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|Harriett Potter : The Wizard Wonder Tale (standard:fairy tales, 3328 words)|
|Author: Lady MacKenzie||Added: Sep 26 2000||Views/Reads: 2228/1255||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Long lost sister of Harry Potter (and a long line of wizards), Harriett Potter is determined to prove that she too is a wizard with special powers.|
Chapter One The McRode’s The McRode’s had lived in number nine, Edlinton Street, for as long as they could remember. Mr. McRode had bought it when he went to live on his own. The moment he first saw it, he loved it. It wasn’t the dream house that most people envisioned, but instead it hadn’t been maintained properly. The roof had fallen apart, shingles hung loosely, those of which dangled just over the rain-clattered gutters. Most of the paint from the side of the house had chipped off, and left only moldy, grimy boards, rotting in the noonday sun. Regardless of the house’s condition, Mr. McRode had bought it on the spot and imagined that someday he’d fix it up. He stayed true to the promise he had made to himself. Today the house was his dream. The slate roof was in place, the gutters were positioned to perfection, and he had made sure that the house was re-painted on a regular basis. Mr. Ralph McRode worked at a lawn care service, mowing lawns for fellow neighbors. He was a tall, rather slim man with sandy blond hair, falling just over his left eye. Usually he was too busy even to take the time to brush the hair out of his eyes, that of which were bluer than the sea. His feet were rather large, and being so clumsy he tripped over them quite often. He had a kind-heart most of the time, unless he was mowing the lawn of Mr. Sampson, an old brute whom he had never been too fond. Mr. McRode was a child at heart because he never really grew up to except being an adult. He always wanted to stay a kid forever. Mrs. McRode on the other hand, was brought up to be very proper. Her mannerisms were like that of her mother, who was also very prim and proper. She usually tied her light reddish hair back in a tight bun, so as not to interfere with daily chores around the house and cooking. She spent most of her time cleaning constantly. Very rarely was she seen out of the house for longer than an hour. With her fair skin, the sun could do damage in just minutes. Besides, going outside meant risking turning her style into total disarray. Sometimes Mr. McRode wondered whether she was eating or whether she was too busy completing unnecessary chores and didn’t have the time to eat. Over the past few months, Mrs. McRode had grown weary, her cheekbones slightly sunken, and her face shallow. Her olive complexion became grayer, and Mr. McRode became more worried. On this Wednesday, Mr. McRode awoke to the sound of the shower, the water slamming against the soap-covered glass door. Evidently she had decided to get up early to shower, seeing as it was just beginning to get daylight out. His eyelids fluttered. He wondered if mowing lawns today was going to be just as tedious as it was yesterday, when the temperature was well above ninety degrees. He just dreaded those days where the hot sun would beat down on the top of his head, which was steadily losing hair each day. He heard the shower door slam open and glared at the light pouring out from the bathroom. He watched his wife’s shadow, anticipating her every move. These past twenty years of being married, he had learned her every move, mannerism, and flaw. While watching Mrs. McRode, he regretted to see the owl that had just swooped past the bedroom window, fluttering lightly in the wind. It sped away, its wings spread to wingspan before he had a chance to see it. Putting on his slippers and bathrobe, Mr. McRode got up quietly, so as not to let his wife hear him. He wanted to get downstairs to get his breakfast without her being there to tell him how not to make a mess. He approached the stairs, but looked back as the bedroom light was flicked on, now slightly illuminating his feet. He crouched, so as not to be seen, and crept silently yet down the stairs and into the kitchen. He felt a chill, and looked around searching for a culprit. He looked towards the window by the dining room table and watched the curtains sway in the wind gushing in through the open window. He hurried over, shutting it with a bang, shivering in his terry cloth bathrobe, stumbling over his feet a little. After shutting the window, he shuffled back into the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator peering in, hoping to find something worth eating. Just before he could grab the red, ripe apple on the bottom shelf, he heard a yawn from behind him. It was Skye, his daughter. She looked so beautiful standing there in the doorway; her gleaming green eyes still filled with visions of sleep. Mr. McRode smiled proudly as she strode past him, her flannel pajamas clinging to her Click here to read the rest of this story (259 more lines)
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