Inside the quiet depths of her mind, Petunia floated.
There was no ground, no sky—only an endless stretch of darkness, gently illuminated by dozens of translucent panels suspended around her like drifting windows into different lives.
Each panel moved slowly, almost lazily, as if orbiting her.
Her body lay unconscious in the infirmary, but her awareness… was sharper than ever.
A thought passed—
—and one of the panels slid closer.
It widened.
Focused.
In it, a woman sat behind a polished desk, pen gliding across paper with quiet efficiency. The room was modern, structured, alive with subtle authority. Occasionally, a secretary would step in, deliver a report, receive a nod, and leave just as quickly.
Selena Rockwood.
Petunia's creation.
Her clone.
Her investment.
Petunia's gaze lingered, and with it came a pull—an invisible thread connecting her consciousness to the one seated behind that desk.
She reached.
And met resistance.
A pause.
Then—
A soft, amused chuckle slipped from her lips, echoing faintly in the void.
Of course.
She hadn't expected anything less.
Selena was not some mindless puppet. She was built from Petunia herself—her thoughts, her instincts, fragments of her will given shape. Independence wasn't a flaw.
It was… proof the experiment was working.
After all, the clone would eventually require more memories to sustain herself. More pieces of Petunia to grow stronger, more real.
A will of her own was inevitable.
Necessary, even.
—
In the panel, Selena suddenly stiffened.
Her pen halted mid-signature.
A sharp, suffocating pressure wrapped around her mind—familiar, overwhelming.
Her master.
Selena instinctively pushed back.
Just a little.
Just enough to breathe—
—and immediately realized her mistake.
The resistance collapsed almost as quickly as it formed.
Her posture straightened, controlled, composed.
But it was too late.
A voice slipped into her mind.
Smooth.
Amused.
"My, my… that's interesting."
Selena lowered her gaze slightly.
"Master, I—"
"I don't need excuses, Selena."
The voice was light. Playful.
Yet beneath it… something far heavier lingered.
"You're an aspect of me. No matter how small."
A pause.
"Your little defiance was expected."
Silence settled.
Selena said nothing more.
There was nothing to say.
—
Petunia observed her quietly for a moment, then shifted the tone as easily as flipping a page.
"How are things going?"
Selena responded immediately, her voice steady, professional.
"Everything is proceeding smoothly, Master."
"Using the initial capital, I've invested in the companies you specified. Returns have already begun to stabilize."
A slight pause.
"The book is performing beyond expectations. It's gaining traction quickly—we're starting to see consistent profit."
Another beat.
"
Petunia listened without interrupting, her attention sharp, absorbing every detail.
Efficient.
Clean.
Exactly as expected.
Then—
Selena hesitated.
Just slightly.
"We also handled the Evans family. We—"
"Good."
The interruption was immediate.
Decisive.
Petunia wasn't interested in the details.
She already knew the outcome.
"Keep doing what you're doing."
A faint hum followed.
"And remember, Selena… as long as you follow orders, you're free to act as you like."
The words sounded generous.
Almost indulgent.
Then—
The tone dipped, ever so slightly.
"Just don't cross me."
A soft laugh echoed through the connection.
"I'm a rather unpleasant person when I'm angry."
Selena's fingers tightened subtly against the desk.
"Understood, Master."
—
A brief silence passed.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
"Oh… one more thing."
Petunia's voice returned, lighter again.
Casual.
"Be careful of the higher echelon."
Selena's eyes flickered.
"No matter how ridiculous it sounds… vampires exist in that world."
A quiet pause.
Then a low chuckle.
"And I'd wager a few of them are rich."
The amusement deepened.
"Honestly, how incompetent would one have to be… to stay poor with an eternal lifespan?"
A soft laugh followed—sharp, amused, fading slowly into nothing.
And just like that—
The connection loosened.
The pressure disappeared.
—
Back in the void, Petunia drifted again, her attention already shifting to another panel.
----
The pressure unraveled like mist under sunlight.
In the panel, Selena Rockwood remained still for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Her pen hovered just above the paper, ink threatening to pool at the tip. Then, with a controlled breath, she finished the signature in one smooth stroke.
Only then did her shoulders relax—barely.
A secretary knocked.
"Miss Rockwood?"
"Enter."
Her voice was steady. Crisp. Not a single trace of what had just transpired lingered in her tone.
The door opened, and the woman stepped in, holding a thin folder. "The board is requesting confirmation regarding the second-phase investments."
Selena closed the document before her, fingers aligning its edges with quiet precision.
"They'll have it within the hour."
The secretary nodded and left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned.
Selena leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes lowering to the desk—not seeing the polished wood, not seeing the papers neatly arranged.
Instead, she felt the echo.
That presence.
Heavy. Absolute.
Her master.
Her origin.
Her… self.
Her fingers tapped once against the desk, then stilled.
There was no resentment.
No rebellion.
Only awareness.
A boundary had been tested—lightly, instinctively—and the result had been immediate, overwhelming.
Not punishment.
Correction.
Her lips pressed into a faint, thoughtful line.
"...As expected."
The words were quiet, nearly inaudible.
Then she straightened once more, the moment filed away with ruthless efficiency.
Work resumed.
—
In the void, Petunia did not linger on Selena.
The panel drifted away, folding back into the slow orbit of countless others.
Her focus shifted.
Another thought.
Another pull.
This time, a different panel responded.
It slid forward, expanding.
Light bled into the darkness.
—
The Hogwarts infirmary.
Soft, golden light filtered through tall windows, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. The room smelled faintly of potions—clean, sharp, with an undercurrent of something medicinally sweet.
White sheets.
Stillness.
And at the center—
Her body.
Petunia's gaze fixed on it.
Small. Pale. Unmoving.
Madam Pomfrey moved briskly at her side, hands glowing faintly as she passed them over Petunia's chest, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Honestly," she muttered under her breath, adjusting a vial on the bedside table. "Children shouldn't be attempting magic beyond their limits—summer or not."
A small figure hovered nearby, wringing his hands.
Professor Flitwick.
He looked… shaken.
"I assured her it was safe," he said, voice tight with worry. "A standard Patronus exercise—nothing beyond her capability. I've never seen anything like it, Poppy. The structure—Merlin, the scale of it—"
"I don't care how impressive it was," Madam Pomfrey cut in sharply. "She collapsed. That's what matters."
Flitwick flinched slightly, though he nodded.
"Yes, yes, of course… but the magic she produced—"
"—can wait until she wakes up."
The finality in her tone silenced him.
Petunia observed it all without emotion.
Her body.
Her professors.
Their concern.
It was… noted.
But distant.
Secondary.
What truly held her attention was not the scene—
—but the state.
Her awareness sharpened, turning inward.
Analyzing.
Dissecting.
She could feel it.
The aftermath of the spell.
The absence.
Her magic… was depleted.
Not simply exhausted.
Drained.
A faint flicker of understanding surfaced.
The Patronus had not merely been cast.
It had been constructed.
Layered.
Altered.
She replayed the moment in perfect clarity—the way the familiar structure of the Patronus Charm had formed, the delicate framework of light and intent—
—and how something else had threaded itself into it.
Her [Avatar].
Not consciously.
Instinctively.
A fusion of concepts.
The Patronus: a projection of will, shaped by emotion.
The Avatar: a vessel, sustained by sacrificed memory and mana.
Her eyes—though she had none in this space—narrowed slightly.
She had not created a simple defensive charm.
She had attempted to create… something closer to an independent construct.
The cost had reflected that.
Her magic reserves alone had not been enough.
Which meant—
Her thoughts paused.
Then shifted.
Curious.
Calculating.
If the structure had stabilized…
If she had fed it properly…
Would it have persisted?
Would it have acted?
A soft hum echoed through the void.
Dozens of panels shimmered faintly, as if responding to the direction of her thoughts.
Watching.
Waiting.
Petunia drifted slowly, the darkness embracing her as her mind moved faster, deeper.
Always forward.
Always refining.
The failure did not discourage her.
If anything—
It clarified the path ahead.
---
The strain came quietly.
as a slow, grinding fatigue that pressed against her thoughts like dull pressure behind the eyes.
Thinking itself became… inconvenient.
Each idea took just a little more effort to hold together. Each line of reasoning frayed at the edges faster than it should.
Irritating.
Inefficient.
Unacceptable.
Petunia lingered in the void for a few moments longer, stubbornly clinging to awareness—analyzing, sorting, refining—
—until the effort outweighed the benefit.
A rare concession.
"…Enough."
The thought barely formed before it dissolved.
Her awareness dimmed.
Not into unconsciousness—
—but into something deeper.
—
Petunia slept.
Truly slept.