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THRENODY OF THE VESSEL | prologue ; the ouroboros.

Summary: Always an anomaly, Savina Lovett had spent her life poised between two worlds: magical and muggle, memory and mourning, who she was and who she thought she should be. When long-buried magic coaxes on her sudden induction as a witch, she steps into a world that feels both unknown and painfully familiar. She finds the pieces of her identity scattering on the wind as she’s forced to confront the truth of what this new reality means. Sebastian Sallow stopped believing in fate the moment he realized it wasn’t coming to save the people he loved. He’s done waiting for someone to save him – or stop him. But there’s something he catches in the eye of the new fifth year that gives him pause. Grief recognizes itself. Magic remembers its own. And the path forward may demand more than either of them are ready to give. Word Count: 2.7k Warnings: mention of a child's death. Notes: hello everyone! i'm absolutely terrified to be posting this, since i've rewritten it a.. staggering number of times. prologues have always felt difficult for me, but i gave this my best shot. i'm really looking forward to working on this series, and i'm incredibly excited to be sharing this labor of love with you all. thank you so much for reading - it means more than i could ever put to words! FIND THE MASTERLIST HERE.

“Remember, darling,” Murmured Ambrose Lovett in the crowd, one large palm placed on his daughter’s shoulder to slow her gait. “Your school supplies take precedence. You have your list.” His attempt at a serious expression wavered then, and a smile began to crook the corner of his mouth.

“Once you’re done, you may browse to your heart’s content.. But preferably no more old keys, yes?”

“I want to know what they unlock,” Savina protested, her brows pinching in dismay. She was a tiny thing for a girl of fifteen, but her determination was that of a giant’s size, and she wore the same spark of intent that her father did. “I know, sweetheart. But perhaps your efforts are best focused on the ones already in your possession, hm?” He punctuated the suggestion by kissing the top of her head, a sign she’d come to recognize as gentle encouragement. Her father had never made her feel strange, nor did he deny her much, but she knew that he held certain expectations for her. She meant to exceed them, even if she went about doing so in her own way.

“Yes, Papa,” Pretending to concede, she clutched her list of supplies tighter. With a few more words and a kiss to her father’s cheek, they parted ways.

Morning had come upon London in a particularly grey haze, Savina noted. It was the type of dawn that was swollen with the promise of rain and thick with the scent of petrichor, paired with a damp fog that curled about hems and heels like an affectionate cat. It gave one’s silhouette an almost ghostly edge, feathering them into the sooty horizon.

In short, it was an absolutely perfect day.

Perhaps others disagreed, if the expressions on passerby were any indication of their mood, but Savina wasn’t to be deterred. The spirit of the Covent Garden market couldn’t be dampened by a little rain, after all – it was already a revel of life and color that bubbled around her, inching closer and closer to being downright chaos with each step she took. Fishmongers and fruit sellers seemed to be engaged in a battle to see who could hawk their wares the loudest, and a wayward horse could be heard whinnying its distress as it reared in the crowd. Children ran to and fro, some put to work crying out flowers! Flowers, good sir!, while others clung to their mothers and cried for treats from the confectioner’s stand. The air was laden with the chatter of a thousand voices, and was beginning to grow crowded with a myriad of scents – fresh bread, ripe fruit, dead fish – until it was downright offensive.

It was still no Diagon Alley, Savina thought, but it was certainly lively. While she’d only been to the shopping area on a few occasions, she could still remember it vividly; even the very disarray of it had been undeniably magical. The same couldn’t be said for Covent Garden – there were times when the crowds turned dangerous, moments when she’d cling to her father’s coat like a toddler as bodies closed in from all sides, and shouts rose to violent heights.

Not today, though. Today things were just as they should be, she felt, save her continued misgivings about returning to Madame Eldridge’s School for Young Ladies for another term. It didn’t hold the same… allure. Just the promise of droll days full of scoldings about her poor performance in arithmetic, and the insistence that her artistic abilities couldn’t take precedence over her talent with dance. She was either good or bad – it seemed there was no in between.

Good or bad. White or black. Magical, or… muggle.

None of the above for you, Savina thought to herself. Thus is the life of a squib. Too.. wrong, for either side. Too… grey.

This wasn’t the world she wanted. Not really. But the letters had never come, and the wands had never chosen – not for her, at least.

Though she’d had years to live with the truth, it was still too bitter to swallow. Instead, it choked her as it remained lodged in her throat.

Wriggling inside of her was an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how hard she tried to dig in her nails. That itch was aching now, a plucking sensation that made her bite into the flesh of her inner cheek. For as long as she could remember, there had always been an odd stitch in her heart; often, it unraveled and beckoned her about, like a constant yanking on the thread of fate. Trying to guide her somewhere hidden, or, possibly, trying to give her something she was owed.

Perhaps it was simply jealousy.

Savina chose to view it as irrefutable proof that she wasn’t meant to be passed over so easily.

She continued to drift between stalls like a ghost in a pair of good boots, her attention snagging on curios and trinkets, books with tired spines, and fresh palettes of watercolors. After a fashion, she stopped at a stall selling worn bolts of fabrics, clearly second hand scraps. That hadn’t dulled the richness of their colors, and if anything, Savina thought it simply gave them more… character. Everything had a history, didn’t it?

In her peripheral, her attention was snagged by a strange shape that pulled her focus sideways.

A tent.

One that hadn’t been there mere moments ago – of that, she was certain. Yet there it stood, hung between two other makeshift stalls, as if it had always been there. The plum fabric it was made of was striped and tasseled at the edges with gold, and it boasted a crooked wooden sign hung on a burnished brass pole reading:

Tobias Fell’s Findings – Rare Objects and Lost Oddities.

It was odd. Very odd.

And like a word on the tip of her tongue, it felt.. familiar.

Something in her chest stirred. The tugging had returned, this time sharper, almost… stinging. Like a nest of angry wasps beginning to buzz beneath her ribs.

It was enough to urge her forward. Like called to like, after all.

Despite the many mismatched oil lamps flickering within the tent, the air inside was comfortable and cool. It was much larger within than its exterior boasted, and everything smelled of old parchment and flowers that had wilted long ago. Objects were scattered about without rhyme or reason; here lay a pair of worn leather gloves, there a velvet case full of broken monocles, and what seemed to be a canister of.. teeth, labeled Mixed Origins. She paused at a porcelain doll missing a quarter of her face, her lips pursing. She felt a peculiar sense of kinship with the doll – perhaps even sympathy. She wasn’t certain how many of these objects were rare, but they did all seem to be unusual in one way or another. Who had owned that doll once upon a time? Had she been loved?

Like a ringmaster of the strange, an old man stood in the center of it all. He was taller than one might expect, and his white hair stood out at all angles. He wore a long duster coat, patched together with what must’ve been a million and one fabrics. Tobias Fell, if she were to assume. In this instance, she did.

“Thought you’d be taller,” Was the way that he greeted her, staring at her through a pair of green spectacles that made his eyes seem large enough to roll out of his head. “With freckles.”

“..Pardon me, sir?”

“Go on, have a wander.”

Unable to say why, Savina obeyed. She passed by old velvet hat boxes piled atop one another, a bronze birdcage with a broken door, and a fine china teacup with a chipped rim. Empty glass vials lined a small shelf, gathering dust and full of cobwebs. A mounted deer head sat alone and forgotten, missing an eye. It could be said that there wasn’t much to see, but to Savina, there was plenty to ponder over.

She saw it by chance: a hand mirror, half buried in a basket of this-and-that. Prying it free took a moment of weak tugging and a victorious gasp as she stumbled back; its silver frame was tarnished and coated in the thick layer of grime, but it was difficult for anything at all to detract from its beauty. It was an ornate piece, even for a hand mirror – swirls curled in the shapes of small lilies, and decorative flourishes filled the empty spaces. Encircling the entirety of the glass was a snake. Dust caked into the etchings of its scales and settled into a filthy film over its eyes. With its jaw unhinged, it devoured its own tail endlessly.

Her thumb swiped away at the dirt covering its eyes, unveiling old, empty sockets. Her pulse quickened as she met the serpent’s fathomless gaze.

A large crack marred the glass, slicing halfway down the middle and spider-webbing at the upper right corner, distorting her reflection.

Yet not even those imperfections could be blamed for what took place next.

Her reflection blinked back at her, but then it – she – smiled. Slow and certain.

But Savina hadn’t.

The mirror was cold, but her hand was warm – too warm, in fact. Practically flaming at her fingertips, a searing sensation that made her grip constrict around the handle before loosening again. With a sharp inhale, she placed the mirror down, counting in her mind as she took three steps back. She blinked once, then twice, staring at her right hand. Nothing was amiss. Her skin was pale as ever, not reddened from a burn, nor were there any slivers of glass to be found.

Slowly, as if ready to interrogate the object, she took the mirror back in hand. In it, her reflection seemed amused, pressing dainty fingers to her lips to parody stifling a giggle. And behind her reflected self, the tent had transformed. The items behind her had shifted subtly, and the area seemed brighter. More.. alive. The creased pair of leather gloves waved to her, and the deer head.. Well, it certainly wasn’t missing an eye. In fact, it had too many of them, each one blinking out of time with the next. The towering hat boxes trembled and squirmed like they held something living. Her mouth fell open in wordless awe.

This was no mere street performer’s illusion. She knew what this was.

“Magic,” Savina breathed to herself, all as her hand began to burn again. The hot, stabby pins and needles sensation was easier to push aside when she was staring at another realm through broken glass.

Her focus shifted back to her reflection, who was pointing behind her with some force. Compelling her to listen. To follow.

Go, she could hear the whisper of her doppelganger in her mind, like a discordant melody through static. Her lips pursed as she spun around, trying to find what it was that her reflection was so insistent about.

There, just beyond a lopsided display, was a parting of the tent’s curtains. In the same way Fell’s Findings had seemed to appear from thin air, so too had this entryway to somewhere beyond.

“Alright,” Savina pulled the mirror up to her face, staring her reflection in the eye. “I’ll do as you say.” She felt utterly mad, and yet unbelievably invigorated. With the mirror still clutched tight in hand, she pressed forward, shouldering her way through the flaps of the tent with far less grace than she generally conducted herself with. She stumbled headfirst into another.. space. It was a room of candlelight and constellations; the walls were the color of the night sky, stitched through with stars that seemed to twinkle and glimmer much like the real thing. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, though she could find none. And in the middle sat an old woman with a waterfall of silver curls, and eyes that were as golden and sharp as a hawk’s. Savina stilled as she straightened, swallowing and staring far too wide-eyed back at the madam.

“There you are,” Said the crone in a raspy, delighted voice, as if she’d spent all day waiting. “Come, dear. Sit. And put that silly thing down, won’t you?” “Here – here I am?” Savina squeaked, her expression a war between intrigue and uncertainty. The wise woman provided no further context, merely staring at her.

So for a moment longer, all they did was gaze at one another. Until Savina, recalling the woman’s gentle demands, stepped towards the table at the center and sat. She settled the mirror in her lap, leaning forward to hunch over it protectively, and eyed the hand laid out on the surface in invitation.

She’d come this far. So with a deep breath, she reached out and placed her palm in the crone’s.

That wildfire of pain swept through her again the moment they made contact, boiling through her veins as her head fell back. It scalded her bones, like hellfire consuming her whole – far worse this time than it had been before; Savina’s cry echoed along the walls, but the stars only stared down from the makeshift sky, unimpressed. A wall of fire came together from the many burning candles, the flames roaring as they flared into a blue glow. The room was spinning. She couldn’t breathe through the heat and the pain.

“The old world is waking again,” Said the crone, her voice a haunting pitch. The words curled around her like a snake ready to strike. “And you, girl – you’re the rooster’s crow.”

She’d fallen headfirst into a void after that. Like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, she knew not what awaited her on the other side.

“Miss! Say, Miss, are you alright?!”

As if being doused with a pail of frigid water, Savina came to with a harsh, gasping breath. Her limbs felt loose and disjointed, like they weren’t fully connected to her body, and her head spun at a rate that made her nauseous. The flutter of her lashes revealed the cloudy sky above her, its image marred by that of a boy close in age, who was leaning over her with a terrified expression. “What?” Savina croaked, trying to lift her head only to have it drop back down to the cobblestone street with a weak thud.

“You were standing there – standing there talking to yourself, and then you collapsed!”

The old world is waking again, and you’re the rooster’s crow.

It was the only thought drifting through her mind. Those words, endless and haunting, and the electric crackle in her fingertips whenever she clenched her fists. It didn’t hurt anymore, but instead felt like.. Like lightning. Like power.

“Oh.” She was smiling. She could feel it in the ache of her cheeks. It was a true grin, not the one usually painted across her expression, and Savina couldn’t seem to make it go away. She looked to her left and right, searching dizzily for the hand mirror. “Sir, did you – I had a mirror, did you happen to see where it…?”

“Savina!” Her father, usually a man of good humor, had the pallor of terror about him.

Understandably so, of course. One did not lose a child without fearing, at every waking moment, that the reaper would come back for the other. He pushed her bangs back – something that often ruffled her feathers, as it left them misshapen and laying awkwardly – and stared down at her with a frenzied look of concern, trying to gauge her state.

He dropped to her side before she could finish her thought, which only seemed to leave the boy beside them further horrified.

“I’m alright, Papa,” Her voice was still hoarse, but coming back to its normal lilt. “I..” Swallowing, she glanced at the boy over her father’s shoulder – who was still mumbling to himself about a mirror – with a look that said, in no uncertain terms, be quiet. “A dizzy spell came over me again.”

The explanation was believable. It wasn’t uncommon for her to experience such an episode; the best lies always had a bit of the truth weaved into them, she thought, as that made them much easier to be taken as honesty.

“We should get you home,” Said her father, a weary edge to his voice. And so home they’d gone, but they found that the flat was not as they’d left it.

Atop her pillow sat an envelope with a red wax seal, perfectly poured and placed. It was about five years too late, but just as she had not forgotten it, magic seemed to remember her just as well.

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x oc #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy fic #hphl #hogwarts legacy #fic: threnody of the vessel

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