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It was just another day in the Fenwick household. The house fairy, Lily, was busy dusting the shelves. The gnomes were tirelessly weeding the garden and grandfather was sitting in his favourite chair sucking on his transparent pipe. Grandfather was a ghost, but that didn’t stop him from filling the house with the nauseating smell of tobacco.

I was beginning to question my place in this family; I’m not like the rest of them, not at all. My father, for example, was the head of the divination comity; they predicted the weather and the stock market. My mother on the other hand, was a local celebrity of sorts, her wizzle-berry jams and pickle-berry tarts were taking the country by storm, there wasn’t a single being in the magical community that hadn’t heard of her jams.

A black cat strut into the kitchen with its head held high, it eyed me with a look of distinct distaste as it made its way toward the other side of the kitchen table. I sat there munching on a slice of fruit toast, waiting for the questions to begin.

The cat leapt into the chair opposite me and in a shimmer of colours, it ballooned out and transformed into my younger sister Rose. She was ten going on twenty and was under the misguided impression that the world revolved around her.

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