"Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, "Okay, I can't see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I've got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know -- my godfather." He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon's face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream. "You're -- you're writing to him, are you?" said Uncle Vernon, in a would-be calm voice -- but Harry had seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden fear. "Well -- yeah," said Harry, casually. "It's been a while since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn't, he might start thinking something's wrong." He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon's thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn't go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle's mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then -- "Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy ... this stupid ... this World Cup thing. You write and tell these -- these Weasleys they're to pick you up, mind. I haven't got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the summer there. And you can tell your -- your godfather ... tell him ... tell him you're going." "Okay then," said Harry brightly."