Thirty days passed in what felt like a blink.
For most first-years, Hogwarts was a whirlwind of new robes, spellwork mishaps, late-night whispering in shared dorms, and nervous questions about where to find things like the Eye of Newt or a stray salamander. But for Petunia, the experience was uniquely surreal.
Though her body was eleven, her mind was that of a seasoned woman in her mid-thirties. She remembered spreadsheets, deadlines, and morning coffee. Now, she attended classes on wand technique, enchanted history, and celestial alignments—all surrounded by children just learning the world.
And oh, how obviously young they were.
From the start, Petunia excelled in every subject.
Not through braggadocio or flashy spellcasting, but through consistent, methodical effort. She took organized notes. Asked precise questions. Practiced quietly until she got it right. When Flitwick asked someone to demonstrate a floating charm, or when Professor Vector needed help illustrating magical measurements, it was often Petunia's name that was called.
Even Professor Slughorn—the ever-affable Potions Master with a fondness for talent—took notice. One rainy Tuesday, after she brewed a perfectly balanced Nettle Potion, he looked over his spectacles and gave a pleased little chuckle.
"Miss Targaryen, you remind me of a young Damocles Belby—sharp nose for brewing and steady hands. Ever considered joining the Slug Club, hmm?"
She politely declined, not wanting extra obligations or attention. Still, Slughorn marked her as one to watch.
In Ravenclaw, this earned her quiet admiration. Students in her house respected diligence. And Petunia, without meaning to, became something of a model Ravenclaw:
Level-headed, never swept up in drama.
Respectful, even when dismissing nonsense.
Intelligent, but not boastful.
Willing to help, though never volunteering without reason.
She didn't actively seek to lead—but when a group of like-minded students began gravitating toward her, she didn't mind. They were calm sorts. Quiet. Shy. Curious. Or simply the type that wanted to study in peace, away from the chaos of House rivalries.
Some of them had been on the receiving end of Slytherin mockery. Others found Gryffindor's relentless loudness just a bit too much. Petunia never encouraged them directly, but she didn't discourage them either. She understood what they needed: structure. Quiet. A bit of kindness without condescension.
They found all of that in her.
---
If anyone called Petunia the "leader" of her little circle, she would have frowned.
These were children, not coworkers or friends. And she didn't need friends—she needed peace.
Still, they were respectful, and she didn't mind answering questions when approached.
"Petunia, what's the difference between a Runespoor egg and a Basilisk scale in runic anchoring?"
"Petunia, can you explain how to pronounce the glyph for equilibrium in that Arithmancy chart?"
She helped, provided her own homework was finished. Her rule was simple: if she had time, and you asked politely, she'd help.
She was never mean, never curt. Just distant. The way a teacher might be with students they cared for—but not intimately.
---
While Petunia maintained a functional friendship with James, Sirius, and Remus, she kept herself deliberately distanced from their nonsense.
Their pranks, their trouble-making, their late-night whispers about secret passageways and ghost tricks—it was all amusing in theory, but exhausting in reality.
James in particular would occasionally drop beside her in the common room and attempt conversation.
"Oi, Petunia, you're studying again? It's a Thursday. You've earned a break!"
She'd glance over her book and raise an eyebrow.
"So has gravity. Doesn't mean we turn it off."
He laughed every time. Still tried. But he got the message.
To her, they were kids playing at rebellion. Clever, powerful, but deeply immature. And though she had nothing against them, she had no intention of being caught up in their messes.
---
Things shifted on the social front after one notable event.
A first-year Slytherin boy, sharp-jawed and smug, had approached her outside the library one day.
"You look clever. You'll do my Astronomy chart for me. I'll make it worth your while."
Petunia didn't look up from her book.
"No."
"That wasn't a request," he sneered.
Without another word, she stood up, dropped her book on the bench, and punched him square in the stomach.
He hit the ground like a sack of coal.
A stunned silence swept through the corridor.
It wasn't the punch that shocked them—it was who threw it.
Petunia, who always walked like a breeze and spoke like a professor. Petunia, who wore her hair neatly and read poetry in the sun.
Madam Pomfrey scolded her gently. Flitwick tried not to smile when he heard. She was docked five house points—and given no further punishment.
"Self-defense," the Head of Ravenclaw said with a shrug.
After that, no Slytherin so much as looked her way. Not even the older ones. Whispers of her "muggle dueling" skill spread among the common rooms, and the Ravenclaw upperclassmen, pleased that a first-year had spined up against dark-aligned students, made it known:
"If you bother that one, you bother us."
The Slytherins decided it simply wasn't worth the trouble.
---
A month into Hogwarts, Petunia had quietly built a reputation:
To professors, she was sharp, serious, and reliable.
To her peers, she was cool-headed, quietly strong, and strangely adult.
To her inner circle, she was a safe place—someone who wouldn't mock or dismiss them.
To the rest, she was a mystery. Not warm, not cold. Just… above it all.
And while she would never admit it aloud, she was beginning to enjoy the balance she'd created here.
Magic was a part of her now. But so was order. And for once in her life—whether she was a tired adult or a girl reborn—things made sense.
The Monthly Professors' Meeting – Dumbledore's Office, Evening Light
The golden light of the setting sun spilled through the tall, arched windows of the headmaster's office, painting the room in soft amber and long shadows. The ancient clocks ticked gently on the wall, their faces etched with runes and hands made of silver and phoenix feather. Fawkes stirred silently on his perch, letting out a low coo now and then, as if he, too, was listening.
It was time for the monthly professors' council—a long-standing Hogwarts tradition where the staff gathered to assess the state of the school, curriculum developments, student concerns, and more often than not, the curiosities of the term.
Seated in his high-backed chair behind a desk cluttered with scrolls, books, and a half-eaten lemon drop, Albus Dumbledore folded his fingers thoughtfully and glanced around the room. Professors occupied their usual seats—some reclining with tired sighs, others already leaning forward with comments at the ready.
"Now," Dumbledore began with his usual warm, whimsical lilt, "to the next subject of the evening: our students. Have there been any... noteworthy developments among this year's first years? Promising talents? Troubling trends? I trust you've all had time to form impressions."
As if on cue, the discussion began.
Professor McGonagall was the first to speak, her tone crisp but not unkind. "A solid intake this year. Fewer accidental transformations than usual. One student did turn her quill into a finch, which then tried to eat her notes, but all in all—progress."
She adjusted her square spectacles. "That said, one name comes to mind—Petunia Targaryen. She's managed the feather-light charm, the match-to-needle transfiguration, and the duplication of minor items, all without breaking pace. Not flashy—but clean work. Remarkably consistent for someone her age."
Professor Flitwick piped in next, his tiny frame barely clearing the rim of his chair, though his voice rang clear. "Ah yes, Miss Targaryen. Polite. Methodical. Shows great finesse with wand movement, even under pressure. She asked about the historical evolution of the Levitation Charm in our second lesson—before I brought it up. Quite the scholar, that one. Ravenclaw's lucky to have her."
The Ravenclaw House head, Professor Varga—a regal witch with greying hair and jewel-toned robes—nodded with a visible, satisfied smile.
"She's earned full marks in every assignment," Varga added, lifting her chin proudly. "Never tardy, never disruptive. Helps her classmates, though rarely volunteers unsolicited. She doesn't seek attention... but she's quickly become a cornerstone of our first-year cohort."
Professor Slughorn, ever fond of prodigious young minds, chuckled with a rub of his rounded belly. "I daresay, I was hoping to have her join my little club, but she politely refused. Still—excellent sense for potions. Her Pepperup was more stable than some of my fifth-years'. And she corrected a measurement error on my own blackboard. Very quietly, of course."
There were scattered murmurs of approval.
Professor Sprout, who usually had little to add during first-year reviews, leaned forward this time.
"She's quiet in Herbology but listens well. Knows when to step back and when to act. The mandrake transplanting exercise? She calmed another student and took over without prompting. Gentle hands. Good instincts."
The compliments flowed on—predictably, steadily—until most heads had nodded at least once at the mention of her name.
As the glowing praise continued, the expressions around the room began to subtly shift.
Professor Varga, the Ravenclaw Head, sat positively gleaming now—hands neatly folded in satisfaction, pride practically radiating from her robes.
Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall's jaw had tensed just slightly. Sprout seemed quietly accepting. Slughorn, though smiling, looked as if he was already planning how to secure Petunia's loyalty. Only Dumbledore remained unreadable.
Behind his half-moon glasses, his gaze had sharpened.
He said nothing. But he was watching.
Petunia Targaryen.
The name rang oddly in his ears. That surname—it was not one found in any Ministry record, nor on any of the great family trees stored in the Hall of Ancestry. Dumbledore had already checked. Twice.
Targaryen sounded ancient, but no such magical family had ever appeared in wizarding or even Muggle nobility. It carried weight, a regal air... yet it belonged nowhere.
Then there was her background: a quiet industrial village, almost swallowed by smog and machines. Nothing magical within fifty miles of it. Her Ministry file was almost barren: a foundling case, an accident of records, or something more... carefully managed?
And then there was her behavior.
Perfect marks. Steady demeanor. Polite to all, familiar with none. Talented, but humble. Helpful, but detached. A model student on the surface—but too precise. Too deliberate. Children fumble. Children forget. Children make noise and noise and noise.
Petunia made none.
He had seen this before.
Once.
There was another student, decades ago, whose brilliance shone just as brightly. A boy who knew how to perform, how to charm, how to manipulate trust without ever truly revealing himself. A boy who wore perfection like a mask.
And now, that boy had vanished into the shadows, gathering others like him, building something dangerous beyond the castle's reach.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Petunia had not yet raised any alarms. She broke no rules. But brilliance without roots? A name without lineage? A child too calm to be one?
He would watch.
He would not speak his concerns yet—there was no evidence, only intuition. But he would invite her for tea soon. Perhaps under the guise of congratulation. Perhaps with lemon biscuits.
He needed to look into her eyes himself.
--
[Ding! Sign-In System Reward: Martial Arts Technique – Mystic Cat Footwork]
--
As the rest of Ravenclaw Tower slipped into the gentle silence of slumber, the enchanted candles dimmed themselves to soft orbs, and the stars beyond the high arched windows shimmered over the Black Lake. All seemed still.
Yet in one of the tower's student beds, a figure lay too still.
Petunia Targaryen reclined with closed eyes, her hands tucked beneath her quilt just so, but her breathing, though slow and measured, was conscious—controlled. Her mind, unlike her seemingly slumbering body, was alive.
She waited.
Her roommate, a quiet, shy girl named Martha with ink stains on her fingers and a small affection for whispering notes to her pillow, turned once... twice… and then fell into the soft cadence of sleep.
Petunia's eyes opened without sound.
Smooth as pouring silk, she sat up in bed, shifted the quilt aside, and lowered herself onto the floor. No creak of floorboard. No shuffle of cloth. Just movement so elegant, so honed, it barely seemed human. Her body followed commands like a perfected mechanism.
The newly acquired Mystic Cat Footwork was more than technique—it was philosophy in motion. Every toe placement, every breath control, was mapped to not only avoid noise but manipulate the shadows themselves, as if she walked between glances.
Her robes were layered light and tight to her figure. Not a whisper of fabric echoed her motion.
With that, she slipped out of the dormitory.
Hogwarts at night was another world.
The portraits were dozing or whispering secrets, the suits of armor hummed enchantments that sounded like low lullabies, and moonlight cast tall, bent silhouettes down arched halls that felt older than empires.
Petunia didn't fear being caught. She had already tested the perimeter of Mr. Filch's patrol pattern, cross-referencing it with the minor sounds the walls gave off as his boots struck uneven stones. When she felt his presence approaching, she would vanish—literally.
With a thought and a flex of intention, she slipped into her Storage Dimension.
---
The Storage Dimension was a Life Within a Cage
Though called a storage space, it was far more than a void. It mimicked a slice of life—green grass rippling under windless skies, a blue dome of sunlight that felt real but gave no warmth. No insects. No life. No hunger. No thirst. A perfect, sterile wilderness.
But there were rules.
No other humans could enter.
Time behaved differently—elongated, yet compressed.
And if she remained too long… the pain would come.
Like needles digging into the base of her skull. Migraines that made the world pulse in monochrome. She could not live in this space—but it was ideal for disappearing.
Each time Filch was near, she'd slide into the dimension, wait until the space outside felt still again, and step out—always in a tucked corner or between high stone pillars, her Cat Footwork cloaking her exit.
Practical? Not quite.
Effective? Impossibly so.
Tonight, her destination was a corridor long forgotten by students but whispered of in tales: the area where the Chamber of requirements was said to be. Petunia didn't care about basilisk myths—what interested her was the mechanism.
Magic often left behind residual intent—traces that formed new structures, new entrances, or entirely new rooms where desire met opportunity.
She whispered a thought into the air as she paced:
> "A room suited for mental spellcraft... knowledge for those who walk silent paths."
And then she walked.
Three times she paced the corridor, focusing on that precise intent.
And sure enough—the wall rippled.
A door appeared, veiled in murky stone, its handle shaped like a closed eye. Petunia pressed it with deliberate calm.
Inside was not a chamber of bones or monsters, but something infinitely more dangerous.
The walls were mirrors—tall, warped, rimmed with iron, each distorting her reflection in different ways. Some made her older. Some removed her eyes. One—chillingly—reflected no Petunia at all.
In the centre of the room was a circular dais surrounded by shelves, half-covered in dust, half disturbingly well-organized. Scrolls, runes, journals. And there—books.
Titles:
Mind Wedge: The Sharpest Entry into Another's Thoughts
Mind Evasion: The Art of Thought Distortion and Redirection
Minor Hypnosis: Foundational Scripts for Suggestion & Influence
Stupefy – Theory and Variants Across Cultures
These books were not for children.
Their leather was worn in odd places, the ink faded from heavy use. Some bore Ministry Seals—voided, sliced through by foreign runes. Petunia scanned the spines, brushing dust off with reverent care.
> "These books aren't rare—they're restricted," she thought.
Borderline illegal.
Mental magic was one of the most scrutinized and feared branches of magical study. Not flashy like fire, not as visceral as curses—but far more lethal. It bypassed shields. Turned enemies against themselves. Rendered power mute.
> "This is what makes true warlocks."
Petunia smiled—not with malice, but with the recognition of a professional finding tools she thought she'd never see again.
She knelt and opened Mind Wedge, letting her eyes drink in the first diagram. It wasn't about power. It was about entry—a thousand subtle ways to read a flicker of thought, to slide past defenses like a whisper in a crowd.
And she read. Slowly. Completely. Until the candlelight from the chamber began to dim—responding, perhaps, to an unseen schedule or a time-ward she hadn't yet deciphered.
Before she left, Petunia cast one long look at the mirror that didn't reflect her.
It still didn't.
A cold chill crawled up her spine, but she said nothing. Just tucked the knowledge deep, like a pearl inside a shell.
She stepped into the corridor once more, vanished into her storage dimension as footsteps echoed far off, and when safe, returned to her bed by the soft hour before dawn.
---
The stone floor beneath Petunia's feet had always been uneven—centuries of shifting walls and timeworn steps—but tonight, as she descended toward her dormitory, she halted.
Her skin prickled.
It wasn't a draft. It wasn't paranoia. It was discrepancy.
The shadows pooled differently. The torch flames flickered as though underwater. The distance between arches… was longer. She stopped, slowly sweeping her eyes across the corridor. It felt orchestrated, subtly distorted—manipulated.
> "No… this isn't Hogwarts as it was."
Even without the ambient knowledge granted by her adult mind, this was unmistakably intentional. Petunia had seen this sort of casual mastery in the films, in the books—illusion and spatial manipulation so natural it warped perception itself. There was only one person in this castle who could freely and silently alter Hogwarts at will.
Albus Dumbledore.
> "So… he noticed."
Realizing there was no point in stealth anymore, she straightened her posture, adjusted the fall of her robes, and began to walk normally. Gracefully, but not hurried. A woman out for a stroll—harmless.
At the end of the corridor now stood a door. One that hadn't been there minutes ago.
Without hesitation, she opened it.
---
The chamber was oddly luminous. The only light came from the enormous arched window to the side, where moonlight poured through with a deliberate softness. There, against the far wall, stood the Mirror of Erised.
Tall. Heavy. Regal. Its gold-etched arch whispered Latin above it:
> "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."
Her reflection stood still within it—staring back, expression unreadable.
Just as she took a step closer, a new kind of notification resonated in her mind:
---
[Ding! Mind Reading Spell Detected.]
Spell Type: Passive Extraction
Spell Tier: High Grade
Source Intent: Seeking Host's Deepest Desire
Mirror Reflection Initiated: Accept? Yes / No
---
She hesitated. The temptation was real. Did she truly want to know what lay deepest within her? That flickering need that even she couldn't name? Or was her revulsion directed not at herself, but at the very idea of someone else watching?
> "Yes," she said aloud, her voice sharp and quiet like a drawn knife.
Her reflection… remained unchanged.
No image of longing. No vision of what was lost or unattainable. Just herself—unmoved.
--
She felt him before he spoke. A strange sensation, like warm mist curling at the edge of one's awareness. And then the soft voice, tinged with amused affection, rang out behind her.
> "Hoho… Miss Targaryen. I must say, I didn't expect to find you roaming the castle at such an hour."
Still facing the mirror, Petunia allowed herself the tiniest smirk.
> "Of course you didn't. That's why you changed the hallway, created the room, and cast a spell before speaking."
Aloud, she said simply:
> "I was admiring the craftsmanship."
Dumbledore's robes whispered as he stepped beside her, his eyes—blue, sharp, glimmering with the perpetual dance of curiosity and intent—resting gently on her reflection.
> "Yes, yes… the Mirror of Erised. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts."
"I figured as much," she answered evenly, not looking at him.
There was a pause.
> "Clever, aren't you?" he said, tilting his head with grandfatherly amusement. Then, slowly, he stepped forward to face her directly. "May I ask what you saw?"
---
As he spoke, another notification shimmered into her awareness.
---
[High Grade Mind Reading Spell Detected.]
Variant Type: Emotional Resonance Extraction
Status: Reflection in Progress…]
---
He was digging again. This time actively.
Petunia, her face carefully blank, turned to face him.
> "I must say, Headmaster…" she began, her tone polite but cool, "infiltrating the mind of a minor student in a moment of privacy is a new low—even if not entirely unpredictable."
There was no fear in her voice. Only measured disapproval, like a magistrate scolding an overeager apprentice.
Dumbledore's smile remained, but did not reach his eyes. He said nothing.
> "It won't work," she continued. "My clan's elders sealed our consciousness. A failsafe to prevent our legacy from being stolen or leaked through memory theft, soul capture, or—" her eyes sharpened slightly "—unauthorized mental intrusion."
That, finally, earned a response. Dumbledore's head tilted just a degree too far, eyes narrowing in interest.
> "Clan legacy?"
> "Yes," she replied smoothly, with just enough vagueness to intrigue without informing. "Family traditions. Old ones. Forbidden, perhaps, by modern sensibilities."
She turned back to the mirror, letting her reflection speak for her.
> "As for what I saw in the mirror… It was someone I'll never see again in this life."
Silence stretched between them like drawn thread.
Dumbledore's voice was gentle as a feather:
> "I see. That's… quite sad."
> "Yes," she answered plainly, "but not uncommon."
Dumbledore gave a long, soft hum.
> "I must say, Miss Targaryen, I find myself intrigued. I hope to meet your family someday."
She inclined her head, polite but unreadable.
> "Of course. I'll be sure to relay your request. If they choose to respond."
> "Hoho… naturally," he said, waving a hand lightly. "As for tonight, consider this a warning, not punishment. Just a few points from Ravenclaw, no detentions."
> "Generous," she said, bowing her head just slightly. "Thank you."
And then, without asking further questions, she turned and left. No fear in her step. No backward glance.
---
Behind Her, Alone
Dumbledore remained in the room, his fingers gently steepled before his lips as he watched the mirror.
His own reflection showed him—alone—walking through the ruins of something once great.
> "Not many things block my spells…" he mused, eyes narrowing.
"So who are you, Petunia Targaryen?"
And why, he wondered, did she seem so much like him?