PRAETERITUS - 𝕊𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕦𝕤 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕤 𝔻𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕣

0 - The beginning

A/N - Hey Guys! Welcome to my new book! Sorry the writing is awful at the beginning; I'm trying to give as much background as possible in a short time!

꧁•⊹٭𝟶 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐٭⊹•꧂

Hogwarts never made mistakes. But that's exactly what Olivia Black was; Hogwarts' mistake. Their dirty little secret. Because Olivia hadn't shown up in Hogwarts' records. No. Her 11th birthday had been like all the others. No magical owls bringing magical letters to save her from her wretched existence. Just the same dreary day under the same dreary roof, dealing with the same foster parents that seemed to hate her more with each passing year.

Olivia had always known she was different. Her parents never ceased in telling her so. She was a freak, unnatural, and on particularly bad days a spawn of the devil. It wasn't like she could help it; it seemed as though weird things just happened to her. Like when she was 9, and a girl that had been bullying her had somehow ended up on the school roof.

Yet when she was 11 something changed. On one of her frequent trips to the library, Olivia had found an unusual book. The title had first caught her eye: Theory of Magical Creation. She picked it up, believing it to be a fantasy novel she could tear into, but the reality was even better.

The book was thick, and bound by weathered brown covers with curling gold cursive. As soon as she had picked it up she knew it was different. The yellowing pages were packed with strange details on making your own spells and potions, an idea that seemed ludicrous to Olivia. But with nothing else to do in her miserable house she had soon read it cover to cover.

Most of it felt like nonsense to her, especially the complex explanations of why creation worked that she could hardly understand, but with nothing else to pass the time she decided to have some fun with it. She started with spells, as the potion section cited ingredients she had never heard before and swore didn't exist. She had even tried asking for shrivelfig in her local grocers, but was met with a concerned look from the shopkeeper before she hightailed it out of there.

The book had said that beginners would require a medium to make spells, the usual choice being a wand. It had also said that spells could be stored within objects. Not knowing where she would find a wand, Olivia decided on the second choice, but had no clue what medium to use. 

It was by a stroke of luck that Olivia came across the perfect thing. She'd gotten lost in the backstreets of the city centre when she had stumbled across a run down shop that claimed to sell everything a witch could need, complete with a pentagram logo.

When she'd walked in she was greeted by an overwhelming smell of incense, and an overly witchy looking lady attempting to sell her bunches of sage. While she was sure most of it was a hoax, she found the perfect medium to use: crystals.

The first spell she had ever made was a healing spell. She'd had a black eye and spit lip from an eventful run in with her parents - another child at school had claimed Olivia had made their shoes disappear, but by what means, Olivia had no idea. She had decided to make the spell slow releasing, so that it would only accelerate her healing as to not arise the suspicions of her parents.

Still convinced it wouldn't work, Olivia had waited until her parents had left for work, before starting the process by cleansing the rose quartz. Then, feeling silly, she held her hands over the rock while concentrating on her intentions, and reliving the memory of how it had happened. Overtaken by anger and self-loathing, she had almost missed the warm, tingling feeling in her hands. 

She cracked her eyes open to see something swirling around her hands. It was almost invisible, like mist with a slightly golden sheen. Her hands felt warm, yet the mist had felt cold, like water freshly evaporated from the ground. It settled into the crystal, making it shine ever so slightly more than before.

Over the passing days, Olivia found the spell must have worked. She had completely healed within 3 days from an injury that would usually take at least double that. So she read the book again. And again. And again. Until it felt as though the words were engraved into her brain.

Fascinated, she continued to explore her capabilities, honing her skills and experimenting with mediums. She had found she could imbue crystal bracelets with spells, so that she could wear them and continually benefit from their effects. 

She even built the courage to attempt making potions. After a few awkward encounters with confused cashiers, she tried using household ingredients, and found success. It seemed when making your own potions the ingredients did not have to be whimsical, as long as they made sense. 

It was a difficult and tiring science, which required creativity to choose the components, but Olivia enjoyed the struggle. It was a trial and error of picking the right ingredients, which tended to be mainly herbs, in the right ratios. Turns out, different herbs had different meanings so were powerful potion ingredients.

By 15, Olivia had become quite the expert. She could cast a few simple spells without a medium, and often even made correct potions on the first try. Perhaps this was why it was then that Hogwarts decided to come for her.

The day had started like any other; a shouting match with her father leading to a bloody nose, and Olivia storming out of the house. With no where else to go, she trekked to the local abandoned park, where she sat on the roundabout with a fresh pack of cigarettes.

Lighting up a new one, she revelled in the burn of the smoke clawing into her lungs. She liked to picture it, grey and rancid, filling her lungs and turning them black, slowly suffocating her. 

She picked at the now dried blood streaking from her nose, looking blandly at the bright red flakes on her fingers. He was a dick. She hated him. She hated both of them. But there was nothing she could do about it; she had to live with them. But she would never submit to them. She would rather be struck a hundred times over before complying to their demands and playing their perfect child. The broken foster kid that they had been generous enough to home. She would rather die.

The cigarette burned down to her fingers, and she watched as they reddened with the burn before the ash painted them black. She ground the smoking stub into the tarmac, the rough surface scratching her singed fingers. If only she could stay here. Sighing, she stuffed the packet into the pocket of her leather jacket, and pulled herself up.

She walked the longest way home, so that the corners of the sky began to deepen and the sun sank to the ground. Pushing the key in the door, she shoved it open, huffing and she kicked her shoes off and started into the kitchen, where she froze at the sight.

There, around the table, her parents sat with an old man. All three looked up at her upon her entrance, their faces painted with varying expressions. Her father was red with fury, looking as though his blood might boil over. Her mother seemed close to tears, and was shaking her head with her hand clutched to her chest. And the man, he simply looked at Olivia with curiosity, and something else she couldn't name. Olivia narrowed her eyes at the strange man, who had a long silvery beard, pulled into a loose ponytail.

"Hello Olivia. My name is Albus Dumbledore."

꧁•⊹·ﾟ:*༺♥༻*:･ﾟ⊹•꧂