The walk home was quiet. The wind had dried most of her clothes, though the damp cling of her shirt still whispered of magic long spent. Her shoes squelched faintly with each step—silent reminders of the storm she'd summoned.
The moment she stepped through the front door of the modest Evans household, her mother's voice cut through the air like a slap.
"Where 'ave you been then, girl?" her mother barked, arms crossed just past the doorway. "I'm runnin' myself ragged in this house and you're off gallivantin' who-knows-where!"
Petunia blinked slowly, as if the reprimand needed a moment to register. Behind her mother's legs, Lily's red head poked out, eyes wide and uncertain. The little girl clutched a doll by its arm, watching the scene unfold with quiet curiosity.
"You're old enough now, Petunia," her mother continued, her tone sharp. "You ought to be helpin' around here. Look at me! I've been cleanin' all morning and Lily's been gettin' underfoot. You're not a child anymore. It's time you pulled your weight."
Her eyes raked down to Petunia's soaked hem.
"And what's this, then? Did you get y'self drenched outside like a fool?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Go on—get changed before you catch cold. Then come back down and do the dishes. After that, you're cleanin' the attic. That'll teach you to sneak off when there's work to be done."
She turned to Lily, whose wide eyes followed Petunia's every move.
"And you—off with you now. Don't help your sister. She needs to learn consequences."
Lily pouted faintly but obeyed, retreating down the corridor with one last glance at Petunia. The girl's small fingers trailed across the wallpaper as she went, hesitant, like she wanted to turn back.
Petunia said nothing.
She didn't defend herself. Didn't argue. Didn't cry.
She simply walked past them both, silent as ever, heading to her room. Her soaked clothes clung to her as she climbed the stairs—an irritating weight, but she didn't care. She never did.
This wasn't punishment. This was routine.
She didn't resent her mother, nor did she feel affection. The Evanses were her caretakers, in the legal sense. That was all. Family was just a formality. In her mind, she treated the house like a boarding room—her chores, a kind of rent. They gave her space and food. She gave them labour and silence.
It was cold. It was simple.
And for her, that was enough.
---
In the dusty attic, Petunia tied back her inky black hair and grabbed the old broom, pushing aside crates of forgotten linens and faded photographs. The air was dry and bitter, filled with the smell of old wood and mouse droppings.
Then—ding!
The system notification chimed in her head, crisp and clear.
She froze.
Her heart skipped. Her breath caught.
Twenty-five thousand.
That was more money than the Evanses could dream of. More than entire families lived on for decades. In the 1960s, it might as well have been a royal dowry. And it was hers.
She exhaled sharply, eyes wide.
A house. A business. An escape.
Her lips parted in disbelief as she leaned against a dusty beam. She could leave. She could fund her independence if everything went wrong. She wouldn't have to beg or endure. She had options.
For the first time since entering this world, Petunia felt something close to...relief. A quiet triumph. Power.
Then—
"Pssst!"
Petunia turned toward the sound. A floorboard near the attic trapdoor shifted, and Lily's red curls popped into view, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Mum's gone off to the factory," Lily whispered like she was passing state secrets. "I'll help you now!".
Petunia arched a brow, unimpressed.
"You don't need to. Go do your homework," she replied coolly.
"No!" Lily puffed out her cheeks. "I want to help. And in return, you help me with my homework! You're always top o' the class anyway!"
Petunia hesitated. Arguing would take longer than letting her stay. She sighed.
"Fine. Do as you like."
Lily beamed like she'd won the lottery and grabbed a spare broom, hopping over boxes with an excited hop. Dust flew everywhere, and Petunia winced.
"Oh! Did I tell you?" Lily chirped between sweeps. "I met a new friend at the creek! He's a bit strange but really clever. His name's Severus Snape! He said he lives near Spinner's End—bit of a walk, but he's got this amazing way of talkin', real serious-like. We played near the stream and made up spells—he's the one who told me about Hogwarts!"
Petunia hummed vaguely. She wasn't listening, not really. Lily's chatter washed over her like rain on glass.
The attic air grew thick with dust and sunlight. Lily talked on and on, her excitement bouncing off the beams as she danced around with the broom, feet clumsy but determined.
Petunia continued sweeping with mechanical efficiency, occasionally nodding.
'Oh God,' she thought dryly, 'my head's already aching.'
But even so, she didn't send Lily away.
Not this time.
---
And just like that, another year had slipped by.
The summer air was thick with warmth and the scent of lilac drifting lazily through the streets of Cokeworth. One could hear the distant hum of a passing lorry, the occasional bark of a dog, and the lazy buzz of insects circling unseen overhead.
High above, perched with feline balance on the slanted tail-end of the Evans' rooftop, lay a girl.
Petunia Evans—though she'd long started to refer to herself in her head as Petunia Targaryen—was sprawled across the warm slates, her hands behind her head, one leg bent lazily over the other. Her long black hair spilled across the tile like ink, and her blue-purple eyes squinted slightly against the sunlight.
She didn't like being in the house. Too loud. Too suffocating.
Instead, she'd slipped away to her usual refuge, watching the sky stretch vast and cloud-dappled above her. With casual flicks of her fingers, she molded the clouds with practiced ease—puppets on a stage no one else could see.
A shaggy dog.
A sleek little cat...
A slice of pizza, just for amusement's sake.
She smirked. Still got it.
Then she caught sight of movement—small, swift, and unmistakably winged. Her eyes locked onto a distant owl, flapping steadily across the skyline. Its path was fixed, direct… right toward the Evans' front window.
Not today, mate.
With a subtle motion, Petunia's magic stirred the currents of air, guiding the owl's flight gently off-course. It flapped its wings harder, confused as it was nudged off its original trajectory, heading instead toward the rooftop.
"Come 'ere, little birdy," Petunia muttered with a grin.
The owl, flustered and a little disgruntled, swooped down and landed beside her, its amber eyes blinking rapidly as it stared up at the girl who had, somehow, beckoned it from the skies.
Petunia's hand extended slowly, and the owl—sensing no danger—let her unfasten the thick, cream-coloured envelope from its beak. Her name was printed in emerald green ink with that familiar curl of old-fashioned elegance:
Miss Petunia Targaryen
The Rooftop
4 Spinner's Row
Cokeworth, England
Cheeky bastards. They even got the rooftop bit right.
Petunia chuckled softly to herself as she stood and climbed back down the drainpipe, the owl hopping after her, clearly curious. Once safely in her room—door locked, curtains half-drawn—she pulled open her drawer and retrieved a few beef jerky strips she'd hoarded from the pantry. She held one out.
"Here you go, postie. Not quite field mice, but it'll do."
The owl took it without complaint.
Petunia turned back to the envelope, slit it open with care, and withdrew the letter inside. Her eyes flicked across the now-familiar parchment:
> HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class...)
Dear Miss Evans,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Yada yada, she thought, eyes scanning the rest. It was all standard: term starts September 1st, list of materials, wand requirements, dress robes, etcetera.
She sat down at her desk, reached for a fresh sheet of lined paper, and picked up her pen. With careful strokes, she composed a polite yet firm reply—tailored to ensure she wouldn't have to deal with her "parents" any more than necessary.
---
Dear Professor,
Thank you for considering me for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am delighted to accept the invitation.
There is no need to send a representative to explain the magical world to my family, as they are already aware of its existence.
However, I would appreciate it greatly if a member of staff could meet me at King's Cross Station on the 1st of September. I will need some assistance navigating the platform and acquiring my school supplies, as this is my first time engaging with the magical world directly.
Kind regards,
Petunia Targaryen
---
She hesitated just briefly before signing the name.
It was a small rebellion, a quiet statement. She kept Petunia—a reminder of who she had been and who she would never be again. But she replaced Evans with Targaryen, not out of vanity, but identity. That name carried power. Fire. A legacy far older than her mundane surroundings. If nothing else, it helped her remember her roots from her past life—the cold independence, the fierce clarity.
She folded the letter crisply, tied it to the owl's leg, and whispered, "Straight back to Hogwarts, yeah? Not the window this time."
The owl hooted, then launched into the air with a rustle of feathers and vanished into the afternoon sky.
Petunia sat down, the letter from Hogwarts still in her hand.
Her eyes scanned the supply list again, more carefully this time.
Books, robes, cauldron... wand.
Her fingers brushed over her wandless hand. Not for long.
She smiled faintly to herself.
It's time.
---
A flicker of golden text danced across Petunia's mind the moment she awoke—an internal whisper only she could hear. She blinked once, the lingering morning light casting amber streaks across her bedroom wall.
Five hundred galleons. Merlin's socks, that's more than enough, she thought, lips twitching upward. Between this and the system stipend from earlier, she was practically loaded by wizarding standards. Certainly not something the average Muggle-born could boast of.
The day before, a reply from Hogwarts had arrived—prompt, courteous, and matter-of-fact. It confirmed her request. The school had arranged for a staff member to meet her precisely one week before term began, right at King's Cross Station.
Petunia had smirked at the signature. Poppy Pomfrey, it read. The matron, hmm? Curious choice.
---
And now the day had come.
The morning sun filtered through smog-hazed clouds, and Cokeworth rumbled with its usual sleepy dullness. Petunia stepped quietly through the front door, dressed in a modest, pressed outfit: a navy blue skirt, white blouse, and a grey cardigan to match. Her hair was neatly pinned back. She left no note behind—none would care.
As she stepped onto the pavement, she raised her hand, and a black cab rolled up to her like a well-trained dog. She slid into the back seat.
The cabbie—a burly older man with salt-and-pepper stubble and the gruff look of someone who'd driven half of England in his time—glanced at her through the mirror.
"'Ere now, little miss. Where you off to, wanderin' about on your own, eh?" he asked with a curious squint.
Petunia blinked up at him with practiced innocence. "Oh, just to King's Cross Station. I'm meetin' my mum and dad there, Uncle."
The man grunted, seemingly satisfied. "Right then. Buckle up."
---
The cab rattled through London's roads, and soon the familiar outline of the station came into view—arched glass, aged brick, and the metallic scent of a hundred journeys unfolding.
Petunia stepped out, clutching a small bag of essentials in one hand and a small enchanted pouch, courtesy of the system, tucked carefully at her waist. Her eyes scanned the crowd.
And there she was.
Madam Poppy Pomfrey stood just beside the main archway, unmistakable amidst the commuters. Her robes were deep forest green, edged in gold thread, and she carried a sensible leather satchel slung over one shoulder. To anyone else, she'd appear like a particularly eccentric librarian lost on the way to a costume party.
To Petunia, she might as well have had a glowing sign above her head.
She walked up, stopping just short of the matron. "Mmm, hello. Are you the one who was sent by the school?"
Madam Pomfrey blinked, momentarily startled. "Why—yes, darling! I am. How on earth did you know?"
Petunia tilted her head slightly. "Let's just say... your way of dressing rather stands out, compared to everyone else."
The matron let out a musical laugh. "Well! Aren't you a clever one. Quick-eyed and sharp. Hogwarts'll be lucky to have you."
Her eyes softened, but then she hesitated. "May I ask a question, dear? You don't have to answer if it's too personal."
Petunia gave a slight nod, careful and measured. "Go on."
"If your parents are aware of Hogwarts—and the magical world—why wouldn't they come with you? Usually, families are... well, eager. It's quite a day, after all."
There was no malice in her voice—just gentle curiosity.
Petunia responded smoothly, as though rehearsed. "They're just busy people. Work takes up most of their time. I have the funds I need, though—if that's what you were worried about."
Pomfrey's brows lifted. "Is that so? Nobody mentioned money, little girl. And I assure you, even if you hadn't a sickle to your name, the school would've provided everything you needed—at least the basics. That's not somethin' we let a child shoulder alone."
A small pause passed between them. Petunia remained calm, impassive. Madam Pomfrey seemed to study her for a heartbeat longer, then sighed and offered a tight smile.
"Well. Come on then," she said, her tone shifting briskly as she turned on her heel. "We've a fair bit to do, and I'm not keen on jostling elbows with last-minute shoppers in Diagon Alley."
Petunia followed in silence for a moment, then added lightly, "I've got a list memorised. Shouldn't take too long."
Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Then you'll be tellin' me what core you're wantin' in your wand too, I suppose?"
"I've some ideas."
"Well," Pomfrey chuckled, "aren't you full of surprises."
As they crossed the station together, a breeze picked up, catching the edge of Madam Pomfrey's robes. Petunia didn't say it aloud, but in that moment, a curious feeling curled in her chest.
It wasn't excitement. Not exactly.
It was preparation. Anticipation. The calm before a storm she fully intended to control.
---
The vaulted interior of the magical platform at King's Cross Station shimmered subtly as Petunia and Madam Pomfrey stepped through the discreetly concealed gateway. To an untrained Muggle eye, the wall would appear perfectly solid—but for those in the know, it opened to a transit nexus known only to witches and wizards.
It wasn't just a gateway to Hogwarts.
Behind the arches and enchanted timetables, a series of magical terminals branched off to locations across wizarding Britain. One such route—carved into the foundation of the station like a secret artery—led directly to Diagon Alley. A specially warded platform, accessible by tapping the correct rhythm on a column bearing no visible inscription, shimmered to life at Madam Pomfrey's touch.
"Keep close now, Petunia. Wouldn't want you vanishing off to Knockturn Alley by mistake."
"I'm perfectly capable of following instructions," Petunia replied flatly, but without venom.
The two women stepped onto the glowing platform. With a brief lurch and a whirl of color, the transit spell pulled them from London's mundane chaos and into the warm, golden-brown brickwork of Diagon Alley.
---
Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts. The air smelled of ink, old parchment, and a touch of dust—utterly charming in its scholarly clutter. As Pomfrey guided her to the shelves for first-year textbooks, Petunia took the liberty of drifting to a different section entirely.
Advanced Elemental Theory: A Guide to Harnessing Natural Forces
Windswept Wonders: An Introduction to Atmospheric Manipulation
Ember and Ice: Controlling Opposing Elements in Magical Practice
She picked each tome with precision, stacking them neatly in her basket alongside her required books. Pomfrey noted it all with a slightly raised brow.
"You've got rather expensive tastes for a first-year," she commented lightly.
Petunia didn't look up. "I'm investing in potential. Not hobbies."
---
Next was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Petunia selected her school robes without fuss—standard issue, black with silver stitching. But she added a spare set, enchanted for minor environmental resistance, and three outfits in muted tones—charcoal, forest green, and navy—all treated with a subtle waterproofing charm.
As the total climbed to a hefty number, Madam Pomfrey's curiosity deepened. She kept her face composed, but the question lingered behind her eyes. Where is this money coming from?
She didn't voice it. Policy was clear: unless a child was in visible danger or distress, their private affairs were their own. Still… she made a mental note to mention the girl to Professor McGonagall.
---
When they arrived at Eeylops Owl Emporium, Petunia stopped at the threshold.
"I'm not getting a pet."
"Oh?" Pomfrey looked surprised. "Not even a cat? They're rather useful."
"Too much responsibility," Petunia said flatly. "I'm not keen on attachments I can't afford to maintain."
Pomfrey gave her a sidelong look. "You're very... pragmatic for your age."
"I've always had to be."
---
Ollivanders was their final and most important stop.
The moment the door creaked open, the dusty little shop seemed to hush in reverence. Wand boxes stacked the walls all the way to the ceiling, and the air smelled of cedar and something ancient—like dragon smoke left to cool.
"Ah! New student, are we?" came a soft voice from behind the shelves.
The man who emerged was thin, pale, and bright-eyed—Garrick Ollivander, looking as though he'd stepped from a faded portrait.
"Well then... Miss?"
"Petunia Targaryen," she said evenly.
Ollivander paused, as if tasting the name. "Targaryen, eh? Curious. Very curious…"
Petunia said nothing, watching as he busied himself with wand boxes.
Several attempts later—ashes of yew, unicorn hair, dragon heartstring—each wand rejected her in various minor calamities: toppling shelves, gusts of dust, a flickering lamp.
And then…
"Ah. Perhaps—yes. Try this one."
He withdrew a slender wand, about 11¼ inches, its wood spiraled and dark with a subtle sheen. Veins of iridescent blue pulsed faintly through its grain.
"This wand," he said in reverent tones, "is made of oak harvested from a lightning-struck tree atop Mount Snowdon, fused with a scale from a water dragon and the tail feather of a thunderbird—both notoriously temperamental beasts. A wand of storm and sky, if you will."
Petunia took the wand in her hand.
The air shifted.
A soft but unmistakable wind swept through the shop—papers rustled, a chime tinkled at the back, and Ollivander's white hair lifted as though caught in a gentle breeze.
Petunia's eyes lit faintly with a violet hue.
Ollivander grinned. "Oh, fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! A stormborn wand for a girl of stormy heart!"
He clapped once. "That'll be thirty Galleons."
Pomfrey's jaw twitched. "Thirty? That's twice the normal price."
"Well!" Ollivander exclaimed, "You try bargaining with a thunderbird. Or extracting a water dragon's scale without being boiled alive. It's not a stick of elderberry, Madam Pomfrey. This wand demands respect."
Pomfrey looked to Petunia, expecting resistance.
Instead, Petunia reached calmly into her pouch and handed over the gold.
"It's not much," she said, as if discussing apples. "Here you are."
Ollivander took the coins with a gleam in his eye. "I daresay, Miss Targaryen... you'll be one to watch."
---
At the shipping station near the exit of the Alley—a circular dome operated entirely by uniformed house-elves—Petunia sorted through her receipts and packaging slips.
"Have all my purchases sent to Hogwarts. Secure and sealed. I want confirmation upon arrival."
"Yes, Miss!" chirped a house-elf in a tiny blue hat, already tagging her boxes with a glowing rune.
She paid the ten Galleons without blinking. Efficiency, after all, was never cheap.
---
Outside, the street bustled with young students and chattering parents, many of whom gave curious glances to the solitary girl climbing into a cab alone.
Pomfrey stood at the curb, watching her go. The wind tugged at her robes..
Who is this girl? she thought. A Muggle-born with a name like Targaryen, wealth like a pureblood, and eyes like a brewing storm…
She made another mental note—this time for Dumbledore himself.
And Petunia, back in the cab, reclined against the leather seat as the city whirred past. In her lap, the wand hummed faintly with energy.
Hogwarts was coming.
And she was ready.