"So," Cercy began, strolling ahead with the kind of lazy confidence only age and unchecked authority could afford. "I've been waiting for you two—the White Wizard and his sidekick—for quite some time."
She slowed her pace just enough for Dumbledore and McGonagall to follow, though the smirk on her face made it clear she was enjoying every second of their discomfort.
"One thing about me?" she added, glancing back. "I don't do patience. Decades of political theater will do that to a woman."
"sidekick? Excuse me—" Minerva snapped.
Cercy waved a dismissive hand. "Relax, dear. I'm just teasing. Or am I? Who knows."
Dumbledore remained quiet, his expression unreadable. Minerva, however, looked ready to break protocol—again.
The pair exchanged a quick glance. Same arrogant tilt of the chin, same smug delivery—Cercy and Vaserys weren't just related, they were carbon copies in different fonts.
"So," Cercy continued, strolling past a softly glowing corridor lined with panels that pulsed faintly under her steps, "what part of the grand tale did my son fumble before I barged in?"
"He was explaining why no records of your kingdom exist," Dumbledore said.
"Ah," Cercy grinned. "Then I showed up right in time for the punchline."
She led them toward a large mural embedded in the stone, its surface animated with faint movement. The world map it displayed was familiar—but wrong. The continents were bigger. Certain regions didn't exist. Others had no names. Veins of energy—ley lines—intersected like wiring through land and sea.
"This," she said, tapping the map, "was the world before your kind decided parchment and wands were enough to call yourselves advanced."
Behind her, the wall shifted—new scenes unfolded. Cities rising. Civilizations blooming. Battles etched in mineral light.
"Atlantis. Asgard. The Ennead. And us—Celeste. The four jewels of the magical world, if you ask a historian. We weren't savages like the rest. We researched. We innovated. We tried to be civilized."
She said the last word with such dry sarcasm, it sounded like an insult.
"Atlantis played scientist—bending magical theory into quantum code. The Ennead went the cult route—rituals, blood logic, and metaphysical nonsense. Asgard dabbled in rune-core technology. And us? One spell per family. Honed to perfection. A system of precision, not chaos."
Minerva raised a brow. "And you just disappeared? Without a trace?"
Cercy turned toward another panel—this one darker. The mural displayed destruction: burning skies, oceans boiling, continents breaking apart.
"Oh, we didn't just disappear," Cercy said, voice flattening. "We ran."
She pointed to the scene—where towering structures collapsed under their own magic, and shimmering domes blinked out of existence.
"Atlantis got cocky. Played with something they couldn't control. The others? Just as arrogant. They thought their brilliance could shield them. Spoiler alert: it didn't."
Her lip curled.
"But we had the Oracle bloodline. My family. We saw it coming. The end. And unlike the others, our king had the sense to listen. With his space-time ability and some help from actual engineers—yes, we have those—we wrapped our continent in a fold of time and tucked it neatly into a dimensional drawer."
She glanced at Dumbledore. "You know, like cleaning up after someone sets the kitchen on fire."
"And the world forgot you?" Minerva asked, more skeptical now.
"We made sure it did," Cercy replied bluntly. "Wouldn't do much good to hide if every idiot with a wand could go looking for us. So we wiped ourselves from every record, every memory that mattered. Clean slate. No invitations."
"You tried warning the others?" Dumbledore asked.
"We did," Cercy said, her tone bitter. "Sent messages. Offered help. Got laughed out of their sky palaces and underwater temples. Thought we were cowards."
She turned again, looking up at a depiction of the dome forming over the Celestial Continent—etched in gold.
"And now? They're legends at best. Footnotes. Dust."
She paused, giving the pair a long look.
"But we're still here. Funny how survival doesn't get you any applause in the history books, does it?"
Minerva stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the shimmering mural that depicted the golden dome hovering above the Celestial Continent. Curiosity lit her eyes, more earnest now than skeptical.
"Could you explain more about the dome?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the image.
Dumbledore gently raised a hand, voice patient but firm. "Minerva, it's not the ti—"
Cercy cut him off with a flick of her wrist, not even looking in his direction.
"Albus, not everyone wants to be trapped in your quaint, medieval way of thinking," she said, her tone sharp as ever. "Let the woman ask."
Without waiting for further objections, Cercy walked over to a nearby console. With a fluid gesture, she tapped the glowing glass surface. The display shimmered, then morphed into a three-dimensional projection. A series of panels lifted from the wall—almost like intelligent fabric—forming a window into a conceptual model of the dome.
Her demeanor shifted—playful malice replaced with a cool, calculating precision. The mockery was gone. Now she spoke like someone deep in the marrow of her field.
"You see this?" she said, motioning to the display.
An abstract hand appeared, floating in the projection. But it kept shifting—first a human hand, then clawed, then webbed with thin membranes, then scaled. It rippled between forms, refusing to hold a fixed identity.
"Cells. They congregate, take shape, unshape, reform. You like to think that everything is stable. Predictable. But it's not."
The image zoomed into a microscopic level. Cells flickered across the screen—shifting patterns of growth, mutation, decay, and fusion.
"One is your basic unit of measure, right? One cell. One person. One planet. But that's just... convenience. Lazy math made sacred."
Her voice dipped into scorn, and her fingers danced over the panel again.
"All your social norms, magical traditions, even the structure of your spells—they're scaffolds. Sketches to keep your sanity intact. One plus one equals two? Only because someone said so. In reality, there are no numbers. No letters. You codified your reality to shrink it into something... bite-sized."
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
"We've created a scale," Cercy continued, "a scale to measure the immeasurable. Just so we can stop ourselves from collapsing under the weight of what we don't understand."
Minerva's lips parted. "What governs all of it, then?"
Cercy smiled, sly and cold. "Let me show you."
She snapped her fingers, and the panel changed again—now showing a video-like feed of a horse galloping down a dirt road. Grainy, old-style footage.
"Watch."
The footage sped up. The horse blurred. Then vanished entirely.
"Speed up the image infinitely," she said, "and the horse disappears. So I ask—what proof do we have that it ever existed?"
There was a pause. Then Dumbledore answered quietly, "Time."
Cercy nodded once, her expression finally aligning with something like approval.
"Exactly. Time gives legitimacy to existence. Without it, matter is irrelevant. With no time, nothing can be proven. Nothing can persist. It's the only unit that matters, and the only one we can't manufacture."
She tapped again. The projection shifted back to the original mural—now zoomed in on the golden dome that encased the Celestial Continent. Around it, the massive circular towers that had appeared decorative earlier now moved—rotating, shifting, rippling like gyroscopic mechanisms.
"See these?" she pointed. "Those golden lines? They're not lines. They're pillars. Rings stacked around the continent—rotating at different velocities across spatial axes you don't even measure yet. What you're looking at isn't just a shield. It's a frequency field. It folds us out of sync with your world—creates a rift in the timespace net."
McGonagall furrowed her brows. "A pocket dimension?"
Cercy nodded. "Of sorts. Except it's not a space we stepped into—it's one we made inside the folds of time. We don't exist in your world's stream. We exist parallel to it, but invisible. Untouchable. Untraceable."
Minerva studied the map again, this time noticing that even the oceans moved differently within the dome—subtly delayed, as if processing through an unseen algorithm.
"What powers it?" she asked.
Cercy smiled with her lips but not her eyes. She brought a finger to her lips—an old theatrical gesture, somewhere between mockery and secrecy.
"Well, that's the secret of the craft, dear."
Dumbledore gave a small chuckle. "You've explained the mechanism in detail. I'd say the secret's already out."
Cercy didn't even blink. "Albus, you could hand this entire blueprint to your best minds and they'd still be drawing circles in the sand for the next thousand years."
She stepped back, arms crossed now.
"No offense, of course—but your civilization builds spells like children build forts with pillows. "
She leaned in slightly, her smirk returning.
"So go ahead. Take notes. You'll still be behind."
"Whelp!" Cercy chirped, her tone too cheery to be sincere. She clapped her hands once. "Let's continue our tour!"
She spun on her heel and marched toward a seamless glass panel that opened with a quiet shhhhht as if recognizing her presence. Behind it, a small cylindrical platform awaited—sleek, rimmed with gold, and humming softly with contained energy. No buttons. No visible interface.
The group stepped onto it—Cercy in front, Dumbledore and McGonagall cautiously behind her. As soon as the last foot landed on the platform, the transparent doors sealed shut with an airtight hiss.
"I thought I'd show you the view from the top of the castle," Cercy said, eyes glinting with mischief. "Isn't that fun?"
Before either could respond, the elevator shot upward with blinding acceleration—no noise, no vibration, just pure motion. The walls remained translucent, offering flashes of sleek interior architecture and vertical gardens growing along the lift shaft, but they flew by too quickly to process.
Minerva grabbed the rail instinctively, her face tightening.
"This is worse than a Portkey," she muttered, eyes squeezed shut.
Yet despite the breakneck speed, their bodies remained grounded. The gravity field adapted automatically, cushioning their inner organs and equilibrium. Only the brain's sense of motion struggled to catch up.
Then—ding.
The doors opened.
Cercy stepped out first, hands raised dramatically.
"Tara~" she sang, sweeping her arms outward.
Dumbledore and McGonagall stepped out after her, blinking—and froze.
They were standing on a massive circular platform jutting from the top of the castle like a crown jewel. A nearly invisible shield surrounded the terrace, allowing a full panoramic view without wind or pressure disturbance.
But it wasn't the platform that stunned them.
It was the world beyond.
The Celestial Kingdom unfolded before them like a living painting—impossibly vast, achingly advanced. Floating skyscrapers, taller than any Muggle city had ever dreamed of, glistened in hues of silver, obsidian, and soft pastels. They weren't anchored to the ground but hovered mid-air, slowly rotating along invisible magnetic fields. Massive crystal conduits ran between them—like bridges of light.
Dragons lounged lazily on rooftops and balconies, some stretched across sky gardens, some curled around antenna-like towers. Unlike the wild dragons in the magical world, these creatures were clearly domesticated—serene, intelligent, and integrated into the architecture of the city. Their scales shimmered with unnatural colors—opal, violet, deep sea green. Some bore jewelry or glowing runes. They were not beasts here. They were citizens.
In the sky, hundreds of vessels glided through defined aerial lanes—sleek ships, some shaped like manta rays, others more like origami birds. No combustion, no broomsticks—these flew with elegant silence.
Down below, the city thrived. Walkways lined with glowing flora curved like ribbons through parks and residential sectors. Pedestrians strolled freely. Children played on playgrounds that floated mid-air, secured with invisible platforms. Families picnicked, laughed. Vendors sold foods from stalls that hovered like balloons. No fear, no darkness, no need for secrecy.
Minerva stared, unable to look away. Her hand unconsciously moved to her chest.
There was a deep ache there—a longing she hadn't felt since she was a young woman. A part of her that had buried dreams beneath duty stirred violently.
This… this was what she had wanted. A life where she could live, not hide. Where she could raise a family without fear of Muggle discovery or a dark mark in the sky. A world where people like her didn't have to choose between peace and magic.
Dumbledore, usually so hard to read, was equally stunned.
His mouth was set in a tight line, and his brows furrowed—not from confusion, but discomfort. He had spent decades cementing his worldview. Magic had its limits. Civilization had its chaos. Every attempt to grow beyond tradition risked destruction.
Yet what stood before him was proof that he had been wrong.
And it gnawed at him. For all his titles, knowledge, and control, he had refused change—not out of wisdom, but out of fear. He had stifled innovation under the guise of caution.
And now? He was the anachronism.
Behind them, Cercy stood quietly for a rare moment, watching their expressions with a subtle shift in her own.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quieter. Not kind—but less biting.
"I really wanted to show you this view, little Albus," she said. "Face your fears. That is my advice for you."
Dumbledore turned to her slowly. There was no indignation in his gaze—just the heavy, dawning awareness that something inside him had shifted.
He gave a small nod. Barely noticeable.
Suddenly, without warning, clap clap.
"Ah yes—a table and some refreshments, please," Cercy called out cheerfully, directing her words not to anyone visible, but to the air around them.
Before Dumbledore or McGonagall could exchange glances or question her seemingly eccentric behavior, a shimmer pulsed through the space behind Cercy—subtle, like a heatwave through glass. Then, piece by piece, the illusion dropped.
A woman in the familiar pastel-colored attire of the Celestial servants emerged from thin air. The faint glimmer of displaced magic peeled away from her form like shedding water, revealing her pale face beneath a delicate veil and an expression of mild exasperation, as if annoyed that she had to reveal herself at all. Behind her, three more individuals followed suit—two bearing trays, one already setting a floating table down mid-air with a flick of the wrist, and the last, a tall, broad-shouldered man in armor, whose hand never strayed far from the hilt of a blade at his hip.
"Were they always here with us?!" Minerva asked, startled and scanning the space they had just walked through. Her eyes darted across the open terrace, as if trying to mentally reconstruct where these invisible individuals could have possibly stood.
Cercy turned her head and gave her a wide-eyed, faux-innocent look.
"Why, yes, dear," she said in a tone that landed somewhere between amused and patronizing. "You didn't expect the previous queen of this magnificent kingdom to stroll about unguarded, did you?"
And then, with both hands clasped under her chin, she added in an exaggerated, cutesy voice, "I'm just a weak, helpless old lady nearing her third century. So pitiful. Sniff."
Minerva blinked. "Three hundred?"
The words hung in the air, echoing with disbelief. She hadn't expected the number to cross even a hundred and fifty.
Cercy's lips curled into a satisfied grin. Then she turned her gaze—pointedly, unhurriedly—to Dumbledore.
The way her expression shifted, from playful to knowing, didn't go unnoticed by Minerva. It made something click. The way she'd been calling Dumbledore "little Albus" since the very beginning—casual, affectionate, condescending—it hadn't been metaphorical. Not entirely.
Minerva's eyes narrowed slightly. Dumbledore himself merely offered a small, acknowledging smile, his eyes flickering with dry amusement. He didn't seem surprised by Cercy's true age. If anything, he appeared quietly resigned to the fact that he was the younger in this conversation.
"Now, now, let's not linger on age," Cercy said, waving a hand as if dismissing a boring topic. "The children have already set the table."
As if on cue, one of the floating trays unfolded itself into a low, oval-shaped table—hovering slightly above the surface of the platform, yet sturdy as stone. Cushioned seats blinked into place around it. The refreshments set down were immaculate: crystal-clear teacups, a silver kettle of something that smelled vaguely floral and citrusy, small pastries arranged in geometric perfection, and translucent fruits that glowed faintly under the sky's reflection.
"Sit, sit!" Cercy said, motioning for the two professors to join her.
Though her tone was casual, there was an undercurrent of command to it—an authority born not of arrogance, but of deep, rooted power. One didn't ask in the Celestial Kingdom. One decided.
Minerva sat down first, still reeling from the invisible entourage and the reveal of the Queen's age. She muttered under her breath, "Three hundred…"
Dumbledore took his seat beside her, calm as ever, though his expression had shifted—eyes sharper, more thoughtful.
Cercy sat across from them, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes, the same deep gold as her hair, flicked between them with calculating interest.
"Now," she said with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "we can have a proper conversation. Tea?"
Cercy sat back, swirling the remnants of her tea in slow, practiced circles. The faint clinking of ceramic and silver was the only sound as she studied Dumbledore with a gaze that felt older than time.
"Tell me, Albus," she began, voice smooth like honey laced with arsenic, "do you know how the Targaryens managed to rule over families that could split mountains in two with a flick of their wrist?"
Dumbledore met her stare, silent but engaged. His usual twinkle had dulled—a rare crack in the armor of the world's most composed headmaster.
But Cercy didn't wait for his reply. She wasn't asking—she was unfolding.
"It's not diplomacy. It's not compassion. It's not even tradition." Her smile was cold. "It's power. Overwhelming, undeniable, concentrated power."
She let the word hang.
"To command power like that, you can't just possess magic—you must become something greater than magic. That's what Targaryens are. Not just dragon-blooded royalty. They are collectors of power. Hoarders. Refiners."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice growing sharper.
"Their innate ability—the Default—is to assume partial draconic forms at will. Horns. Scales. Talons. Fire. It varies by individual. But more importantly… they speak to dragons like family. Not as masters. Not as tamers. Kin. And the dragons obey them. Not because they're trained—because they're bound."
Minerva, wide-eyed, muttered under her breath. "That's… that's incredible."
Cercy gave a dry chuckle.
"Oh, that's just the opening act."
She poured herself more tea, ignoring the steam curling around her fingers.
"What truly makes them different is inheritance. A Targaryen doesn't just pass on one bloodline. They can absorb and express the magical traits of the other parent. Not just once—sometimes across generations. Abilities surface generations later. Compound. Merge."
She gestured loosely with her cup.
"Marry an ice wielder, and you might get a fire-breathing, storm-summoning heir. Marry into the Oracle line…" her eyes glinted, "and you get a nightmare like my son."
Minerva looked between them. "So… over time, they became…"
"A walking culmination of every noble family's strength." Cercy's voice dipped lower. "No house could challenge them because, quite frankly, the throne already contained all of them."
She paused, her gaze drifting toward the cityscape beyond the glass—a silent city with dragons napping on high towers and children laughing beside glowing gardens.
"Or at least… that would've been the case."
Dumbledore lifted his head. "But something changed."
Cercy nodded once.
"Long ago, one of our queens—an ancestor of Vaserys and Petunia—was walking through the royal garden. You remember it, don't you? The one that swallows intruders whole."
Dumbledore and Minerva nodded. The memory of the grass folding like quicksand was still vivid.
"Well," Cercy continued, "she found someone that day. A man. Not one of us. A stranger who'd somehow broken through our continent's defenses. No easy feat, I'll tell you that."
"Was he a wizard?" Minerva asked, almost too eagerly.
"Of course he was," Cercy said flatly. "Young. Brilliant. Charming. The type of charming that wears out after ten minutes, if you ask me. But she didn't."
Minerva leaned in. "What happened?"
"She saved him from the garden. Against all protocol. Should've let him be devoured. But no… she took pity on him. He looked up at her like she was the dawn. And she—poor, sweet girl—believed him."
Cercy exhaled sharply through her nose.
"She threw him out after that. Sent him back through the tear in space before anyone could know. But he came back. Again and again. Always with some new method, some desperate plea. It was a sickness."
"A love story?" Minerva offered.
"A problem," Cercy corrected, biting down on the word.
She picked up her cup again, but this time only held it in her lap.
"Eventually, she gave in. He learned to mask himself as one of us. She helped. They married. And their union, well… that was the beginning of the slow unraveling."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed.
"Their children?"
"Some were lucky," Cercy said. "They had abilities—strong ones. Strong enough to lead. But others… had nothing. Magic that never activated. Or worse—bodies that couldn't withstand the chaotic blend of foreign and native energy. They withered. Died young. Or lost their minds."
Her tone had gone quiet, but not soft.
"And it didn't end there. Every generation since has been a gamble. Sometimes we get a king like Vaserys. Other times, we bury them before their tenth birthday."
Minerva's hand hovered over her chest. "That's horrible."
"It's reality," Cercy said. Her eyes dropped to the surface of the table. "A kingdom like this doesn't survive on good intentions and fairy tales. It survives because we make the hard choices. Even when it means cursing a child before they're born."
There was a beat of silence. Then Cercy added, voice barely above a whisper:
"How many children have I lost… because two people couldn't keep their hands to themselves?"
Neither Dumbledore nor Minerva said anything.
Cercy, as always, didn't wait for comfort.
She straightened, picked up her tea, and downed the rest like it was medicine. Then, with a tight smile:
"Well. That's ancient history. We're still standing, aren't we?"