As they stepped through the grand threshold, the room before them opened like a page in an ancient, well-preserved book.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high, shaped like a half-dome of glass-dark metal. Through a hexagonal skylight above, light poured in faint golden strands, filtered through some kind of crystal dome — not natural sunlight, but something shaped to feel like it. The temperature was cool, the air perfumed faintly with something floral and distant.
And at the far end of the chamber, raised on a sleek obsidian platform, sat two elevated thrones.
They weren't the crude, spiked chairs of medieval fantasies. These thrones were carved from dark alloy and inlaid with silver tracery that pulsed with a quiet inner light — clean lines, regal edges, and the subtle glint of circuitry blended with rune-like design. Behind them, a curved sigil of a three headed dragon etched into the wall seemed to shift subtly with every blink, like the symbol itself was alive.
On the throne to the left sat the king.
He was tall. Unusually tall — even seated, his presence dominated the room. Hair the color of new-forged silver fell behind his shoulders in straight, perfectly kept strands. From beneath the hair, a pair of sleek black dragon horns emerged, protruding back in sharp angles through the strands like natural adornment rather than appendage. His skin was clear, smooth, unmarred. His eyes — a sharp, intelligent violet — studied Dumbledore and McGonagall without blinking.
The crown on his head was not made of metal but of layered translucent scales fused together into a crystalline circlet. It shimmered with layered colors, like oil over water. This was no simple ornament — it radiated significance.
On his right sat a woman of equal stature and presence.
Her beauty was cold, regal. Blue eyes that seemed to look through rather than at someone. Dark hair, blacker than night, fell in waves that were held back by comb-like clips embedded with deep sapphire stones. Her dress was a blend of structured elegance and technology: high collar, embroidered with sigils and glowing threads, long sleeves, and fitted waist. She looked like someone who wore power like a second skin.
And behind them — to the left of the thrones — stood the guard.
Broad-chested, easily seven feet tall, with dark hair , and pale blue eyes scanning the room. His armor was matte black, minimalistic but reinforced, with silver grooves that ran from shoulder to wrist. A massive axe stood upright by his side, its blade resting gently on the smooth floor, the head wider than a human torso.
He didn't speak at first.
He only watched.
Until the moment Dumbledore and McGonagall crossed the marked edge of the hall — a faint, glowing line barely visible on the floor — then he moved.
He lifted the axe.
It rose with a soft mechanical hiss, then came down — clang — the metal kissing the floor loudly. A formal gesture, not a threat, but loud enough to silence every step.
His voice echoed, deep and practiced, yet not robotic.
"You are in the presence of His and Her Excellency: King Vaserys Targaryen, Sovereign of the Celestial Continent, Lord of Celeste, First of His Name—" he paused just enough to let the title weigh down, "—and Queen Lyanna Targaryen o , Keeper of the Frozen Flame, Lady of House Wintercrest."
Dumbledore and McGonagall, who had stopped mid-step, exchanged a glance. With quiet uncertainty, they mirrored the slight bow they had seen the veiled servants give Petunia earlier — a courteous dip of the head and body, awkward yet respectful.
The king was already on his feet before their motion finished.
"My princess! Come here, child." Vaserys's voice was warm, thunderous in a fatherly way.
Petunia stepped forward, calm, steady, like this had all happened before.
With the softest flick of her hand behind her back, a quiet activation: Dragonification. Twin black horns emerged from her head, sleek and sharp, matching Vaserys's — not copies, but clearly of the same genetic shape. They curled just slightly at the tips, hers more delicate than his.
McGonagall stiffened slightly beside Dumbledore, her eyes immediately locking onto the transformation. Dumbledore held her arm in gentle restraint, eyes warning: Not yet. Watch first.
Petunia reached he 'father' without hesitation.
Vaserys stepped down from the throne and pulled her into an embrace, one arm around her back as the other cradled the back of her head. Their horns touched — not clashed, but pressed together in a careful gesture. It was clearly symbolic, deliberate. A private ritual. A familial sign of affection and unity.
Queen Lyanna stepped forward, her smile more subtle. She rested a hand lightly on Petunia's shoulder, her posture one of grace but ease. Not rehearsed — real.
"Look at you," Lyanna said, her voice calm and quiet, yet easily carried in the chamber. "You've grown again."
McGonagall looked between them, her stern exterior momentarily shaken. There was something unsettling about how natural this all looked — the horns, the warmth, the throne, the royal titles.
And yet it didn't feel fake.
It felt like walking into a life fully lived.
"Let's move to the adjacent chamber," Lyanna said, gesturing toward a smaller door to the side. "This hall is too formal for a discussion, and too loud. Besides... I believe we've caused enough of a scene."
The guard with the axe followed, silent again, though his eyes flicked to Dumbledore briefly as if marking him.
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, a wordless signal that he understood: We're being watched.
And with that, the group began to walk — the thrones behind them, the show of power receding like the closing of a curtain.
But the impression remained.
This wasn't a simple show. This was a kingdom — and Petunia wasn't visiting.
She belonged.
The conference room they entered was smaller than the throne hall but no less refined. Unlike the grand, ceremonial aesthetic outside, this chamber had a quiet kind of power — soft lighting, smooth walls made from a pale marble-veined alloy, and panels of deep blue glass that faintly pulsed with embedded runes, though they hummed low, almost like old tech idling in silence.
A circular table stood in the center, polished to a mirror shine. Around it were chairs that looked ergonomic yet regal, with high backs and subtle detailing. A server silently approached, setting down a tray with delicate cups, each already steaming with what smelled like a floral-infused tea. There was no ceremony to the offering — everything was automatic, precise.
Petunia took a seat without asking, clearly 'familiar' with the space.
Vaserys sat beside her, his posture relaxed but somehow commanding. His horns were gone now, receded into his skull without a trace, leaving his silver hair untouched and flowing neatly down his shoulders. With one hand, he stirred his tea lazily, then lifted the cup with the ease of someone used to being served.
"So," he said smoothly, voice deeper without the formal echo of the throne room, "I hear you have a problem with my princess studying at your school."
His tone wasn't aggressive, just direct. Too direct. A hint of amusement tugged at his lips, like he was both teasing and testing.
"Don't say it like that, dear," Lyanna cut in, seated across from him, cup in hand. Her smile was pleasant — a bit too pleasant. It didn't quite reach her eyes, though her posture was graceful. "I'm sorry, he tends to speak without a filter."
She turned to Dumbledore with that same poised expression, lowering her lashes in a rehearsed show of apology. "But I do understand your concerns. The outside world is... unpredictable. And dangerous."
Her voice was sweet, yet had the tone of someone politely judging a place she'd never set foot in — like a noble critiquing foreign food in a peasant village.
Dumbledore, ever the tactician, chuckled in return, his hands folded neatly in front of him. "Ohoho, thank you, Your Highness."
"Please," Lyanna interjected lightly, "feel free to call us by name. After all, our daughter is a student at your school. No need to stand on ceremony here."
Vaserys nodded, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. "Ask anything that's on your mind. We'll answer as best we can."
There was a pause — slight but filled with restraint.
Until Minerva spoke.
She'd held her tongue for long enough.
"Who are you people, exactly?" Her voice was firm, but not impolite. Her fingers tapped once against the cup in front of her, though she hadn't touched it. "From what I've seen so far, you're not like any witches or wizards I've met."
She glanced between them — the horns, the size, the behavior of the servants, even the strange mixture of old-world manners and advanced infrastructure.
"Animagi? Shape-shifters? Something else? And this place—" she gestured around, meaning not just the room but the whole surreal location they'd been brought to. "Where are we, exactly?"
Vaserys laughed — a single sound, rich and amused.
"One question at a time, Miss...?"
"Minerva McGonagall," she replied crisply, giving no room for mockery.
"Yes, yes, of course. McGonagall." He waved a hand dismissively, like her name was one of many he'd heard during briefings and had no intention of remembering. The gesture was casual, but not cruel — just distant, like someone unused to being questioned.
Petunia, sitting between them and stirring her own tea with no rush, leaned back slightly, watching the dynamic unfold like the theatre she'd written herself.
"Ahem, so where do I begin," Vaserys said, sitting back in his chair as though he were preparing to tell a bedtime story rather than explain millennia of history. "This is the Celestial Continent, where the Celestial Kingdom is located. We're an ancient kingdom that chose to… let's say, close our borders. Since then — bing, bang, boom — here we are."
He gestured with his hands like a magician finishing a card trick, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.
Dumbledore blinked slowly, unimpressed.
Minerva's brows knitted together, and she glanced toward Lyanna, who clearly shared the sentiment. She exhaled through her nose, composed but tight-lipped, and leaned slightly forward with a strained smile.
"Vaserys," she said in a quiet, clipped tone. "Be serious. These are our daughter's teachers."
He raised both hands in mock surrender. "Hahaha, I'm sorry. I just like messing with you all." He chuckled to himself, then leaned on the table with his elbows. "Alright, alright. History, then."
He picked up his teacup again, but this time he didn't drink. He used it like a pointer, swaying slightly as he spoke.
"Long, long ago — before wands, before Ministry records, before your beloved curriculum — magic was everywhere. Wild. Unfiltered. It flowed through people whether they wanted it or not. Wizards had no control, and magic didn't care. Bloody rituals, elemental tantrums, creatures born from thought alone. That sort of era."
His voice grew more grounded now, and Dumbledore shifted, intrigued despite himself.
"Some tried to tame it. Civilizations rose around methods to understand the chaos. Rituals, runes, enchanted relics. But us?" He pointed to himself. "The people of Celeste had a different idea."
He paused to let the weight of his words settle.
"Each individual practiced and refined a single spell. One. That was it. One expression of magic that they focused on until mastery."
He pointed at Lyanna with an easy smile. "For instance, my dear wife's family practiced ice control. A very elegant expression, cold and cutting." He tilted his head slightly toward the large man still standing behind them, unmoving like a statue. "The same gift her brother now wields."
Lyanna, without speaking, lifted her hand and conjured a small ice blossom in her palm — not flashy, just a quiet shimmer of form and texture. It didn't glow. It didn't hiss. It was beautiful in its precision and restraint.
Vaserys continued. "Each family that truly mastered their chosen spell was awarded a noble title. The strength of their ability, the clarity of their expression — it was all ranked, catalogued, and recorded. Over time, that practice, that singularity of purpose... changed them. The spell became more than just a technique. It became inherited."
Minerva leaned forward slightly. "You mean to say it passed down through blood?"
Vaserys nodded. "Exactly. Generations of focused training eventually embedded it into the bloodline. Like... a magical gene, I suppose."
Dumbledore finally spoke again, tone sharp but curious. "If such a kingdom existed with that level of advancement and control, why choose to vanish? Why close your borders at all? And more importantly... how has history forgotten you?"
Lyanna sat straighter, her lips parting as if ready to explain—
"—Well, that's because—" Vaserys started, but his words were cut off by a sudden loud clang as the door to the room burst open.
Everyone turned.
A woman strode in, no announcement, no hesitation. She looked to be in her early fifties, though the way she moved suggested a kind of force that had only been sharpened by age. Her presence filled the room instantly.
She had golden hair streaked with silver near the roots, tied back with little care for elegance, and sharp golden eyes that locked onto Petunia the moment she stepped in.
She wore a coat with military precision — simple in design but reinforced with what looked like metallic threadwork at the cuffs and collar. At her side was a long, curved staff or polearm — it was hard to tell whether it was ceremonial or practical, but no one was questioning her ability to use it.
The man with the axe behind the royal pair tensed slightly, not out of fear — more like preparation, or respect.
"Is little Albus here?" said the woman as she stepped further into the room, her voice smooth but laced with mockery, like silk stretched over iron. Despite appearing younger than the man she addressed, she called him little — and the way she said it made it feel less like a nickname and more like a verdict.
Albus Dumbledore turned his head slowly, blinking once.
"You arranged those boring meetings just to keep me away from the castle while they were here, didn't you?" she continued, voice level but heavy with accusation. "Lucky for me, I have my ability. I don't need my unfilial son to keep me updated."
She didn't specify what that ability was — but whatever it was, she clearly didn't require permission or surveillance to know what was happening in the kingdom.
Without missing a beat, she moved past everyone and knelt slightly to place a kiss on Petunia's forehead. Her expression softened, even warmed.
"Oh, little dove came back."
Petunia gave a small nod, playing her part perfectly, eyes wide with careful deference and subtle familiarity.
Then Cercy straightened again and turned to face Vaserys, expression hardening instantly, like flipping a switch.
"Well? Aren't you going to introduce me? And what did I miss?"
Vaserys sighed through his nose, folding his arms.
"This is my mother," he said with the weariness of a man used to being interrupted mid-sentence. "And the previous queen of the kingdom. Cercy of the Oracle Family."
At the mention of her title, even the hulking man with the axe straightened slightly.
"I was in the middle of explaining the history of Celeste," Vaserys added, "though at this point I'm not sure it's even necessary to go deeper—"
"Oh shush, boy." Cercy waved him off like a bothersome wind. "I think I'll take the lead from here."
She clapped her hands once, brisk and sharp.
"You three go spend some time together. I'll entertain our guests."
"But—" Vaserys tried, only to be cut off again.
"No buts."
Cercy turned to Dumbledore and McGonagall with a commanding grace, not offering, but declaring, "Let's go. I'll give you a proper tour."
Albus was caught off guard. Not by the invitation — but by the fact she knew his name before a single word of introduction.
McGonagall looked equally surprised, but one shared glance between them made the decision clear: go along, for now.
As the doors opened and the group exited, Petunia stayed behind.
Once the last figure stepped through, a faint hum buzzed through the room. A panel materialized in front of her in the air, glowing with pale blue light.
> [Would you like to go to the back rooms to watch the events after this scene?]
YES / NO
She didn't hesitate.
> [YES]
A soft light surrounded her, and in the blink of an eye, she was seated on a plush recliner chair inside a cinema-like room. The walls were lined with dark velvet, the lighting warm and low. A tray next to her offered popcorn, chilled drinks, and assorted sweets.
Ahead of her, a floating rectangular panel displayed a clear feed of Cercy walking through a crystalline corridor with Dumbledore and McGonagall in tow. The footage felt live — real-time — but polished, as if shot by invisible cameras that floated smoothly through the air.
Petunia leaned back, casually picking up a piece of popcorn and tossing it into her mouth as she smirked slightly.
"Showtime," she muttered.