Dudley softly recited the honorific name of the Fool: "The Fool who does not belong to this era, the mysterious ruler above the gray fog, the King of Yellow and Black who wields good fortune."
He believed this chant would transport him to the familiar bronze table, enveloped in dense gray fog, where he'd hear Miss Justice's warm "Good afternoon" and glimpse the majestic figure shrouded in mist.
But in the next moment, Dudley jolted awake.
Confusion gripped him as he scanned his surroundings. The place was alien yet hauntingly familiar: a soft bed, warm blankets, air laced with a gentle, cool scent. Morning light slipped through the curtains, dust motes dancing in its beams. It was warm, serene, and carried a long-lost sense of peace.
It smelled of home.
"This is… my childhood bedroom," Dudley realized, the memory dawning on him.
This was the room he'd known before transmigrating to a bizarre, maddening world—a place he could truly call home. Tears welled in his eyes. Words failed to capture the weight of his emotions; he felt unmoored, as if floating without ground beneath him.
"My dear Dada, are you up? It's your birthday, and we're going to the zoo, so don't linger in bed!" came a familiar yet slightly strange voice—his mother's.
"I… I'm up," Dudley replied, steadying the tremor in his voice.
"Oh, good, darling! Get dressed and come downstairs. Your presents are waiting," Petunia called cheerfully. "Happy birthday, my dear!"
As her footsteps faded, Petunia's smile vanished. Her gaunt face tightened as she descended the stairs.
Bang bang!
"Get up, wake up, hurry!" she barked, rapping on the under-stairs cupboard door.
Unlike her precious son, who'd responded promptly, her nephew was still lazing about on Dudley's eleventh birthday. Petunia felt a surge of pride in Dudley's maturity, convinced he was becoming a fine young man.
Upstairs, Dudley dressed and faced the mirror. Golden hair flattened atop a chubby head, a neck nearly swallowed by flesh, a pink, round face, and watery blue eyes stared back. He recoiled.
"Was I really this… repulsive as a child?" he muttered, sticking out his tongue, unable to reconcile with his reflection.
He turned away, seeking distraction, and flung open the curtains. Sunlight bathed him, casting a faint golden halo across his skin. Warmth enveloped him—a sensation he'd nearly forgotten.
No longer did he face that bizarre, insane world. No more fear of losing control, no dread of sudden attacks from the uncanny. No one would invade his dreams to interrogate him, force him to bear children, or transform him into a woman after consuming a Potion.
Though, the taste of a Witch was rather pleasant, he mused wryly.
Dudley inhaled the moist air from the open window, savoring the tranquility of this ordinary life.
"Run slower, wait for me!"
"Come chase me, hahaha!"
Outside, children darted across the neighborhood street, their laughter and sunlit smiles radiating innocence. Dudley raised his right hand, extended it, and chanted in Hermes Language: "No running here!"
Nothing happened. The children continued their chase, unaffected.
"As expected, a normal world without the bizarre. How wonderful," Dudley chuckled.
That other world offered extraordinary powers and even a path to godhood, but home was home, and family was irreplaceable. Their value only became clear after their loss—especially after enduring such a strange realm. He recalled someone describing Beyonders as pitiable souls, perpetually teetering on the edge of madness and danger.
"It's wonderful to be back," Dudley murmured. "No extraordinary abilities? Fine. I'll live this life ordinarily."
He laughed, realizing his parents would lose their minds if they knew their son had traversed a world of such insanity. Childhood memories, once distant, now resurfaced like echoes from another life.
"Sweetheart, are you dressed?" Petunia's voice called again.
"Yes, I'll be right down!" Dudley replied eagerly.
It was his eleventh birthday, and he intended to celebrate it fully.
Descending from his second-floor bedroom, Dudley was greeted by his parents' warm kisses and heartfelt wishes. In the kitchen, he noticed a thin figure frying bacon: messy black hair, oversized clothes, and a wary, envious glance cast his way behind worn glasses.
"Harry," Dudley whispered, recognizing his cousin.
Memories flooded back—chasing Harry, using him as a punching bag, rallying classmates to ostracize him, ensuring Harry had no friends. Had he truly done those things? The truth was undeniable, yet it felt like another person's life.
Dudley's mind drifted to his early days in that bizarre world. Orphaned at six or seven, living with cruel relatives, he'd faced bullying, hunger, beatings, and grueling factory work. He'd nearly been sold to a wealthy merchant. Spoiled and soft, he barely survived. Without his captain's rescue and the extraordinary path that followed, he wouldn't have made it.
Back then, Dudley believed it was punishment for his cruelty to Harry. In this normal world, actions might go unjudged, but in a realm where Gods existed, retribution was real. Only through despair and fear had he confronted his true self.
As his strength grew in that other world, Dudley never sought revenge on those relatives. He accepted their cruelty as the penance he deserved.