Brennan continued her arguments over breakfast the next morning in an ongoing attempt to dissuade Booth from taking part in the Quidditch match.

His attempts to reassure her failed miserably.

His efforts to change the subject met the same fate.

Finally, he simply covered his ears and began singing.

She kept arguing, loudly.

He closed his eyes and sang louder.

When she heard the opening verse to a Barry Manilow song, Brennan gave up.

"All right!" she winced. "If I stop asking you to reconsider, will you stop singing?"

"That hurts, Bones," he said, pouting dramatically.

She opened her mouth to make a caustic retort comparing bleeding eardrums with broken bones but, noticing his narrowed eyes, bit back the words, her teeth clicking together sharply as her mouth snapped shut.

Oddly, the clicking continued. The two of them exchanged a puzzled glance and looked around the room curiously. Brennan picked up the silver cover from a warming dish on the table, examined the inside and replaced it gently.

Peering toward one of the large windows overlooking Hyde Park, Booth paused. "Uh...Bones? There's an owl outside the window."

"What?" Standing next to him, she stared at the bird tapping its beak against the broad window. "That . . . can't be. That's a Great Horned Owl. It's native to North America. It doesn't live in Europe."

"Maybe he's lost," Booth joked. The bird's large eyes fixed on the couple. It blinked once and clicked harder against the glass. "What is . . ." he leaned forward, peering intently. "There's a roll of paper tied to his leg." The feathered head dipped, as if in agreement. "Do you think I should try to get it off?" Booth's step toward the window was halted by Brennan's hand on his arm.

"No!" she said. "Great Horned Owls can be carriers of rabies. It's not safe."

"He's got a scroll attached to his leg, Bones," Booth pointed out. "Unless he tied it himself, whoever put it there wasn't worried about rabies." The owl's great wings spread wide; it hooted once and clicked again on the glass.

"But this . . . this isn't right." Brennan shook her head. "This owl should not be here. This is . . . wrong."

Booth paused, his hand on the window, and looked back at her. "Out of everything we saw yesterday, an owl who thinks he's a carrier pigeon is what bothers you?" With a chuckle, he flipped the latch.

The owl soared into the room, gliding over to perch gracefully on the back of the chair Booth had vacated earlier.

They stood open-mouthed, staring at the majestic bird. The owl waited, head tilted, staring back. Finally, it hooted once and lifted the leg on which the rolled paper was attached.

"I think he wants us to take the scroll," Booth murmured out of the side of his mouth. He crept closer, moving slowly, hand outstretched. "Good bird," he crooned softly. "You don't want to bite the nice man, right?" Booth withdrew quickly when the owl's beak clicked again as he reached out to untie the message. One soft hoot came as the bird balanced on both feet momentarily before lifting his leg a second time, shaking the scroll in Booth's direction. "Okay, okay, let's try again," he said. This time he ignored the clicking of the beak and worked quickly to untie and remove the paper. Straightening it, he glanced down.

"It's for you," he said, holding it out for Brennan.

"What?" She looked at the paper as if she expected to see it burst into flames.

"It's addressed to you." Booth waved it in her direction.

"A Great Horned Owl flew to the window of our hotel room, in London, with a note strapped to his leg addressed to me?"

He nodded and grinned broadly. "And that's not even the weirdest thing that's happened to us this week."

Speechless, Brennan reached out. "It's parchment." Her expression reflected her surprise. "Real parchment." She shook her head and began to read.

"Good morning Dr. Brennan,

I hope this note finds you and your husband enjoying a quiet breakfast. It looks to be a lovely day.

Since you mentioned last night that it would be several hours before you would hear from your laboratory in Washington, D.C., I wondered if you would allow me to entertain you for the day? It would be my pleasure to guide you around Hogsmeade. One of my former professors will also be spending the weekend in the village and has agreed to meet with you, if you would like, to discuss the history of the Wizarding community. I believe you will find Professor McGonagall able to answer any questions you might have.

Your husband is welcome to join us, of course. Alternately, Ron and Harry have offered to give him a tour of the public areas of the Ministry of Magic. Harry is Head of the Auror Office and as such, is charged with protecting our community from those wizards who pose the most dangerous threat to our existence. Given your husband's career in law enforcement, that might prove interesting to him.

We could meet again as a group for afternoon tea.

If you agree to these small suggestions, we will come to your hotel at 10:00 a.m. and transport you both from there. Apollo has been instructed to wait for your reply, if you would be so kind as to return it with him.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger-Weasley

"Apollo?" Booth asked. The owl hooted loudly and spread his wings wide. "You're Apollo?" he addressed the bird directly, not surprised when the he clicked his beak and lowered his head once. "Of course you're Apollo." He looked at Brennan. "The mailman's name is Apollo."

"But owls were never used as homing pigeons. They're nocturnal . . . and they're predators . . . this species isn't indigenous to Great Britain . . . I don't understand . . ." Apollo ruffled his feathers and repositioned himself on his perch, staring back at Brennan with unblinking, round eyes.

"Honey, let it go," Booth advised. His hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the door to their bedroom. "I'll write the note back to Hermione. You get dressed." He gave her a little push.

"But this isn't right, Booth. How did that bird know where to find us? Homing pigeons were normally only able to fly back to their base. Yes, sometimes they could be trained to fly between two very specific locations but how was he able to come directly to our window?" Her steps slow, Brennan cast her muttered words over her shoulder. "Owls are very intelligent birds, perhaps . . ."

"Let it go, Bones." A hand against her lower back, Booth walked with her to the door dividing the two rooms.

"But Booth . . ."

"Let it go." Apollo clicked his beak impatiently, hooting loudly. "I'll answer the letter, you get dressed." Booth kissed the lines of confusion on her forehead, chuckling silently. "When Hermione gets here, you can talk to her about owls and carrier pigeons, okay?"

"Yes, I think I will," she answered, turning to stare back at the bird. "It's not right, Booth . . ."

"I know, baby, I know." Biting back his smile, he gave her one last gentle shove and closed the bedroom door. From the other side, he could still hear her.

"Great Horned Owls are not native to this part of the world . . ."

"Figures," Booth addressed the owl directly as he walked to the small desk in the room. "She finally blows a gasket over something she can't explain and I'll never be able to tell anyone." Apollo hooted loudly, stretching his wings to their full width. "Thanks for nothing, pal."

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