The Dursleys were already seated when Megan went downstairs the next morning, sitting in front of the latest plasma screen, a homecoming present for Nathalie. None of them gave her the slightest notice, of course but she had grown used to it. Megan took a piece of toast and sat down. The Dursleys were watching the news (well, except Nathalie who was touching up her make-up as she did all day long).

“... The public is warned that Black is highly dangerous. A hotline has been set up, and any sightings should be reported immediately.”

“No need to tell us he's riff-raff, look at that hair!” Vernon growled.

Megan had always had trouble disciplining her hair, but compared to the escapee's, which hung loosely about him at shoulder length, her worst days were nothing.

“The ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries announces today that-”

“Hey, wait a minute! That idiot didn't tell us where he escaped from!”

Petunia craned her thin neck out the window, as though expecting the convict to come up their street right then and there. Megan was pretty sure nothing would please her more than to call the hotline.

“Hanging. That's the only way to deal with those low lives.” Vernon said before glancing at the clock on the wall. “I had better get going, Petunia, Marge's train gets in at ten, and we don't want her waiting.”

Megan, who had been thinking happily about her Broomstick Servicing Kit, snapped back to reality with an unpleasant jolt.

“Aunt Marge? She's not coming here?”

Marge was Vernon's sister. Since they weren't related by blood to Megan, she wasn't really her aunt, but Vernon insisted she called her aunt. Marge lived in the country where she bred bulldogs. She seldom stayed in Privet Drive, complaining she couldn't bear to leave her dogs, but none of her visits had been pleasant in Megan's eyes. When Nathalie had turned five, Aunt Marge had tripped Megan up to stop her winning against Nathalie at musical chairs. A few years later, she had come at Christmas with an expensive make-up kit for Nathalie, and a hairpin for Megan. The last visit had been the year before Megan had started at Hogwarts. She had accidentally trodden on the tail of Marge's favourite dog, Ripper, who had chased Megan outside. She had stayed stuck up a tree until past midnight before Marge called Ripper away. Nathalie still laughed herself hoarse at the memory.

“Marge will be here for a week,” Vernon said. “And while we're on the subject, we need to settle a few things before I go.”

Nathalie smirked and turned to look at them.

“First,” Vernon said. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in her presence.”

“I will if she does.” Megan said coldly.

“Second,” Vernon said, ignoring her. “She doesn't know about your abnormality, and we're going to keep it that way. You behave.”

“I will, as long as she does,” Megan retorted.

“And third,” he went on, “we've told her you attend St Bertha's Correctional Centre for Criminal Youths.”

“What?” Megan shouted, outraged. “I'm not a criminal!”

“And you're going to stick to that story, or there'll be trouble.”

Megan stayed silent, too shocked to speak. She couldn't believe it. Marge was coming, and she was supposed to be going to a criminal rehabilitation center or whatever that place was supposed to be... it was going to be a very, very long week.

“Well, I'll head out, Petunia,” Vernon said. “Want to come along, Natsy?”

“No, the Young and Restless will be on in a minute”, she said.

Vernon turned to the hallway. Megan just then suddenly got an idea. She hurried out after him.

“Uncle Vernon?”

“What? I'm not taking you.” He said.

“Like I wanted to come...” Megan rolled her eyes. “I'll see her soon enough as it is. No, I want to ask you something.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Third years in my school get to visit the village, sometimes...” she said.

“So?” snapped Vernon as he unhooked the keys.

“So, I need you to sign the permission form...” Megan said.

“And why would I do that?” Vernon asked.

“Well...” Megan said. “It's not going to be easy... remembering that I go to St Whatsits...”

“St Bertha's Correctional Centre for Criminal Youths,” Vernon snapped, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Exactly. It's a lot to remember. And I'll have to make it sound convincing. What if I were to let something slip?”

She was pleased to see he was clearly nervous.

“Knocking the stuffing out is what you'll get if that happens!” he growled.

“That's not going to make Marge forget what she could see or hear,” Megan pointed out calmly. “But if you sign my form,” she went on, “I think I can make an extra effort to remember it all, and er... act normal.”

Vernon was thinking hard.

“Fine.” he snapped. “I shall watch you carefully during her stay.” He pointed his finger at her. “And if – and only if – I think you behaved well enough, I'll sign your form.”

And he stormed out.

Megan then headed upstairs. She may as well start acting as a Muggle now, she said to herself as she hid all her things under her bed. Then, she sent Hedwig (who wasn't too happy about it) and Errol to Ron's for the week with a note explaining the situation.

Soon after, she heard the car turn into the drive. Even the bright sunlight seemed a bit dull when you knew Aunt Marge was coming. If it was anything like her previous stays, Megan was fairly sure it was not going to be much fun.

“Brace yourself, Mira… it’s going to be a bumpy ride…” she said. “You’d better stay here. She shouldn’t go into my room.”

She sighed heavily as she heard the door open and Marge's loud voice echo through the house.

“Ah, there's my Nathalie! As gorgeous as ever!”

Nathalie was, one had to admit, not bad to look at. Tall and thin, wearing nothing but designer clothes, she was certainly attractive with her long blond hair and big brown eyes. Marge, on the other hand, was a lot like her brother. She was rather large, with very little neck, terrible taste for clothes (she wore nothing but maroon or dull grey tweed), tiny black eyes and curly mousy brown hair. And she never left her home without her favourite bulldog, Ripper. Megan walked down the stairs, eyeing the dog, waiting for it to smell Mira. But instead, he sneezed.

“Oh, my poor little Rippy-poo…” Marge cooed, fondling her pet. “He’s got a cold, poor dear, can’t smell a thing.”

Megan couldn’t help thinking some things just worked well for once.

“Here, Nathalie, I got a little something for you…”

She pulled out a long fine piece of material.

“A Hermes scarf! I’ve been dying for another one, I’ve only got eleven, and they’re all out of fashion! Thanks!”

Megan rolled her eyes. Marge then directed her piggy eyes to her.

“Oh,” Marge growled. “You're still here, are you?”

“Yes,” Megan said.

“Don't you say “yes” in that ungrateful way, you little pest,” Marge snapped. “It was damn good of my brother to take a brat like you in. You'd have gone straight to the orphanage if it had been me.”

Megan forced herself to silence. But she was bursting to say she was pretty sure she would have been better in an orphanage than at the Dursleys. Only the thought of Hogsmeade kept her quiet. Vernon then led Marge to the sitting room for tea.

“I see you haven't improved since the last time I saw you,” Marge grunted. “Still plain and funny-looking. I had hoped that school would beat some manners into you.” she gulped down tea. “Where d'you say you sent her, Vernon?”

“St Bertha's,” said Uncle Vernon. “It's a great institution for lost cases like this one.”

“I see. Do they use the cane at St Bertha's?” she asked sharply at Megan.

Vernon gave Megan a warning look.

“Yes,” she answered. “All the time.”

“Excellent. I won't have this nonsense about not beating people who deserve it. Do you get beaten often, girl?”

“... Oh, yeah. All the time.”

Marge’s eyes narrowed.

“I don't like your tone. Such a casual way of talking about punishment clearly indicates it is insufficient. I'd write them a strongly worded letter, if I were you, Petunia.”

“Ah, let's not, er, give more importance to the child than she deserves,” Vernon said.

“Heard the news, today, Marge? About that escapee?”

As insane as it may have sounded, Megan soon began missing life at the Dursleys without Marge. She would have been just fine staying out of the way but Marge insisted on keeping her in her sight at all times.

“I like to keep an eye on things that I don’t like. To see them coming, you know?” she explained. “And I don’t trust one thing about that little brat. Look at her! That hair colour, it’s ridiculous! What insanity drove you to dye it like that, eh?”

“It’s my natural colour,” Megan said, forcing herself to keep calm. “My mother’s hair was the same.”

But of course, Marge didn’t believe her, and ignored her.

“And look at that outfit! It’s absolutely pathetic, I can’t understand why she won’t wear the same kind of things Nathalie does.”

“It’s to let Nathalie stand out more.” Petunia said. “Isn’t it?” she added, glancing at Megan.

Of course, it was not at all true. Megan didn’t wear designer clothes because she never saw the need for it. She wasn’t opposed to it, several of her things were old clothes of Nathalies, and most of them were designer. But it was because everyone gained from it, not because they were Gucci or Prada or whatever else it happened to be.

“Yeah, of course,” Megan said.

“Hm. One thing that’s not so pathetic, then. You know your place.”

Yeah, and I bet if I were with you, I’d be in less than a dog kennel, Megan muttered to herself.

She had never understood why Marge hated her so much. Possibly because she had been, as she put it “dumped on” the Dursleys, and she saw her as some kind of parasite. She spent most of her time giving suggestions to improve Megan's look (though she really didn't need it) or attitude. She didn’t even have her friends to talk to, as she only got the permission to go to her room at bedtime. Marge spent her time comparing Megan and Nathalie (of course in Megan's disfavour), presenting Nathalie with expensive gifts, while Megan of course, got nothing. She also took great pleasure in explaining in great detail why Megan was “such a disgraceful child”.

“You mustn't blame yourselves for how this brat turned out,” Marge said one day over lunch. “If something is rotten on the inside, then nothing can be done.”

Megan concentrated on her food, and her breathing, pulling out relaxation exercises she had learned from a book she had found years ago in the attic.

Think about the form, she ordered herself. Think about Hogsmeade. Don't rise to her stupid pro-

Aunt Marge took a long drink from her wine glass and went on.

“Yes, it's a basic breeding rule,” she said. “You see that with dogs all the time. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there's something wrong with the pup-”

Just then, the large glass in her hand exploded. Shards of glass and wine flew everywhere. There was a cry of shock.

“Marge!” Petunia gasped. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine,” she assured. “I don't know my own strength sometimes.”

Petunia whisked Marge to the kichen to clean her hand. Of course Vernon's eyes darted to Megan who shook her head in denial. And anyway, Marge wasn’t badly hurt. She came back in minutes, with just a plaster on her palm. However, Megan preferred to skip pudding and go up to her room. She hurried upstairs and closed the door behind her, leaning against it, breathing deeply. She was no fool. She knew that the glass had broken because she had let her control slip out of difficultly controlled anger. She had to be careful not to let it happen again. She had already received, as unfair as it was, a warning for using magic while being under-age the previous summer, which was against wizard law, and even if it had been her friend Dobby who had used the spell, she had been warned that if she used magic again, then she would ipso facto be expelled. But Merlin’s beard, that woman got on her nerves! Everything she said was to criticise her. And it got tiresome. Especially when what she knew most of what Marge claimed to be “painfully obvious to honest folk like us” was actually completely wrong. Her hair was not dyed, for instance, and she didn’t think she dressed that badly. It was simple and comfortable, but that was because she liked it that way. What else were outfits supposed to feel like? And what was the point of wearing something she hated or that itched or was too tight for her to move around in or breathe? It made no sense to her. And given the revolting outfits Marge wore, Megan thought it was a bit rich of her to question her fashion sense.

Once she had calmed down, Megan crossed the room and fell on her back onto the bed, heaving a sigh. Mira, sensing her unhappiness, hopped up and curled up beside her. She smiled and scratched her ears. She ganced at the clock. It was past ten… It was already dark outside. Hopefully, her friends wouldn’t worry too much about her. Ron would explain the situation. Just then, her phone, which she had put on silent to prevent Marge from hearing it and confiscating it, or worse, eavesdropping (because although she ould never admit it to Vernon, she didn’t want his sister finding out she had magical powers and was a witch), lit up. She picked it up and glanced at the screen, before smiling slightly.

Figures, she said to herself.

She put the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Is the line secure?” came Cedric’s voice.

She laughed quietly.

“You’re free to report, soldier.”

“So, heard your adorable aunt is in town.”

“Yes, she’s staying for a week. Luckily, none of her blood is in me,” she said, shuddering at the thought. “She’s uncle Vernon’s sister, and I’m only related to aunt Petunia.”

“Well, that’s something,” he agreed. “How is it with her around?”

“It would be fine if she’d just let me stay in my room,” she sighed. “But she insists she wants to keep an eye on me. I swear, Malfoy’s in love with me compared to her.”

Cedric laughed.

“Wow, she seems like quite a handful.”

“That’s for sure,” she sighed. “I mean, she’s absolutely convinced my hair is dyed, can you believe that?”

“Well, I’d like her to find a Muggle dye that gives one a colour like yours,” he said. “How did she react about Mira?”

“She doesn’t know about her. And thankfully, her dog’s got a cold so it can’t smell her. That thing’s a right pest, I’m telling you. But enough whinning. How are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing to report. Oh, I forgot to ask you, did Chiron get you your present?”

“Yes. I love it, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And hey, don’t worry too much. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, but-”

“I know, I just need to call and you’ll come.” She smiled. “I appreciate it. I better get some sleep, It’s going to be a long day. Plus, if they hear me, they'll confiscate my phone.”

‘Okay. Good night, and good luck.”

“Night, and thanks.”

She hung up. Then, sighing again, she looked at Mira.

“Well, Mira… it’s going to be a long week.”