The translucent panel hovered quietly before Petunia's eyes, its edges shimmering with faint blue light.
She read it once.
Then again.
---
[Status Panel – Updated]
[Name: Petunia Targaryen]
[Age: 54]
[Constellation Sponsor: NONE]
[Private Attributes:]
— Dragonic Warlock (Myth) [Locked]
— Doekabe-like (Unique)
[Exclusive Skills:]
— Weather Manipulation → Lv.10
— Transfiguration Magic → Lv.2
— Enchantment Magic → Lv.2
— Potioneering → Lv.2
— Mind Magic → Lv.3
— Mystic Cat Footwork → Lv.10
— Deceitful Mouth → Lv.7
— Axemanship → Lv.10
— Cold Resistance → Lv.9
— Lightning Resistance → Lv.9
— Dragonification → Lv.1
[Stigma:] None
[Overall Stats:]
— Stamina: Lv.15
— Strength: Lv.15
— Agility: Lv.15
— Magic Power: Lv.30
[Balance: 100,500 Coins]
---
Petunia stared at the coin balance longer than the rest.
A faint frown tugged at her lips.
That's it?
For a channel that had reached maximum subscription capacity, for one thousand constellations watching her every m⁸ove, the number felt… underwhelming. A ripple of disappointment stirred inside her chest before she cut it off cleanly.
Coins were a resource, not a comfort.
Without hesitation, she flicked her finger through the air.
---
[Doekabe Shop – Accessed]
---
A new interface unfolded, layered with neatly arranged categories. Her gaze slid past items, artifacts, consumables—
"Skills."
The word left her lips softly, yet the panel reacted instantly.
She had learned quickly: raw power was useless without precision.
Petunia's fighting style leaned toward control, positioning, and decisive strikes. Close combat was covered. Mobility too.
What she lacked was certainty.
Accuracy.
Her eyes stopped on a listing that stood out immediately.
---
[Skill: Promised Shot]
— Attacks have a 90% chance of landing on the designated target
— Higher levels increase hit probability and allow multiple specified targets
---
There was no hesitation this time.
"This," she said simply.
---
[Purchase Confirmed]
[Skill Acquired: Promised Shot – Lv.1]
[16,500 Coins Deducted]
---
The deduction barely registered in her mind. A familiar warmth settled behind her eyes—an instinctive sense of alignment, as if invisible trajectories were suddenly clearer.
Her attention moved on.
Two more skills caught her interest almost immediately.
---
[Elven Breathing Technique]
— Enhances mana absorption and control
— Improves elemental affinity
— Secondary effect: physical refinement
[Sixth Sense]
— Heightened danger perception
— Passive threat awareness
---
Mana efficiency and situational awareness.
Foundational. Essential.
"Purchase."
---
[Purchase Confirmed]
[Elven Breathing Technique – Lv.1 Acquired]
[Sixth Sense – Lv.1 Acquired]
[15,000 Coins Deducted]
[Balance: 69,000 Coins]
---
Petunia exhaled slowly.
Good.
Now came the part she enjoyed.
"Stats," she murmured.
The system responded immediately, highlighting upgrade pathways.
---
[Transfiguration Magic: Lv.2 → Lv.10]
[Enchantment Magic: Lv.2→Lv.10]
[weather manipulation:Lv.10→Lv.12]
[21,600 Coins Deducted]
---
A sharp pressure bloomed behind her temples.
Knowledge flooded in—not theory, not memorization, but intuition. Matter felt malleable. Structure revealed weaknesses. Transformation no longer required effort, merely intent.
She didn't stop there.
---
[Dragonification: Lv.1 → Lv.5]
[Sixth Sense: Lv.1→ Lv.5]
[9,600 Coins Deducted]
[ promised shot : Lv.1→ Lv.4]
[3,600 Coins Deducted]
The panels rearranged themselves one final time.
---
[Status Panel – Updated]
[Name: Petunia Targaryen]
[Age: 54]
[Constellation Sponsor: NONE]
[Private Attributes:]
— Dragonic Warlock (Myth)
— Doekabe-like (Unique)
[Exclusive Skills:]
— Weather Manipulation → Lv.12
— Transfiguration Magic → Lv.10
— Enchantment Magic → Lv.10
— Potioneering → Lv.2
— Mind Magic → Lv.3
— Mystic Cat Footwork → Lv.10
— Deceitful Mouth → Lv.7
— Axemanship → Lv.10
— Cold Resistance → Lv.9
— Lightning Resistance → Lv.9
— Dragonification → Lv.9
— Promised Shot → Lv.4
— Sixth Sense → Lv.1
— Elven Breathing Technique → Lv.1
[Stigma:] None
[Overall Stats:]
— Stamina: Lv.15
— Strength: Lv.15
— Agility: Lv.15
— Magic Power: Lv.30
[Balance: 34,200 Coins]
-----------
After Professor McGonagall came to inform her of Dumbledore's request, Petunia agreed without hesitation.
She brushed a speck of dust from her sleeve as she rose, the motion unhurried, almost careless—as though being summoned by the Headmaster for a private sparring session was no more remarkable than being asked to attend class.
The Enchantments sparring Club was quiet when she entered.
The room was circular, its walls reinforced with layered wards. The central arena was modest in size—clearly not meant for spectacles, but for controlled duels and instruction. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting pale bands across the polished floor.
Dumbledore stood at the centre.
Hands folded behind his back, robes immaculate, he looked every bit the kindly Headmaster—except for his eyes. They were sharp, attentive, already weighing her presence the moment she crossed the threshold.
Petunia stopped several paces from him.
Her posture was relaxed. Her gaze calm. Almost… curious.
She tilted her head slightly, as if studying an interesting artefact rather than the most powerful wizard in Britain.
"Good morning, Headmaster."
Her tone was polite, light, perfectly composed.
"Good morning, Petunia," Dumbledore replied warmly. "I thought it might serve as a pleasant warm-up for the day to have a spar."
He gestured vaguely to the arena, as though inviting her to step into a chessboard rather than a duelling ground.
"Given your… constitution," he continued, choosing the word carefully, "I would like to see how you fare—particularly in your use of magic."
As he spoke, his gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.
Dumbledore was exceptionally skilled at gauging magical reserves. It was not an exact science, but years of experience allowed him to feel the shape of another wizard's power—its depth, its flow, its restraint.
A year ago, Petunia Targaryen's reserves had been noteworthy for a Hogwarts student. Strong, yes. Comparable to talented pure-blood children.
But nothing alarming.
The girl standing before him now was different.
Her magic did not spill outward. It did not roar or press against the wards. Instead, it sat tightly coiled, dense and controlled—like a deep lake with no ripples on its surface.
Auror-level reserves.
At least.
Dumbledore kept his expression neutral, though a flicker of surprise passed through his eyes before he smoothed it away.
Petunia met his gaze steadily.
"I'm ready whenever you are," she said simply.
Dumbledore smiled, though this time it carried a trace of genuine intrigue.
This should be fun, he thought.
Petunia Targaryen's very existence tugged at his curiosity—and he suspected that whatever unfolded in this arena would only complicate matters further.
"I'll let you have the first move," the Headmaster said mildly.
Petunia's lips curved, just a touch.
"Don't mind if I do, then."
She drew her wand.
She didn't grip it tightly—no tension, no theatrics. It rested between her fingers as lightly as a pen. Then, strangely, she closed her eyes, shoulders easing, chin tilting a fraction downward… as though she were bracing herself against an oncoming breeze no one else could feel.
Dumbledore lifted a brow.
It was unusual behaviour. Most students tensed before a duel, gathered intent, flared their magic outward. Petunia did none of that. Still, true to his word, he did not strike first.
A heartbeat passed.
Then—
The air moved.
Wind burst through the high arched windows in a sudden rush, carrying leaves, grit, and the faint scent of damp stone. Loose parchment scattered violently, books slammed shut, and papers already present in the club room were torn free, spinning into the air.
The wards hummed louder, responding.
At the centre of it all stood Petunia.
The wind circled her in a widening spiral, leaves and parchment caught in its pull, forming a whirling vortex. Her robes fluttered, hair lifting, but she remained perfectly still—eyes open now, sharp and focused.
The vortex shifted.
Its axis tilted.
And then it lunged toward Dumbledore.
Petunia raised her wand.
"Vermiculus."
Her voice cut cleanly through the roar.
The papers caught in the wind shimmered—first silver, then bright and reflective—before collapsing inward, their shapes compressing, edges sharpening.
In the next instant, they reformed.
Star-shaped projectiles. Dense. Metallic. Lethal.
At the same time—
> [Skill Activated: Promised Shot]
Target Slot: Albus Dumbledore
The stars locked onto him from multiple angles, trajectories adjusting mid-flight with unnatural precision.
Dumbledore, who had already raised a thin, translucent shield to fend off the debris, paused.
Fascination flickered across his face.
"How intriguing," he said, genuinely impressed. "If I'm not mistaken, your bloodline ability involves wind control—or something adjacent."
The stars screamed toward him.
"But I must commend you," he continued calmly. "Layering transfiguration atop environmental manipulation… altering both nature and form in one sequence. That is no small feat."
He smiled faintly.
"Though I should warn you—before becoming Headmaster, I was rather fond of teaching Transfiguration."
"That only makes this more exciting," Petunia replied.
She felt it then.
That familiar tightening in her chest. The sharpened awareness. The thrill that crept up her spine when a fight stopped being theoretical and became alive.
From the sidelines, Professor McGonagall watched intently, already impressed—though she had no idea how much more there was yet to see.
The silver stars converged.
"Excellent control over your wind," Dumbledore remarked.
He lifted his wand.
No incantation.
The air shifted again—but this time, not under Petunia's command.
The stars were pulled.
Their trajectories bent sharply, dragged toward the tip of Dumbledore's wand as his magic asserted itself, attempting to overwrite her transfiguration entirely. One by one, they fused together, metal folding, compressing, condensing—
Until a perfect silver cube floated above his palm.
"And this," he said mildly, "is how one overwrites a spell—and casts another atop it."
Petunia watched.
And smiled.
The cube shuddered.
Then it split.
Metal unfolded in a fluid, serpentine motion, reshaping itself into a snake that coiled around Dumbledore's wand with startling speed and struck—its fangs snapping shut against his hand.
Dumbledore froze.
His eyes widened—just a fraction.
He had been certain he held full control over the cube.
"…How?" he asked quietly.
Petunia felt a bloom of satisfaction.
It worked.
Not perfectly—but it worked.
Thanks to her [Fourth Wall] skill, Petunia had gained an intuitive understanding of how magic functioned—at least, how it behaved within her body.
Mana was chaotic energy, yet absurdly obedient to structure.
That contradiction was its essence.
When a wizard cast a spell, they expelled mana that had been ordered within their body into the outside world—where it immediately lost cohesion. Untamed, it would disperse wildly, bleeding into the environment.
The wand.
The incantation.
the intention of the caster .
Those were not sources of power, but frameworks. They imposed rules. They gave mana something to follow.
Petunia's technique exploited that duality.
She treated magic like logic.
Like code.
If control existed—even at one percent—then it could be hijacked.
Her method embedded conditional behaviour into the mana itself:
Resistance ≤ 15%
While Mana Control > 1%:
Multiply
Restructure
Counteract
→ Form Object: Snake
The actual construct was far more complex—branches, contingencies, fail-safes—but the principle was simple.
If there was even a sliver of influence left within the object, the mana would behave as though alive, multiplying and rebelling against the imposed order.
Of course, the flaw was obvious.
This only worked on opponents with imperfect control—or those who underestimated her.
Like Dumbledore.
And even then, the result was… crude.
The metal snake was hollow, its structure unstable. Its bite lacked force—barely stronger than a pinch.
A prototype.
Petunia did not explain any of this.
Instead, she shrugged lightly.
"I was bored," she said. "So I made a technique."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, glancing at the little silver snake that now clung to his hand, its head resting against his skin like an affectionate ornament.
"I presume," he said dryly, "this was meant to bite?"
A faint blush crept onto Petunia's cheeks as she noticed the shape more closely.
She nodded—without breaking eye contact.
-----
In another wing of the castle, far from the duelling club, the stone corridors echoed softly with measured footsteps.
Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn walked side by side, their pace unhurried.
"Remind me," Slughorn said suddenly, puffing a little as he adjusted his waistcoat, "where exactly are we going again?"
Flitwick chuckled. "I left several rather important budget papers in the Duelling Club room. I need them before meeting Albus—next year's allocations won't submit themselves, I'm afraid."
"Ah. Right, right… paperwork," Slughorn sighed theatrically. "In that case, I'll just—"
He never finished the sentence.
BOOM.
The castle shuddered.
Dust trickled from the ceiling stones.
Both professors stopped dead.
Slowly, they turned their heads toward the source of the noise.
"…That," Slughorn said carefully, "didn't sound like paperwork."
Flitwick's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. "Either an intruder," he murmured, "or someone is being very enthusiastic in the club room."
They exchanged a look.
Then, without another word, they moved.
---
The door to the Duelling Club creaked open just enough for them to peer inside.
What they saw made them both freeze.
Petunia Targaryen was pinned against the far wall, stone behind her cracked like spiderweb glass. One hand braced against it, the other clutching her wand. Her expression was sharp with irritation—frustration flashing openly in her eyes.
Opposite her—
Slughorn's breath hitched.
Flitwick's mouth fell open.
Albus Dumbledore stood calmly in the centre of the arena, robes barely disturbed, wand raised loosely in one hand.
They did not interrupt.
They watched.
Petunia pushed herself off the wall with a sharp grunt, boots scraping against fractured stone. She shook her head once, ruffling her hair as if shaking off the impact.
"Vermiculus."
Her wand shimmered.
The wood elongated, thickened, reshaping itself with a low metallic hum until it became a massive axe—its blade broad and gleaming, faintly glowing along its edge. The weight of it would have staggered most adults.
Petunia held it easily, dropping into a defensive stance.
"Better step up my game," she muttered.
Dumbledore laughed, delighted. "Careful, Miss Targaryen. You may break your wand."
Petunia smiled, unbothered.
"It's made from a water dragon's scale, thunder-struck oak, and Thunderbird feathers," she replied lightly. "If it breaks, Ollivander owes me a new one."
Dumbledore laughed outright.
From the doorway, Slughorn stared. "Merlin's—did she just—"
Flitwick shushed him frantically.
In the arena, Petunia crouched.
And vanished.
One blink she was there—
The next, she was gone.
A rush of displaced air snapped across the floor.
In a flash, she reappeared directly in front of Dumbledore, axe raised, its blade stopping inches from his chest. The speed was violent, almost predatory.
Dumbledore did not flinch.
"It's foolish," he said calmly, "to attack head-on."
Petunia saw it then—magic pooling at the tip of his wand, dense and precise, ready to erupt into binding force. She had felt that spell before. She knew what came next.
Before it could fire—
> [Skill Activated: Mystic Cat Footwork]
Her body twisted mid-motion, impossibly fluid. She slid sideways, movement sharp yet elegant, like a cat slipping past a grasping hand. The axe followed her momentum, arcing smoothly through the air.
Like flowing water.
Like a crashing wave.
The blade slammed into Dumbledore's barrier.
BOOM.
The shield rippled violently, layers of magic bending under the impact. For a split second, it looked like it might fracture—
Then the force rebounded.
A shockwave exploded outward, catching Petunia mid-swing and hurling her into the air. She spun once, twice, cloak snapping like a banner, before crashing hard onto the arena floor.
The stone cracked again.
Silence followed.
From the doorway, Flitwick whispered, awed, "That footwork… that wasn't taught at Hogwarts."
Slughorn swallowed. "That child is fighting the Headmaster like a seasoned duellist."
In the arena, Petunia rolled, boots scraping, axe biting into the stone to halt her momentum. She pushed herself up, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but exhilaration.
She went for a second attack.
Then a third.
Each time, the result was the same.
Petunia hurled herself forward with ruthless precision—axe cleaving through the air, footwork sharp, timing immaculate—only to be met by the invisible wall of Dumbledore's defence. The barrier absorbed the impact, rippled once, and released its stored force.
Each time, she was flung back.
Her body spun through the air like a discarded doll before she corrected herself mid-flight.
Annoyance burned behind her eyes.
> [Weather Manipulation – Active]
The air obeyed.
Wind gathered beneath her feet, lifting her effortlessly until she hovered several metres above the arena floor. Her cloak fluttered violently as she stared down at the Headmaster, frustration finally slipping through her composed exterior.
That barrier…
It wasn't just strong—it was perfect. Multi-layered, self-correcting, reactive to intent. A defence refined over decades.
I'll need to learn that, she noted grimly. After this.
Then—
An idea struck.
Petunia straightened in mid-air. Her wand snapped forward, movements crisp and deliberate.
"Incendio."
Fire roared downward, a lance of heat crashing against the barrier.
"Aqua Eructo."
A torrent of pressurised water followed, slamming into the flames, steam exploding outward.
"Bombarda."
BOOM.
The combined assault detonated against Dumbledore's shield—fire, water, and raw force colliding in a violent cascade. The arena shook. Stone groaned. Dust billowed.
Dumbledore watched calmly from within the storm, eyes sharp with interest as Petunia poured magic into spell after spell without hesitation.
From the doorway—
Slughorn gasped. "How—how large are her magical reserves?!"
Flitwick adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. "And her casting… there's no waste. Every spell is clean. Efficient."
Above them, Petunia did not stop.
The wind shifted.
Loose parchment, abandoned papers, forgotten notices—every scrap in the room shuddered.
"Vermiculus."
The papers surged like a living tide, racing along the barrier's surface. Mid-motion, they shimmered silver, hardening, reshaping—
—into countless razor-thin needles.
They pressed in from all sides, a metallic storm frozen inches from Dumbledore.
"It's useless," Dumbledore said mildly, watching the unmoving swarm. "They won't—"
Petunia didn't answer.
Her eyes were locked onto the barrier itself.
Quietly—carefully—she injected something else into the spell.
Not power.
Structure.
The same logic she had used before.
A thread of intent woven deep into the magic—an instruction designed for only one purpose:
> Create a flaw.
Not a break.
Not a collapse.
Just a hole.
So small it would go unnoticed.
A single needle only needed one opening.
Dumbledore blinked.
The first time she had done this, he had underestimated her.
This time—
He felt it.
A faint, crawling sensation skittered across his barrier, like ants probing for weakness.
"Oh hoh," he chuckled softly. "Not this time."
He snapped his fingers.
The barrier detonated outward like an overinflated balloon.
BOOM.
A shockwave tore through the room.
Needles screamed through the air in every direction.
McGonagall reacted instantly, transfiguring the stone beside her into a thick protective wall.
Slughorn yelped. "HEAA—DOWN! QUICK!"
He and Flitwick dove behind overturned chairs as silver streaks embedded themselves into stone and wood alike.
Petunia—
Petunia was still in the air.
Caught completely off guard.
The pressure hit her first.
Then the needles.
All at once.
BOOM.
Her body was slammed into the far wall, stone exploding outward as she vanished into a crater.
Silence.
Dust drifted slowly to the ground.
"Albus!" McGonagall shouted, already moving. "That was too much—even for a student like Petunia!"
She reached the crater—
—and froze.
Curled within the hole was not a broken child.
But a compact, armored form.
Bluish-silver scales covered Petunia's body like living plate mail, overlapping perfectly, gleaming faintly in the settling dust. She was crouched tightly, limbs drawn in, tail tucked close—an instinctive, draconic defense.
> [Dragonification – Activated]
The scales shifted.
Receded.
Melted back into her skin like mist under sunlight.
Petunia straightened, brushing rubble from her clothes, a deep frown etched onto her face.
She exhaled slowly.
"…You win," she said flatly. "Obviously."
Dumbledore smiled warmly and stepped forward, lifting a hand to pat her head—
"AMAZING! Truly AMAZING!"
Slughorn burst forward, eyes shining like a child's on Christmas morning.
"Semi-Animagus traits! At the age of twelve! Do you know how rare that is?!"
Petunia blinked.
Dumbledore's hand froze mid-air.
Slughorn clapped his hands together, already plotting. 'She must join my club. Absolutely must. she's a person destined for greatness '
Petunia sighed.
The battle was over.
But somehow—
She felt the gap between her and the white wizard .
Horace Slughorn did not so much stand near Petunia as he orbited her.
He circled once. Twice.
Hands clasped behind his back, moustache twitching, eyes bright with open fascination.
"My dear, my dear…" he muttered, leaning sideways as though inspecting a rare artefact at auction. "Extraordinary. Positively extraordinary."
Petunia stood there with a faintly bruised shoulder and dust in her hair, her expression as flat as the stone wall she had recently redecorated with her body.
Slughorn had been interested in her since her first year.
Not only because she was talented—Hogwarts had talented children every few years.
But because of Albus Dumbledore.
Slughorn was an observant man.
He had noticed, long ago, how Dumbledore's gaze would sometimes drift—subtle, careful, almost absent-minded—only to settle briefly on one particular student.
Petunia Targaryen.
The Headmaster was never obvious about such things. He prided himself on fairness. On distance. On allowing students to grow without feeling watched.
And yet…
There was always that quiet attention.
That caution.
Slughorn knew what it meant.
Dumbledore did not single out ordinary students.
He watched talent.
He watched potential.
And he watched for danger.
A faint sigh escaped Slughorn's lips as his mind drifted, unbidden, to another gifted boy from decades past. Brilliant. Charismatic. Ambitious.
'That child…' he thought, moustache drooping ever so slightly.
He blinked and returned to the present with a bright, almost theatrical cheerfulness.
"Well then!" Slughorn boomed, clapping his hands together. "Lady Targaryen—"
Petunia's eyelid twitched at the title.
"—I would be utterly delighted to invite you into my little circle. A most select club, I assure you. Only the most promising students. Personalized mentorship, delightful gatherings, connections that last a lifetime…"
He leaned closer conspiratorially.
"Not to mention dinners. Excellent dinners. Crystallised pineapple, for instance."
He cast a sideways glance at Dumbledore, clearly expecting either resistance or at least a thoughtful hum of reservation.
Instead—
"Ho ho," Dumbledore chuckled softly, stroking his beard. "Yes, yes. Joining a club does add a certain… flavour to one's school life, Petunia."
He looked positively amused.
Slughorn blinked.
That was not the reaction he had anticipated.
Before he could press further—
"No."
Flitwick's voice rang out with surprising firmness.
The tiny Charms professor marched forward, cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Miss Targaryen is clearly better suited for the Duelling Club!" he declared, gesturing emphatically toward the crater in the wall. "Didn't you see her footwork? Her spell layering? The control! The efficiency!"
He turned to Petunia, eyes shining.
"My dear, with proper refinement, you could become one of the finest duelists of your generation!"
Slughorn sniffed.
"Dueling is all very well, Filius, but connections—"
"Discipline and competitive development—"
"Networking—"
"Technical mastery—"
"Influence!"
"Precision!"
The two professors were now fully engaged, voices rising in polite but increasingly heated academic rivalry.
Petunia stood between them.
Silent.
Unimpressed.
Deadpan.
Her gaze drifted slowly from Slughorn's animated moustache to Flitwick's indignant bouncing.
She considered activating Dragonification purely to escape the conversation.
Across the arena, Dumbledore watched the spectacle with mild amusement, hands folded serenely behind his back.
"This," he murmured thoughtfully, "is why I do so enjoy mornings."
Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall stood amidst the wreckage of the duelling floor, staring at cracked stone, embedded silver needles, and a wall that now resembled modern art.
Her lips thinned.
With sharp, precise wand movements, she began restoring the arena. Stone flowed back into place. Debris reassembled itself. The crater shrank.
"Honestly," she muttered under her breath, "one cannot leave you people unattended for five minutes."
Behind her—
"—and I host Ministry officials—"
"—structured combat teaches restraint—"
"—exclusive gatherings—"
"—tactical growth—"
Petunia sighed quietly.
She glanced at Dumbledore.
He smiled at her, eyes twinkling as though this were all part of some elaborate entertainment.
For a fleeting second, Petunia wondered whether surviving the duel had truly been the difficult part of her morning.
Then Slughorn grabbed her hand warmly.
"So! Shall we say Friday evenings?"
Flitwick gasped in protest.
Petunia stared straight ahead, face completely blank.
"…I would like tea first," she said at last.
Dumbledore laughed.
-------
The last month of summer at Hogwarts was a peculiar kind of quiet.
No rushing footsteps in the corridors.
No owls swooping recklessly through open windows.
No distant explosions from overeager students experimenting where they should not.
Only wind.
And water.
And the occasional murmur of professor McGonagall pretending not to keep an eye on a certain twelve-year-old who had nearly demolished the duelling arena yesterday.
Beneath the broad shade of a beech tree by the Black Lake, Petunia Targaryen sat cross-legged on a small woven rug. The house-elves had outdone themselves: neatly sliced fruit, finger sandwiches, sugared pastries, and a chilled glass of orange juice sweating in the mild afternoon heat.
The lake shimmered lazily.
The giant squid drifted near the surface.
It looked peaceful.
Petunia did not.
Her eyes were unfocused—not from boredom, but because she was reading something no one else could see.
A translucent blue panel hovered in her vision.
---
[Prismo is impressed by the fight.]
A faint pulse followed the notification, as if the sender had leaned closer to his cosmic screen.
---
[Prettiest of Them All expresses boredom. She encourages you to take a mission from the System.]
Petunia resisted the urge to sigh.
---
[Failed 9th Circle Wizard is fascinated by the power system of this world. He remarks that the wizards here are fundamentally different from those of his origin.]
---
[Failed 9th Circle Wizard requests a face-to-face discussion.]
---
[Constellation from a Destroyed World requests an audience.]
---
[Demon Lord of Lust desires a private meeting.]
Petunia's expression did not change.
She took a sip of orange juice.
---
[Prismo forwards an invitation to his Domain.]
---
[Failed 9th Circle Mage expresses displeasure. He demands other Constellations back off.]
---
[Prismo states: If Incarnation Petunia accepts my invitation, I will allow others to gather in my Domain. Any offense toward her shall be treated as an offense toward
---
A brief pause.
Then—
---
[Party Lord is ecstatic. He declares it shall be a party to be remembered.]
---
The notifications began stacking rapidly, lines overlapping as higher beings—entities who spanned galaxies, timelines, or ruins of dead scenarios —argued over scheduling, hierarchy, and social dominance.
Petunia watched them bicker.
Like children.
The System that connected her to them was subtle but immense—an invisible channel stretching from her small mortal frame to an audience of cosmic spectators. They called themselves Constellations.
Observers.
Sponsors.
Entities from fractured worlds, alternate dimensions, and distant scenarios who watched "incarnations" across realities as one might watch theatre.
Except their theatre bled.
And grew.
And sometimes ascended.
Petunia closed the notification panel with a flick of intent.
Silence returned to the lakeside.
Only wind. Only water.
Only the faint hum of magic that lingered beneath her skin.
---
Prismo.
She leaned back slightly against the tree trunk.
In another universe—bright, surreal, elastic—Prismo existed as a wish-granting entity who resided in the Time Room. A pink, two-dimensional being lounging casually while managing cosmic causality as if it were a hobby.
A being who could alter timelines.
Undo catastrophes.
Rewrite outcomes.
And yet, he had chosen to watch her duel a school headmaster.
Interesting.
Then there was the Failed 9th Circle Wizard.
She suspected he originated from a world closer to traditional high fantasy—a structured mana system, rigid spell circles, tiered ascension. His fascination with this world's wizards made sense. Hogwarts magic was instinctive, emotionally driven, reliant on intent more than formula.
To someone from a "circle-based" system, this world probably looked chaotic.
Inefficient.
Primitive.
And yet—
Dumbledore's barrier had probably rivaled high-circle defensive constructs.
That had unsettled him.
Petunia smiled faintly.
Then there were others.
A Constellation from a destroyed world—likely a survivor of an apocalyptic storyline.
The Demon Lord of Lust—self-explanatory and already mentally filtered into the "ignore unless beneficial" category.
The Party Lord.
Possibly similar in temperament to someone like Deadpool—if Deadpool was a constellation and an interdimensional broadcast license.
And then Prismo's offer.
His Domain.
A neutral cosmic space.
Protected.
Where offense toward her would be equivalent to offense toward him.
That was not a small declaration.
It was political shielding.
Strategic positioning.
Petunia took another slow sip of orange juice.
Her thoughts were methodical.
Accepting the invitation meant exposure—but also opportunity.
Insight into other power systems.
Potential skills.
Possibly artifacts.
And, most importantly—
Connections.
If Constellations operated like patrons in a vast cosmic marketplace, then reputation mattered.
Visibility mattered.
Alignment mattered.
To refuse would be foolish.
To hesitate would be naive.
She reopened the System interface briefly and selected the invitation.
[You have accepted Prismo's Invitation.]
The panel shimmered once before disappearing.
The lake rippled gently as if in response.
High above, beyond sky and space and narrative layers—
A pink cosmic being likely leaned back in satisfaction.
Petunia rested her chin in her palm.
Summer was quiet.
Too quiet.
She smiled faintly.