The restaurant had quieted as the evening wore on, the soft murmur of conversations and the clink of cutlery blending into a low hum. Across their small table by the window, Selena and Oliver faced each other. The earlier tension between them had softened, replaced by a subtler current—neither businesslike nor intimate, but something hovering in between.
Selena broke the silence with a faintly amused tone, as if testing the ground.
"So… tell me how you came to be the owner of Imperial Publishing, Mr. Donovan."
He gave her a light smile, tilting his head.
"Please, call me Oliver."
"Very well, Oliver," she corrected smoothly, her dark eyes catching the reflection of the candlelight. "How did it happen? You inherited it, yes—but that's the fact. What I'm asking is the story. The person you became along the way. A man's character is shaped by his experiences, wouldn't you agree?"
Oliver arched an eyebrow, surprised by her persistence, but not unwilling to indulge her. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.
"Well, you already know the bare bones. I was an only child. My father uncompromising, left me the company when he passed. My mother… was the opposite. Gentle, warm. She died young, far too young. I still remember her eyes—soft, kind, as if they apologized for everything harsh my father ever said."
His gaze unfocused for a moment, before sharpening again.
"Father wasn't affectionate, not in the slightest, but he was proud. Proud of his business, proud of his beliefs, proud of the Donovan name. He never said he was proud of me, but I like to think he showed it in his way."
"And you?" Selena prompted, her chin resting lightly on the back of her hand. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes sharp, as though cataloging every word, every hesitation.
"I believe in love," Oliver said simply. "In liberty, in freedom of speech, in liberalism—whether political or personal. In the right of people to be heard, even if no one likes what they're saying."
For a moment, silence settled. Oliver, perhaps emboldened by her attention, found himself studying her in turn. The way her lashes curved down like shadows against her cheeks. The way the sharp fall of her black hair framed her face, immaculate yet somehow careless, like a deliberate imperfection meant to unsettle.
It made him stare too long.
Selena cut through the quiet with an abrupt, out-of-context question.
"Why do you think people marry?"
Oliver blinked. It was so sudden that he let out a short laugh before catching himself.
"Passion," he said after a beat.
"Mm. No."
He leaned forward, intrigued.
"Interesting. For a second I was sure you'd dismiss the whole institution. What's your answer, then?"
Her eyes lowered to the rim of her glass. She spoke evenly, her voice almost detached—yet the words carried weight.
"People get married because they need a witness. There are billions of lives on this planet, Oliver. Billions. Each one insignificant on its own. So what does one life really mean?"
She tapped her finger against the glass.
"But in marriage, you're promising that one life will matter.
That no moment—whether brilliant or mundane—will go unnoticed. You're saying: your life will not go unseen, because I will see it.
Your life will not go unwitnessed, because I will be your witness."
Her dark eyes lifted.
"That, I think, is why people marry.
Not passion. Not convenience but Witness."
Oliver let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but not mocking. More astonished.
"You're full of surprises, Selena. That answer… now you've made me more curious. Tell me about yourself. That's only fair."
Selena tilted her head back, eyes scanning the ceiling as though searching for memories in its plasterwork. A small smile curved her lips, sardonic and fleeting.
"fine."
She leaned back, her voice flattening into cynicism.
"I don't remember much of my 'childhood'.
What I do remember is my father—a drunk, a gambler, a man who wore the word failure like a second skin. Hardly worth calling a father at all." She shrugged as if brushing away the thought.
Her gaze shifted as she continued.
"But there was someone else. A boy, a couple of years older than me. His family were immigrants, and we all lived in the same run-down part of the city. Whenever things were unbearable at home, I'd meet him in what we called the park—though in truth it was just an empty construction lot."
Her eyes narrowed, amused at the memory.
"He'd always find me there, talking endlessly. He told me how his father introduced himself as 'Bob' to make the locals less suspicious.
He'd fixe my shoelaces when they snapped, though he teased me while doing it. "
Oliver leaned forward slightly, genuinely invested now.
"Do you still keep in touch?"
Selena turned to him with a flat, almost bored expression.
"No. He's dead. Hate crime."
The words dropped like stones.
Oliver blinked, the shift jolting him. Selena, however, remained perfectly calm, her voice laced with a dark irony.
"It's rather hilarious, isn't it? How these countries pit humans against each other. Strip away their names, their dignity, their humanity, until cruelty becomes palatable. Until murder feels justified."
She rested her chin back on her hand, her smile sharp, humorless.
" greed rots even the purest of hearts."
Her tone lingered in the air, cynical and unshaken. Oliver stared at her, trying to decide whether her words were armor or confession.
Oliver leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued by her story.
"What about your mother then?" he asked softly. "You talked about your father, but not her."
For the first time that evening, Selena hesitated. The easy rhythm of her words stilled, and the candlelight caught in her dark eyes, reflecting something unreadable. She looked at him, as though trying to conjure a face from smoke — a memory that refused to take shape.
After a pause, she spoke.
"It happens that I'm not provided such a memory."
Her tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but the phrasing lingered oddly in the air — not provided, as if the absence itself was by design, as if her past had been edited rather than forgotten.
A faint, enigmatic smile curved her lips as she added, "I guess that's all you'll end up with for today."
The way she said it—cool, final, yet tinged with something weary—made Oliver stop pressing. But her choice of words gnawed at him. Provided. The phrasing felt unnatural, detached, like someone describing a life that wasn't entirely their own.
He studied her quietly, the way her expression returned to its practiced neutrality, the poise of someone who had built herself from fragments and silence.
Selena took a sip from her glass, the faintest shadow of thought flickering across her face. She didn't look at him when she spoke next.
"People love to talk about their pasts as if they're proof of who they are. But sometimes," she said, voice low, "the past is just a story told to make the present make sense."
Her words carried no tremor of emotion — just the precision of someone who had long grown used to absence.
What Oliver couldn't possibly know — what no one could — was that Selena wasn't lying when she said she hadn't been provided those memories.
She was, after all, only a reflection. A construct born from someone else's essence — Petunia's echo made flesh. The shape of a life that had never been lived, but remembered.
In that faint echo of humanity, Selena's cynicism wasn't just a shield; it was survival.
And yet, deep within the quiet corners of her mind, something fragile stirred — a hunger she could never name aloud.
She, too, wanted a witness.
Not for her words or her wit, not for her charm or her precision. But for her existence — for the fleeting proof that she was here, that she had been. Even if only in passing.
Oliver, unaware of the truth that hung between them, smiled faintly, breaking the silence.
"Well," he said, "you certainly know how to end a conversation."
Selena's lips curved in return , not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.
"I prefer to leave people wondering," she murmured. "It's better for business."
But in the quiet that followed, her gaze drifted toward the window — the city lights blurring into faint trails of gold. For a moment, her reflection in the glass looked almost like someone else's face, someone with softer eyes and a memory she couldn't reach.
Then, just as quickly, she blinked — and the illusion was gone.
---
They stayed with the windows open to the morning air—thin sunlight across Dumbledore's papers, the lake below rimmed with early mist where Petunia sat like a small, deliberate island. Minerva's hands were folded tight in her lap; the steady clack of the grandfather clock punctuated the room as if timing their deliberation.
"I still can't get my head around it," Minerva said, voice tight with disbelief rather than anger. "A whole civilization — advanced, organized, invisible to us — and they've been able to mask themselves from both Muggle and magical records. If not for… Petunia, we might never have known."
Dumbledore paced a short circle by the window, watching the girl below. He sounded careful, deliberately plucking words as one chooses stepping-stones.
"Indeed. They arranged their isolation. That tells us more than their technology: it tells us motive. They chose secrecy. They are not a civilization that wishes to be policed, congratulated, or invited in." He turned away from the view and folded his fingers together. "But Petunia's condition complicates everything."
Minerva inhaled, as if preparing to catalogue the problem aloud. "Her physiology. The Targaryen lineage was not shaped to the same limits as wizards.
it's a known fact that wizards are allotted a certain 'capacity' of magic, a ceiling that stabilizes in adulthood. Petunia's inheritance appears to override that ceiling. Her power will grow; it will not plateau. That growth — uncontrolled — risks catastrophic biological failure."
Dumbledore nodded. "Exactly. In our terms: a body being asked to contain more and different modes of magic than it was structured to carry. In their terms—" he hesitated, searching for the right frame, "—it is a maturation into ancestral capabilities. Both frames are true, but the danger is the same: it is uncertain whether she will survive the transition without intervention."
Minerva's face softened. "She's a child who behaves with the manners of someone far older. She keeps others at arm's length but she holds a tiredness behind her eyes. I see it when she spaces out. She knows, even if she doesn't say it, that there's a clock on her."
Dumbledore's expression, usually a mask of genial curiosity,shifted to something more private, more troubled. "We have ethical choices to weigh. Do we treat her as a pupil—give her the standard training, the protections any Muggle-born would be afforded. or do we treat her as a continuing experiment? The latter we must avoid: it strips autonomy. The former may not be enough."
Minerva tapped her finger on a stack of parchment. "There are practical steps that don't require us to involve wider authority immediately. Surveillance. Regular medical . An enchanted safe room should things become acute. Mentorship: someone who understands non-standard magical physiology. Controlled exposure to practices that might help stabilise her magic—guided exercises, incremental increases in magical load, not a sudden immersion."
Dumbledore considered each suggestion, letting them settle like pieces on a board. "Agreed. We can set up a regime within Hogwarts: discreet monitoring tied to the infirmary. McGonagall—you would be the obvious guardian. Your presence is both authority and ordinary enough to be non-threatening. We should also appoint specialists: an auror only on contingency, and a healer versed in rare conditions. Madam Pomfrey will coordinate."
Minerva's mouth twitched; for a moment she looked almost flattered and exasperated at once. "I will do it. She is a student first. She must have lessons, friends, normalcy. That will keep her sane. And no heavy-handed enchantments without consent."
They both fell silent for a breath, listening to the distant hum of the castle—the ordinary life of a school, the ordinary safety net they were trying to preserve.
Dumbledore's voice lowered. "There is the political question. We could report the existence of the Celestial Kingdom to the Ministry or the International Confederation of Magical Affairs. The sensible route would be consultation—carefully chosen delegates, neutral observers. The danger: exposure. Once the veil is penetrated, nothing is private."
Minerva's reaction was immediate. "We cannot risk a power—civilization—this advanced being angered or feeling threatened. They have the resources to wipe the record, or worse. We owe them caution."
Dumbledore looked at the lake again, at Petunia sitting very still. "And then there is Cercy's hint—her gift, or her threat. She did not speak plainly. She prefers puzzles. But the meaning was clear enough in tone: there is a future event, major and dangerous, and the boy she referenced will be involved. That changes the variables. If there is a person or faction likely to ignite wider hostilities, we have to be prepared."
Minerva drew a slow breath. "We will not notify the Ministry at large. Not yet. But we must create contingencies. Safe havens for students, wards that can be activated remotely, a rota of trusted staff who understand the stakes. "
Dumbledore's eyes flicked away as if weighing names in his head. The room felt suddenly smaller; the stakes, far larger.
"I will not keep this entirely alone," he said finally. "There are colleagues I trust. I will confide in a very few—those with the discretion and the competence to act. But we will not let fear govern us. Petunia is here, at Hogwarts; she is in a place of learning, of limits and boundaries. That will be her strength as much as any enchantment we place."
Minerva nodded, relief and apprehension braided together. "Then we build quietly. We teach her to recognize and channel what grows within her. We protect her from exposure. And we keep our ears open for any ripple that might herald larger trouble."
Dumbledore's mouth curved into a small, tired smile. "And I shall consider who to tell. Not to burden you further, Minerva—only to ensure we have a safety net of competence. For now, watch over the girl. Keep her ordinary. Let her be a pupil first. We will act if the balance shifts."
They both sat in the silence that followed, the clock marking the passage of a day that felt, between them, both ordinary and decisive. Outside, Petunia remained where she was—alone, unreadable, still as a statue beside the lake—and the two teachers planned a protection founded on the slow work of care rather than spectacle.
Dumbledore looked at Minerva, then allowed himself a small, private admission: "Though I will share this with a few trusted fellows—only those whose hands are steady and whose lips are sealed."
"Who, then?" Minerva asked, suspicion edged in curiosity.
"We'll see," he said, and left the name untold.
---------
-------last night -----
Petunia's POV:
The alleyway stretched before me — narrow, damp, and achingly familiar. The uneven cobblestones glistened under the late afternoon light, puddles reflecting the faded red of laundry lines strung above. I had walked this path all my life, my shoes tracing the same cracks and corners, as if the stones themselves remembered my steps. The smell of boiled cabbage and detergent seeped from open windows, blending with the metallic tang of rain-soaked air.
At the alley's end stood our house — small, leaning slightly to the left as though tired of holding itself up. Its pale paint had long surrendered to time and weather. Still, to me, it was home.
The front door creaked open with the same reluctant sigh, and I was greeted by the faint sound of my mother humming. Her voice drifted from the kitchen — soft, wavering, but beautiful in its fragility. It was the same song as always. Fly me to the moon… The words carried a tenderness that wrapped around me like a fragile thread, tugging at something deep and old inside.
I followed the melody to the kitchen.
She stood by the sink, hands deep in soapy water, the light from the window painting her in a weary gold. Her hair — once honey-blonde — was now dulled and tangled, clinging to her cheeks in messy curls. A new bruise, fresh and ugly, bloomed along her jaw.
I froze.
It wasn't the first. It wouldn't be the last.
Her eyes, blue as sea glass, flicked toward me. They always carried a strange contradiction — sharp when she was silent, yet tender when she spoke. Today, they looked soft, filled with an emotion I could only interpret as pity.
"Oh, Selena, you're back from school," she said, wiping her hands on a frayed towel. Her smile tried to be normal, casual. "Come help Mom with the meal, will you?"
I nodded. Words were useless here — fragile things that shattered against the walls. Silence, I'd learned, was the only way I could comfort her. So I stepped closer, rolling up my sleeves, and joined her at the counter.
The clinking of dishes, the bubbling of stew on the stove, the steady rhythm of her humming — they formed a quiet, temporary peace.
"Hm… fly me to the moon…" she sang softly, her voice trembling on the high notes.
She used to tell me that she dreamed of being a singer. Of standing on a stage, her voice reaching far beyond this cramped kitchen — beyond the town, beyond the sorrow. "If I'd made a few different choices," she once said with a wistful laugh, "maybe people would've known my name."
Maybe.
Now, the only audience was the steam rising from the pot and her daughter who stirred in silence.
Then, a sudden crash — the jarring sound of the front door slamming open.
The humming stopped. The world froze.
Heavy footsteps stumbled down the hallway, uneven and reckless. A familiar stench followed — cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke. My stomach twisted.
He appeared in the doorway, his shadow filling the kitchen like a curse.
"Where the hell's my dinner?" he slurred, voice thick with anger and booze.
My mother flinched, her back instinctively straightening. Her hands trembled as she wiped them dry.
"Go inside the room," she whispered sharply, turning to me. Panic quivered beneath her calm tone. "Now, Selena. Don't let your sister out, you hear me?"
I hesitated — just a heartbeat — before nodding again. The silence that once comforted her now felt suffocating.
As I turned to leave, her humming lingered in my mind, fragile and incomplete — Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars…
But the stars were too far away for her.
Strangely enough, the man's face was blurred — not in motion, but in existence. As if the world itself refused to remember what he looked like. His features were smeared, indistinct, like a bad dream slipping through the mind before morning. Only the weight of his presence lingered — heavy, suffocating.
Mother's sharp whisper echoed again: "Go."
I pulled my sister by the wrist and hurried into the small bedroom. The air inside was cold, stale, carrying the faint scent of detergent and old wood. My sister's tiny fingers clung to my sleeve, trembling. I pressed her behind me as we crouched near the door.
Then the sounds began.
First, a crash — the shattering of glass.
Then, my mother's scream — raw, desperate, the kind that tears through walls and hearts alike.
And then, something unexpected.
A man's scream.
It wasn't anger this time. It was pain. A sound that started human and ended monstrous, swallowed by something deeper. The kind of scream that makes silence sound alive.
And then — nothing.
The quiet was worse.
It stretched, heavy and slow, wrapping around my chest until I could barely breathe. My sister whimpered softly, and I put a hand over her mouth, my own heart hammering so loud it felt like it might give us away.
When I could no longer stand it, I rose and inched toward the door. My fingers trembled as they found the knob. The metal was cold. I hesitated, then pushed — just enough for a sliver of the world to appear before me.
The sight that met my eyes carved itself into my memory.
Mother stood in the center of the kitchen, her shoulders shaking. Her once-beautiful face was darkened — not just with shadow, but with something else. A blackness that clung to her skin like ink, like grief made physical. In her hand, a kitchen knife gleamed wet and crimson.
At her feet lay the man. Motionless.
For a moment, I thought he might rise again — that he'd yell, swing, breathe. But his body was still. The blur that had been his face was now just emptiness.
Mother's eyes were hollow when she looked up.
That image — her figure standing over him, the knife dripping, her face swallowed in black — burned itself into my mind, permanent as a scar.
And yet, I felt no fear. No sadness.
Only a quiet, unfamiliar worry — not for what had happened, but for what would come next.
What would become of us now?