[ Name: Selena Rockwood
exclusive skills:
business mind —> lv4
attributes:
strength->lv 10
Agility->lv10
Stamina->lv10
magical power -> lv0]
--------
London Skies
The city stretched endlessly beneath her, glowing like a living constellation. Streetlamps flickered on as the sky dimmed, and evening fog began to rise. But Petunia — or rather, whatever version of her the world now knew — did not exist in that light. Not anymore.
Not with the [Spectre's Stone] dissolving her from reality.
Her figure wavered, blurred at the edges, until even her shadow no longer belonged to the world. She passed as if a thought through space, intangible and silent.
> [You have consumed: Spectre's Stone]
[700 coins redeemed]
[You are now undetectable to all sensory and magical perception for the next 6 hours.]
[WARNING: Side effects include hallucinations, vivid traumatic flashbacks, and emotional dissonance when the user enters REM sleep.]
Above Hogsmeade she flew, untraceable and invisible. The magical defenses of the school didn't so much as ripple when she passed. Her presence was not registered, not even by the castle's ancient enchantments or the hawk-eyed portraits that usually spied on late-night wanderers.
Hogwarts, quiet and breathless in the absence of its usual chaos, loomed like a sleeping behemoth beneath the fog.
She drifted through stained-glass windows, down marble halls, past silent suits of armor that would have reacted if they'd seen her.
They didn't.
No one did.
She was a memory not yet made. A phantom.
She took no detours. She had no interest in nostalgia.
--------
---
Imperial Publishing – Meeting Room
10:58 AM
The heavy door clicked open with the discreet professionalism expected of the building. Selena Rockwood entered first — elegant, poised, and utterly unreadable — flanked by two sharply dressed solicitors from Wexley & Thorne, a boutique firm known for its work in entertainment and liberal rights cases.
The air of the room shifted slightly. Oliver Donovan, seated at the head of the table, instinctively rose from his chair, unable to stop the flicker of intrigue that crossed his face. He wasn't easily impressed, but the woman before him — dressed in muted charcoal silk with not a thread out of place — exuded both wealth and danger like a well-aged brandy.
She took her seat smoothly, crossing one leg over the other, her expression neutral but the corners of her lips curved with an amused grace.
Oliver's eyes lingered a moment too long. Johnson, seated beside him, gave a subtle nudge under the table with his shoe.
"Ahem… Good morning, Miss Rockwood," Oliver finally said, extending his hand.
Selena took it, her handshake firm but elegant, her smirk unfazed. "Good morning to you as well, Mr. Donovan. I trust the manuscript was compelling?"
"It was," Oliver replied, nodding. "But before we move on, perhaps we should clarify what you're looking to hear today."
Selena leaned back, interlacing her fingers with calm poise. "I want to hear your decision. If it's not premature, that is."
Johnson cleared his throat. "Are we referring to the Hunger Games manuscript… or your investment proposal?"
Selena tilted her head slightly, shifting her gaze to Johnson. "Both."
"Very well," Johnson said. "Let's begin with the manuscript, then."
Oliver picked up the marked manuscript with a tap. "The Hunger Games is, to put it simply, a grenade in a powder room. Yes, it's technically dystopian fiction, set in a far-off future. But the parallels — the socio-political undercurrents, the oligarchical brutality, the normalization of violence as entertainment — they are unmistakably rooted in current social anxieties. Especially with the widening gap between working-class Britain and the ruling class."
He flipped a few pages absently. "Katniss Everdeen's struggle isn't just against an oppressive regime. It's a portrait of systemic despair. Of manufactured consent. Of a world where survival isn't a right but a privilege. That's why it matters."
Johnson picked up where Oliver left off. "It's a politically volatile text. But undeniably marketable — to the right readers. Especially through our two-pronged strategy: conventional publishing channels… and our, shall we say, less regulated distribution partners."
Selena's smile remained unchanged. "And your conclusion?"
Oliver leaned back, arms crossed. "We're in. That's just book one, isn't it?"
"Perhaps," she said coyly. "I'll have to ask the author."
Johnson chuckled dryly. "Come now, Miss Rockwood — you're telling me with a straight face that you're not Lady T?"
"I'm not," Selena replied smoothly.
"Then why not have the author approach us directly? We've protected countless identities. They would have been safe here."
With a subtle nod, she gestured to the solicitor on her right, who placed a black leather folder on the table and slid it forward.
"This isn't just about Hunger Games," Selena said. "Let me formally introduce you to Bloom Guild — an enterprise designed to empower creators who can't navigate traditional systems safely or freely. Writers, painters, singers, athletes, activists. Bloom provides financial support, legal protection, anonymity if needed, and access to carefully vetted partners… like Imperial."
Oliver began flipping through the neatly indexed file: incorporation records, legal framework, sample contracts, and a confidential list of high-risk authors and pending manuscripts under pseudonyms.
"We offer an exchange," she continued. "Bloom will direct a number of their members' works exclusively to Imperial, prioritizing quality over volume. In return, we seek priority consideration, creative discretion, and of course — fair royalty splits. No forced publishing. If the work doesn't meet your editorial standards, you're under no obligation to publish it."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "That's… ambitious. And dangerous. You're painting a target on your back, Miss Rockwood."
"I'm aware," she said, sipping her coffee. "But you see, boldness is part of the Bloom brand. So is risk mitigation."
Oliver exhaled slowly, still scanning the document. "You're essentially proposing an artist's union run like a corporate syndicate. Interesting."
Johnson leaned in. "And how do you plan to handle legal blowback? You've got vulnerable creators. This framework makes you liable."
Selena's smirk deepened. "As you'll see in section 5B — we operate under a tiered liability system. Each artist signs an NDA and a limited agency contract. Bloom acts as a proxy, not as a publisher. Our legal team specializes in defamation, anonymity protection, and copyright integrity."
Oliver whistled low. "Still… If the far-right sniff this out, you'll be crucified in the press."
"Then we'll bleed beautifully," Selena replied, her voice like silk wrapping a knife. "And make art from it."
There was a pause.
Oliver looked up again, meeting her gaze. Her eyes didn't just hold conviction — they dared him to challenge her.
He coughed, adjusting his tie, a blush threatening to rise to his ears. Debbie, silently watching from the corner of the room, raised one amused eyebrow at his flustered fidgeting, but said nothing.
"Well then," he finally said, clearing his throat. "That's the most exciting meeting I've had in weeks. Miss Rockwood, welcome to Imperial… pending a bit of red ink and fine print, of course."
"Looking forward to it," Selena said, rising with feline grace, her hand extended once more.
This time, Oliver didn't kiss it.
But he did hold it just a moment too long.
-------
Hogwarts — Summer Break
The castle was quiet. Most students had gone home for the holidays.
But something pulled at Dumbledore's awareness.
He set his quill down, eyes narrowing slightly. The feeling was familiar. A tug in the back of his mind — a silent alert from the castle itself. Hogwarts had a faint, ever-present consciousness, bonded to its Headmaster. That awareness had just whispered: someone is in the library.
He stood immediately, reaching for his wand. On his way out, he passed Professor McGonagall's office and knocked once before pushing the door open.
"Minerva, with me. Now."
McGonagall blinked. "Albus? What's happened?"
"There's someone in the library," he said without slowing. "Not staff. Not a student who belongs there. Someone who managed to bypass the protections."
McGonagall frowned, already moving beside him. "But the wards are still intact— I checked them myself yesterday."
"That's what concerns me."
---
The Library
The doors creaked as they entered, and they spotted her right away.
A girl — young, maybe thirteen — sat casually in one of the reading chairs. Her legs were crossed, and a thick book rested in her lap. She turned a page calmly as they entered, clearly aware of them and entirely unbothered.
Petunia Targaryen.
Black hair, sharp eyes with an otherworldly glint. She didn't look surprised to see them. If anything, she looked like she had been expecting this.
McGonagall's voice was sharp. "Miss Targaryen! What do you think you're doing here?"
Petunia didn't flinch. "Evening, Professor. Headmaster."
Dumbledore recognized her instantly, but there was something different. Her presence was heavier. He couldn't quite explain it, but she felt.... Stronger.
He kept his expression relaxed. "You're not supposed to be here. The school is closed to students during the summer, and you've bypassed multiple layers of protective magic. That's no small feat."
Petunia closed the book and stood slowly. "Yes. But I came with a reason."
She looked at Dumbledore directly. "My family sent me. They'd like to meet with you — formally."
Dumbledore studied her face. "An invitation?"
Petunia nodded. "They said it was time to introduce themselves properly."
McGonagall glanced at Dumbledore in disbelief. "Albus, surely you're not going to—"
He raised a hand, silencing her gently. "Let her finish."
"I understand this is unorthodox," Petunia continued. "But a letter wouldn't do. Given who they are, it had to be done this way. I apologize for the intrusion."
Dumbledore paused. "I assume you came here through magical means."
"I did," Petunia said calmly, reaching into her pocket. "We can leave the same way."
She pulled out a strange metallic cube — smooth and polished, with faint lines running across its surface. It didn't glow or hum. It just sat there, inert, but undeniably magical
[Cube of Desire — Artifact Class (Limited Use: 6)
Function:
When activated, the Cube envelops the user and anyone they are in direct physical contact with. Inside, it creates a fully immersive simulated reality tailored to the user's imagination and subconscious intent.
Mechanics:
Reality Simulation: Anything imagined within the Cube becomes tangible—people, places, magical laws, even time.
Persistence: Time flows naturally. Damage, experience, and sensation are all real within the Cube.
Rule Bending: Physics, magic, and emotional logic can be rewritten inside. It is not a dream. It's reality re-coded.
Isolation: Nothing from inside the Cube may be brought out—no objects, no people, no knowledge physically etched into items. However, the experience and mental growth are retained.]
McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "Is that a portkey?"
"Something like that," Petunia replied, closing her fingers around it. "But it only works with a very specific trigger."
She stepped closer and held out her hand. "Now, the setup is simple. One person's fist in another's palm, then build the chain. Fist, palm. Repeat until the loop's complete."
McGonagall hesitated but followed suit with Dumbledore's nod.
"Now," Petunia said, voice steady, "this part is important. You'll have to say the words exactly. It's a ritual. It doesn't actually do anything magical, but the Cube needs coordinated voices to activate."
Before they could ask more questions, she began to speak. The chant was rhythmic, long, almost theatrical — clearly memorized.
> "Seekest thou the road
To all that's foul and fair
Gather sisters fire, water, earth and air…"
As she spoke, a gust of wind whipped through the library, stirring parchment and scrolls from the shelves.
obviously Petunia's weather manipulation skill ,
Candles flickered and papers flew. The atmosphere turned almost ritualistic, but none of it was natural.
Petunia was using her Weather Manipulation to amplify the scene — a smoke-and-mirror display. The real trigger was the Cube in her hand.
She continued the chant with flawless delivery, occasionally glancing at their expressions to ensure the misdirection was working. McGonagall looked tense, uncertain. Dumbledore remained quiet, watching her more than the surroundings.
> "Down, down, down the road,
Down the Witches' Road…"
With the final words spoken in unison, the Cube flashed once.
Then—snap.
They vanished.
No flash of light. No swirl of color. Just silence and a gust of air where the three had stood.
The only thing left was a single page fluttering to the ground.
-----------
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses as he looked around. Trees surrounded them in every direction, towering high, leaves whispering with each faint breeze. The forest was unusually quiet—no birdsong, no wind, just stillness. A single path stretched ahead, cobbled with smooth stones and lit faintly as if dusk had settled just for them.
Minerva was already scanning the surroundings with a sharp eye, wand loosely held at her side. "Where exactly are we?" she muttered.
Petunia stood a few paces ahead, hands casually tucked behind her back. "This," she said, "is the Road."
Dumbledore tilted his head. "Only one path?"
"Exactly," Petunia said, her tone even. "And I wouldn't recommend stepping off it. The forest doesn't like uninvited guests."
Dumbledore raised a brow and, always the curious one, tested the boundary. He stepped off the stones, placing one foot on the seemingly soft moss. The ground gave instantly, liquefying under his shoe and trying to pull him in. With little effort, he pulled himself back and chuckled. "Fascinating."
Minerva frowned. "This place shouldn't exist. It's—wrong. And yet, it feels... grounded."
Dumbledore said nothing, his wand now humming with the silent detection spells he layered into the air. "It's not an illusion," he finally said. "At least not in the traditional sense."
They began walking.
Petunia led the way, walking confidently on the center of the path. Every few feet, small patches of fog tried to curl over the stones but retreated at her presence. Her posture was calm, but not lazy—she was alert, measured. She glanced over her shoulder and said, "I know this probably looks like I've dragged you into something... elaborate. But honestly, awkward silence on a long walk sounds worse."
Minerva narrowed her eyes. "And where are we walking to, exactly?"
"You'll see," Petunia said simply. Then, stepping gently off the road, she let her feet sink into the green. The moss cushioned her steps like a soft bed. "Relax, I'm not suicidal. The forest just knows I'm not an intruder."
"Petunia!" McGonagall's voice was sharp. "Don't test things you don't understand!"
Petunia looked back, amused. "If it makes you feel better, I wouldn't risk this if I didn't know how it works. Besides, I did bring the two of you in safely. I get at least a little trust, don't I?"
Dumbledore gestured for Minerva to calm down. "She's right. The place seems to be reacting to her presence, not ours."
stepping back onto the path. "So, let's keep walking. You're almost there."
They walked in silence for a few moments. Petunia finally spoke again, her tone more serious.
"I figured you might have questions. I'll give you some answers, just not all of them. There are... rules."
Minerva folded her arms. "Rules from whom?"
"My family," Petunia answered without flinching. "We've been here for a long time. Out of sight, out of mind. But still around. This land—what you'd call the Celestial Territory—is shielded. Muggles don't see it. Even wizards wouldn't know where to look."
"And your family governs it?" Dumbledore asked, more curious than doubtful.
"Rules it, technically," Petunia corrected. "Royal family and all. I know it sounds crazy. Maybe it is. But you're here now, so..."
McGonagall gave her a side glance. "You expect us to believe you're part of some secret magical kingdom, hidden away from the entire world?"
"I don't expect anything," Petunia said, shrugging. "You'll see what you see. You can believe it or not when we get there. It won't make a difference to the people who've lived there their whole lives."
Dumbledore watched her closely. There was something different about the girl. She wasn't just confident—she was deliberate. Measured. She spoke like someone used to being underestimated, and knowing how to use it.
"Before we arrive," Petunia said, "you'll want to cast a translation spell. Unless you happen to be fluent in Old Valyrian."
Minerva blinked. "Old Valyrian? That's a dead language."
"Not where we're going," Petunia replied smoothly. Then she flashed a smile. "And don't worry, Professors. Like you said—this is just a parent-teacher meeting, right?"
At the end of the road, the forest seemed to lean back, parting slightly to reveal a clearing. There stood a pair of figures, already waiting as if they had known exactly when the guests would arrive. A man and a woman—tall, poised, their presence measured.
They wore muted pastel colors: the man in a high-collared, finely tailored suit that managed to look ceremonial and functional at once, and the woman in a modest dress cut in clean lines, modern but not modern enough to place in any known era. Their clothing bore thin metallic trims near the cuffs and collar—wires or embroidery, it was hard to tell.
Both had veils of fine, almost translucent fabric draped over their heads, obscuring their facial features without fully hiding them. Not a hint of skin beyond the hands was shown.
Their voices came together, fluid and practiced, in a soft chorus of Old Valyrian.
"Welcome, Your Highness."
Petunia gave them a nod, polite but unsurprised.
"Please follow us to the conference wing," the woman added, still in Old Valyrian. "The King and Queen will conclude the Nobility Council shortly."
Minerva's eyes narrowed slightly, watching how the duo moved. Their gait was fluid, quiet. Too quiet. There were no footsteps, no sound from the gravel beneath them. Their presence felt measured, as if even their body language obeyed protocol.
Dumbledore, for his part, was more analytical. He studied their proportions—slightly above average height, yes, but it wasn't just that. Their posture was exact. Trained. They weren't soldiers, but they weren't purely servants either.
And yet, none of it felt magical. No enchantment hummed around them. No aura of spells. If anything, it was more like being in a highly disciplined machine. A society where things didn't simply "happen"—they were orchestrated.
Petunia followed them without a word, hands loosely clasped behind her back. She walked with a calm, unbothered confidence—nothing performative, just as if this was her everyday routine.
Minerva and Dumbledore walked behind, their pace measured.
The rear castle entrance was discreet—stone walls veined with thin, glowing lines barely visible unless one paid attention. Not magic. More like circuitry. Technology. A form of energy the wizarding world didn't fully understand.
Other servants moved along the narrow halls. They wore similar pastel-toned attire and veils, but each had a glowing badge near their neckline—hexagonal, softly pulsing. It looked like a strange blend of gemstone and processor chip. They nodded silently as Petunia passed. Not a single one looked surprised to see her.
Minerva nudged Dumbledore slightly. "They bowed to her," she whispered under her breath. "Not us."
Dumbledore gave the faintest nod, storing the observation without comment. He noticed it too—how the staff barely acknowledged them. Not with rudeness, but indifference. Their attention was directed toward Petunia, whose presence clearly meant something more.
At the end of the corridor stood a massive, metallic door. A frame of gunmetal, etched with abstract, angular runes—not magical ones, but inscriptions that might be symbolic or coded in another form. Along its surface ran thin channels of faint blue light, feeding into a central node where two gloved hands now rested: one belonging to the male servant.
The man turned toward the group. "The doors will open in one minute," he said, voice firm but polite. "Inside, you will meet His and Her Excellency. Please speak only when addressed directly until otherwise instructed."
He turned then to Dumbledore specifically, and though his veil remained on, his words cut sharper.
"I would also ask that you cease any further mental probes. Legilimency is invasive, and it has been noticed."
Dumbledore blinked once, caught off guard—not by the accusation, but by how calmly it was delivered. "Oho, well... I do apologize," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Given the unusual nature of our arrival, I thought it necessary to understand our situation."
The servant remained silent, staring at him for a beat too long.
Then, with a clipped, "Right," he turned back to the door.
Petunia didn't interfere. She simply stood off to the side, arms folded, watching with casual interest—as if this entire exchange was expected.
With a low mechanical hum, the massive doors split open down the middle. A hiss of pressurized air followed, and the light channels along the walls dimmed slightly in response.
Out walked a procession of nobles.
They were dressed in rich, flowing fabrics cut with harsh, modern edges—robes lined with panels that shimmered like polished armor, tunics paired with tailored outerwear. The colors were muted—stone, ash, ice-blue, bronze. Their clothing incorporated strange mechanical elements: metallic plates, wrist devices, thin lattice-like wings that folded flat across some backs.
Some nodded toward Petunia with quiet respect. Others gave only a glance. A few walked right past as if she weren't there.
"Politics," Minerva murmured, lips barely moving.
None of the nobles addressed the Hogwarts guests. A few paused to whisper to each other in the same fluid Old Valyrian, ignoring Dumbledore and Minerva entirely.
Once the last pair of nobles had left, the servant gestured forward.
"You may enter now. The King and Queen are expecting you."
He turned and walked away without waiting for acknowledgment—his task, it seemed, was complete.
Petunia stepped forward first, giving the professors a sidelong glance.
"Well," she said, "ready for your meeting?"