Chapter Text
Privet Drive, number four, where rows of tedious and identical houses stretched on, seemed to flow by today as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
The front lawn was neatly manicured, and the identical flowers planted in front of every house were aligned with such extreme precision that they appeared almost obsessive. Privet Drive, home to the Dursley family—who pursued normalcy to the extreme and harbored a terrible disdain for anything unconventional—was, as always, unremarkable. To quote the neighbors, they seemed like a perfectly ordinary family who loved their son dearly.
If there was one thing that did not contribute to it, it was the small dark-haired boy who had, at some point, begun living quietly in their home.
With his bird’s-nest-like black hair, a frail, unusually small and thin body compared to children his age, shabby clothes that did not fit him properly, and mysterious emerald eyes hidden behind glasses, there was little about him that seemed remarkable at first glance.
And yet, the Dursley family wanted nothing more than to keep the boy—so out of place in their household—hidden away from the eyes of anyone else, as if he should never be seen at all.
When neighbors asked, they would prattle on about how Harry was a highly troubled, delinquent boy. Vernon would even fabricate grief, claiming that the boy was a dangerous and rebellious child, and expressing his hope that his relative’s son might finally be reformed at a special school called St. Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Some neighbors pitied them, wondering how a child could cause so much trouble, while others simply stayed silent, not wanting to meddle in someone else’s domestic affairs. The name of this boy, whom no one wanted to know and no one truly knew, was Harry Potter.
And the lightning-bolt scar hidden beneath his shaggy hair was the small secret of the boy now facing his sixth birthday.
- Bang! Bang! Bang!
As if waking from a veil of dreams, dust drifted slowly through a shaft of light. The cupboard under the stairs, dark and narrow—this was the entire extent of Harry Potter’s world.
"Get up! Now!"
The violent vibration of someone pounding on the cupboard door shook dust from the old ceiling, raining down like powder. Harry snapped his eyes open. The damp air stung his lungs. With a fumbling hand, he reached for his glasses on the corner shelf. One arm was broken, and the round frames were wrapped in thick layers of tape, making them a clumsy mass; yet, they were Harry’s only window to the world.
Harry rubbed his eyelids, which were stuck together with fatigue, and sat up on his bed. His body was screaming with exhaustion. He had only managed to lie down at nearly three in the morning because Dudley had spent the night screaming and throwing everything around him out the window in a tantrum.
Through the blurry lenses, the four cramped walls came into view. Cobwebs draped in the corners, his old socks with holes, and a shelf packed like a chaotic warehouse with broken, useless junk—it all felt as stiflingly narrow as ever.
He tried to smooth down his messy, unruly hair, which always floated about like dandelion seeds, but it was no use. Pulling open the door and crawling out, Harry shielded his eyes from the sudden burst of light. Aunt Petunia, leaning by the door and looking down at him irritably, snapped at him to follow her to the kitchen immediately.
As always, Harry followed her quietly with a sense of practiced resignation, struggling to keep his eyes open.
The kitchen was already thick with heat and the smell of grease. Aunt Petunia’s sharp command pierced the back of Harry’s head.
"Grab the frying pan. I’ve done the dishes, so you cook the bacon and eggs. Don’t you dare let that bacon burn, or there’ll be no dinner for you today. Vernon will be down soon. Set the table simply and make the salmon salad for Dudley to put out."
"...Yes, Aunt Petunia."
The kitchen was spotless, polished to a shine. It was the result of Aunt Petunia’s obsession with cleanliness—the belief that a place where food is prepared must be perfect. Thus, scrubbing his hands until they were squeaky clean was the very first procedure Harry had to follow.
Since the sink was too high for him, he climbed onto a wooden stool. While Aunt Petunia was in Dudley’s room, he splashed water on his face for a quick wash and tried to flatten his tangled hair with wet hands. The moment he heard her footsteps coming down the stairs, he scrambled to wipe his hands and face on the hem of his oversized shirt and dragged the basket of eggs and bacon over to the stove.
Dudley would almost certainly sleep in today. Ignoring the sharp, watchful gaze on him, Harry cracked the eggs and flipped the bacon with movements that were mechanical and skilled, far beyond what one would expect from a six-year-old. There were four eggs in total; as he cracked the final one, he saw two yolks looking up at him like a bright, smiling face.
Occasionally, an egg would have two yolks, and in those moments, Harry would think that perhaps today might be a lucky day. Of course, such luck rarely ever came, and he knew that he would probably have to actually eat those double yolks for the luck to count.
But Harry knew all too well that those two yellow eyes, looking so savory and happy, would never find their way into his own stomach. They would be eaten by the child who received all the affection in this house. Harry was only permitted the small portions Aunt Petunia decided for him, and those portions had never once left his stomach feeling satisfied.
He had no right to choose his own food, and he was constantly told he should be grateful just to have two meals a day. Those words were so familiar to him that he truly did feel grateful for even his meager, wretched meals. If he ever got on their bad side or caused something "abnormal" to happen, he would be locked in his cupboard, and his meals would be cut off entirely for days.
The bacon was sizzling with a delicious sound. He flipped it with a spatula, made room so the eggs wouldn't stick, and stood on his tiptoes to pull plates from the cupboard. Though the delicious aroma filled the kitchen, Harry fought to ignore his growling stomach as he skillfully plated the eggs and bacon and set the table.
While the kitchen filled with the sound of sizzling, Dudley dragged his half-asleep body downstairs and began his usual whining at the table. By the time Harry had pulled ingredients from the fridge and finished the salmon salad, it was exactly the scheduled time.
Harry hopped down from his stool, set out the water and 100% sugar-free orange juice, and gripped the coffee pot that was puffing with mechanical steam. At that moment, the heavy, thundering footsteps of a man echoed from the stairs.
"Petunia. Is breakfast ready?"
"It’s all prepared. Please, sit down."
A middle-aged man with a large mustache sat at the dining table connected to the living room. Harry poured coffee into the mug the uncle always used and handed it over. Vernon glanced at Harry, scowled, and gripped his mug while ordering Harry to go outside and fetch the morning paper.
His gaze then turned to the person sitting opposite him. "Oh, my darling Dudley! Did you sleep well?" He let out a booming laugh at the sight of his plump son struggling to wake up. Looking at his son with eyes full of love, he affectionately brushed back the boy's protruding fringe. For a moment, he grumbled about various things in the world while chewing his bacon, but his tongue clicked as he checked the date on the newspaper.
"Hmph. The day we have to deal with this nuisance always comes around, doesn't it?"
Harry pressed his body closer to the wall, watching his uncle’s mouth, which looked ready to start a rant. July 31, 1986. Harry stole a quick glance at the paper. Today was Harry’s sixth birthday. It was a date he hadn't known until he started school. Now, it seemed like a date that existed only to give them a reason to insult him like a burden. He stood still, listening to Vernon’s grumbling. To them, Harry was not a family member; he was more like a piece of old, hideous furniture tucked away in a corner of the house.
Petunia was picking out food from the fridge for Harry. She rummaged through it with a harsh, reluctant touch. On the plate she handed him were two withered slices of brown apple, a piece of hard butter roll that had been sitting in the fridge until it was nearly moldy, a piece of hard chocolate Dudley had left behind, and a dented, unappetizing tin of cold soup.
Since she had just been cleaning the fridge, he was given two whole rolls, and because the soup had been opened but left untouched, it became Harry’s portion. Even though the quality was poor, considering Petunia had screamed yesterday after realizing that shaving Harry’s head had been useless, today’s menu was actually quite decent. Harry took the plate from her and hurried back to his cupboard, scurrying out of the kitchen as usual.
The only place Harry was allowed to feel at ease was this old cupboard under the stairs. The food was far from enough to fill the stomach of a boy who had been starving since yesterday morning, but Harry shoved it into his mouth ravenously. It was dark, with not a single ray of light, but he had no trouble eating in the dark, and he was too hungry to care about such things anyway. The bread was hard and the apple tasted strange, having absorbed the smell of the refrigerator, but to the starving Harry, they melted in his mouth. The thin soup was cold, but to his aching stomach, it was precious.
Having finished the small amount of food in less than five minutes, Harry felt somewhat full. He left the cupboard, put his plate in the sink, and quickly finished the morning’s pile of dishes. Vernon was tying his tie, provided by Petunia, trying not to be late for work, while Dudley was throwing a fit, saying he wanted something sweet and demanding chocolate cereal for breakfast. Eventually, the sound of chocolate cereal being poured into a bowl with milk could be heard. Dudley crunched away at his cereal, ignoring the time for school as he stared intently at the TV.
Soon, the doorbell rang, and Piers Polkiss—Dudley’s best friend and Harry’s nightmare—was at the door. With his rat-like face, he seemed to be trying his best to act polite toward Petunia. Dudley finally heaved his heavy body up and shoved Harry aside as the boy emerged from his cupboard, carrying a brown bag that was larger than himself.
That brief, passing glance from Dudley was a warning that today would not be a peaceful one. Fortunately, they didn't seem inclined to play 'Harry Hunting' on the way to school, as they disappeared from the hallway giggling. Putting on his tattered shoes by the front door, Harry felt a little weary. The shoes were too big for him—character shoes Dudley had grown tired of. They hadn't been worn many times, but Dudley had treated them so poorly they looked years old.
Being too big was better than being too small and pinching his feet, but since they often slipped off, Harry always tied the laces tight enough to squeeze his feet. As he did, he locked eyes with Petunia, who had returned from seeing Dudley off. Her long, thin face, with a strand of blonde hair stuck to her forehead, looked even sharper than usual today.
He bit his lip under her inevitably stinging gaze. She was always nervous and irritable, but she was particularly sharp with Harry. Usually, she treated him with cold neglect, but whenever he was around, her voice would rise by two octaves in a shrill, nervous tone. However, what Harry found hardest to bear was the profound emotion that melted into her eyes when she looked at him. it was as sharp as if it were pushing him into a corner, eerie, and at times, terrifying. That intense emotion was too much for a young child; the strongest feeling shimmering in her eyes was hatred.
She hated Harry. She hated him very much. This hatred grew even stronger whenever she looked into his green eyes, so Harry would often look down, unable to endure that piercing gaze. Young Harry had always been treated this way. He didn't even know why they hated him, disliked him, or even found him disgusting, and he never dared to ask. He had simply been raised in this environment since he was a baby and had come to accept this treatment as a matter of course.
She seemed to have something she wanted to say, but in the end, she simply brushed past him and went upstairs. Only then did Harry slowly lift his head and let out a small sigh. That intense, dark emotion was a heavy burden for a young child to bear.
Class time was the only time Harry could feel at ease. The classroom was wide, the air blowing in from the window was warm, and since Dudley was in a different class, he couldn't bother Harry while the boy was reading or taking notes. Harry especially loved History class. Most of the teachers didn't like him, as if they knew the signs of a child who wasn't loved by his family, but Mr. Williams was the only person who didn't look at him as if he were a lost cause.
His lectures were powerful, possessed a life-like immersion as if he were telling a story, and were filled with flashes of wit. Whenever he heard the vivid stories of history—the sad, tragic, and miraculous moments—Harry’s emerald eyes would sparkle. Many students liked him, but he took special care of Harry, giving him children’s history books with pretty illustrations because "they made the class more interesting," or teaching him how to write neatly after seeing his notes.
When the fulfilling History class ended and his mind was at peace, Harry headed to a secluded corner of the school backyard for lunch. It was a place filled with junk, rusty lockers, and abandoned items, so other students rarely visited. Sitting on the ground and leaning against the gray wall as usual, Harry pulled out the butter roll he had saved from breakfast. Since he had no lunch packed—punishment for "making his hair grow back"—this was all he had.
He took a large bite of the bread, enjoying the stinging noon sun and the rustling, cool breeze. Until a small brown frog hopped out from a corner, Harry’s mood was actually quite good.
"Oh, Harry, why didn't you say anything? That today is your miserable birthday?"
That was, until Dudley cornered him in front of the rusty iron lockers just before lunch ended, giggling. Harry struggled to escape the grip on his collar that was pressing him down with immense force. Dudley’s gang was clearly intent on celebrating Harry’s birthday in an unpleasant way. Two members of the gang grabbed Harry’s arms. Standing beside Dudley, Piers Polkiss burst into laughter, looking at Harry’s pained face with a sneer.
"You really look like a rat. Does it taste good, hiding in a place like this to eat?"
"Dudley, can't we do something about your cousin’s glasses?"
"Give him a birthday present for his glasses. Something that suits him."
Harry looked down under their mocking glares. Birthdays had never been a good day for him. Ever since Dudley found out when Harry’s birthday was, he had started making him look like a fool, isolating him and cackling with laughter. What was so funny? Celebrating a miserable birthday? His father who was an alcoholic, and his parents who died in a terrible car accident? Harry desperately wanted this moment to end, but he was sick and tired of his cousin looking at him like an interesting toy—something that could be broken without any consequences.
"Let go, Dudley."
"Oh, really? Should I let you go?"
Dudley paused before throwing a punch at Harry’s stomach, tilting his fat face up with a haughty sneer.
"Since it’s your birthday, you should play a fun game too, right?"
"What game? 'Hit Harry' wasn't that fun last time."
"We haven't filled today’s quota for 'Harry Hunting' yet."
Dudley listened to his subordinates like a king. Harry wanted to find a gap to run away while Dudley’s attention was on the gang. At least in class, he could escape their bullying. And if he was lucky, he could hide in the alleys on the way home before they could catch him. While Harry glanced around for an escape route, Dudley turned his gaze back to him, staring with unreadable eyes.
"I don't know why someone like you is in our house. No one wants you there."
It sounded like a total denial of Harry’s existence. It wasn't the first time, but every time he heard it, Harry felt something inside him shatter into small pieces.
"Exactly. Poor Dudley. If I had a cousin like that living off me, it would be a nightmare."
"Why is he even living there?"
"Oh, why else. Because he doesn't have parents."
"And no home, either. Dudley, I feel bad for you. You might have to take care of a cousin like this for the rest of your life."
Amidst the malicious words, Harry endured it all in silence. Until his cousin brought up his parents, saying he’d heard about them from his father. Harry could no longer stand this situation—the mockery of his father, who they said was a drunk, and his mother, who they said died in a stupid car accident. He wanted to disappear from all of this. Suddenly, his emotions seemed to explode, and with a dizzying twist of his vision, Harry found himself standing on the school roof. Just like magic. Looking down, Dudley and his gang were panicking, looking around like fools at the impossible situation.
With the help of the school caretaker who found him, Harry had to endure the teacher’s gaze, which saw him as an utter delinquent, asking how on earth he had gotten up there. By the time he was rescued, classes were over, but thanks to the delay, he managed to avoid Dudley. The few remaining students in the hallway ignored him or stepped aside. He was used to it; ever since Dudley’s gang started bullying him, his classmates had tried to ignore him and wouldn't even talk to him.
He didn't want to go home, but he had nowhere else to go. The playground at this hour was Dudley’s territory, and he had no desire to relive what had just happened, so he walked home as slowly as possible. Seeing the bucket and dry cloth by the front door, it seemed today was the day to clean the windows. In the blue bucket, half-filled with water as if to tell him to start work immediately after school, the boy saw his own blurry reflection.
His clothes, far too large for his body, hung off him like the hide of an old elephant. Harry gripped the straps of his ridiculously large bag. He felt like a small stain that didn't belong in this world. The strange things that often happened and this excessively ordinary house were a terrible match.
What truly hurt Harry was the sight of a child from the house next door walking past, holding his mother’s hand and eating ice cream.
'I wish... I wish there was someone for me.'
Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his dirt-streaked hand. No one ever told him why he had been left at this house, why his parents had to die in a car accident, or why this strange lightning-bolt scar remained on his forehead.
Harry pushed a lawnmower that was heavier than himself, circling the garden. His throat was parched in the dry weather, but no one offered him a glass of water. As he pulled out overgrown weeds, he thought to himself:
'Tomorrow, and the day after that, I’ll probably still be here in this grass.'
When he returned to his cupboard after finishing his daily chores, the warm light of the living room and the sound of the family’s cheerful conversation leaked through the cracks in the door. Uncle Vernon laughing heartily while patting Dudley’s back, Aunt Petunia kissing her son with a tender voice.
To Harry, inside the cupboard, those sounds felt like signals from another planet. Harry curled up, pulling his knees to his chest. As he took off his glasses in the darkness, his vision blurred and tears welled up. There was no place for Harry in this massive house. No, it felt as though there was no gap in this wide world where a piece named Harry Potter could fit.
'I... I want to be someone precious to someone too. I wish I had a family who loved me. Please, please someone find me.'
It was not a mere wish; it was a desperate cry. It was an existential pain, like a large hole in the middle of his chest through which a cold wind whistled. At that moment, when the loneliness at the bottom of the boy's young heart reached its limit, something hot surged up from within. As six years of suppressed solitude reached a breaking point, the air surrounding Harry’s body began to fluctuate abnormally. The spiders in the cupboard scattered in all directions, and the shoes on the old shelves rattled and danced.
Harry’s desperate longing began to fill the dark cupboard. The massive magic sleeping inside the boy surged on a wave of emotion. It was a craving far more fundamental and intense than the one that had teleported him to the school roof.
"Please..."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. At that moment, the laughter from the living room grew distant, as if heard from thousands of miles away.
Suddenly, the air inside the cupboard began to twist unnaturally. A silence so heavy it made his ears ache descended, and then the world beneath Harry’s feet began to melt away. The noise of Privet Drive faded, and the scent of fishy mist and damp earth brushed the tip of his nose.
As if time had momentarily stopped, when Harry opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was not a hard bed, but the cold earth tickling his cheek and the smell of acrid smoke. It was cold rain.
"Where... am I?"
Harry reached out with a trembling hand to adjust his taped glasses. The world seen through the lenses was bizarre. The Privet Drive at the end of summer was nowhere to be seen. Harry was collapsed in front of a crumbling, gloomy shack covered in vines and moss. A dead ferret hung from the roof, and the surroundings were filled with junk that was barely worthy of being called furniture. Instead of the orderly streetlamps of Privet Drive, the faint, flickering light of gas lamps—something Harry had only seen in history books—was bleeding through the thick London smog in the distance.
Harry pushed himself up from the dirt floor where weeds grew in wild disorder, far from the well-manicured lawns.
It was bizarre. He had certainly been huddled in the cupboard under the stairs. Why did these strange, abnormal, and eerie things keep happening only to Harry? Had he ended up in a strange neighborhood this time because he had found being at home unbearable? Or perhaps all of this was just a sorrowful dream he had fallen into without knowing.
At that moment, a moan like a fading thread drifted from beyond the mist.
Harry moved toward the sound as if possessed. At the entrance of a crumbling old shack on the outskirts of London, a woman lay collapsed on the cold stone floor.
"Hello...?"
Harry approached her, terrified. She was a woman as gaunt as a skeleton, dressed in rags. Her belly was swollen in a gentle curve, and her thin hands trembled as they clutched her stomach. Her wavering eyes slowly turned toward Harry.
"Ah..."
Harry stared at her in terror. What he saw in her eyes was a loneliness so profound it was haunting. It resembled the shadow Harry faced every night in his cupboard all too well. Harry knew instinctively. This woman was about to let go of her final thread of life. And if she gave up, the small life breathing inside her would also return to the cold earth.
"I-I’ll go get someone!"
Harry’s hand was caught by a dry, withered grip. Her hand was as cold as ice, but after a moment of hesitation, she stood up with great effort and slowly shook her head.
"It’s alright... child. It was just a spasm of pain."
"Is the... is the baby coming?"
"...Yes, but not just yet. Thank you... for trying to help. You should go home, too, before it gets any later."
Harry stared blankly at her back as she turned toward the shack that looked ready to collapse. She seemed as if she might crumble at any moment, just like her home. As she bit her lip and staggered through the decayed, creaking door, her footsteps faltered again. Harry quickly supported her body. As if startled by the small, soft warmth, she looked down at Harry with a weary gaze.
"I... I’ll help you inside. If that’s okay with you..."
She gave him a look as if she were seeing something she had never encountered before, and then, too exhausted even to speak, she eventually bowed her head with a tired face.
Harry took that as a small permission and tried his best to support her. As he pushed the door open with his body and stepped inside, a chill from the house made him shiver. The room was mostly empty, and the only furniture was a crude table for two, a worn-out chair, and a low bed covered with a soot-stained brown blanket. A counter table in the corner served as a kitchen, where a few old, deep pots and some jars of spices were the only signs of life.
Harry carefully settled her on the old blanket and pulled a rolled-up gray pillow over so she could lie down slowly. She breathed heavily while slowly stroking her stomach, and Harry let out a sigh of relief as he looked around at the cold air rising from the bed. It was a place too desolate and cold for a baby about to be born. Only then did he notice the fireplace, which looked as if it hadn't been lit in days, with only dry, gray ashes remaining.
"I think we need to start a fire..."
When Harry looked at her again, she was lying still with her sunken eyelids closed. Fearing she might have died, the startled child placed his hand lightly on her gaunt face; fortunately, a faint breath touched his fingertips. Harry was relieved to realize she had simply fallen into an exhausted sleep.
The house was still freezing, and Harry had never seen such an old, rustic shack. Even the fireplace in the living room at Privet Drive didn't look like this. They would light it occasionally for Christmas or to set the mood, and it was decorated with pretty ornaments and photos of Dudley in frames.
This fireplace had black powder clinging to it like dust, and it was so crudely built of stone it seemed it might crumble. An acrid smell stung his nose, and charred pieces of wood were scattered about in a mess. Harry thought that if this moment was a dream, starting a fire might not be so difficult. Thinking of the moment he had appeared on the roof, perhaps something might happen. Remembering the strange but magical things that occurred whenever he wished for something desperately, Harry gathered the dry, charred pieces of wood into the dusty fireplace with hands trembling from the cold.
"It has to get warm. The baby might come out," Harry whispered, and the moment he placed his hand on the pile of wood, the scar on his forehead gave a pleasant, stinging throb. Soon, tiny sparks flew up from thin air like butterflies and landed on the wood. In an instant, the entire shack was filled with a golden warmth, a heat that Harry had never felt in all his time in the cupboard, seeping even through his old shirt.
The golden flames danced, pushing back the damp air of the shack. Harry sat huddled in front of the fireplace, staring blankly at the sound of the wood crackling as it was consumed by the fire. Warmth. It was different from the dry heat that radiated from the radiators at Privet Drive. This magical warmth, starting from Harry’s scar and spreading to his fingertips, burrowed into the lining of his old vest like a living thing, caressing the boy’s heart that had been frozen cold.
Harry looked down at his small, soot-blackened palms. If Aunt Petunia had seen them, she would have shrieked and dragged him to the sink immediately, but Harry didn't mind his dirty hands. The fact that the fire he had lit with these dirty hands was making the woman on the bed even a little more comfortable gave Harry a strange kind of courage.
It was then. From behind him, a low moan was heard along with a rough breathing sound, like wet straw being rubbed together.
"…Tom…"
Harry turned his head in surprise. The woman lying on the bed still had her eyes closed, but her parched lips were trembling as she breathed out a name with desperation.
"Tom... don't go... please..."
It was not simply the voice of someone calling out. It was a heavy, terrible despair that was too much for six-year-old Harry to handle. The same abyssal loneliness Harry had felt when cornered by Dudley’s gang in the school backyard, being told "No one wants you," was vibrating in her voice.
Harry crawled on his knees toward the bedside as if drawn by a magnet. Close up, her face was distorted with pain. Harry had no way of knowing who this 'Tom' she was searching for was. But he could clearly tell that she was standing alone at the edge of the world, desperately trying to grab the hem of someone who was drifting away.
Harry hesitated, then reached out his small, soot-stained hand. He took her cold, gaunt hand firmly in both of his.
Her hand felt as hard and cold as an old fossil, but Harry did not let go. He hoped that his own body heat, and the warmth of the fireplace he had just lit, would reach her even a little. Remembering the countless nights he had spent in the dark cupboard at number four Privet Drive, praying for someone to please hold his hand, Harry gripped her hand even tighter.
"It’s okay. I’m here."
Harry’s low whisper filled the silence of the shack. Miraculously, as soon as Harry’s hand touched hers, the woman’s ragged breathing began to calm down. Her distorted brow smoothed out little by little, and she sank back into a deep sleep, as if comforted by Harry’s warmth.
As the flames flickered, Harry’s large shadow wavered against the walls of the shack. In the London of 1926, a discarded woman and a lost boy were enduring the cold night together, leaning on each other’s warmth. The boy did not know—that the cold hand he was holding belonged to the woman who would one day give birth to the Dark Lord who would plunge the world into terror. And the woman did not even dream—that this small child, who held her hand at the end of her despair, was her son’s destined salvation and ruin.
Outside, the thick London smog still flowed silently, and the fire in the hearth burned brightly, as if playing the prelude to a new fate.