This time, Hermione admits it to herself: she's a cliché. A pastry-baking, book-toting, legislation-drafting cliché. She has devolved into a pile of nerves – over a boy, of all things – and she has no idea what to do about it.
The first step to recovery, she knows, is admitting that she has a problem. So she gives herself all Sunday to wallow in confusion and frustration and that other word she's not letting herself think. She bakes, she reads, she ignores Ginny's Floo-calls. And she forgives herself for muttering throughout the day, working aloud on the jumble of emotions that seem to rise each time she thinks about Draco Malfoy.
What the hell is going on? she asks herself on more than one occasion. And what the hell are we?
Are they former childhood enemies turned acquaintances? Journeyman and apprentice bakers? Partners in addressing his alcohol problem? Are they…friends?
Friendly something else's?
Or is she completely insane, and there isn't even a "them" to over-analyze? The entire mess nearly makes her do what she considered before their first baking lesson: toss the PTSD Pastry Tour, her career, and her friendships (real, pseudo, or otherwise) into the rubbish bin, and then move to a tropical island with a mountain of books. Of course, her brain also puts key limes on that island, and the whole circuitous loop starts right back up again.
On Monday morning, Hermione sets aside the chaos in her brain to focus solely on giants' civil liberties. She spends the majority of the day drafting bills, arguing various points of law with clerks in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and owling Hagrid on the finer aspects of giant…ethics, for lack of a better term. As she hoped it would, the project becomes all-consuming, and she actually sleeps in the Ministry that night. She only leaves her desk for a few minutes the next morning to change robes in the loo and perform a quick freshening charm on her teeth. Then it's back to giants' rights with a vengeance.
By late Tuesday evening, she declares the exercise a success. Draco Malfoy has hardly entered her mind at all, and she Floos home feeling spent and ready for the longest tub-soak of her life. She's therefore totally unprepared for the sight of Pleiades, perched regally on the back of her sofa.
Judging by the small pile of molted feathers on the cushions beneath him, he's been waiting for some time. And if the feathers don't give it away, there's always the accusatory glint in his large, orange eyes.
Hermione immediately drops her work satchel and hurries over to him. He seems fine, physically; just severely put out. So she pets his feathers and coos at him, telling him he's a handsome bird – a patient bird. At first, the owl swivels away from her, all righteous indignation. He can't resist the attention, however, and his head soon rotates back toward her caressing fingers. Pleiades allows her to soothe him for a while longer, until he apparently feels that she's made appropriate amends. Then he shuffles forward so she can remove the parcel he carries.
She doesn't need to open the envelope to guess what it says. But she does so anyway, with a delicacy she doesn't fully comprehend. Inside, there's that same rich cardstock, the same lovely calligraphy, which reads:
Draco Malfoy cordially requests the presence of Hermione Granger
For dinner, this Saturday, March 25, 2000
In lieu of their usual Saturday activities
Dinner served promptly at 8 p.m.
The Lesser Dining Room, Second Floor, Malfoy Manor
In tiny, parenthetical script below the body of the invitation, a single line states: Dinner to be prepared by Draco Malfoy. Merlin help us all.
Hermione is still grinning at that last line when the entire body of text disappears and is replaced by the following:
Dress is semi-formal, Granger.
I trust you own more than knits and those fetching trainers you always wear?
"I don't," she tells the invitation. Her grin widens as his words melt into a new set of lines, written in smaller and less ornate script than his were.
Maevy figured as much, Miss.
Maevy will arrive at Miss's flat at 6 p.m. on Saturday to help.
Please, Miss, try to do something with that hair beforehand.
Maevy has only so much talent.
The elf's note vanishes, replaced once more by Draco's calligraphy.
I would say sorry about that, Granger, but you only have yourself to blame.
House-elf rights' initiatives and all.
See you Saturday?
After this last bit, the highly-communicative invitation goes blank for a few seconds. Then it transitions into what appears to be a reply card. Hermione rushes for her quill, scribbles out an enthusiastic "yes" and her address so that Maevy can Apparate nearby, and slips the card back into the envelope.
Pleiades doesn't need any further instruction. He grasps the envelope in his talons, takes a few treats from Hermione's palm, and flaps out the owl-delivery window. As Hermione watches him go, she realizes that she has the answer to one of her questions.
Friends, then. At the very least, friends.
It's not that Hermione doesn't trust Maevy, but….
Hermione doesn't trust Maevy.
The house-elf undoubtedly has the best intentions and, Merlin knows, Hermione could use the help. Especially since "Hermione Granger" and "formal dress" have only entered the same sentence on three other occasions, one of which resulted in Viktor Krum's tongue down her throat and another, Cormac McLaggen's hands on her bum. But truth be told, Maevy seems to know a great deal more about fashion than Hermione, and the witch finds that fact just a wee bit intimidating.
That's why, after being admitted through the front door of Hermione's flat on Saturday evening, Maevy finds Ginny and a huge pile of borrowed dresses on Hermione's couch. To Hermione's relief, Maevy claps her hands delightedly at the sight.
"How thoughtful! Miss has brought the Ginny Weasley for Maevy to meet!"
Ginny laughs. "The Ginny Weasley? Really?"
"Oh, yes," Maevy enthuses. "Miss Weasley is quite famous, you know. Quite famous indeed."
"How have you heard about Ginny, Maevy?" Hermione asks, taking a seat in one of the chairs that flanks her sofa.
"The Daily Prophet, of course. And that lovely article in Witch Weekly about Miss Weasley's upcoming wedding."
Ginny makes an astonished face. "Malfoy lets his house-elves read the Prophet?"
At this, Maevy sniffs haughtily and places her tiny hand on her hip. Only then does Ginny notice the elf's attire: another high-end purple suit, this one with a heavily embroidered red-and-black vest to match Maevy's red, open-toed pumps. Ringing up the possible cost of such an outfit in her head, Ginny lets out a low whistle.
"Sorry, Maevy. I meant no offense, I swear."
"No offense taken, Miss Weasley." Maevy rubs her hands together eagerly. "Now, let's see what goodies you've brought Miss Granger tonight!"
Hermione slumps back into her chair as the little elf and Ginny dig happily through the clothing on the couch. Items are held up, considered, and flung away with such speed that Hermione starts to wonder if she should just wear a knit dress like a sensible human being.
Finally, Ginny pulls something from the pile that meets Maevy's high standards. It's a simple enough dress: deep, wine-dark cashmere, with long sleeves and a curve-hugging skirt. There's even a hidden pocket for her wand. The neckline plunges a tad too low for Hermione's taste, but she supposes that beggars can't be choosers when it comes to another witch's robes.
"This is lovely, Gin," Hermione says, running her fingers over the soft fabric. "Where did you get this?"
"It's Fleur's, actually. She's been giving me a ton of stuff lately, since she 'von't 'ave zis figure after ze baby.'"
"Won't Fleur always have a perfect figure? She's part Veela – they hardly even age."
Ginny shrugs. "Probably. But who am I to argue with a pregnant woman?"
"Who are any of us to argue about this dress?" Maevy counters, petting the cashmere along with Hermione. "Now…shoes?"
Hermione fetches the only dress shoes she owns – a pair of black kitten heels – and hands them over to the elf. Maevy just shakes her head at them in frustration.
"Mister Draco stands a whole head above you," the elf complains. "These aren't tall enough, not nearly tall enough."
"For whom? Him, or me?"
"For you, Miss, obviously. How else are you supposed to kiss him?"
Maevy is the picture of innocence, but Hermione almost swallows her tongue. Between her freckles, Ginny has gone wan, and her gaze whips between Maevy and Hermione as though they're playing a tennis match. Finally, Hermione manages a strangled reply.
"Who said anything about kissing?"
Maevy waves her hand in dismissal. "No one did. But Maevy isn't blind."
"Blind to what?"
Ginny asks the question oh-so-casually. But she pushes herself to the very edge of her seat, as if even a single centimetre will affect her ability to hear the elf's answer. Hermione leans forward, too, her hands clawed into the arms of her chair. Maevy doesn't detect any of the tension that has descended over the room; she's too busy examining the shoes, holding them against the dress with a grimace of distaste.
"Miss Granger is one of the only witches to visit Mister Draco in the last three years," Maevy says distractedly. "Aside from that horrid Pansy Parkinson and those insipid Greengrass girls."
"Maevy!" Hermione gasps, but the elf merely shrugs.
"Sorry, Miss. But ever since the Ministry released Maevy from – what did that piece of paper call it? Servitude? – Maevy speaks her mind."
"Well, that's…a good thing. A great thing, really."
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, Maevy was very pleased to meet Miss Granger last month. And Maevy is more pleased with the way Mister Draco looks at Miss Granger."
Ginny lifts one eyebrow at the little elf. "And how is that?"
"Mr. Draco looks at Miss Granger," Maevy says, "like a drowning man looks at air."
Ginny and Hermione share a fraught look. While Maevy continues to manipulate the shoes, the witches engage in a heated exchange of whispers.
"Like air? Like air, Hermione?"
"It's just because I'm helping him. That's all."
"With what, mouth-to-mouth?"
"Ginny!"
"Hermione!"
Hermione blushes, waves her hands about frantically, and flat-out refuses to acknowledge Maevy's suggestion.
"He's…he's struggling, Ginny. Like we all are. Like…well, like I am, whether anyone can see it in me or not. Draco needs someone, and right now, I want to be that person. I need to be that person. For me, not just for him. Is that…do you think that's horrible, Gin? Be honest."
"Is he still drinking too much?"
"I don't think so. But I don't know for sure."
Ginny regards her friend with care, and then nods. "It's not horrible at all. That's what I think."
Maevy's triumphant cackle interrupts them, and the two witches turn around just in time to see Hermione's heels transfigure into a pair of tall, black velvet pumps. When she glances up from her handiwork, Maevy's eyes twinkle with mirth.
"Now, Miss, about that hair…."
At a quarter to eight, Maevy declares Hermione about as finished a product as she's going to get. Ginny and the elf step back to admire their work: the form-fitting dress, the transfigured heels, the web of glittery pins holding back the upper half of Hermione's curls. And the swipe of plum-coloured lipstick that no amount of Hermione's protests could stop.
"Well done, Miss Weasley!" Maevy raves. "It seems you're famous for a reason."
"Yeah, I'm not sure that hair-and-makeup was really what the Daily Prophet had in mind when they labeled Hermione and me War-heroines."
"You're witches of many talents, then."
Both women laugh, and Ginny moves toward the fireplace to go. Before grabbing a handful of Floo powder, she wraps Hermione in a tight hug and whispers, "I love you. And I trust you, you know."
In a flash of emerald green dust, Ginny vanishes. Hermione stares at the empty hearth for a long while and then spins on one, high heel toward Maevy.
The elf holds out her small hand.
"Malfoy Manor, Miss?"
With a nervous nod and a silent prayer, Hermione takes Maevy's hand and together, they Apparate.