Two days later, Hermione faces her usual Monday tasks with something like relief. She's finally received permission from Kingsley to draft a new block of giants' rights legislation (permission that has nothing to do with a certain orange blossom honeycake, she's sure). Plus, Cormac McLaggen has inexplicably taken the mincemeat pie for what it was meant to be: a final and complete brush-off of his advances at work. But the real icing on the cake, not to make too great a pun of things, is that the PTSD Pastry Tour seems to have come to an end.

Granted, things with her last visit didn't go exactly to plan. She was, after all, prepared to face Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy as well. Ready to field their insincere apologies, for all that unpleasantness two years ago, dear. We've come to comprehend that Mudbl—…I'm sorry, dear, you're all Muggleborns now, aren't you? Well, we've learned that your kind are just as useful as pureblood witches and wizards. One lump of arsenic or two in your tea, Miss Granger?

Hermione suffers no illusions that the elder Malfoys would have handled her Tour with the same guilelessness as Theo Nott. Undoubtedly, they would have delivered a few backhanded compliments, laced with sneers and disgust. Then again, Hermione had expected the same treatment from Draco. And what she received from him instead was…well, different. Not a warm welcome, necessarily, but not a hateful one either.

Still. Their strange interaction doesn't make Hermione doubt that she did, in fact, accomplish what she went to Malfoy Manor to do. Her goal with the PTSD Pastry Tour was merely to deliver something delicious, made just for the recipient, and offer a listening ear if they needed it. She listened to Draco Malfoy, in a manner of speaking, and so the PTSD Pastry Tour was a moderate success.

Matter closed, in her opinion.

This opinion does not alter itself Monday afternoon, when a massive gray eagle-owl swoops into her office along with the more modestly-sized Ministry owls.

A huge owl like this one isn't that unusual at the Ministry, per se. Hermione has noted, with some alarm, that owl selections are growing grander every year, often in reverse proportion to the vault-size of said owl's owner. It's a weird trend, one she sincerely hopes will fade soon, due to smell alone. What is different about this huge owl, however, is that he wears a polished brass collar. As a general rule, most owls would not subject themselves to such adornment.

The mammoth bird lands expertly at the edge of her desk and waits, with infinite patience, while the other owls drop their parcels and fly off. Unlike his companions, this owl doesn't leave his missive on her desk. Instead, he watches Hermione for her next move. After a measure of silence, during which the witch and the bird regard each other warily, Hermione reaches out her hand to his neck. Her moves are tentative, implicitly asking for permission. The owl actually nods its assent, and so she flips up the small disc attached to his collar.

Pleiades, it reads. The famous star cluster.

Hermione frowns down at the name, before realization dawns. She lets go of the tag to pull a roll of parchment from its loop around Pleiades' leg. Then she unfurls the paper onto her desk with no small amount of reluctance. Written in the center of the parchment is a single line of straight, well-schooled letters, so fine that they're practically calligraphy. Which makes perfect sense, given the upbringing of the message's sender. The calligraphy simply reads:

Why four?

No signature. Of course.

Hermione could pretend she doesn't know who sent this. She could also pretend she doesn't know to what "four" the sender is referring. Both options would serve him right for owling such a terse, presumptuous letter.

Instead, she takes out her EverInk quill and responds directly below his question:

One apple tart for each of us – your father, your mother, yourself, and me. But given your speech, I decided to let you have my share. In the spirit of reconciliation.

She smirks at that last bit before using her wand to dry the ink. Then she rolls the parchment back up and provides the scroll, along with a few treats, to Pleiades.

"No reply necessary," she croons at him when he offers her a ducked head of feathers to stroke. "And no need to return."

Her touch apparently pleases him, because Pleiades lets out one happy hoot before swooping back up and out of her office. Hermione watches his flight with the oddest blend of emotions: admiration for the grand owl; annoyance at its owner; and resignation to the possibility that the PTSD Pastry Tour might not be over.

Pleiades, it seems, does not take orders from Hermione Granger. That much is clear when he arrives at her flat later that night, ignores her commands to stay seated at her delivery window, and instead flutters to land on her bare, outstretched foot. Her leg is dangling over the edge of her squishy chair, and she thinks to shake him off; the owl is just as heavy as he looks. But somehow, she suspects that wouldn't be the best move to make with a bird of prey. An aristocrat's bird of prey, no less.

"It's after decent owling hours, you know," she scolds him. "No self-respecting bird would be caught delivering messages past 10 p.m."

Pleiades tilts his large head to one side and gives her a fixed stare.

"You're right," she sighs. "I'm the fool who left that window open. In February. I'm practically begging for correspondence."

Pleiades hoots in agreement and hops up the length of her calf until he's reached the edge of her nightdress. Hermione strokes him a few times atop his head before he drops a small parcel into her lap. This second delivery isn't a scroll. It's an envelope, with her full name in perfect calligraphy on the front.

Hermione's brown eyes dart up to the bird's large orange ones. "Should I open it?" she whispers. The whisper is somewhat for theatricality, somewhat because she honestly doesn't know what to do. Pleiades emits another encouraging hoot, so she slips her finger under the flap of the envelope and pries it open.

A small square of thick, ivory-coloured paper slips out, and Hermione holds it delicately between two fingers. Most wedding invitations aren't this nice, so she makes a mental note to show it to Ginny later. Of course, the contents of this invitation might raise a few eyebrows. Especially the part where Draco Malfoy cordially invites her, Hermione Granger, to tea on Tuesday, February 29th. Tomorrow. At Malfoy Manor. At 6 p.m. A late hour for tea, he knows, but she is a working Ministry crony, isn't she?

"Damn straight, I have to work," she declares angrily, to the note or to Pleiades, she isn't sure. "I'm not some blue-blooded trust fund brat, thank you very much."

Of course, Pleiades' eyes seem to say. But you are someone who enjoys tea. And solving complex psychological puzzles, like the former Death Eater who has sent you two notes in one day. One of which included a joke, for Merlin's sake.

"Quite right you are," Hermione tells the owl as she reaches into the basket beside her chair. She pulls out a spare piece of parchment and an extra EverInk and scrawls out a reply:

Yes. Place settings for two, not four, please.

The not-so-subtle request that his parents not join them is a bit rude, she admits. But there's only so much preparation for Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy a witch can do within a year. Before Hermione has time to regret agreeing to this madness, the note and a few extra owl treats are winging their way through the dark, back to Malfoy Manor.