[ Fourth Wall skill is currently active. ]
[ Mental probing and causal interference have been blocked. ]
The pressure lingered anyway—
not invasive, but oppressive, like standing beneath a sky filled with unseen eyes.
Petunia's gaze remained fixed on the lake. To anyone watching from the outside, she looked distant. Detached.
Only she could see the panels.
Only she could feel the weight of attention.
Slowly, she smiled.
"Welcome," she said softly.
"To those watching through this channel."
The channel shuddered.
"As you've already deduced, I'm its owner."
A brief pause.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly."
"I am Petunia Targaryen."
"An Incarnation without sponsorship."
A subtle ripple passed through the viewing space.
"And yes," she added, "that is by choice."
She leaned back against the stone edge, legs dangling above the water.
"As for how I came to possess a channel at all—it's due to a unique attribute: DOEKABAE-LIKE. It allows the creation and moderation of a channel despite my status."
Her eyes flicked briefly to a panel trying to form, then vanished.
"This channel is not one of the originals. I am not a true Dokkaebi."
"Thus, its structure is… limited."
She spoke evenly.
"Subscription fees are low."
"Interference with scenario residents is prohibited."
A small shrug.
"I ask for your tolerance."
Then, with faint amusement:
"I hope you enjoy the ride."
The response was immediate.
[ Multiple constellations express dissatisfaction with non-interference rules. ]
[ Multiple constellations demand the right to sponsor Incarnations. ]
Panels began stacking.
[ Constellation
[ The constellation advises caution. ]
[ 'Most constellations possess truth-discernment skills,' it notes. ]
The channel darkened subtly.
[ Far-Evil factions show visible displeasure. ]
[ Far-Good factions express intolerance toward deception. ]
[ Neutral factions dislike being underestimated. ]
Petunia exhaled slowly.
"…Enough."
The flood halted—panels freezing mid-formation.
"Let me clarify," she said flatly.
"Before this becomes tedious."
She straightened, posture sharpening.
"The subscription fee was lowered deliberately."
"In exchange, I added a clause."
Her gaze hardened.
"No constellation may sponsor an Incarnation through this channel."
A brief silence.
Then—
"My channel. My rules."
The backlash was instant.
[ Numerous constellations are enraged by your declaration. ]
[ Constellations with existing Incarnations begin calculating hostile outcomes. ]
[ Constellation
[ 'You have invited misfortune,' the constellation remarks. ]
Then the tone shifted.
[ Home-Scenario Constellations issue a warning. ]
[ 'Any entity that threatens this scenario will face retaliation,' they declare. ]
Petunia's eyes gleamed—not with fear, but interest.
"Oh?"
She raised her hand slightly, acknowledging them.
"Then I'll ask properly."
"Constellations of this scenario—would you reveal your modifiers?"
The channel hesitated.
[ Several constellations scoff, demanding recognition first. ]
A laugh broke the tension.
[ Constellation
[ 'Relax,' the constellation advises. ]
[ Constellation
[ The constellation permits the use of the name 'Prismo.' ]
Another presence surfaced—quiet, observant.
[ Constellation
A more flamboyant panel followed.
[ Constellation
[ The constellation acknowledges your potential—while asserting clear superiority. ]
Petunia smiled politely, unbothered.
Then—
[ Constellation
[ The constellation observes you with interest. ]
Petunia blinked.
"…No. Not really."
After a beat, she added, honestly,
"Though I'm not entirely sure what you mean."
[ Constellation
[ The constellation redirects its attention to other scenario feeds. ]
The channel stabilized.
The lake rippled once.
Petunia remained seated, smiling faintly—
fully aware that the stars had noticed her.
[ Ding! The channel has reached maximum subscription capacity. ]
The translucent panel flickered once, then stabilized.
[ Notice: Further access requires an increase in DOEKABAE Rank. ]
[ Recommendation: upgrade you Doekabe rank to expand channel capacity. ]
Another line followed—less neutral in tone.
[ Warning: Channel manager detected as non-Dokkaebi entity. ]
[ Restriction applied: Subscriber limit forcibly capped at 1,000 viewers. ]
Petunia's eyes drifted downward.
Another panel unfolded.
[ Viewers: 1,000 / 1,000 (MAX) ]
[ Coins Generated: 100,000 ]
She stared at the numbers for a long moment.
Then—she allowed herself a small, restrained smile.
"It's not much," she murmured under her breath.
Not compared to true Dokkaebi channels.
Not compared to the absurd wealth flowing through higher scenarios.
But it was enough.
Enough to establish boundaries.
Enough to prevent the worst-case outcomes.
More importantly—
Enough to reduce variables.
A thousand constellations.
A thousand perspectives, agendas, and egos.
If even a fraction of them had been allowed to sponsor freely…
the result would have been catastrophic.
She exhaled quietly.
Imagine it.
A thousand constellations selecting Incarnations.
Injecting foreign causality into a developing world.
Twisting fate for entertainment, curiosity, or petty rivalry.
The Hogwarts scenario would collapse under that weight.
Compared to that—
Voldemort was manageable.
Predictable, even.
Petunia's expression flattened, the smile fading as calculations replaced satisfaction.
After a brief pause, she raised her hand.
A new panel unfolded—not a system notice, but an interface.
[ Channel Function Accessed: Broadcast Overlay ]
[ Target Scope: Active Scenario ]
[ Permission: Granted (Channel Owner Authority) ]
Her gaze sharpened.
"If I own a broadcasting channel," she muttered,
"it would be a waste not to use it."
She selected a feed.
The panel rippled—then resolved.
Inside it, Dumbledore's office came into view.
Shelves of books.
The tall window.
Albus Dumbledore standing beside it, McGonagall seated across from him.
Their voices carried clearly.
Petunia leaned back slightly, watching.
As the channel owner, she wasn't bound by ordinary constraints.
She didn't need permission.
She didn't need proximity.
As long as the target existed within the same scenario,
their presence could be observed.
Watching the conversation unfold through the broadcast panel, Petunia remained outwardly still, gaze unfocused, posture relaxed.
Internally, she dissected every reaction.
Dumbledore's measured calm.
McGonagall's restrained disbelief.
The pauses—those brief, telling silences where conclusions were being formed but not yet spoken.
They believed it.
Or at least… they were forced to treat it as real.
Petunia let the feed continue while she leaned back , her attention divided between the panel and her own thoughts.
Using the [Cube of Desire] to fabricate an entire parallel civilization had been excessive.
She knew that.
Even by her own standards, it bordered on theatrical.
But it had also been the fastest, cleanest solution.
And efficiency mattered more than restraint.
Had she taken a softer approach—half-truths, vague origins, incomplete explanations—Dumbledore would never have let the matter rest. A world already strained by political instability could not afford an anomaly like her: an unknown girl with a suspicious lineage and power that refused to remain static.
He would hover.
Observe.
Interfere.
Limit.
And with his reach—both overt and subtle—he could suppress her growth without ever lifting a wand.
Political capital.
Economic leverage.
Magical advancement.
All of it could be stalled indefinitely under the guise of protection.
Petunia's fingers curled slightly.
She had promised herself long ago that she would earn everything she desired.
Power was not something to be borrowed.
Security was not something to beg for.
And Dumbledore—whatever mask he wore—was a variable she refused to underestimate.
His true level was unknown.
His influence, immeasurable.
A foe she would rather never have to confront directly.
So she had forced his hand.
By placing a civilization—vast, advanced, and allegedly powerful—behind her existence, she had reframed the equation.
No longer was she merely a gifted student.
She was affiliated.
Crossing her now meant risking contact with an entity that might retaliate.
And Dumbledore, for all his confidence, was not reckless.
Petunia's lips curved faintly as she recalled his expression within the simulated reality—
the sharp alertness in his eyes,
the way his magic had subtly shifted into a defensive posture.
That moment had brought her an unexpected flicker of guilty pleasure.
Think carefully, Headmaster.
That was the point.
The broadcast panel shimmered.
Dumbledore's voice cut through her thoughts.
"…can you request Petunia to attend the Enchantments sparring Club?"
He sounded tired. Genuinely so.
"I need to know how powerful she truly is," he continued, addressing McGonagall.
"Only then can we determine how to proceed with her education at Hogwarts."
Petunia blinked once.
So that was his move.
Not confrontation.
Not restriction.
Assessment.
A corner of her mind shifted immediately into preparation mode.
Surprising him would be necessary.
Not overwhelmingly—too much would invite scrutiny—but enough to unsettle expectations.
Enough to remind him that she was not a problem he could neatly categorize.
She exhaled softly.
"Looks like I'll need an upgrade," she murmured.
Her attention drifted inward as translucent panels quietly assembled at the edge of her vision.
If Dumbledore wanted a demonstration—
She would give him one.
Just enough to keep him on his toes.
-------------
In the Potter estate—specifically, in James's room—
the afternoon dragged on with the quiet restlessness of children .
Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching on floating chess pieces locked in silent battle. James sat cross-legged on the carpet, brows furrowed in concentration as he directed a knight forward. Across from him, Remus mirrored the posture, calmer, fingers resting lightly against his chin as he calculated his next move.
On a nearby couch, Sirius was sprawled in theatrical boredom, one arm draped over the backrest, legs hanging half off the edge as if gravity itself were optional. Pettigrew crouched on the floor beside a low table, a cookie held in both hands, nibbling carefully as he watched the game with wide, attentive eyes.
It was, by all accounts, a dull meeting.
They had all felt it lately—the way the world outside seemed to be tightening. There were fewer places to go, fewer excuses to wander. Even meeting like this had become difficult. Wild werewolves had grown bolder these past few years, their attacks not only more violent but disturbingly organised. Dark wizards appeared with unsettling frequency, flaring up and vanishing again like sparks in dry grass.
If not for the Potter house-elves—quiet, efficient, and absolutely unwavering in their protection while transporting the kids to and from the james estate —this gathering would never have been allowed.
Especially not for Remus.
His parents' caution bordered on suffocating after what had happened to him long ago.
A chess piece snapped into place.
James leaned forward. "Check."
Remus blinked, then smiled faintly. "Not quite."
Sirius let out an exaggerated sigh, staring up at the ceiling. "Pssh. This is painfully boring. I wonder what that old hag is up to. Bet she's doing something interesting."
James didn't look up. "Who?"
Sirius turned his head lazily. "Targaryen."
"You shouldn't call her that," Remus said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "If she heard you, you'd be face-down on the floor by now."
Sirius grinned. "Worth it. She lifted an entire train compartment without even leaving her address."
Remus didn't reply.
His eyes lingered on the chessboard, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere—back to that train ride. He had been sitting opposite her the whole journey. Petunia Targaryen hadn't looked angry, not in any obvious way.
But she had been furious.
Not the kind of anger that twisted features . It had been quieter. Denser. Something that seeped into the air and pressed against the skin. Her eyes—an unsettling blue tinged with violet—had held a restrained violence that made his chest tighten.
When she stood and left without a word, he could have followed. He had even half-risen from his seat.
But something deep inside him—something old, instinctive—had warned him to stay still.
It had been an urge to avoid, sharp and undeniable. Remus had buried that feeling alongside the other secret he kept from his friends.
Pettigrew shifted, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. "Maybe she just… doesn't want to," he offered quietly.
He wasn't close to her. In fact, whenever he approached her with the others, she never even spared him a glance. It was as if he simply didn't register. The impression unsettled him more than open dislike ever could, feeding an insecurity he didn't quite have the courage to voice.
James's voice cut through his thoughts as he spelled the name aloud while staring at the board.
"Tar-gar-yen. What sort of family name is that? Even my parents don't know it."
Remus hesitated, then said, "Maybe it's a Muggle family?"
Sirius shrugged, staring at the ceiling again. "Who knows."
" 'Oww, my name is James Potter and I do pottery,' " Sirius added in an exaggerated, nasally whine, waving his hands as if moulding an invisible vase.
"You talk about Targaryen while forgetting your own."
James looked up sharply. "Shut it, Black."
"Damn," Sirius replied at once, hand to his chest. "How racist."
Remus let out a quiet laugh despite himself, while Pettigrew snorted, crumbs scattering onto the carpet.
They kept bickering, voices overlapping, until Sirius suddenly sat upright. His grey eyes lit up with unmistakable danger.
"Oi," he said slowly. "What if we play a prank?"
James narrowed his eyes. "On who?"
Sirius's grin widened. "Petunia."
The room went still for half a second.
"How?" James asked cautiously.
Sirius leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing state secrets. "We send her a letter. When she opens it—bam—a wave of sticky glitter. Proper stuff. Clings for days. Weeks, even. Teachers will be finding it in their robes forever."
He said it with all the solemn conviction a twelve-year-old could muster.
James stared at him flatly. "News flash: we don't have her location."
Sirius clicked his tongue. "Ah, but I do know a friend whose parents work at the Ministry. They've got ties to the records—you know, unauthorised magic use locations."
Remus stiffened slightly.
"If we find where Petunia used magic before Hogwarts," Sirius continued, eyes gleaming, "we find her address."
Slowly, inevitably, every pair of eyes turned toward Remus.
He closed his own eyes and sighed. "Fine. I'll… try."
Sirius beamed. "Brilliant!"
Remus shot him a look. "My parents are not going to like that."
"Oh, don't worry," Sirius said breezily. "They'll agree."
James grinned wickedly. "Just tell them you've got a crush on her and don't know her address."
Remus barely had time to react before James burst out laughing.
"Oi!" Remus snapped, punching James in the side.
James yelped. "Worth it!"
What none of them knew—what Remus would never, ever admit—was that his parents had refused outright at first.
Until he'd tried James's suggestion.
It worked.
And that secret, Remus decided, would stay buried forever.