EDITING HARRY POTTER INTO MY CHILDHOOD: eighth-grade historical fiction

This is a one-hundred percent unadultered story I wrote as an eighth-grader, except that I have edited Harry Potter in as the protagonist.

Here are some of the best bits:

Elizabeth, the red-haired seventeen-year-old Harry Potter had to share a bed with, drew in a deep breath, radiating exhaustion and dreams of a place far away from this Lowell Mill, yet Harry Potter just continued to stare at the ceiling that expressed the shoddy craftsmanship of the boarding-room she had to lay in until it was six-thirty in the morning, time to eat the scanty morning meal and get right back to a mindless task similar to the one she'd had the day before, and she gauged that the awakening time was soon by the length of the sunbeams that lapped at her toes.

Harry Potter released her gaze from the spidery lines on the underside of the roof and slowly rolled over to her side, coming to face with the back of Elizabeth's head. Elizabeth's hair was long and a reddish-brown color; a total contrast to Harry Potter's style, which consisted of cutting her own blond hair off in short and choppy hunks ever since the accident that had destroyed the tresses that were once as beautiful as Elizabeth's.

Elizabeth took another large breath, yet this didn't startle Harry Potter one bit, for she was used to the heavy sleep of the pretty girl she considered such a contrast to her seemingly very ugly self, and just inhaled her own long breath, hers being a sigh directed towards the whole world and how it had treated her, a girl who had once had so many hopes.

And Elizabeth was probably Irish, but Harry Potter was too timid to ask, due to the teachings of her parental figure, and was also a bit afraid of what Elizabeth might do if she, Harry Potter the "Englishwoman," experimented with friendship.