Transmigrating
I. "Waking Up in Petunia"
The fluorescent lights of her home office flickered overhead, casting a cold glow over her desk. In the quiet hum of the home office, Veronica sat hunched at her desk, typing furiously, her fingers moving like clockwork. Her eyes burned with exhaustion. Another report to finish. Another email to answer. Another day that stretched into an endless blur of meetings and deadlines.
Her mind was numb, her body on autopilot, just going through the motions. She felt like she was drowning in the same repetitive tasks that drained her of any joy or purpose. Every day was a carbon copy of the last. She hadn’t had a real break in weeks, hadn’t seen her friends, hadn’t read a book in months, and most importantly, hadn’t felt alive in what seemed like years.
She blinked, the world around her starting to blur. The glow from the screen was growing dimmer as her eyelids grew heavier, and without warning, she slumped forward, her head crashing softly against the desk. She could almost hear the echo of her exhaustion calling out to her.
And then… nothing.
When Veronica opened her eyes, the world seemed different. The light was softer, warmer, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. She sat up, the softness of the bed beneath her unfamiliar. She blinked, confusion clouding her mind, and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
This wasn’t her desk.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, feeling the plush carpet under her bare feet. Her heart was racing now. Where was she? What was going on?
The room around her looked... old-fashioned. The wallpaper was floral, the curtains heavy and patterned. There were stuff animals on a shelf, framed pictures of smiling faces on the walls. It looked like something out of a millennials drama—something out of place. She was disoriented, her thoughts a jumble of confusion.
She rushed to the mirror.
And stopped dead in her tracks.
The face staring back at her was not her own. Gone were the dark eyes and brown hair that had matched her tired, worn image. Instead, she was looking at a young girl—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a round face with a softness that felt so utterly foreign to her. She ran her fingers through her new hair, which was soft and thick, but the sensation of it against her fingertips felt like she was wearing someone else's skin.
Her heart started to race.
What the hell was happening?
"Petunia, dear, are you awake?" a soft, warm voice called from behind her. The woman in the doorway was older, her face kind and familiar in a way that tugged at some strange memory, though Veronica couldn’t place it. She wore an apron, and the smell of something baking drifted in the air.
The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. "It's time for breakfast. You’ve had a long night’s sleep. I hope you’re feeling better."
Petunia?
The name felt like a slap in the face, reverberating inside her skull. Her head spun as she tried to make sense of it. Petunia. The name echoed in her mind, as if it should mean something. Her pulse quickened, panic creeping up her spine.
"Are you alright, sweetie? You look a little pale," the woman said, walking toward her, her gaze full of concern. "Do you want me to bring you something to eat?"
"Who... who are you?" Veronica stammered, her voice trembling.
The woman blinked, looking momentarily taken aback before smiling again. "Oh, sweetheart, it’s me. Your mother. I’m sure you’re still groggy from all that sleep. It’s not like you to be so out of sorts."
Veronica’s heart skipped a beat. Her mother?
She opened her mouth to speak again, but her throat felt tight. She needed answers. She needed to understand what was happening. But before she could formulate another question, the woman gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Come now, let’s get you to the table. We’ve got to start our day.”
Before she even had a chance to protest, she found herself walking down the stairs, the soft creak of the wooden steps beneath her feet.
At the kitchen table, the sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting everything in a golden glow. The scent of pancakes filled the air, and a low murmur of voices reached her ears.
Sitting at the table were two other people—a man who looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place him, and a girl who was about her age, but younger. He had light brown hair and was already eating his breakfast, looking up at her with an expression of polite indifference.
She sat down slowly, not knowing what to say. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the pancakes on her plate. The warmth of the food did little to settle her nerves. Her mind was still reeling from the image in the mirror, from the soft, unfamiliar voice that had called her Petunia, and the fact that none of this made sense.
But then, in a sudden, horrifying wave, it hit her.
Her memories—her real memories—rushed back like a flood. She remembered her old life. Her endless hours at the office. The way her days blurred together, one indistinguishable from the next. The loneliness. The tiredness. But more than that, she remembered something else. Something she’d clung to as a lifeline through all the monotony: Harry Potter fanfics on Wattpad and Ao3 and scrolling through TikTok.
She was obsessed with Harry Potter fic. She read the books, watch the movies, but love the fans reimagining and changing the story making it a whole new one or fix plots they didn't agree with over and over, lost herself in that world, clinging to the idea that somehow, one day, she might get a chance to escape her own miserable reality. She never, ever imagined that if she were to wake up somewhere else, it would be here.
In the world of Harry Potter, but not in the way she had imagined. Also, Veronica was a believer of the multiverse, reincarnation, transmigrations, rebirth, and time travel conspiracy so she wasn't even sure this was the original books world.
Petunia. The name was a hammer to her skull, a final piece clicking into place.
She was in Petunia Dursley’s body. She was the Petunia Dursley—the aunt of Harry Potter, the woman she had always loathed from the books, the one who had treated him so cruelly.
She was no longer Veronica, the overworked woman caught in the monotony of a soul-crushing life. She was a character from a world she’d known only in fantasy, a world that was now, impossibly, her reality.
“Petunia,” the man at the table—her father—said, his voice gruff but somehow warm. “You’re still half-asleep, aren’t you? Eat your breakfast.”
Veronica—no, Petunia—stared down at the pancakes in front of her. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t breathe.
Her mind raced. How had this happened? How could she get out?
But deep down, she already knew there was no escape. Not from this world. Not from this life.
Her body might have been Petunia Dursley’s, but her mind was still Veronica. She had to figure out how to survive here, in a place where magic was real, where a boy named Harry Potter existed, and where every day was a struggle between who she was and who she was expected to be.
But for now, she had only one choice: to play along.
“Petunia,” her mother said, a bit of amusement in her voice, “you’ve hardly touched your food.”
Veronica’s heart pounded in her chest. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She had to pretend. She had to live this new life.
For better or worse, she was here now. And she didn’t know if she would ever get out.