A/N: This is a very short prologue. The story will start to make more sense from Chapter 1.

I'm almost completely disregarding the Cursed Child, because I refuse to buy into it as anything but pseudo-canon.

Enjoy!

James Potter loved to fly. He truly did. It was one of the few aspects of his façade that he didn't have to feign for others. When he was in the air, he could see how insignificant he was – how insignificant they all were. The higher he flew, the smaller everyone else became, until finally, it was dead silence. He was just James – not James Potter, not James Sirius, not even Harry Potter's son. A weight was lifted.

Somehow, this translated into a love of Quidditch that was perhaps not as genuine as his love of flying. James was a Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. It was the final match of the year, Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw. The winner of the match would almost certainly win the cup – the overall points margin between the two teams was nearly negligible. It was up to James – along with his cousin, Fred Weasley – to ensure that the Gryffindor team was intact by hitting bludgers away from their teammates and towards the Ravenclaw members. They were quite good at their job.

Meanwhile, James' younger sister, Lily, was on the lookout for the Snitch. Harry Potter had been torn between pride and concern upon discovering that his youngest child, just like her father before her, had been made Seeker in her very first year. Now in her second year, Lily was a serious force to be reckoned with. She was perhaps one of the best fliers on their team – maybe even one of the best at Hogwarts. Presently, her bright red hair flipped around as she kept her eyes peeled for the Snitch. James took special care to make sure that his sister would not be injured, and thus far, his efforts hadn't been for naught.

James himself was a sixth year, and was well aware that next year would be his first and only chance at the captaincy. Currently, their Captain was seventh year Charlie Wood, daughter of Oliver Wood. Charlie took after her father – the longtime coach of Puddlemere United – and was the Gryffindor Keeper. The other seventh year on the team, Cedric Davies, was one of the three Chasers. The others were Hugo Weasley – a second year, just as Lily was – and Harriet Vane, or as her mother, Romilda, unpleasantly insisted on calling her, Harry.

The Gryffindor team was excellent, but James could not bring himself to feel any joy at the prospect of winning the match and taking over the following year. When had he become aware that despite the long line of Quidditch players in his family, James Potter despised Quidditch?

He hated the game. He hated the elevated status the sport received. He hated the attention, the pressure, the expectations. Most importantly, he hated the constant remarks that he was just as good as… insert any Weasley/Potter name here.

It wasn't just that James didn't know how to stop. It simply hadn't occurred to him that he could.

During that final game against Ravenclaw, however, he'd realized he'd had enough. The score was 300-270 to Gryffindor, and the Snitch was nowhere in sight. He was doing a fair job of batting away bludgers from his teammates, and he'd successfully drowned out the commentary. Until –

"The world expects great things from James Potter," the commentator said blandly. James wondered why, in the world, the Scamander twins handed over their job to Justin Macmillan. Did Macmillan even know anything about Quidditch? Well, not as much as he knew about James' family.

"My father went to school with his, you know," Macmillan said, settling into his story. "Harry Potter – that's right, the savior of the Wizarding World – was a great Quidditch player too. It's just too bad that his oldest son picked the part that required the least skill."

The Ravenclaws cackled a bit at that, and James tried to ignore him.

"I wonder if Harry's proud of his son today," Macmillan pondered out loud, "but I guess the real question is: is there anything to be proud of?"

James saw the bludger heading toward him. He could've easily batted it away. He had fully intended to bat it away. However, he'd found himself in the unfortunate predicament of being completely unable to move.

James felt his lungs seizing up. He gasped for air. A rush of emotions overtook him, and James was entirely overwhelmed.

The bludger hit him right in the ribs, and James Potter fell, only able to stare as the blurry world became clearer, and his insignificance was no more.