Henry Blunder and The Sorcerer's Sock
Written by HaremKing777
*Disclaimer* The following series is based on the best selling novel and movie series called, Harry Potter. Henry Blunder is a parody of said work and is therefore protected under copyright law.
©2024-2025
Chapter I
The Obligatory Opening
Narrator:
"Once upon a time, in a town more boring than watching paint dry, lived Henry Blunder. He wasn't destined for greatness, wasn't marked by prophecy, and certainly wasn't the 'Chosen One.' No, Henry's life was ordinary, which is to say, it was a complete and utter snoozefest. Lucky for us, things are about to get... slightly less dull. Though I'd still rather be elsewhere."
Henry Blunder lived in Dreary Hills, a town so unremarkable that even the clouds avoided it. His home was at 13 Gray Pebble Lane, a street named with about as much creativity as a slice of bread. It was a neighborhood where nothing happened, except for the occasional gossip from the nosy neighbors who had nothing better to do than peek through their curtains.
Take Mrs. Crabapple and Mr. Snootington, for instance. If you so much as sneezed in your garden, they'd pop out from behind their blinds like meerkats, squinting through their windows, waiting for something interesting. Sadly for them, the most exciting thing that had ever happened on Gray Pebble Lane was the time Henry dropped a carton of eggs in the driveway. They watched that event like it was the finale of a gripping TV drama.
Henry's life was, in every sense of the word, dull. He woke up every morning, trudged to school, endured hours of being ignored or mocked, came home, and repeated the process the next day.
Today was no different. He sat at the kitchen table, staring down at his bowl of cereal as if it might suddenly become interesting. Across from him, his older brother, Clive, was basking in the glow of his own self-importance. Clive was everything Henry wasn't: popular, athletic, and obnoxiously confident. And if Clive wasn't reminding Henry how much better he was, their parents made sure to do it for him.
As Henry shoveled a spoonful of soggy cereal into his mouth, he could hear his mum gushing over Clive's latest triumph.
"Top marks again, Mum," Clive said, puffing out his chest. "I'm basically the best at everything."
"That's my brilliant boy!" Mum cooed, her face practically glowing with pride. "You're going places, Clive."
Henry looked down at his cereal again, stirring it aimlessly. He was going nowhere. Nowhere fast.
Narrator:
"Henry's life was as exciting as a brick, and as fulfilling as a glass of lukewarm water. His family? Well, they made sure he knew just how average he was. And by average, I mean completely invisible, unless he was causing trouble. Which, naturally, brings us to today's highlight: Henry staring out a window."
That night, after another long day of being overshadowed by Clive, Henry sat at his bedroom window, staring blankly at the quiet street below. It was just as lifeless as ever. But then, something strange happened.
A sleek black cat sauntered across the street, pausing directly in front of his window. It was a perfectly ordinary cat, except for one small detail.
The cat looked up at Henry, its eyes narrowing in annoyance.
"What are you looking at?" it said in a low, irritated voice.
Henry blinked. Had the cat just... talked?
He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the cat was gone, as if it had never been there at all.
Henry sat frozen, his mind trying to process what had just happened. He must have imagined it. There was no way a cat had actually spoken to him. Talking cats weren't real. Right?
But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, Henry couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was lurking just beneath the surface of his boring life.
Narrator (mocking):
"Ah yes, the classic talking cat. Nothing odd about that at all. Moving on."
Henry shook his head and flopped down onto his bed. Maybe he just needed sleep. Tomorrow would be another day of the same old routine, after all. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for maybe more of Clive's bragging. With a final glance at the now-empty street outside his window, Henry pulled the covers over his head, trying to forget about the strange cat.
But something told him that forgetting wouldn't be so easy.
Tomorrow, things were about to get a lot more interesting. Whether Henry liked it or not.
Henry trudged upstairs, his feet dragging against the worn carpet as he ascended from his bedroom to the kitchen. It was another dull morning, just like every other morning in his boring life. The house, located at 13 Gray Pebble Lane, sat in Dreary Hills, where the excitement level on any given day hovered somewhere between zero and "why bother?" The Blunder family's life was as monotonous as the gray sky hanging over their quiet street.
As Henry reached the first floor, the familiar sounds of his older brother Clive's voice filled the kitchen. Clive was in his usual spot at the table, grinning smugly as he dug into a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, and toast. Meanwhile, Henry's parents fluttered around, paying Clive all the attention while completely ignoring their younger son's existence.
Narrator (dryly):
"Ah, breakfast at the Blunders. Where one child is worshipped like a god, and the other... well, Henry's lucky if they remember to feed him."
Henry sat down at the far end of the table, staring at the soggy oatmeal that had been unceremoniously plopped into a chipped bowl in front of him. Across the table, Clive continued his obnoxious gloating.
"Top marks again, Dad," Clive said, between mouthfuls of food. "My teachers basically said I'm a natural leader. They were practically begging me to take on more responsibility."
Dad grunted from behind his newspaper, giving an approving nod. "Good boy, Clive. Keep it up. You're going places."
Henry stirred his oatmeal, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He wasn't sure why it still bothered him, this was the routine, after all. Clive bragged, Mum and Dad fawned over him, and Henry was ignored. Just another day in the life of Henry Blunder.
But today, something inside him snapped.
"Hey, Henry," Clive said, looking up from his plate with a wicked grin. "How's that oatmeal? Bet it's just as bland as your personality."
Henry's grip tightened on his spoon. Clive snickered, clearly enjoying himself. Mum and Dad, predictably, said nothing. They never did when Clive was involved.
"Well?" Clive leaned forward, smirking. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too thick to respond?"
Henry felt his face flush, the frustration building inside him. He could feel something strange stirring within, a sensation he couldn't quite place. The spoon in his hand began to vibrate.
Before he could stop it, the spoon shot out of his hand like a rocket, zipping across the table and smacking Clive directly in the face. The force of the impact knocked Clive backward in his chair, sending him crashing to the floor with a yelp. Food splattered everywhere, covering the table and walls.
"Henry!" Mum shrieked, jumping back in shock. "What on earth have you done?!"
Clive, sprawled out on the floor, sputtered in disbelief as he tried to sit up. "What the, Mum! Dad! Henry's gone mental!"
But it didn't end there. As Clive struggled to his feet, his body suddenly began to rise, floating, as if some unseen force had taken hold of him. His eyes widened in panic as he hovered a few feet above the ground, flailing helplessly. Then, to make matters worse, the syrup that had spilled on the floor floated up too, wrapping around Clive like sticky tendrils. With a splat, Clive slammed into the ceiling, where he stuck, wriggling and yelling in pure outrage.
"What's happening?!" Clive shrieked, his arms flapping like a bird trying to escape a glue trap. Syrup dripped down onto the floor as Clive tried, and failed, to pull himself free.
Mum rushed over, her face a mixture of horror and confusion. "Clive! Get down from there!" She grabbed a broom and started poking at him, as if knocking him loose was a viable option.
Dad slammed his newspaper down, standing up from the table with fury in his eyes. "Henry! What have you done?!"
"I, I don't know!" Henry stammered, looking around in disbelief as the plates and glasses on the table began to levitate. "It wasn't me!"
Narrator (gleeful):
"Ah yes, clearly Henry has developed telekinetic abilities purely out of spite. Or, and hear me out, something magical might be happening. But let's not jump to conclusions, shall we?"
The kitchen descended into chaos. Food floated through the air like confetti at a disastrous parade, while Clive remained glued to the ceiling, kicking and shouting. Mum was now shrieking as she frantically waved the broom, trying to dislodge her precious boy, while Dad stomped toward Henry, red-faced and shouting.
"Go to your room!" Dad barked, pointing furiously toward the door. "Now!"
Henry didn't argue. He scrambled out of the kitchen, dodging a floating pancake on his way out. His heart raced as he hurried down the stairs, not to the first floor where his bedroom should have been, but to the cold, dark basement.
Henry's room, if you could even call it that, was in the basement. The walls were lined with moldy bricks, and the air was damp and musty. His mattress lay on the floor in the corner, sagging and covered by an old comforter riddled with holes. His only companions were the cobwebs that collected in the corners and a few discarded toys that Clive had long since outgrown.
He sat down on the edge of his mattress, his heart still pounding from the chaos upstairs. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? One minute he was just trying to eat his oatmeal, and the next... well, Clive was stuck to the ceiling, and he'd been banished to the basement, again.
Narrator (with mock sympathy):
"Ah, the basement. Every child's dream room. Cold, moldy, and full of discarded junk. Child Protective Services should be knocking on the door any moment now."
Henry lay back on the mattress, staring up at the low, cracked ceiling. The distant sound of his parents still shouting at each other echoed down through the floorboards. He wished, more than anything, that things could be different. That he wasn't stuck in this miserable house, constantly overshadowed by Clive. That something exciting, anything, would happen to him for once.
But it wasn't like his wishes had ever come true before.
Just as Henry was about to close his eyes and give up on the day entirely, he heard a faint rustling sound. He sat up, looking around. At first, he thought he was imagining things, but then, there it was again. The rustling was coming from the far corner of the basement.
Henry hesitated, then got up and cautiously made his way toward the source of the sound. There, sitting on the old, dusty workbench, was something he never expected to see.
A letter.
It was a thick envelope, made of creamy parchment, with his name written in an elegant, swirling script that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.
Narrator (mock surprise):
"Oh look, a letter. Mysterious, shimmering, and clearly important. I'm sure it's just junk mail. Or maybe... it's the start of something magical. But let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Henry picked up the letter, turning it over in his hands. His heart raced as he stared at the envelope, not sure what to make of it. But one thing was certain, this wasn't like any mail he'd ever received before. And whatever it was, it was meant for him.
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