earth, waiting to be reawakened. Waiting for the right moment to strike. Waiting for easy prey.
Edmund was easy prey once, and he swore he never would be again.
The Witch lives in his mind. There, her castle is rebuilt, his thoughts used as pillars, his instincts laid down as foundations, all his elegant words forming spiral staircases. There’s even tiny models of Edmund and Mr. Tumnus, chained to the walls he made himself. No sweets, no thrones, no promises, just the two of them wondering what you could possibly do against true evil.
The Witch herself is a quiet presence. She slips in every now and again, asking questions Edmund can’t answer. Why did Aslan give his life for you? How could your siblings ever trust you again? Why do you pretend that you’re good, that you’re “just”, that you’re anything like them, with their easy smiles and open hearts while you stand there, full of guile-
Lucy laughs at him when he warns her to be careful around all her potential suitors. “When did you get so suspicious, Edmund?”
In many ways, they’ve forgotten about the Witch. Narnia has forgotten her. It’s what she deserves, but Edmund selfishly keeps her alive if only because he doesn’t know who he is without her.