Cercy leaned back in her chair, her golden eyes drifting toward the horizon outside the glass balcony. The city still glowed—beautiful, composed, and quiet—but her voice had taken on a sharper, colder edge.
"After the Targaryen bloodline started to thin, the assassins came out of thewoodwork.from within."
Her tone suggested she'd lived through more betrayals than anyone should. And survived them all.
"When power weakens," she said, "even loyalty starts sniffing for a new throne."
She didn't look at them as she spoke, eyes fixed on something only she could see. "And after the death of Petunia's older brother…"
There was a flicker in her expression—grief buried beneath decades of practice.
"…despite everything we did, all the healers and devices and spells… the magic inside him was too chaotic. Too much. It tore through his body like wildfire looking for air."
Minerva lowered her gaze, solemn. Dumbledore's fingers laced tightly over his lap.
Cercy's voice dropped.
"We tried everything. Stasis. Re-sequencing. Magic dampeners. Even raw nullification fields. You ever see a ten-year-old scream until his vocal cords rupture? I have."
The air turned cold.
"But then… something changed."
She turned back to face them.
"We found another way. At least, we think we have."
Dumbledore inhaled as though ready to speak, and Cercy gave him a brief nod.
"To bring Petunia to the world the unknown wizard came from," he said carefully. "To expose her to the system of magic that shaped him. In hopes it would… stabilize her."
Cercy smiled—a patronizing, toothy grin, like a teacher patting a student on the head.
"Hoho! There's the Albus I remember. Sharp little knife in the drawer."
Minerva made a face, but Cercy ignored her, pressing on.
"Yes. That's exactly it. We're hoping the foreign structure of magic—the wand, the verbal incantations, the rituals, the training—might ground her power. Give it a skeleton to wrap itself around. Because frankly…" she sipped from her glass, "if she'd stayed here, she'd already be dead."
Her gaze grew heavier.
"You've sensed it, haven't you? The surge of physical and magical power. The cracks showing. She's maturing, Albus."
The way she said his name was almost motherly. Almost.
"She's entering that phase. The phase where her bloodline asserts itself fully. And if it wins—if the magic inside her decides she's not strong enough to bear it—then she'll end up like the others."
Dumbledore remained quiet. His expression unreadable, but his hands had subtly clenched.
"I'm not asking for special treatment," Cercy said.
Then she paused—eyes gleaming with sarcasm.
"Or maybe I am," she added with a scoff. "She's a bloody princess, after all. A little deference wouldn't kill anyone."
She waved her hand dismissively as if brushing off her own words.
"Anyway," she continued, "whatever she's doing out there—sneaking around, getting in trouble, playing at being clever—it's helping. She wouldn't have made it past ten otherwise. Not with what's inside her."
Her voice softened for a moment—just a touch.
"So treat her right, Albus. That doesn't mean pamper her. But don't let that paranoid little mind of yours spiral out and ruin her before she finds her balance."
She sipped again, this time slower, her eyes fixed on him.
"I've known you long enough to say it plainly: you can be insufferably controlling when you think something dangerous is loose."
Dumbledore finally looked up, his expression neither offended nor agreeing. Just watching.
Cercy exhaled through her nose, leaned back, and let the silence stretch.
Minerva, who had thus far managed to keep a respectful silence despite Cercy's overt familiarity with Dumbledore, finally had enough.
Her voice cut through the light tension like a sharp blade.
"I have to ask," she said, her brows furrowed with restrained disapproval. "Have you two met before?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than it should have.
Cercy's lips curled into an amused grin, as though she'd been waiting for this exact question.
"Hohoho," she chuckled, almost theatrically. "I was wondering how long it would take."
She turned her golden gaze toward Minerva, her voice shifting into a near sing-song rhythm.
"Have you ever heard the old chant, dear professor?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
> "Down, down, down the road, down the Witches' Road
Down the witches' road, down the Witches' Road
Blood and tears and bone—
Maiden. Mother. Crone."
The words fell from her lips with eerie reverence, like an incantation passed down for centuries.
"The maiden represents the past," Cercy explained, her tone turning cool and measured. "The mother—the present. The crone—the future. That's the Oracle trinity. The backbone of our bloodline."
She raised her hand and gently tapped her temple.
"We see it all, Minerva. Not clearly. Not always directly. But we glimpse. We observe."
She turned back to Dumbledore with a knowing, almost intimate look.
"I may not have met him in the traditional sense," she said, her eyes shining with the warmth of memory, "but I've watched the boy who sat by the creek. The boy who thought too much. The boy who chased every question like it held the meaning of life."
There was no ridicule in her voice. Only something oddly tender.
"I saw him laugh," she said softly. "I saw him live. Saw him maje mistakes . Saw him fall in love. Sometimes cry."
She reached forward, her fingertips tracing gently across the deep lines on Dumbledore's cheek—a bold move that neither of the professors expected.
"I saw the boy I longed to meet… grow old."
Minerva stood from her chair sharply, unable to stay silent.
"You're saying—what exactly? That you've been spying on him? All his life?! That's—sick! It's invasive! You're sick!"
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but anger. Fury, even. Not only at the violation, but at how calmly Cercy spoke of it.
Cercy didn't flinch. Her golden eyes slowly shifted to Minerva, blinking once as if seeing her for the first time.
"Mm. Possibly," Cercy mused. "But to be fair… it's a family hobby. We Oracles don't really do boundaries."
She leaned back, uncaring of the judgment in Minerva's tone.
"I was bored. You have no idea how dull it is to rule over people who think they've seen everything."
She looked back at Dumbledore.
"But you… you always kept it interesting."
Dumbledore hadn't moved through any of this. He simply watched her. There was no coldness in his expression, but also no warmth—just a studied silence. He wasn't rejecting what she said, but he wasn't embracing it either.
Then he spoke.
"Was it fun?"
Cercy's expression softened into something like affection.
"It was a life worth living, my boy."
From the folds of her sleeve, she pulled out a small piece of candy—wrapped in translucent paper that shimmered with strange colors.
She offered it, palm outstretched.
"Candy?"
Dumbledore stared at it, then raised an eyebrow.
"You already know whether or not I'm going to take it."
She gave him a mock-offended look, her grin returning.
"Wouldn't be much of an Oracle if I didn't."
He looked down at the candy again, and then back up at her.
"But if you already know… how can I truly choose?"
And here, Cercy leaned in just a little. Her voice dropped to a whisper laced with irony and something resembling wisdom.
"Because you didn't come here to make the choice."
She smiled—not smugly, but sadly.
"You're here to understand why you already did."
"Anyway," Cercy said, rising from her seat with an elegance that belied her age, "I've taken far too much of your time already—nearly a full day at that."
Dumbledore and Minerva rose in turn, Minerva straightening her robe while Dumbledore adjusted his sleeves.
"Allow me to walk you to the exit point," Cercy offered, already striding toward the corridor with an ease that suggested she knew the castle better than her own thoughts. "We can chat along the way—one last farewell stroll."
"As you see fit," Dumbledore responded politely, though his eyes wandered the intricately carved walls one last time, as if memorizing the path.
They walked in relative calm through the winding marble halls—walls etched with runes glowing faintly in their presence, soft magic humming like background static. As they turned a corner into a grand hallway lined with crystalline windows, two figures appeared in their path.
One was a man with steel-gray hair combed back sharply, his expression the perfect mask of diplomacy and disinterest. His robes were embroidered with subtle glimmers of runes, power humming beneath the surface like a coiled serpent.
Beside him stood a strikingly beautiful woman. Her hair was a soft pink—lush and voluminous, cascading in waves over her exposed shoulders. Her dress was tight in all the right places, sheer in others, a calculated mixture of elegance and seduction. Her emerald eyes sparkled as though secrets clung to the edges of her irises. She radiated confidence—and something just a touch dangerous.
"Oh my, Your Excellency," the pink-haired woman purred, her voice like honey dripped on velvet. "What a delightful coincidence."
Her lips curved into a sly smile, perfectly polished and deliberate. She barely acknowledged Cercy beyond the polite opening, her true interest clearly locked on Dumbledore and Minerva.
"Your Highness," the older man offered with a curt nod. Formal, diplomatic, but distant. His focus, too, flicked quickly to the pair of strangers.
The woman advanced a step, her eyes twinkling with predatory curiosity.
"And who might this gentleman be?" she cooed as she stepped closer to Dumbledore. Her fingers grazed the hem of her dress just enough to add flair without breaking etiquette. Her smile widened.
"Syranda, of House Veyne," she said, extending her hand with all the performance of a royal actress awaiting her bow. "A pleasure."
Dumbledore's eyes blinked once—slow, fogged—as though he had just walked into a daydream. The pull of her presence was thick in the air now. His head dipped, lips approaching her fingers…
"Albus—!" Minerva began, alarmed.
But it was too late.
Only a hair's breadth from her hand, Dumbledore stopped—his eyes narrowing, a shimmer of protective magic rising around him like a heatwave.
Minerva's voice snapped with realization. "A seduction spell! A strong one at that!"
Albus straightened, brushing off his sleeve calmly, though the subtle twitch in his left eye betrayed his irritation.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His look said everything.
Cercy, on the other hand, was delighted. Her lips quirked into a grin that didn't reach her eyes—sharp and amused.
"Syranda, dear," Cercy said, sweet as sugar, sour as citrus. "Bold of you to use your ability on my guest... and right in front of me?"
Before Syranda could react, a guard materialized behind her—no footsteps, no sound. His hand glowed faintly, positioned right behind her neck. The air grew colder, as if a storm was just about to break.
The smile drained slightly from Syranda's face, though she still tried to hold her composure.
Then the gray-haired man beside her stepped forward, tone calm and smooth as aged wine.
"lady Cercy, now come on. You know how youngsters are these days. Curious, impulsive. Besides—House Veyne has always excelled in information gathering." He gave an elegant shrug. "Knowledge is power, after all."
Cercy's golden gaze cut to him, unimpressed.
"Power is power," she replied flatly.
The air in the corridor seemed to chill another degree.
Then she turned her full attention back to Syranda. The teasing smile returned—more dangerous now, like a knife hidden in a silk glove.
"Sometimes, little Syranda," she said, voice lilting with the sing-song cruelty of a woman who knew exactly how far she could go, "the bee likes other bees."
Syranda blinked, confused.
"You think," Cercy continued, pacing slowly toward her like a teacher mocking a student, "Why did he pick that bee and not my flower? But you see... they don't care."
She smiled with wide-eyed mock sympathy.
"They just buzz around... and ignore you."
Syranda's mouth opened slightly in offense. Her mind visibly caught up a second later. A slow, burning frown spread across her face.
"I'll take my leave now, Your Highness," she said, through clenched teeth.
"Oh, please do," Cercy chirped, waving her off like shooing a mosquito.
The pink-haired noble turned and walked away, heels clicking like little daggers, the illusion of grace cracking.
The man with her hesitated briefly, realized he would glean nothing more, and followed her with a quiet, resigned nod to Cercy.
As they vanished around the bend, Minerva turned to Cercy, still wide-eyed.
"What... what was that about?"
"Oh, that?" Cercy said, casually brushing lint off her robe. "That was about her husband. She caught him out in the gardens—on top of the groundskeeper—with the butler on top of him."
Minerva's jaw dropped.
"Like... like a sandwich?!"
Cercy snorted with delight.
"A manwich, if you ask me," she said with a wicked grin. "The scandal was so big it nearly knocked House Veyne off the noble rankings."
She leaned in conspiratorially.
"Who knew the woman whose ability could seduce half the continent... couldn't even keep her husband from a bit of buttering between the staff, eh?"
She cackled.
Minerva just blinked in disbelief, trying to reconcile the high fantasy kingdom with the petty, scandalous mess she'd just heard.
Dumbledore, for his part, remained quiet—but his eyes twinkled with reluctant amusement.
As they entered the winding stone path of the royal garden, the ambient sounds of softly rustling trees and distant dragon calls filled the air. The place was bathed in a golden twilight hue—magic or design, it wasn't clear—which made the dew-sparkled leaves shimmer like tiny stars. Ethereal fireflies glided in slow patterns around luminous lilies, and the pathway itself subtly shifted to accommodate their steps.
Cercy strolled just ahead of Dumbledore and Minerva, her hands clasped behind her back, fingers fidgeting like a child pretending innocence. Her tone was almost singsong.
"You might've already investigated… but I'll just tell you anyway," she said, tossing a coy glance over her shoulder. "We sort of... manipulated the minds of a Muggle family to take in my granddaughter. What was their name again? Eva's? Evos?"
Dumbledore halted in his steps ever so slightly, brow twitching in restrained disapproval.
"Evans," he corrected with crisp clarity. "The family name is Evans."
His raised eyebrow, heavy with judgment, asked what he didn't say aloud: You tampered with their lives and don't even remember their name?
"Ah yes yes, those," Cercy waved her hand airily as if dismissing an unimportant bureaucratic detail. "Pleasant enough people, forgettable minds."
Minerva's eyes narrowed.
"Anyway!" Cercy chirped. "I just figured I'd put all the cards on the table. Full transparency, hmm? Hehe."
Dumbledore remained silent, choosing not to validate her flippancy with a reply.
Then Cercy's tone dropped slightly—subtle, but enough for both professors to pick up on. A sliver of tension threaded her words now.
"Oh, also… can Petunia stay at the school earlier than usual?"
Dumbledore blinked. "Earlier?"
"As in now," Cercy replied with unusual gravity. "Today. Or tonight, preferably. As you can see, it's not very safe for her here anymore. Not politically."
That last word lingered in the air like a warning bell without sound.
Minerva opened her mouth to question it, but Dumbledore beat her to it with a quiet, thoughtful: "Why now? What danger do you foresee?"
Cercy looked ahead, not answering right away. Her heels clinked lightly against the polished stones as she mulled over how much to reveal. Eventually, she sighed, then turned, smiling—but the corners of her mouth were tight.
"I need her out of here, Albus," she said in a low voice. "She's... too visible now. Too valuable. And there are eyes that don't blink, even in daylight."
Dumbledore studied her for a long moment. Then, with the practiced calm of a man used to shouldering burdens too heavy for others, he said, "Fine. But she stays under Minerva's supervision at all times."
Minerva turned sharply to him, a pointed glare demanding Excuse me? But she didn't voice it—not yet.
Cercy clapped her hands, delighted. "Great! Great! You've always been so accommodating when it matters."
Then her expression shifted again. She stood straighter, almost regal, as though summoning something weighty from within. Her eyes dimmed briefly, the gold sinking into a stillness that reminded both professors of deep waters—calm above, monstrous below.
"Let me repay the favor with something I shouldn't give," Cercy said. "Normally it's forbidden to meddle with the outer realm, but... let's call it an Oracle's courtesy."
She raised her hands. Between her palms, golden light shimmered and twisted, coalescing into a translucent bubble. It pulsed softly—then violently—as images flashed inside like fragmented memories of a world yet to exist.
The bubble shimmered. Smoke churned inside it.
Cercy's voice deepened slightly, richer, older—echoing with something ancient as the wind between stars.
> "Beware, my boy... for the hollowed skull shall rise in the sky, and death will walk clothed in false life.
The boy with your eyes, but not your name,
shall carry a wand soaked in guilt.
He shall raise his hand against what you once held closer than your own heart,
and in doing so... bring about your ruin."
The bubble cracked with a high-pitched ring like shattered glass in slow motion, then popped, vanishing into nothing.
Dumbledore's face had gone still. Not blank—he was very much present—but silent. Processing.
Minerva frowned deeply. "That was cryptic even by prophecy standards."
Cercy gave a soft chuckle, the ethereal tone now faded.
"Well, if I told you everything, what fun would that be?"
She began walking again, the breeze catching the hem of her robe.
"Anyway," she said breezily, returning to her usual sass-laced drawl, "I'm not a doom prophet. I'm just a concerned granny with a taste for flair."
But Dumbledore didn't follow immediately. He looked at the air where the bubble had been.
The boy with your eyes... but not your name.
As the golden path through the royal garden reached its end, the lush surroundings opened into a clearing. There, beneath a tall obsidian arch entwined with glowing vines, stood Petunia with her parents—King Vaserys and Queen Lyanna—awaiting the group's return. The light filtered through the garden canopy in warm rays, casting ethereal patterns on the ground like dancing sigils.
The king stepped forward with Petunia at his side, his silver hair glowing faintly in the afternoon light. His purple eyes—cold to many—were oddly soft as he looked down at his daughter. Yet when he lifted his gaze to Dumbledore and Minerva, the weight of a monarch returned in full force.
"Take care of my princess," he said, voice calm but carrying the unmistakable undertone of a threat. "If anything happens to her... I won't mind taking a trip."
He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Before either professor could reply, a loud smack! broke the tension. Cercy had strolled up behind her son and delivered a firm, motherly slap to his back.
"Oh, hush with your dire warnings, Vaserys," she scolded, shaking her head as if reprimanding a boy who'd forgotten to say 'thank you.' "Honestly, such threatening manners—he certainly doesn't get that from me. He takes after his father, may the dragons keep his grumpy soul."
Dumbledore and Minerva shared a long, flat stare at Cercy. It was the same expression one reserves for an overly chatty guest who flips between friendliness and passive threats like a coin.
"Hoho," Cercy chuckled at their look. "Don't worry, don't worry. She'll be taken care of like any other Hogwarts student."
Dumbledore gave a measured nod. "She will be treated with fairness and respect—no more, no less. As is the Hogwarts way."
Lyanna stepped forward then, the gentle calm of a mother cloaked in royal poise. She approached her daughter, brushing a lock of blue-black hair from Petunia's face, and cupped her cheek.
"We'll meet again soon, okay?" she said softly, bending to kiss her daughter's forehead. "Do your best. Be curious. Be careful."
Petunia—still playing her role —nodded. "I will, Mother."
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then the ground beneath the trio—Dumbledore, Minerva, and Petunia—began to hum.
With a shimmering pulse, a circular platform of runes lit up beneath their feet. Reality bent around them as if the garden folded inward. In a single silent flash, like a camera bulb going off, they were gone.
No fanfare. No portals. No farewell speeches.
Just a ripple of golden light.
The last thing Dumbledore saw—just before the transition pulled him fully away—was Cercy.
Standing above them. Looking down with that eternal glint in her golden eyes, the same look a player gives just after making a decisive move in a very long game. Her hand lifted in a slow wave, elegant and unreadable.
"Goodbye~"
---
Back in Hogwarts, the trio rematerialized with a soft thump and a gust of displaced air. They stood in the center of the library—its dim candlelit glow a sharp contrast to the living dream they'd just exited.
Bookshelves loomed around them. The scent of parchment, ink, and wax grounded them instantly in the mundane.
Dumbledore adjusted his robes. Minerva took a steadying breath. Petunia looked down at her shoes, grounding herself silently.
No guards. No dragons.
Just Hogwarts again.
But the weight of where they'd been clung to them like fine dust.
Back in the stillness of the Hogwarts library, Minerva McGonagall finally spoke, her tone clipped with returning reason.
"So," she said, eyeing Petunia carefully, "where are your belongings?"
Petunia blinked, expression unreadable. "My belongings?"
Minerva gave her a flat look. "Yes. Your trunks, your books, your robes… you know, the things students usually bring with them to school?"
"Oh," Petunia said, as if remembering something insignificant.she summoned them from her inventory "Right. They just sent them."
Thud—thud—thud.
Three plain, practical suitcases appeared in neat succession on the floor beside her. Sturdy, worn-looking, and utterly unremarkable—just the kind of luggage a student might bring. Nothing glowed. Nothing hissed. One zipper was a little squeaky.
Minerva's eyes narrowed slightly. "They sent it... to the library?"
Petunia didn't flinch. "Well, you know how efficient they are back home."
Dumbledore looked at the cases, then at Petunia, and said nothing—only pressed his fingers together in front of his mouth in that way he did when he was amused and suspicious at once.
Petunia bent down and casually picked up all three cases—stacked them together like it was nothing—and turned toward the exit.
"To my dormitory?"
"Ah—yes," Minerva answered, blinking as her brain tried to reboot. "Of course. It's in—never mind, I assume you'll find it."
Petunia gave a polite nod and strolled off, her steps calm and her pace unhurried.
"She just left us," Minerva muttered, arms folded.
"She dismissed us," Dumbledore replied with a dry chuckle. "With remarkable poise."
A distant sound of a suitcase wheel catching on the stone floor echoed faintly down the hall.
Minerva exhaled through her nose. "Still not sure if I should be impressed or concerned."