Proud Hufflepuff. Class Clown. Muggle Background. Chocolate Lover. Looking for friends and a possible Potions tutor. Owl for rp.

  • Joined October 2020
  • Member of Hufflepuff
  • 430 House Points
  • 1st Year
  • United Kingdom


Everyone has a story, a tale that needs to be told. For most people, their story is a happy one filled with love and families. But for others, they are not as lucky.

I don't remember a family. I don't remember parents or siblings or even that perfect little house with the white pocket fence. My story started when I was wrapped in swaddling and given to the nuns at St. Mary's convent. The couple did not leave a forwarding with the sisters in the rather long letter they had left with me. Which is fine, I guess.. I mean, they could've left me somewhere else where a baby wouldn't have stood a chance. They gave me a chance of life, and in a way, I'm kinda grateful for that.

My childhood consisted of Bible studies, silent prayer and helping the sisters in the garden. It could've been worse, although I didn't have much of a green finger. I always joked that I wouldn't be able to keep a fake plant alive, that if I had been left in charge of the garden of Eden there wouldn't have been anything for the Devil to tempt Eve to eat. The sisters, well they didn't fully appreciate my humour and my jokes. Oh, and who can forget the Sunday services? The hours spent in the cold Chapel, where the priest would just drone on and on, and would never pay attention to me when I raised my hand with a question. Apparently, you can't ask questions during mass.

When I was 11, I got my 'owl' and my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Am I the only person who sees the funny side of that? A 'good little Catholic girl' turns out to be a witch? At first, I thought it was some kind of joke, that maybe the sisters had a sense of humour after all. I mean, if Jesus could turn water into wine then anything was possible, right? Well, it turned out that Mother Superior had been keeping a secret from me for the past 11 years. It wasn't one of those small secrets like I had been adopted, I already knew that, no shock there. Apparently, magic ran through my blood. My biological parents, or the birth givers as I sometimes referred to them as, had been a witch and a wizard. It had all been explained in the long letter that had been left with me. The usual 'I wouldn't be safe if I had stayed with them' blah blah blah, something about wars. Mother Superior had always been this old woman with a stick up her butt attitude and hadn't been afraid to send me to bed without dinner when I had misbehaved, so it was a bit of a shock to hear her being calm about all of this! Kudos to the woman!

And so, I was sent to Hogwarts to start my magical education, armed with a trunkful of books that I never really intended to read. A part of me had always known that the convent was never really my destiny. Constantly questioning the bible and its teachings should've been a huge giveaway. Perhaps, Hogwarts could teach me about who I really am, and give me a clue about who the birth givers really are?
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