—
She was walking.
There was no transition, no awareness of beginning—only the simple fact that she was.
A corridor stretched ahead of her, warmly lit by soft, golden light. The walls were lined with framed photographs, though her gaze passed over them without focus, registering shapes rather than details.
Footsteps echoed faintly against wooden floors.
Slow.
Even.
Unquestioned.
Her mind drifted in that peculiar way dreams allowed—locked onto nothing in particular, yet gently carried forward by an invisible current.
A door stood ajar ahead.
She approached without thinking.
Pushed it open.
Stepped inside.
The room resolved around her in pieces.
Posters on the walls—figures mid-flight, frozen in dramatic dives and sharp turns.
Quidditch players.
A broom leaned casually in the corner, well-used, its bristles slightly uneven.
Clothes were… present.
Not organized, not chaotic—just existing in a state that suggested their owner had priorities elsewhere.
Petunia blinked slowly.
"Why Quidditch…"
Her voice carried that flat, distant tone unique to dreams—mild curiosity without real investment.
"I don't even like Quidditch."
A pause.
Then, with the quiet resignation of someone far too used to absurdity—
"…Sure."
Dream logic.
Acceptable.
She took another step forward.
—
Crunch.
—
Petunia froze.
The sensation hit her a fraction of a second later.
Under her foot.
Soft—
—but wrong.
Horribly, unmistakably wrong.
Her brow furrowed.
Slowly—very slowly—she looked down.
Her bare foot rested squarely on a sock.
A lone, abandoned sock.
There was a moment of silence.
Then—
"…No."
She shifted her weight slightly.
Crunch.
Her entire body went rigid.
Her face contorted—not in fear, not in pain—
—but in pure, undiluted revulsion.
"Is this—"
She lifted her foot an inch off the ground, staring at the offending object as if it had personally betrayed her.
"—crunchy?"
A beat.
Her expression twisted further, as if processing that word alone physically hurt her.
"God, why is it crunchy?!"
Her gaze snapped around the room, suddenly sharp, accusatory.
"Where are my shoes?!"
No answer came.
Of course not.
This was a dream.
Which somehow made it worse.
Petunia inhaled slowly, visibly forcing herself to regain composure. Her shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted slightly.
"You know what," she said, voice tight with forced calm, "Petunia, you're an adult."
A step back—
Crunch.
Her soul very nearly vacated her body.
She didn't scream.
She didn't gasp.
She simply froze for one precise, horrified second—
"—oh hell no."
—and bolted.
—
The corridor blurred as she sprinted out of the room, bare feet slapping rapidly against the wooden floor.
Her expression was one of absolute determination.
Not fear.
Survival.
"That," she muttered under her breath, moving at an impressively efficient speed for someone mid-dream, "is the most disgusting thing I have experienced in both of my lives."
A sharp turn down the corridor.
"I don't even want to know—"
Another turn.
"—what kind of biological hazard—"
She stopped.
Abruptly.
Because something… was off.
A sound.
A soft, drawn-out—
"Whooo…"
Petunia turned her head slowly.
Very slowly.
And there it was.
Perched calmly along the corridor as if it had always belonged there—
An owl.
No.
Not just an owl.
A large owl.
Larger than any reasonable owl had the right to be.
Its feathers shimmered—not with normal color, but with something deeper. Gold, yes—but streaked through with faint trails of starlight, like constellations etched across its body.
It did not simply sit in the corridor.
It occupied it.
Presence.
Weight.
Absurdity.
The owl blinked once.
Then, quite casually—
"Hi, Petunia."
—
Petunia stared at it.
Then, without a word, she raised both hands and pressed them firmly against her face.
"…This is getting weirder and weirder by the second."
Her voice was muffled.
Flat.
Tired.
The owl tilted its head slightly, entirely unbothered.
"It's me," it said, tone bright, almost cheerful.
"cosmic owl."
—
A pause.
Petunia lowered her hands.
Slowly.
Revealing a pair of utterly lifeless, dead-fish eyes.
"…Oh."
She blinked once.
Looked at the owl.
Looked down at her bare foot.
Very deliberately wiped it against the floor.
Then looked back at the owl.
"…Of course you are."
Another pause.
She crossed her arms.
"…Why wouldn't you be?"
------
in the Time Room:
Prismo: I'm in a serious pickle. And I mean the bad kind. I mean like a really smelly brown pickle.
Jake: Don't sweat it, boy. Finn and I got your back. Who's bullying you, Prismo?
Prismo: Nobody's bullying me. Look, um, remember when you wished the Lich never existed and you created a new wish reality that ended up totally not working out?
Finn: No. Vaguely, yes.
Prismo: What? You don't remember making that wish?
Jake:What? Huh? I thought I explained it to you that one time.
Dude, I'll catch you up.
Prismo:Look, after you wish the Lich never existed, you got zapped in an alternate wish reality where magic doesn't really exist.
Finn:Wait, who's that dude?
Prismo: That's you, but sort of less cool.
Finn: Uh-huh. Proceed.
prismo: So, you find an old Marceline and the magic crown on the body of Ice King skeleton who was smooshed under the weight of a frozen mutagenic bomb. But then the Destiny gang steals your family donkey. So, you use the crown to become Ice Finn and save your donkey and your family.
But the crown makes you crazy and you ice everything up like a dumb bo which sets off the mutagenic bomb which releases the spirit of the Lich.
Anyway, but then this reality's Jake made a counter-wish which supposedly fixed the problem but as it turns out it didn't really.
finn: Can I just say that I don't remember any of this stuff
prismo: because technically it didn't happen to you but also it still happened and that wish reality continues to exist.
Finn: Is this why all of a sudden one day I was way better at the flute?
Jake: Oh yeah, I noticed that.
Prismo: Listen, something really bad is about to go down. Ice Finn is using his world's anchor radian to build a portal to the multiverse. We literally do not know what will happen if he succeeds, but it could be catastrophic to the architecture of these realities.
Now, if that happens, my boss—let me repeat that, my boss—will hold me responsible. And by proxy, you all both will be in the dip, too.
Finn: Why not just bloop bloop it all better?
Prismo: Something there is dampening my powers.
I am losing my picks over this biz!!.
Jake: His boss. Who's that? All right, man. What do we do?
Prismo: Take this and use it to take care of the Ice Finn.
Finn: Oh, wait. What do you mean by "take care of"?—Prismo: Good luck
. We're all depending on you.
Jake: Whoa. What is it?
-----------
The owl did not move, yet the space around it seemed to settle—like reality itself had taken a seat.
"I came here," it said, voice carrying that same lazy, echoing whooo, "to teach you the basics of being an incarnation… and about your Home Scenario as a whole."
A pause.
Its golden eyes blinked slowly.
"Because clearly… you don't know anything."
—
Petunia stared at it.
Then, without missing a beat—
"Oh really?"
Her tone was dry enough to crack stone.
"Enlighten me, then."
A chair appeared behind her.
No sound. No shimmer. It simply was.
Petunia did not sit immediately.
She leaned slightly. Checked the seat.
Turned it a fraction.
Then crouched—actually crouched—to inspect the floor beneath it.
No socks.
No suspicious fabric.
No hidden horrors.
"…Acceptable."
Only then did she sit, posture composed, legs crossing neatly as if this were a scheduled meeting and not a dream spiraling into nonsense.
Her gaze returned to the owl.
"Proceed."
—
The cosmic owl puffed its chest slightly, pleased.
"You see…" it began, wings shifting just enough to scatter faint trails of starlight, "in one specific Scenario, there existed many… many ancient, malevolent cosmic entities."
Its tone dipped—not dramatic, just old.
"They existed before time. Before structure. Before meaning."
The corridor dimmed slightly as it spoke, the walls stretching just a little too far, the shadows deepening in quiet acknowledgment.
"Their power surpassed that of constellations… even transcendents."
Petunia's eyes narrowed slightly at the unfamiliar term, but she did not interrupt.
"They clashed," the owl continued, "and their clash…" it tilted its head, "…wasn't a battle in the way you understand."
A beat.
"It was existence colliding with existence."
The air around them rippled faintly.
"And from that… came fractures."
The corridor flickered—
For a split second, Petunia saw something else.
Worlds layered over one another.
Endless.
Overlapping.
"…Alternate realities," the owl finished. "A multiverse."
Everything snapped back into place.
Quiet corridor.
Soft light.
As if nothing had happened.
The owl blinked again.
"Inside a single Scenario."
—
Petunia leaned back slightly in her chair, expression thoughtful.
"…So you're saying," she said slowly, "our Home Scenario contains a multiverse because it was… collateral damage?"
The owl made a pleased sound.
"Whooo… very good."
Petunia hummed faintly.
Not impressed.
Just… noting.
"They were a force of nature," the owl went on. "Most of them are gone now. Dead. Dissolved. Forgotten."
A small shrug of its wings.
"But the result remains."
Its golden gaze fixed on her.
"Our Home Scenario… might be one of the most powerful currently in existence."
—
A pause.
Then, calmly—
"What's a transcendent?"
—
The owl didn't miss a beat.
"Incarnations who refuse contracts with constellations," it replied. "They reject the system… yet refuse to disappear."
It shifted slightly, claws scraping softly against nothing.
"They abandon structure while clinging to power."
A faint tilt of the head.
"Unstable."
Petunia's lips curved faintly.
"Hypocritical. i like that ."
The owl blinked.
"…Also that."
—
"There are also Calamities," it continued. "Beings that gain power by destroying Scenarios."
Another pause.
Then, almost conversationally—
"Constellation killers."
Petunia nodded once.
Filed away.
No reaction beyond that.
—
"And if you want to become a constellation," the owl said, "you need stories."
That made her focus sharpen.
"Stories?"
"As many as you can collect. They define you. Shape you. Rank you."
A faint ripple passed through the panels in the void beyond perception—like something listening a little more closely.
"Power isn't just magic," the owl added. "It's narrative. Influence. Impact."
—
Petunia tapped a finger lightly against the armrest.
"There's a hierarchy, then."
—
The owl gave a soft, amused whooo.
"There's hierarchy everywhere."
Its wings spread slightly.
"Even when no one says it out loud… you feel it."
A pause.
"You'll understand one day."
—
Petunia didn't respond immediately.
But her eyes gleamed—just slightly.
Understanding wasn't the problem.
She already did.
—
"Once you become a constellation," the owl continued, "you gain a domain."
The corridor shifted again—subtly, like something breathing.
"It becomes your source of power…"
A beat.
"And your cage."
—
That made her tilt her head.
"…Explain."
—
"Your domain is your Scenario," the owl said simply. "Your territory. Your authority."
Then, more pointedly—
"And your limitation."
Petunia's fingers stilled.
"The moment you're inside it," the owl added, "your channel becomes… irrelevant."
A pause.
"Cut off."
—
That made her eyes narrow.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
—
"Like now," the owl said lightly. "Dreams are my domain."
It puffed its chest again, clearly pleased with itself.
"More specifically… prophetic dreams."
Petunia's gaze sharpened.
The air shifted.
"One thing seen In a dream that i was in …" the owl continued casually, "…will eventually manifest in the material world."
—
Silence.
—
Petunia stared at it.
Then—
"…So."
Her voice was slow.
Measured.
"Something in this dream… will become real?"
—
"Whooo, yes."
—
A beat passed.
Then another.
—
The owl tilted its head, watching her carefully.
"…Was there something dangerous in this dream?"
—
Petunia stared at it.
Then—
She laughed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet, hollow sound.
"Ha…"
Her hand came up, briefly covering her eyes.
"…Nothing important."
—
The owl studied her for a moment longer.
Then, apparently deciding not to press it, it turned slightly, wings adjusting.
"Well then."
Its tone brightened again.
"Would you like to come along?"
—
Petunia lowered her hand.
"…Where?"
—
"To pass time," the owl said. "With me and Prismo."
A casual pause.
"Maybe we'll play some card games."
—
Petunia turned her head slowly, glancing back down the corridor she had sprinted through not long ago.
Her eyes lingered.
Suspicious.
Judging.
As if expecting another sock to ambush her.
—
Nothing moved.
—
She looked back at the owl.
"…Sure."
A small exhale.
"I seem to have some free time."
—
The owl lowered itself slightly, wings spreading just enough.
"Hop on."
—
Petunia stood immediately.
No hesitation.
"You don't have to ask me twice."
—
She climbed onto its back with surprising familiarity, settling in without awkwardness.
The feathers beneath her were warm.
Soft.
Not crunchy.
Which, frankly, was all that mattered.
—
The owl gave a satisfied whooo.
Then—
Reality folded.
—
The corridor stretched, twisted—
—and vanished.
Reality didn't snap into place this time.
It stretched—like taffy pulled too far—before settling into something that only pretended to make sense.
—
They slipped through a rectangular doorway that looked like it had been cut out of the air with lazy precision.
On the other side—
The Time Room.
—
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't belong to silence, but to waiting.
The floor curved gently into nothing, a pale yellow expanse bending upward at impossible angles. At the center floated a massive screen, flickering between scenes like it couldn't decide which timeline deserved attention.
And off to the side—
A jacuzzi.
Because of course there was a jacuzzi.
—
The cosmic owl landed with a soft whooo, feathers settling like drifting starlight.
"We came," it announced, calm and certain. "I brought cardboard games."
A beat.
"And Petunia."
It glanced back.
"Though only her consciousness."
—
Behind him, Petunia hovered—translucent, faintly glowing.
She lifted a hand in a small, polite wave.
"Hello."
—
"YOOO!"
Jake's voice cut through the stillness like a thrown rock.
Petunia turned.
There he was—lounging in the jacuzzi like he owned the place, one arm stretched over the edge, completely at ease.
Next to him—
Prismo.
Flat. Pink. Two-dimensional.
Leaning back like a drawing that had learned how to relax.
"Pattoutty Petunia!" Jake grinned. "C'mon, hop in! Time Room jacuzzi—no rules, baby!"
—
Petunia blinked once.
"…That nickname needs work."
—
Prismo straightened slightly, eyes lighting up.
"Oh! Right—hang on—this is—uh—hang on—"
He flicked his hand.
—
A body appeared.
—
It formed with a soft pop, standing upright like it had been waiting its turn to exist.
A version of Petunia.
Refined.
Not exaggerated—just… completed.
"Uh—yeah! You can use that while you're here!" Prismo said, a little too quickly. "Just—uh—temporary! Totally normal! Happens all the time!"
—
Petunia drifted closer, studying it.
A slow circle.
A tilt of her head.
Then—
"…Make it older."
—
Prismo froze for half a second.
Then nodded too fast.
"Yep! Yep—older—got it—no problem—"
Another flick.
Subtle changes.
Sharper lines. More presence. The quiet weight of someone who had already become something.
—
Petunia nodded once.
"Better."
And stepped into it.
—
The world clicked.
Breath returned.
Weight settled.
She flexed her fingers once, grounding herself, then calmly stepped into the jacuzzi, the white cloth already draped around her as if the place itself had dressed her.
She sat beside the cosmic owl, posture relaxed but composed.
—
Prismo did not look at her.
He very deliberately did not look at her.
"…Hey," he said, staring intensely at a random corner of nothing. "Hi. Welcome. Time Room. Cool place. You know. Time stuff."
—
Petunia turned slightly toward him.
"Hi, Prismo. It's nice meeting you."
—
Prismo's entire form stiffened.
"…Hi."
A beat.
"How are—"
He stopped.
Winced.
"…I mean—yeah. Hi."
—
Jake leaned over, grinning.
"Don't mind him. Dude's got, like, cosmic anxiety or something."
He extended a hand.
"I'm Jake the Dog."
—
Petunia shook it lightly.
"Petunia Targaryen."
A small pause.
Then, with the faintest hint of amusement—
"The witch."
—
Jake leaned back, impressed.
"Okay, yeah. That tracks."
—
Prismo sank a little lower into the water.
Not looking at her.
Not not aware of her.
Just… carefully existing at a safe angle.
Because somewhere—across timelines, across inevitabilities—
He knew.
Not how.
Not when.
Just—
That.
And that was already too much information.
—
Petunia didn't press.
She simply turned her attention to the massive floating screen.
"Alright," she said, settling in. "Context."
—
Jake perked up immediately.
"Oh! Yeah—okay—so check it."
He pointed at the screen.
—
A ruined world.
Gray skies.
Ash drifting like snow.
At the center stood a figure—
The Lich.
—
"So this guy?" Jake said. "Super bad news. Like—end-of-everything bad. Total wipeout vibes."
—
The scene shifted.
Finn stood before Prismo—young, determined, desperate.
"He made it to Prismo," Jake continued. "Big deal. Like, huge deal. Means you get a wish."
—
On screen, Finn spoke.
"I wish the Lich never even ever existed."
—
The world changed.
—
Bright skies.
Green fields.
A farm.
—
"Boom—Farmworld," Jake said, gesturing. "No Lich. No apocalypse. Just… regular life."
—
On screen—
Finn again.
But different.
Older in a quieter way.
Clothes worn from work, not adventure.
A wooden sword instead of a real one.
—
"That's Finn in that reality," Jake explained. "No hero life. No monsters to fight. Just… growing up normal."
—
Petunia's eyes narrowed slightly.
"An identity shaped by absence…"
—
"Yeah, exactly!" Jake said. "Like—take away the problem, you change the person."
—
The screen flickered.
Something wrong crept into the frame.
—
"But," Jake added, tone shifting, "turns out you can't just… erase something like the Lich."
—
A crown.
Ice.
Power.
Corruption.
—
"The Lich found a way back in," Jake said. "Through the Ice Crown. Possessed someone. Started spreading again."
—
On screen—
Farmworld Finn stood in the middle of it all.
Confused.
Overwhelmed.
Forced into something he was never meant to be.
—
Petunia leaned forward slightly.
"…So even without origin, the concept persists."
—
Prismo, still not looking at her, spoke quietly.
"Wishes don't delete… fundamental things," he said. "They just… move stuff around."
A small pause.
"…Sometimes in worse ways."
—
Petunia hummed softly.
"Reallocation, not removal."
—
Jake pointed again.
"And now he's stuck dealing with it—without being our Finn. No training, no experience—just… thrown into it."
—
On screen—
Farmworld Finn gripped his weapon tightly.
Not heroic.
Not confident.
But trying.
—
Petunia watched in silence for a moment.
Then leaned back again.
"…I see."
—
The cosmic owl let out a soft whooo beside her.
The screen flickered.
The water rippled gently.
Prismo stared very intently at nothing.
Jake stretched, completely at ease.