Chapter 1: On Meeting Regarding Breakfast and Matters of International Diplomacy

Shortly before her eleventh birthday, Becca and her father met for their weekly breakfast appointment. There was no particular reason to move this appointment up from the day of her actual birthday, other than James's general lack of availability and that July 27th happened to be Hogwarts's automatic mailing date for all children born in the month of July.

The breakfast, as usual, took approximately thirty minutes, and occurred in companionable silence until Tilly brought the mail the owls delivered that morning into the dining room. With a slight smile and nod, James indicated to his daughter that she ought to put aside her grapefruit and open the letter. Becca sighed and did as instructed, briefly skimming the letter before setting the parchment aside. James huffed.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Were you accepted, or weren't you?"

"Dad, I'm pretty sure Hogwarts is obligated to accept every child in Britain even vaguely capable of magic; there was hardly a sense of suspense."

"So that's a yes." James leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing around his lips. "I suppose this means I'll need to organize a shopping trip?"

"No need," Becca replied, returning to her grapefruit and carefully separating each triangular section from the larger fruit. "I shall simply go with Peter. Perhaps Neville and I can arrange to go on the same day?" Her final statement was punctuated by a sharp slurping noise as she attempted to catch the juice dripping from her breakfast. James frowned at his daughter's table manners, but did not offer a correction.

"That sounds like a plan. Good, I couldn't really cancel on Jorkins again. Not only would it be the third time, I saw her glaring at me over her roses the other day." Here he favored his daughter with a grin, a brief flash of teeth which seemed to hint at the man James was before the accident.

"Aren't you the one who always tells me it's never good politics to upset your neighbors?"

"That principle still holds true, but I happen to prioritize a potential Quidditch World Cup on British soil over cauldron bottom thickness, or how ambient magic deposits are affecting some old biddies' begonias." Here James offered his daughter a wink, and the two shared conspiratorial grins. At that moment, James's wand began to emit a loud screeching, and the smile slipped from his face. A sigh. "I suppose it is about that time."

"As much as I'd hate to keep you from Ms. Jorkins, don't let the floo burn you on the way out." Said with a wry smile, the statement lacked any heat (despite the obvious warmth). James smiled, kissed Becca on the forehead, and straightened himself. Gone was the concerned father, the man whose hazel eyes held such spark and joy for life, the man whose tragedy lingered so close to the surface every time he gazed at his daughter-eleven already!-so like her mother at that age. In his place stood the Minister Of Magic, the symbol of Magical Britain's strength against the forces of darkness and terrorism. In an instant, the Minister was gone.

His daughter remained at the table, placidly dissecting her grapefruit.