[ding! Sign-in system reward: old valerian language]
------
The Passing of a Year
---
> [Ding! Sign-in System Rewards Unlocked:]
"Screw-Trap" ×50 – Basically tiny bombs pretending to be hardware. Unscrew one, kaboom.- ** A pressure-release bomb when unscrewed.
AK-47 – Because subtlety is overrated.#### **Assault Rifles:**
Desert Eagle – For when you want your sidearm to kick like a mule and sound like judgment day.]
Petunia blinked at the floating text.
> "Right. Just what every witch needs … Cold War weaponry and explosive screws."
She stared, deadpan.
> "Thanks, system. Really staying on theme here."
> "Next time, maybe throw in a tactical nuke and a flamethrower shaped like a butter churn. Really complete the immersion."
---
And just like that, the school year slipped by, quiet and uninterrupted on the surface, yet full of deliberate motions beneath.
Petunia Targaryen—or so she was known—continued to excel in every class. Her answers in Transfiguration were sharp and precise. In Potions, she had the efficiency of a practiced apothecary. Charms came effortlessly to her, she carried herself with silent confidence. A touch unapproachable. Too precise. Too composed.
Professor McGonagall, however, was no fool.
Ever since Dumbledore's quiet recounting of his encounter with the Ravenclaw girl—his unease buried beneath warm tones—McGonagall kept a silent eye on her. Not overtly. Never enough to raise eyebrows. But Petunia could feel it—the Griffenhouse head's presence was always at the edge of the room, always there when she cast spells, always watching when she answered questions a bit too fast, a bit too cleverly.
> "She's wary," Petunia noted internally, "but not yet certain of what she's watching for."
And so, she played her role.
Quiet. Reserved. Brilliant. Mature beyond her years, but not too much to raise alarm.
---
While her peers returned home for the occasional holiday, Petunia remained at Hogwarts. She told the professors 'she had no close family willing to take her in', and while that stirred quiet pity in some, except Dumbledore and McGonagall who had a whole other image of her, it also removed her from scrutiny.
But summer was different.
Hogwarts did not permit students to stay over the long summer months unless under extreme circumstances. And Petunia, despite all her secrets, had no such formal excuse.
As the Hogwarts Express rolled through the countryside, she sat alone in her compartment, a sketchbook opened before her, though she wasn't drawing. She was planning.
> "I can't return to the Evans house," she thought, "that part of my life is done."
With the magical foundation she'd gained from her nightly ventures to the Chamber of requirements, she had managed to brew several potions—temporary appearance alteration elixirs, carefully catalogued and tested in secret.
Now, she had what she needed to craft two separate personas:
One, a quiet, unassuming child, identical to her Hogwarts self.
The other, a mature adult woman, believable as her own mother.
A few forged documents, some illusion charms, a voice-toning spell—and she could rent a home in the Muggle world, unnoticed. She'd already found the spell that allowed a wand to mimic a quill—making forged handwriting simple.
> "A single mother renting a small cottage… her daughter home-schooled during the holidays…"
"It's plausible."
She planned to spend the summer in disguise, living under a new identity, a life of privacy and preparation. Magic was her sword now, and with every passing week, she wielded it with more grace.
But peace, unfortunately, rarely lasts.
Her compartment door slid open suddenly, letting in a gust of laughter and chaotic energy.
James Potter, messy-haired and full of swagger, leaned casually against the doorframe. Sirius Black, all charm and sharp smirks, stepped in with practiced arrogance. Remus Lupin, quieter but observant, followed with a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"Oi, Lady Targaryen," James grinned, tossing himself into the seat across from her as if she'd invited him. "Making plans to conquer the Muggle world over the summer?"
Petunia didn't bother looking up from her sketchbook.
> "No. That'll come later."
Sirius barked a laugh and dropped beside her. "You know, I still don't get you. You act like you're forty—but then you sit with a sketchbook like a student who forgot her homework."
Petunia turned a page, calm as ever. "Is this your idea of flirting or bullying?"
"Can't it be both?" he said with an easy grin.
Remus chuckled softly and sat across from her, folding his hands on his lap. "We'll miss your cold stares and sharp comments this summer."
"Don't get sentimental," Petunia replied dryly. "It doesn't suit your scholarly image."
They laughed, and she—without smiling—let them. She tolerated their teasing. It had become a routine, and in truth, they had grown on her—even if she pretended otherwise.
To James, Sirius, and Remus, she was that strange, reliable friend:
Never seeking them out.
Always serious.
Somehow comforting to have around.
Her boundaries were solid and cold, but her presence was steady—like an older sister who rolled her eyes at your antics but still kept you from real trouble.
> "You know," Sirius said, stretching out his legs, "we've decided that you're secretly fond of us. Like, deep down. Buried under a mountain of disdain."
> "If by fond you mean tolerant," Petunia said, turning a page, "then yes. Very buried."
---
As the train sped toward King's Cross, the noise of students filled the air. Petunia remained calm, detached, mentally shifting identities already.
> "Tomorrow, I'm not Petunia Targaryen," she thought.
"Tomorrow, I am 'Mrs. Elysse Tarryn,' single mother, healer's assistant, and quiet tenant of a sleepy coastal town."
The year had passed.
She had learned.
She had grown.
But more importantly, she had prepared.
And as the city skyline came into view, and laughter echoed through the compartment, Petunia looked out the window with distant, calculating eyes.
The others were going home.
She was going forward.
-------
[Ding! Scenario Quest in Progress]
As the Hogwarts Express sped onward, filled with laughter, chattering voices, and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on steel, Petunia was drifting.
Her eyes were open, fixed on the window, but her thoughts had traveled far beyond the clouds and hills blurring past. She was planning, calculating, spinning webs of strategy and illusion for the summer ahead.
Then came the sound.
A clear, chime-like [ding!] in her mind—neither loud nor intrusive, but impossible to ignore.
> [Scenario Quest in Progress]
While undergoing scenario quests, the Incarnation's home world will be placed in temporal stasis until the scenario is completed.
She blinked. The air shifted.
And in the next breath, everything froze.
The warm haze of summer chatter cut to silence. The sunlight filtering through the compartment windows stood still. Time itself had halted. James was mid-laugh, his mouth open, unmoving. Sirius was caught mid-swing, a biscuit hanging in mid-air between two fingers. Even the dust motes had stopped their dance.
Petunia rose slowly from her seat, her expression composed.
> "So it begins again."
Another scenario. Another world.
> [Ding! Transporting to Scenario Instance…]
[Scenario Name: How to Train Your Dragon]
---
The rush of wind came first—cool, fragrant, otherworldly. Then green.
Petunia landed in a crouch, absorbing the impact gracefully. Around her stretched an ancient forest, vibrant with hues too intense for the ordinary world. The trees were towering and broad, their canopies glowing faintly in a light that felt both sun and starlight. Strange flowers glowed with bioluminescent pulses, and the air smelled of rain and electricity.
> [Ding! This scenario suffers from a severe lack of Meta Energy.]
Restrictions are in place: No magic from the home world allowed.
Sign-in system rewards nerfed by 30%.
Penalty percentage can be reduced by completing side quests.
Incarnation will not age while the home world remains in stasis.
Downloading the language mostly used by the scenario residents: old Norse.
Petunia sighed, absorbing the implications.
No magic. No homeworld potions.
Still, her mutant ability remained.
Storm's gift: weather manipulation. She could still call the wind. Bend clouds. Shape lightning with her thoughts. Even nerfed, it was enough.
> "A Targaryen in a world of dragons. Fitting."
She stood tall, eyes scanning the vibrant forest around her. Every step she took was silent, the product of the Mystic Cat Footwork—her sign-in reward that had saved her countless times. Graceful and swift, she began moving through the woods with the air of a shadow.
> [Main Quest: Locked.]
Main Quest must be triggered through the Incarnation's actions.
---
As she moved deeper into the forest, a low, mournful roar echoed through the trees. Not the sound of dominance or fury—but of pain.
It stirred something inside her.
Moving with cautious urgency, she slipped between trunks and under moss-draped branches. Eventually, she reached a clearing littered with shattered boulders and smoking soil, the earth freshly torn.
And there it was.
A dragon—unlike anything she had imagined.
Its wings were broad and diamond-lobed, pinned cruelly beneath a collapsed pile of stone. Its body was built for speed, with a slender neck, a small angular head, and a long tail lined with shimmering spines. A ghostly blue glow pulsed along its limbs, like veins of fire beneath its skin. Its eyes, glowing silver-blue, flicked to her.
Then came the fire.
A blast of azure flames erupted from its mouth, searing the air with terrifying heat.
Petunia rolled instinctively, the Mystic Cat Footwork allowing her to barely evade the molten burst. Dirt scorched. Bark blackened. She came up with hands raised.
> "Easy," she whispered—not in English, not even in Parseltongue, but in something older, something buried deep in her blood.
Her veins buzzed. Her skin tingled.
And then, she felt it: the dragon's emotions. Anger. Fear. Pride. Pain.
And more than that—recognition.
It was like staring into a living mirror. The dragon's eyes locked onto hers.
They didn't speak, not with words, but the message was clear:
> You're not like the others. You're not human. You're… one of us.
The blood of old Valyria—real or simulated by the system, it didn't matter—sang in her veins. Petunia lowered herself into a crouch, inching forward.
Carefully, deliberately, she reached out with her mind and her empathy.
The dragon snorted, its breath steaming, but it did not attack.
Then, as if answering some ancient pact, the beast lowered its head, allowing her to approach.
> "I'll help you," she murmured, walking toward the trapped wing. "Just stay still."
---
The rocks were massive, half the size of carts, layered upon the dragon's wing and back. With magic sealed, Petunia's enhanced strength was all she had. Even nerfed, her muscles rippled with more power than any normal girl should possess.
She worked methodically.
Stone by stone, sweat on her brow, blood on her hands. The forest around them remained silent, as if holding its breath. The dragon watched her with alert curiosity, occasionally wincing as she shifted heavier chunks.
The task took hours. Her arms burned. Her knees were bruised. But she didn't stop.
Finally, the last boulder rolled free, tumbling down a slope with a heavy crash.
The dragon shifted. Tested its wings. Then, with a burst of shimmering wind, it stood, flexing its body.
And then—it nuzzled her.
Massive head brushing against her chest, the dragon let out a sound—half chirp, half sigh—that sounded strangely like gratitude. Sparks of light drifted off its body, harmless and beautiful.
> [Ding! Side Mission Complete: Save the Wounded Silver Phantom Dragon]
Penalty Nerf Decreased: -0.5%
Bond Level: Awakened Blood Resonance - 2nd Degree
Petunia looked up at the dragon.
She placed a hand gently on the base of its long neck.
> "You need a name…"
The dragon blinked slowly, and a stream of blue mist curled from its nostrils.
> "How about… Zephros. Windborne Flame."
The dragon huffed in approval.
And then, as if to celebrate its freedom, Zephros spread his diamond wings, igniting the air with threads of bioluminescent light—and took to the sky in a slow, graceful loop before returning to her side.
A new quest would come soon.
But for now, Petunia stood in that glade, a Targaryen unburned.
---
Above the World
Petunia sat astride Zephros, the Windborne Flame, as he spread his newly freed wings and leapt into the sky.
With a thunderous beat, they ascended rapidly—piercing the forest canopy in a burst of blue light and catching the rising thermals with a natural grace only a creature of the skies could possess. The trees became specks, then smudges, then nothing but a textured sea of green far below.
And then, they broke through the clouds.
Petunia's breath caught.
The world above was pure and untouched—a surreal, endless expanse of soft white mounds bathed in golden light. The sky stretched vast and pale blue around them, unmarred by pollution or spellwork. The clouds rolled beneath them like gentle waves, and far beyond, the curve of the world shimmered in quiet splendor.
This was where Zephros belonged.
He flew with power and precision, gliding effortlessly along the air currents. Here, among the upper skies, he was more than just a beast—he was a sovereign of the winds.
Petunia could feel it in the way he moved.
This was his domain.
A dragon born not for caves or shadowed valleys, but for the high peaks, for sunlight and starlight. According to his memories, he only descended to the lower world when food demanded it. His true home was above—on the wind-scoured ridges of forgotten mountains, where no fire dared to burn and no mortal dared to tread.
And for water?
He needed no river.
Opening his wide jaws, Zephros soared through the thickest clouds, letting thousands of vapor droplets gather inside his mouth until a cool stream trickled down his throat. A dragon of air and light, feeding on wind, drinking the sky itself.
Petunia sat comfortably on the ridge of his back, secured between two protruding spines shaped like smooth ridges of silverstone. His scales were surprisingly warm, humming faintly with energy—like lightning coiled beneath the skin. She leaned slightly forward, resting her hand gently on his neck, her dark hair snapping behind her in the rushing wind.
The sensation was exhilarating.
The wind brushed her face, carrying the pure scent of ozone and cloud-mist. Even with her storm powers weakened by the scenario's Meta Energy shortage, she could still feel the pulse of the upper atmosphere in her bones. The pressure. The rhythm of invisible currents. The pull of stormfronts far on the horizon.
She had once flown alone—briefly, awkwardly, on conjured winds. But this?
This was flight.
Not borrowed. Not simulated. But real. Unbound.
She was no longer a guest in the sky. She belonged here.
Zephros's thoughts flowed into her mind, not as words, but as emotional impressions shaped into meaning.
Warmth. Trust. An invitation.
He was taking her somewhere—a sanctuary.
A hidden aerie nestled high in the shattered cliffs beyond the horizon, a place where dragons could rest, heal, and remain undisturbed by the meddling of humans.
> You are like me, his emotions said.
Fire and sky. Blood and storm. You carry something old. Something we lost.
The Bond Resonance between them pulsed softly.
He truly saw her as a fellow dragon—not merely a rider or ally, but kin.
Petunia closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to enjoy the ride. There was something surreal about the moment—a dragon forged from ancient magic and breath of sky carrying a girl touched by storms, a Targaryen by system design but something more by soul.
Then she frowned.
Something pulled her out of the awe.
It was the sun.
Flying above the clouds meant there was no shelter, no trees, no shadows. The blazing sun shone down on them in full strength, unfiltered and unrelenting. Its heat radiated from above and reflected off the cloud layer below, making the world shimmer with golden fire.
Even with her naturally sun-kissed skin and resistance to extreme weather, it was—
> "Tsk. Too much sun."
Annoyed, she reached into her dimensional storage and retrieved a compact, charcoal-black parasol enchanted for stormwalking—a sign-in system reward.
With a flick, the parasol popped open with a crisp shunk, its dark fabric absorbing light and casting a cooling shadow over her upper body. Intricate silver runes glowed faintly along the edge—part style, part utility. They stabilized air pressure around her and kept the wind from tearing the umbrella apart.
Now, above the endless cloudscape, a sleek, radiant dragon soared across the sky…
…and atop his back sat a girl with an umbrella.
The image was surreal.
Like something out of myth—elegant, strange, impossible.
A contradiction made manifest: the ancient wildness of dragons and the quiet absurdity of modern poise.
Petunia's expression was serene beneath the parasol, her green eyes half-lidded as she took in the breathtaking view. Her body was relaxed, but her mind was sharp.
> This place he's taking me to… it might trigger a mission. It's too deliberate not to.
Her instincts told her that this sanctuary wasn't just a dragon's resting place.
There would be something waiting. A secret. A challenge. A piece of the truth.
She allowed herself a small smile, tilting the umbrella slightly to catch a better view of the horizon.
> "Let's see what this world has to offer."
And Zephros roared—not in pain, but in joy—and streaked across the sky in a shimmering arc, the wind parting before him, as if the heavens themselves were making way for dragon and rider.
They had been flying for hours.
The sun had shifted across the sky, trailing golden arcs on the ocean of clouds, and the wind had grown cooler as the day deepened. Petunia remained steady atop Zephros, but her stomach had long begun to remind her of something crucial—she hadn't brought any supplies.
No rations . The transition had been too sudden.
She sighed, brushing back a strand of hair blown across her cheek.
> "I should have known better."
this time, it had caught her unprepared. She made a quiet mental note, one she would etch into habit:
> Always keep a side pack ready—sealed, stocked, and slotted for dimensional storage. Just in case.
She leaned slightly to the side and ran her hand along the cool, metallic-smooth scales beside her. Zephros shivered slightly in response, the silver-blue scales shimmering under her touch. He was listening, even without words.
Petunia closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift through their shared bond—gentle, directed, and calm.
> "Slow down, my friend. Let's descend."
> "If you see a human settlement… put me down a little ways from it. Not too close. Then go. Return to the skies."
She felt his resistance immediately.
Zephros let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated in his chest and echoed faintly through their bond. It wasn't just disagreement—it was protest.
Then, without warning, fragments of his memories filtered into her mind.
They weren't clear, not like a vision, but more like flashes of raw emotion tethered to imagery. The jagged impressions painted a vivid picture:
—Smoke rising over the sea.
—Men in horned helmets, wielding axes dripping with red.
—Laughter as a baby dragon's corpse was hoisted on a spear.
—Chains biting into scaled flesh.
—Fire used not for warmth, but for slaughter.
Vikings.
Petunia narrowed her eyes. The scent of blood from those images lingered far too clearly for memories. Zephros had suffered at the hands of humans before. And now, despite their bond, he feared for her.
> "Do not fear for me, my friend," she said aloud, voice like still thunder.
"I wear their face. I speak their tongue. If they choose to harm me…"
"They will learn I can do far worse than they ever dreamed."
Her tone was calm—not threatening, but cold and true.
Still unconvinced, Zephros obeyed.
His great wings tilted, and they dipped beneath the cloud line, entering the lower atmosphere where mist clung to cliffs and sea breeze curled around the rocky spires.
Petunia now saw the full scope of the land below.
this scenario —as she had come to think of it—was not a single continent but a massive archipelago, scattered across an endless expanse of glimmering water. Islands stretched from horizon to horizon. Some were tiny, nothing but sharp rocks and tufts of moss. Others were vast, crowned with mountains and forests, with waterfalls spilling off cliffs in silver ribbons. Flocks of birds wheeled through the air, and great sea beasts broke the surface now and then in silent reverence to the sky.
It was wild. Ancient. Beautiful.
Zephros flew lower, gliding silently over one of the larger islands, his mood quiet and brooding. His body moved with the fluid grace of a predator, but his energy was subdued—as if he were sulking.
Petunia hid a smile.
> He really doesn't want to leave me alone.
How very… dragon of him.
Then he saw it.
Nestled at the edge of a fjord, flanked by steep cliffs and dense pine trees, was a village.
Smoke curled gently from thatched roofs. Wooden palisades enclosed the settlement, with lookouts perched atop towers. Longships lay moored at a small dock, and faint voices drifted up—coarse, energetic, and unmistakably Viking.
Zephros let out a low, reluctant snort and began his descent.
He circled once, then twice, before choosing a wide plateau nearly half a kilometer from the village proper. The landing was smooth and near silent—his talons digging into the mossy stone, his wings folding with practiced elegance.
Petunia dismounted in one fluid motion, landing lightly on the rock. Her parasol vanished into storage with a flick of her fingers.
She gave Zephros one last glance, her blue purplish eyes gleaming.
> "I'll return soon. Watch the skies."
Zephros huffed. He didn't bow. He didn't nod. Instead, he recoiled from the ground with a disdainful twitch of his wings, as if the very earth were beneath him.
And then—with a powerful burst of wind—he launched himself back into the air, vanishing into the clouds with a single, elegant beat of his wings.
Petunia stood alone on the mossy cliffside, her dark hair catching the breeze, and turned toward the village in the distance.
There were supplies to gather. Information to extract. And perhaps, just perhaps…
a side quest waiting to be triggered.