A/N: Hey, guys! I was just looking over what I'd posted for this so far and realized I've only posted the first chapter! It's been a good while—so I figured I'd post the next one!

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The Invitation

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No one looked up, or even acknowledged her, when Harriet stepped into the kitchen twenty minutes later. But, of course, Harriet was used to this. She slipped into her seat as Aunt Veruca concentrated very hard on slicing a grapefruit into quarters, red in the cheeks with the effort. Uncle Percival did not look up from behind the morning's Daily Mail.

Dorothy was perched on the chair beside her father as if a royal princess, waiting to be served her breakfast.

Though Dorothy had been soundly embarrassed by her end of year report, she'd met the expectation of weight loss head on. In fact, she'd apparently come home at the end of summer and voiced her desire for the whole family to start a new health regime. It was only later that her aunt and uncle had read the end-of-year report from Dorothy's posh private school. As usual, they'd overlooked the bad grades and all the bullying claims; but the part they hadn't been able to ignore had been the bottom portion.

The school nurse had reported her concern over Dorothy's weight, not due to health worries, but because the school did not stock skirts large enough to span the girl's burgeoning hips and bottom.

It was clear Harriet's cousin had been thoroughly embarrassed by the nurse's expression, but she'd held her head high and had continued to claim, all summer, that it had been her idea in the first place.

Of course, Uncle Percival had thought his daughter's desire to lose weight and start on the track to a 'holistic health journey' as Dorothy called it, brilliant. Aunt Veruca, as well, had cooed over her daughter's genius-ness and ambitions to turn her life around. They'd gladly jumped on the bandwagon, claiming it would be a summer of family bonding.

But Harriet, who honestly could not afford to lose much weight herself, was not happy about the all-inclusive diet. She was already very thin to begin with.

Fortunately, favor seemed to be on Harriet's side; the treats and cakes her friends had been sending her for weeks remained safely concealed beneath the loose floorboard in her bedroom—of which Aunt Veruca, Uncle Percival and cousin Dorothy had no knowledge of.

The moment the first day's meal plan had commenced—green tea and a single slice of peach for breakfast, carrot sticks and a boiled egg for lunch, and bland grilled chicken atop three sprigs of asparagus for dinner—Harriet's stomach had been left snarling and cramping something vicious. She'd sent word of the torture her superiors were subjecting her to, and her loved ones had responded immediately.

Ronnie had penned a long note of sympathy, along with a promise of a lifetime supply of treacle tarts and cauldron cakes.

Herman had promised to send all that he could, which meant parcel after parcel of sugar-free snacks, because both of Herman's parents were dentists.

And Ruby Hagrid, Hogwarts' enormous, matronly tender of the grounds, had sent along an enormous sack full of her homemade rock cakes—which Harriet hadn't touched, for fear of breaking a tooth.

Not to mention the four decadent and elaborate birthday cakes she'd been sent—chocolate from Ruby, strawberry cream from Sienna, carrot spice from Herman, and a towering, massive confection of flavorful masterpiece from Ronnie, who claimed her entire family had gotten involved in the occasion.

In short, Harriet was not without food.

So she couldn't complain when Aunt Veruca set the smallest sliver of grapefruit on her plate. Harriet sipped her tea and swallowed the pulpy, bitter morsel without a word, knowing she'd have herself a feast when she went back upstairs later—unlike her cousin.

At the beginning, Harriet very much thought a summer diet was just what Dorothy needed—if not to whittle her waist down, then to, at the very least, sort out her very overbearing and snotty attitude. It would do Dorothy good, she'd reasoned, to give the massive girl a taste of humility. But as much as Harriet had hoped for her cousin to learn the lesson, it hadn't touched the sphere of Dorothy's vast ego. In fact, every ounce she lost seemed to inflate it even more.

Now, as the little family gathered around the kitchen table for their sad breakfast, the doorbell rang. Uncle Percival immediately regarded the doorway to the entrance hall with beady, disapproving eyes, and Aunt Veruca grunted as she rose from the table—her finished grapefruit in front of her—and lumbered off to get the door.

Harriet tore the rind of her finished piece of fruit into small pieces as she strained her ears to listen in on the conversation occurring at the front door. There was a high note of laughter, and the short, icy response of Aunt Veruca's words. Then the front door closed with more force than Harriet thought entirely necessary, and the shredding sound of a letter being opened.

A moment later, the women came back into the kitchen and took Uncle Percival aside, murmuring quietly and tersely about a bit of purple paper between them. Finally, the tall and rail-thin man turned, his lips set in such grim a line they appeared to have vanished, and there were two bright spots of color in his jutting cheeks. He rubbed the balding spot atop his blond head in an aggravated gesture, his expression almost fearfully incensed.

"I would like to see you in the living room, please," he said to Harriet, the words buzzing through his clenched teeth like a hornet's wrath. "Now."

"What have I—?" Harriet began, bewildered and a bit indignant. But her aunt interrupted almost immediately.

"You will obey your uncle's request, and you will obey it now," she demanded shrilly.

Harriet stood without another word, knowing the consequence was not worth the trouble, and passed her uncle, who followed her into the living room and shut the door sharply behind them.

For a solid minute, Harriet's uncle didn't say a word. He stood, stock still, in front of the unlit fireplace, his hands clutched around a crinkled bit of purple stationary, his black eyes glittering with what Harriet could neither discern as fear or anger. She knew the workings of her little-spoken uncle's mind, and felt it rather more appropriate to wait until he had his thoughts sorted, rather than prodding him in any sort of direction.

She slunk toward the loveseat to wait, admiring the way the early morning sunlight lit on Aunt Veruca's dappled rug, which was in need of a vacuum. No doubt it would be Harriet to take on that chore later today.

"So," Uncle Percival finally spat, but didn't continue on. When Harriet lifted her eyes from the carpet to her uncle's face, she found him watching her shrewdly, as if waiting for a response.

It slipped from her lips before she could stop herself: "So what?"

Uncle Percival's expression immediately morphed into one of outraged indignance, tinged with a hint of disbelief. Harriet immediately regretted her error, and opened her mouth to backtrack, but before she could do so, a tight-lipped grin overtook her uncle's face.

"It just so happens," he said very quietly as he strode toward her, "that a letter arrived this morning—regarding you."

"Me?"

"You."

Harriet only stared at her uncle, wondering who on earth would be writing to her aunt and uncle, by postman, about her. It was entirely unheard of.

Uncle Percival roughly shoved the letter into Harriet's lap, and then stepped back, rocking on his heels as he waited for her to read it.

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Dear Mr. and Mrs. Evans,

Good day, and how do you do? My name is Marcius Prewett. On the obvious note that we have never met, I'd like to formally introduce myself, though I'm willing to bet you've heard many exciting things about my dear youngest daughter, Veronica.

As Harriet might have indulged in you, the Quidditch World Cup final takes place next Monday night, and my wife, Arititha, has recently acquired prime tickets through her connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

I'm writing for permission to take Harriet along to the match, something I know both she and Ronnie will enjoy with exceptional enthusiasm. As everyone who's anyone will know, this event is an undeniable once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain has not hosted the Cup for thirty years and tickets are extremely difficult to acquire.

In addition, we'd be happy to have Harriet stay for the rest of the summer with us, and to see her safely onto the train back to school on September the first.

As one last request, I ask that you have Harriet send her response as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered mail to our house—in fact, I'm quite certain he wouldn't be able to find it, though we live in plain sight.

Anyhow.

Hoping to see Harriet soon,

Cheers,

Marcius Prewett

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Harriet couldn't help laughing when she fished the envelope out from underneath the letter she'd just been holding, and saw that every inch of it was covered with stamps, save for the minimal spot in the center, where Mr. Prewett had scrawled the Evans' address in tiny, almost indecipherable, writing.

"You find that funny, do you?" Uncle Percival spat, "According to your aunt, so did the postman. Wanted to know where the letter was from, that's why he rang the doorbell. Found it simply hilarious."

"Well," Harriet said again, still laughing to herself.

Uncle Percival went very pale. "Well what?" he hissed. "Am I to stand here and listen to more of your tart remarks, young lady? You would do your best to stay on your aunt's and my best side, if you know what's good for you."

Harriet thought of Uncle Percival reporting her backtalk to Aunt Veruca, and knew the woman would find more than enough punishments to replace her time at the Prewetts'.

"N-nothing, Uncle Percival. I'm… Sorry," she stammered. If she behaved well enough, she just might be able to avoid any punishment at all; in fact, she might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. After all, Uncle Percival was, for whatever reason, a little more lenient with Harriet than her aunt ever had been.

"I simply meant to say, well, they… The Prewetts don't usually communicate by Muggle mail, and… and…"

"And?"

"And, well, everyone makes mistakes, don't they?"

Uncle Percival's eyes narrowed into slits as he appraised his niece for one very long moment.

"I didn't mean… To make light of the situation… Obviously, they've gone over the top with it. Obviously it's an embarrassment to you, Uncle Percival, and I sympathize with that… I didn't mean any harm…" She trailed off feebly, noting that her uncle's expression hadn't changed. He continued to glare down into her face, towering over her like a swaying palm tree, blocking out the light. Harriet resisted the urge to glance toward the door, where she knew her aunt would enter if they took much longer to settle this.

Aunt Veruca was a lot less willing to relinquish her control on Harriet than Uncle Percival was.

Still, as the clock over the mantelpiece became the loudest thing in the room, Harriet didn't dare speak. She could see the consternation on her uncle's face, and didn't know whether saying a word would sway his decision one way or the other.

Finally, his hand extended so quickly that Harriet started, wondering for a split second if he was going to strike her. He pointed at the mauve-shaded page.

"Who is he?"

"Marcius?"

"Hm."

"He's, um… Aunt Veruca's met him; well, maybe not met him, but she's seen him… He's my friend Ronnie's father, he met her with his wife off the Hog—off the school train last term…"

Uncle Percival turned his head toward the door and called for his wife, making Harriet cringe. She hadn't meant to mention her name, it had only come out as an accident.

Aunt Veruca strode into the living room a moment later and read the letter for herself, her lips pursing, and her expression tightening as though she'd tasted something disgusting as her beady eyes roamed the letter's words.

"Do you know who he is, dear?" Uncle Percival said when she'd finished and, to Harriet's disappointment, slid the letter into the front pocket of her apron.

Aunt Veruca turned to Harriet. "Dumpy sort of domestic looking person?" she clarified, "Load of children with red hair?"

Harriet felt the flicker of a frown turn her lips, but knew Aunt Veruca would be even less tolerant of her 'backtalk' than Uncle Percival had been.

"Yes," she answered, a little stiffly.

Aunt Veruca didn't seem to hear her niece's tone. She was muttering under her breath about stay-at-home husbands, and how backward and appalling it was, as she skimmed the letter again.

"What is this Quidditch rubbish?" she finally demanded.

A stab of hot annoyance lanced through Harriet's chest, heating the place behind her sternum. "It's not rubbish," she retorted shortly, "It's a sport, played on broom—"

"Yes, yes, that's enough!" Aunt Veruca cried, waving her free hand frantically in the air, as if to wave away an obnoxious odor or something of equally vile effect. But Harriet saw the panic in her aunt's eyes, and knew it wasn't just disgust that kept any mention of any variation of magic out of her house.

She retreated behind the letter again as Uncle Percival continued to glare daggers at Harriet.

A moment later, Aunt Veruca's faced popped up from behind the paper again, nearly as purple as it. "What does he mean, the normal way?"

"Like… The opposite of snail mail, I guess. Owl mail."

"Owl mail?" she spat, and Harriet didn't know if her aunt's expression was clueless or appalled.

"That way's normal for us witches." She hadn't been able to resist, and despite the possible consequence, Harriet felt an amused smirk pull at the edge of her lips in response to her aunt's expression.

Aunt Veruca's lips pursed, and it appeared as if she might explode. Harriet was abruptly reminded of the summer before, when her aunt's brother Marvin had done the same thing. But then, that had been Harriet's doing.

"Don't you mention those filthy creatures to me, let alone under my roof!" Aunt Veruca was now shaking with rage, her face a worrying shade of magenta, veins spider-webbing through her temples.

"I only—"

"You dare speak so daringly, while you sit there in the clothes your Uncle Percival has worked so hard to put on your scrawny, unappreciative back—"

"After Dorothy tossed them away," Harriet retorted waspishly, narrowing her eyes at her advancing aunt, unable to resist any longer. The anger had swept over her with an unexpected swiftness. They had the audacity to act as if they'd done Harriet even a single favor—while she slept on a lumpy mattress only recently acquired—probably from the landfill—compared to the mat under the stairs she'd slept on for the first ten years of her life, while they practically starved her, while she drowned in the hand-me-down tents her cousin called clothes…

"You will not speak to us like that!"

Harriet let her jaw lift a fraction in defiance. Very badly, she would have liked to challenge her aunt. While she wasn't particularly looking forward to the punishments she would surely be doled, Harriet had simply had enough. She had lived under her aunt and uncle's absurdly discriminatory hands for long enough—and if there was one thing she knew, it was that she'd always found a way to supersede their flimsy attempts at confinement.

She was already 'cheating' on Dorothy's diet—and she wasn't going to let Aunt Veruca stop her going to the Quidditch World Cup—not if she could help it. As Marcius had said, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Knowing she'd find herself at the match somehow helped to cool some of the anger heating Harriet's face. She allowed the realization that she'd be with her best friends soon enough to fill her, to calm her. She took a deep breath. "Fine, then," she said coolly, "It's decided that I can't see the World Cup. Can I go back to my room now, then? I've got a letter to Sienna I want to finish. You know—my godmother."

Just as quickly as her aunt's face had gone beet-red, it went white as parchment. Beside his short and plump wife, Uncle Percival made a strange balking noise.

"So… So you're writing to her, then?" he piped up, trying to make his tone unflinching and brave, but Harriet saw the fear constrict her uncle's pupils, and knew that the mention of her would-be serial killer godmother rooted him to the spot. Harriet was very pleased with herself that she'd casually failed to mention that Sienna had, in fact, been innocent the entire time.

"Yes, I am," Harriet said, lifting her chin a little more, daring them to forbid her. "It's been awhile since she's heard from me, and, well, if she doesn't, she might start worrying that something's wrong…" She let her tone trail off, injecting a note of fretfulness into her words, knowing it would goad her aunt and uncle on.

She knew, in their minds, that if they tried to stop Harriet from writing to Sienna, her godmother would begin to worry that Harriet was being mistreated. Aunt Veruca and Uncle Percival weren't the brightest bulbs in the fixture, but they were smart enough to suspect that Harriet would tell Sienna all about not being allowed to attend the World Cup, and then she'd know for certain that Harriet was being oppressed…

Harriet watched the contemplations and anxieties pass behind her aunt and uncle's eyes as if wipers across a window screen, and after a moment, she saw the resolve form in their faces, almost simultaneously, and suppressed her pleased smirk.

They turned away from her, whispering tersely under their breaths, and Harriet struggled to compose her facial features as they turned back to her.

"Fine, then," Percival said, "Your aunt and I have decided that you may attend this… this… sporting event…"

"You write and tell these Prewetts that they are to pick you up, mind," Aunt Veruca interjected. "We haven't got time to go traipsing all over the country."

"And you may spend the remainder of your holidays there," Uncle Percival continued serenely. "And you can tell… tell…"

"Sienna," Harriet prompted haughtily, no longer trying to disguise her smirk.

"Yes—her. Tell her you'll be going."

Harriet grinned broadly. "I will. Thank you very much!"

She stood and exited the living room, her steps lightened by the news, and by the prospect of seeing Ronnie and Herman again. It had been more than two months since she'd seen them, after all. And she was going to get to see, not only a real-live professional Quidditch match, but the World Cup, no less!

"Oh!" she said sunnily as she nearly stumbled right into Dorothy, who had been hovering just outside the door. It was clear she'd been hoping to overhear the conversation, though Harriet didn't think Dorothy had expected it to turn out this way. She looked utterly shocked by the bright disposition of Harriet's expression. "Hey, Dory," Harriet continued as she side-stepped her whale of a cousin. "Marvelous morning, delicious breakfast—wasn't it? Very filling—I couldn't eat another bite! Could you?"

A light, trilling laugh escaped Harriet—something she'd been unable to see reason to let loose in quite some time—as she processed Dorothy's baffled expression, and bounded back upstairs to her room.

"Oh, hello, Hedwig!" she continued to trill, when she saw that the elegant snowy owl had returned. She was perched on the stand in her cage, appraising Harriet with cool amber eyes and clicking her beak in a familiar way where Harriet knew she was annoyed with something.

"Oh, you," she began to croon, reaching out to stroke the owl's feathery head, but was abruptly interrupted by a fluffy—but still rather hard—blow to the head.

Reflexively, Harriet glanced toward her bedroom doorway, expecting Dorothy to have thrown something at her, but the entryway was empty.

"What—?" she began to say, but just then something soared past her ear, so close it whistled, ruffling her hair.

She whirled around, catching and following its course of trajectory, and her eyes fell upon a very small ball of grey feathers, which was whizzing around her bedroom rather like a rocket gone awry. It twittered and hooted excitedly, but even with its speed and tendency not to sit still, Harriet could see there was no letter attached to the diminutive bird's leg.

She searched the floor, and immediately upon lowering her gaze, she saw the letter that the owl had dropped at her feet. She stooped down and unrolled the small bit of parchment. Inside was one of Ronnie's shortest notes ever.

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Harriet—MUM GOT THE TICKETS! Eeeeee!. Ireland vs. Bulgaria, Monday night! Dad's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway.

We're coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you CAN'T miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at 5 on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come get you at 5 on Sunday.

Herman gets here this afternoon, and Pippa's started work—the Dept. of International Magical Co-Op. Don't mention about Abroad while you're here—she talks for HOURS.

See you soon!

xoxo, Ronnie

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Harriet's gaze lingered on the word Pig. Ronnie had written it twice, so she couldn't have misinterpreted her friend's writing. But Harriet had never seen anything so opposite of slovenliness. The little owl was still flying around the room, and despite Harriet's annoyance when she failed to catch the little thing so she could write her response, she had to admit—Pig was very cute.

"Come 'ere, little guy!" she pleaded as it ruffled her hair again, "Come on—calm down for just a sec! Do you want a treat?"

The little owl landed atop Hedwig's cage for just an instant—the bigger foul looked up at it coldly—and then Pig took off again.

Harriet shook her head, smiling to herself at the bird's obvious pride and excitement at delivering its letter, and seized another piece of parchment and her quill.

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Ronnie,

To both your disbelief and mine, my aunt and uncle said I can come! Double eee! See you at 5 tomorrow—can't wait!

Harriet

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She rolled the letter into the slimmest cylinder possible, and then, with much more difficulty than that had taken, chased Pig around the room, finally catching him in the corner—wasn't she Gryffindor Seeker? She swore catching Pig was a more difficult feat than capturing the Golden Snitch! She managed to bribe it with a drink from Hedwig's water dish—of which she did not approve—while she tied it to the tiny owl's leg. Still, as it drank, it managed to vibrate, which did not make Harriet's job easier.

She'd barely finished when the owl took off again, leaving a feather behind in its haste. Harriet watched it fly out of her window and out of sight.

When it was gone, she turned to Hedwig, reaching out to stroke her beak. The owl looked much more contented now that the tiny firework was gone.

"Feeling up to a long journey?"

Hedwig hooted, a small, venerable sound.

"I'm sorry," she said as she stroked her beak again, "I know you've just returned. Can you take this to Sienna for me?" As she spoke, she was bent over her desk, unrolling the bottom part of the letter so she could add a postscript describing where she'd be for the rest of the summer. When she was finished, she tied it to Hedwig's leg. "I'll be at Ronnie's when you get back, all right? So go straight there. Don't come back here."

For a minute, the owl stared at her, as if processing her words. Then she nipped Harriet's ear affectionately before spreading her great wings and swooshing gracefully out through the window.

Harriet watched one of her closest friends disappear from sight, and then retrieved a hefty piece of birthday cake from the loose floorboard under her bed. She sat on the sill of the window while she savored it, along with everything else she'd been lucky enough to receive today—her aunt and uncle's permission to stay with Ronnie for the rest of the summer, the fact that all Dorothy had had for breakfast was a measly slice of grapefruit while she got cake, the fact that the sky above was a glamorous and unceasing stretch of cerulean, not a cloud in sight. Her scar was perfectly unnoticeable now, and on Monday, she'd be attending her first Quidditch match. All felt right in the world.