SABAISM | H. POTTER

| PROLOGUE | HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE

Harry lay flat on his back, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as if he had just sprinted a marathon. He had been jolted awake from a vivid, haunting dream—one where Voldemort, menacing and cold, issued demands to two unfamiliar figures. His hands pressed hard against his face, as if trying to block out the memory of the dream that clung to him like a damp mist. The old scar on his forehead, shaped like a jagged bolt of lightning, burned with a fierce intensity, as though someone had seared it with a white-hot wire.

With a start, he sat up in bed, one hand still covering his scar, while the other fumbled in the darkness for his glasses perched on the bedside table. Upon slipping them on, his room gradually transformed from blurry outlines into a clearer reality, illuminated by a gentle, misty orange glow seeping through the curtains from the streetlamp outside. The light cast soft shadows that danced across the walls, but it did little to soothe the unsettling sensation knotting in his stomach.

Harry rubbed his fingers over the scar again, its persistent pain a stark reminder of his connection to a dark force he wished to forget. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The comforting surroundings of his bedroom—though cozy and familiar—felt strangely foreign in the wake of his nightmare.

After a moment's hesitation, he flicked on the lamp beside him, flooding the space with warm light. He quickly crossed the small room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet, and opened the wardrobe door. Gazing into the mirror on the inside of the door, he was met with the reflection of a skinny boy of fourteen, whose bright green eyes were wide with confusion and unease. Messy black hair fell haphazardly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled appearance that reflected the turmoil brewing within.

For a moment, he studied the boy staring back at him, trying to reconcile the image of the innocent child he still felt like with the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders. It was a strange juxtaposition; the walls of the room, adorned with whimsical posters of Quidditch teams and shelves lined with well-loved books, seemed to cradle his youth, while outside these safe confines, shadows loomed large with ominous intent.

Harry pushed the door to his wardrobe shut, a soft click echoing in the stillness of the night. The room around him was minimal yet inviting, with walls painted in a muted shade of blue that seemed to murmur comfort rather than isolation. Shelves filled with a hodgepodge of books—some battered, others well-loved—lined one side, their spines a watercolor of colors that shimmered under the glow of the lamp. A small desk tucked into a corner was cluttered with parchment, quills, and odd bits of wizarding trinkets he'd picked up during his adventures this summer. A familiar sense of belonging washed over him, but the remnants of his nightmare clung like shadows, refusing to dissipate.

He ran his fingers through his unruly hair, attempting to convince himself that the pain in his scar was a mere echo of a dream. The room's soothing ambiance, however, did little to ease the tightness in his chest. He wandered back to the bed, the soft quilt—a patchwork of earthy tones—welcome against his skin. Just as he settled back down, he heard a gentle knock at the door, followed by the creak of it opening.

Remus Lupin entered quietly, his presence a calming force in the dimly lit room. The fading scars on his face, remnants of battles fought both externally and internally, seemed to glow softly in the lamplight. He moved with a cautious grace, drawn to Harry's troubled expression as instinctively as he was drawn to the moon. The flickering shadows danced across the walls, momentarily sending the shapes of the furniture into fleeting forms of darkness.

"Harry?" Remus's voice was gentle, a soothing balm that wrapped around Harry's frayed nerves. He stepped further into the room, his keen werewolf senses picking up even the subtlest sounds and emotions wafting through the air like a delicate scent. "I heard you... I wanted to check on you."