THE PERFECT PLACE
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never seen as many students as after the Second Voldemort War. Seven years later, the wizarding world had to face the problem of unemployment for the first time. Many of the young job-seekers applied to the Ministry for Magic, and the Ministry reacted promptly, i.e. about five years later. They invented the sabbatical.
The sabbatical wasn't really intended for anybody higher-ranking than worker bees, but Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, wasn't the kind of person to be deterred by that kind of argument. She successfully fought for her chance at a sabbatical and, needless to say, she won. This meant that she had to work four years being paid only eighty percent of her salary and then got to enjoy a whole year of freedom at the same pay. Being head of department, she could easily afford the twenty-percent decrease. Besides, she hadn't taken more than ten days of paid leave in all her thirteen years of service. Added to the sabbatical, the accumulated paid leave allowed her one and a half years of freedom.
Hermione didn't have any high-flying plans for those eighteen months. She merely wanted to leave the city – her flat was to be rented out to one of the lucky guys who'd secured a one-year internship at the ministry – and stay in a nice cottage somewhere in the country, painting, reading and relaxing.
Six months before the start of her sabbatical-cum-holiday, Hermione therefore began to look out for a suitable object. She did a lot of Apparating during that period, because the Right Cottage was hard to find. When she'd almost given up hope and resigned herself to island-hopping in the Aegean, she fell in love, hopelessly and irrevocably.
It was the cottage of her dreams. It was about three hundred years old, but had been carefully modernized. The thatched roof was there, and the enchanted garden was there, and two lavish bathrooms on the upper floor. There were hardwood floors and sparse but very tasteful furniture, fireplaces that actually worked, and a kitchen that screamed 'Master Chef' at the top of its lungs. It was just simply perfect, and Hermione would have been ready to pay whichever amount of rent the landlord asked.
She did what they always tell you not to do: she jumped up and down and told the estate agent that she had to have this cottage, whatever the price. The agent smiled thinly and got on the phone. Two days later Hermione signed the contract.
The contract had already been signed by the landlord – a pretentious signature, she thought, with lots of flourishes. It looked as if it had been made by means of a quill instead of a fountain pen, and for a moment she was sure that it read Lucius Malfoy. But that was of course nonsense, because the estate agent was a Muggle, and even though the cottage was in Wiltshire, the probability of Malfoy renting out cottages through a Muggle estate agency was less than nil.
On 15 May, Hermione Granger arrived at her new home with fifty boxes full of books, two boxes filled with clothing and a wicker basket full of very pissed-off Kneazle. She'd also brought coffee, a few packets of spaghetti, ten jars of pesto, two bottles of olive oil, ten of red wine, a bottle of shower gel, forty cans of cat food, a bottle of shampoo and five of conditioner (her hair was still unmanageable), a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and five packets of floss. She'd decided not to move out of her Garden of Eden for at least two weeks, and since that garden made up what it lacked in cherubim and snakes by an ample supply of tomatoes, herbs and fruit, she had all she needed. The olive oil worked nicely as a substitute for body lotion, after all.
The realization that in the middle of May, tomatoes are small green balls unfit to be eaten did little to dampen her enthusiasm, as did the discovery that apples, although always in supply at supermarkets, aren't really edible before autumn. But the first strawberries were pushing their blushing faces up through the greenery, the basil, parsley, chives and mint were growing faster even than her hair, and watching the miniature green apples, pears and prunes grow gradually bigger wasn't bad either, because it made her think of autumn and harvest and baskets full of ripe, fragrant fruit.
Hermione's mother was quite an accomplished painter for being an amateur and a dentist, and Hermione had always wanted to try her hand at painting. When she grew tired of pencils and watercolours, there were books waiting for her; Crookshanks, whose good mood had returned with surprising velocity once he'd discovered that the world held such things as live mice, was always ready for a cuddle, and she desperately needed to catch up on sleep.
Spaghetti al pesto for lunch and dinner were getting slightly tedious, mostly because she'd forgotten to pack any salt. But pasta with olive oil and chives was just lovely, and once she discovered the nuts somebody had stored in the attic, she greatly enjoyed pasta with a mix of parsley, olive oil and nuts she'd crushed in the mortar. Salt would have made it even better, but then one couldn't have everything. After all, she'd had the foresight to pack the wine.
She'd been enjoying her version of Robinson Crusoe – with Crookshanks as a very lazy but uncharacteristically affectionate Friday – for ten days, when somebody intruded into this bucolic idyll. According to sod's law, the knock on her door resounded through the cottage when a) she was clad in a pair of old pyjama bottoms and a top whose original colour couldn't have been made out even by an expert, b) she'd had to brush burs out of her hair and was looking like a maenad, c) she was in the process of crushing more nuts with olive oil and parsley and therefore sweating like a horse.
So she ignored the first knock, but when the unknown visitor knocked again, a bit more forcefully, curiosity won over reluctance, and she went to open the door.
'Oh, bloody hell,' she said, recognizing her visitor in an instant, 'I knew it was your signature on the contract!'
'In spite of being quite sure, madam, that the signature on the contract was actually yours, I don't feel compelled to greet you with invectives,' said the blond man on the doorstep.
'Oh, stop being patronizing. Or are you saying you don't recognize me?'
The visitor bent down and sideways, in order to catch a glimpse of the face under the tangled hair. With a sigh, Hermione grabbed a bunch of curls and pulled them back, out of her face. Realizing that this gesture, meant for easier identification, gave Malfoy a prime view of her tits, she quickly let the curtain down again and stood before him, arms crossed and radiating stubbornness.
'Hermione Granger?'
'The very same. Imagine the hair pulled back, these clothes gone-'
'Oh, I'd love to, but wouldn't that be a little disrespectful?'
'I meant,' Hermione said through clenched teeth, 'replacing them with Ministry robes. So I'd be easier to recognize.'
'I'm usually better at recognizing women without their robes.'
She snorted. 'I bet you are. Not me, though.'
'No, not as far as I can remember.' He gave her a naughty smile. 'Anyway, I have made it a habit to look in on my tenants after ten days or so, merely to make sure they have everything they need. And, of course' – he bent down to pick up a small basket – 'to bring the usual gifts of welcome.'
'So that's why you're wearing Muggle clothes!'
'Yes, well, it wouldn't do to appear on their doorstep in wizarding attire. I had no idea I was going to find a witch here, of course.' He held the basket out to her.
'This' – Hermione pointed at a pretty porcelain box – 'this wouldn't happen to contain salt?'
Lucius nodded. 'Bread and salt, the customary gifts of welcome.'
'Salt! Oh, you have no idea…' Hermione fell silent, contemplating the box with a besotted smile.
'Miss Granger, are you quite all right?'
'Yes, of course, it's just that I forgot to pack the salt, and – never mind. Would you like a cup of coffee?'
'If it isn't too much trouble,' he said politely.
'Not at all. I was going to make some for myself anyway.'
On the short way to the kitchen, a silent but nonetheless dramatic battle was going on in Hermione's mind. Common sense (He's Malfoy! He's bad and dangerous!) was having it out with politeness (You don't just shut your door in people's faces, no matter who they are!); hormones (Oh my god, have you seen that body? In nothing but a pair of trousers and a linen shirt! He's fucking gorgeous!) were pitched against professional ethos (You're the bloody police! You can't take up with a criminal!), and greed (He brought salt! Salt and bread! Dinner's going to be heaven!) was fighting arrogance (We don't need his stupid presents!).
As they reached the kitchen, hormones and greed had butchered their adversaries, and common sense and politeness had declared a temporary truce due to heavy losses on both sides.
Hermione heard a yelp and turned round. Malfoy was standing right behind her and pointing at something rather gory-looking under the table. 'Miss Granger,' he said, 'there is a perfectly good butcher down in the village. Don't you think that eating mice is taking frugality a bit far?'
He was looking a little green round the gills. Hermione found that rather endearing. 'That was Crookshanks. He's discovered mice in his old age but can't quite get round to eating them. It's the chasing that's fun, I suppose, but when it comes to eating, he prefers the good old tinned food.' She disposed of the corpus delicti with a flick of her wand. 'Would you like to take your coffee in here or outside?'
'Outside, please. The garden is so beautiful at this time of year.'
'Yes, isn't it? How come you're letting the cottage to Muggles, through a Muggle estate agent?'
'That's pretty obvious, I should think. If one has the choice between thirty thousand and sixty million potential customers, one would be an idiot to choose the smaller target group, I daresay.'
'Yes, of course, but…'
'Oh, I see. Well, Miss Granger, maybe it is time that you got rid of your prejudice. I did it, and I am quite sure you can do the same.'
Hermione filled the coffee pot with boiling water and slowly turned round to face Malfoy. 'That's a bit rich, don't you think? Prejudice implies lack of knowledge of the facts as they really are. You thought Muggles lived on trees and communicated by grunts. I know for a fact what you did.'
'What I did, yes. But does that justify your assumption that I'm still the same?'
'N-no,' she admitted. 'No, it doesn't.' Busying herself with arranging everything on a tray, she asked, 'So you are saying that you have changed?'
'What I am saying, Miss Granger,' Lucius replied calmly, rising from his chair to hold the door open for Hermione, 'is that you might want to judge for yourself. No biscuits?'
'I'm afraid I don't have any.'
Lucius smiled. 'May I?' He fished a small silver bell from his trouser pocket and rang twice. A house elf, clad in neat little trousers and a waistcoat, appeared with a crack.
'Yes, Mr Malfoy?'
'Be so good as to fetch a tin of the biscuits you baked yesterday, Nobby.'
'Right away, Sir.'
Lucius caught the tray as it slipped from Hermione's hands. 'What a shame it would be to waste all this coffee,' he remarked conversationally and preceded his speechless hostess out into the garden.
'He's… He's a free elf!'
'And a very good one, too. I pay him five galleons a month, plus food, clothing and accommodation. The biscuits alone would be worth ten galleons a month, but don't tell him I said that. I might give him ideas.'
Hermione became aware that she was still shaking her head and probably looking like one of those hideous miniature dogs people insisted on putting in their cars. She sat down heavily and tried to come to grips with what she'd just seen. Malfoy's polite Thank You, when Nobby brought the biscuits and arranged them neatly on one of her plates, didn't really help.
'You're wearing Muggle clothes,' she said tonelessly when the elf had gone, 'and you're polite to your paid house elves, and you're being civil to me – I mean, you don't seem to have thought Mudblood even once… You are Lucius Malfoy, aren't you?'
'I most certainly am. But, just as I said, things do change, and so do people. But I assure you that I still don't need to make an appointment when I want to speak to the Minister, and that goes for the Muggle Prime Minister as well.'
'If you can't beat them, join them,' Hermione said, more to herself than to her guest.
'Quite so, Miss Granger. Now, why don't you tell me how you came to choose this pretty little place?'
Since he didn't have any hair to tear at, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic and Hermione's boss, would probably have banged his head against the wall, had he known that the Head of Magical Law Enforcement had accepted an invitation to dine at Malfoy Manor. But, as the Russians used to say, The sky is high, and the Tsar is far away. So Hermione had agreed to come over for dinner, because he'd really surprised her that morning. Or that was what she kept telling herself. The real reason was that she hadn't had any sex in months, something that tended not to bother her overly much so long as no potential partner was in sight. Malfoy, though, had been very much in sight, and the silhouette of his torso through the white linen shirt and the way his trousers displayed his arse and legs had reminded her of just how long she hadn't felt hands on her bare skin.
He met her at the hedge that separated the cottage's ample garden from the adjacent park of Malfoy Manor and inquired whether she'd mind walking up to the hose instead of Apparating. It was a fine evening, balmy with a slight cool edge, and so they walked.
'These,' Lucius said, pointing at the mole hills that marred the green perfection of the lawn, 'are driving me crazy. It seems that my lawn, and my lawn alone, is attracting all the moles of Wiltshire. Nobody else has them, they're all here, and sometimes I think I can hear them laugh at me.'
'That's probably the mole-less neighbours laughing. And of course they're all on your lawn.'
'I am not quite sure I understand.'
'It's the wards, Mr Malfoy. Haven't you seen that there are none in the outskirts of the park? The hills start right where the wards are. I could feel the tingle, and that was exactly when I tripped over the first mole hill.'
'Would this be a theory of your own, or knowledge supported by research?'
'Why would that make any difference?'
'Well, if it was more or less common knowledge, I would hate not to have come across it myself.'
'I know the feeling. But still your anxious heart, Mr Malfoy, because the knowledge is by no means common. Do you remember the attempted break-in at Gringotts, about three years ago?'
'I can't say that I do, no.'
'Well, it wasn't much publicized, because we feared copycats and kept the details well hushed-up. Anyway, there was this guy who thought he could get into Gringotts by using a large number of Nifflers. The idea wasn't a new one, that's why Nifflers are Class A untradeable magical creatures, and if you want a pet Niffler, you'll have to jump a lot of bureaucratic hurdles.
'So this clever guy had the idea to create his own Nifflers, and he hit upon the solution by reading up on them. There are very few books about magical palaeozoology, and since we caught that guy, they've all been confiscated and moved to the ministry.
'So, to go back to the Nifflers: in the beginning, they were just simple moles. Somehow though, a part of the population was being constantly exposed to a strong magical field – maybe even during the foundation of Hogwarts, but that's not sure – and so they gradually changed. They grew bigger, for one, and they absorbed the magic. Maybe this original Niffler population lived in an area where gold ore wasn't far beneath the ground. This would contradict the Hogwarts theory, by the way. Or maybe there was another reason for Nifflers specializing, so to speak, in gold.
'Whatever it was, our clever guy thought he'd repeat in controlled circumstances what nature had done on her own. He set up a magical field in his garden, and lo and behold, moles just crowded into it. So all he had to do was make sure that the little beasties crossed and re-crossed the lines he'd drawn across the field, and that there were a few galleons on their path. It took him a few years, but in the end he had enough Nifflers to try and break into Gringotts.'
'You certainly know how to tell a story, Miss Granger,' Lucius said. They had arrived at the entrance door of Malfoy Manor, and he gestured for her to precede him into the entrance hall. 'Now we shall have dinner, and maybe we can devise a way to get rid of those little magic-addicts.'
He led her past the main staircase that led up to the first floor, and through a corridor to the back of the house, from which they emerged onto a large terrace with a stone balustrade overlooking the park. 'I thought we ought to have dinner out here,' he said and pulled out a chair for her, 'and when it gets too cold, we can go inside for dessert and coffee.'
And hopefully sex, Hermione thought, careful not to meet his eyes. You never knew with those ex-Death Eaters. Legilimency was a skill they'd cultivated, and she wasn't sure if a Reformed Malfoy was reformed enough to withstand that particular temptation. Besides, she was sure she looked nice enough to inspire naughty thoughts. His eyes repeatedly straying to her breasts – she wasn't wearing a bra, and the cool evening air was making her nipples quite visible – were proof enough.
Nobby served the starters, and Malfoy filled their glasses with a nice, crispy white wine. 'So,' he said, 'do you think you could help me with those little buggers, pardon my language?'
Hermione nodded. 'It would be a tricky bit of work, but I'm sure I could.' She took a sip of wine. 'Mmh, this is lovely. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer just to keep a few cats?'
His face became a grimace of disgust. 'I tried that, believe me. But the sight of murdered moles all over my carpets was a bit much. I also tried simply Accio-ing them, putting them in a basket and shipping them off, but that was a short-lived solution.'
The thought of a few dozen moles flying towards Malfoy made Hermione snort into her wine glass.
'It's not that funny,' Lucius said, piqued.
'Oh, it is, if you're the one watching. No cats, then, and no Accio. Although we'll have to clean out the area, just once, after changing the wards.'
Lucius looked alarmed. 'Changing the wards? Well, that would be, as you said, tricky work.'
'Oh yes. But think of the benefits. Plus, if we worked together, it would take us only a few hours, maybe a day at the most.'
He shot her a half-lidded glance. 'You would be willing to help me?'
'Of course I would. I developed the Niffler-repelling charm for Gringotts – why they hadn't put one in place ages ago still beats me – and it takes but a few minor alterations to adapt it to moles. They're relatives after all.'
'I could've sworn,' Hermione said to Crookshanks, who was curled up in her lap, 'that he was going to kiss me when we said good bye at the hedge.'
Crookshanks opened one lazy eye and purred.
'But then, you know, I'm the Supreme Law Enforcer, so maybe he was a bit hesitant. I mean, if I had a shady past, I'd hesitate to kiss the Home Secretary, even if I fancied him.'
Crookshanks re-closed the eye and curled up more tightly, with one paw across his nose.
'I think he finds me attractive. Well, I know I find him attractive. I must have emitted pheromones like… well, whatever emits lots of pheromones. That's the thing with robes, you know. They do have a certain appeal, but when it comes to judging what's beneath them, a girl might be in for a nasty surprise. Muggle clothes are much better that way. You should've seen his legs – well, I suppose they wouldn't have attracted you the same way as me.'
Crookshanks extracted his tail from under his body, twitched it a bit and then let it flop gracefully across Hermione's thighs.
'And tomorrow,' she said, scratching the Kneazle behind his ears, 'tomorrow we're going to start working on his wards. Stands to reason that he has to invite me to dinner again, to say thank you, and maybe he won't be so shy then. Or maybe I'll just jump him. He can't very well call Law Enforcement, now can he?'
'I hope I'm not too early,' Lucius said when Hermione opened the door for him the next morning.
'Not at all. I'm all ready to go.' She showed him a small roll of parchment. 'I've altered the charm, so we just have to weave it into your wards.'
'That, I'm afraid, is more easily said than done. I think I ought to explain the wards to you first – their structure is quite complex, and we don't want any nasty surprises, do we?'
'We certainly don't. Would you mind sitting in the kitchen while we talk? It's still a bit cool outside, and the kitchen table makes a perfect work surface.'
They sat down next to each other, each with a cup of coffee, and Hermione could hardly resist the impulse to bury her nose in his neck. He smelled of sun and fresh air after the walk from the Manor down to the cottage, and underneath those scents there was the aroma of clean hair and skin mingling with very sparingly applied cologne. She could have devoured him then and there.
Restraint didn't become much easier to achieve when he took a quill, dipped it into the inkpot and began drawing a diagram. A sideways glance at his back didn't help either. He was leaning forward, and the shirt was clinging nicely to his shoulders and upper back. Hermione felt her mouth beginning to water. She forced her eyes away from his body and towards his face, but that only meant that she got a good view of his left ear and of the strong, clean-shaven line of his jaw.
She either had developed a sudden knack for hypnotizing people, or the pheromones were doing their job, because Malfoy turned to look at her and thus found her parted lips only inches from his face.
With her eyes so close to his face, Hermione saw the pupils dilate and contract, and the subtle play of muscles in his jaw, and she fleetingly thought, Oh, sod it all! before she dived in for a kiss. Their position was a little awkward, and so was the first kiss, but Lucius hoisted her up and onto his lap, and from then on things progressed very nicely. Somehow she'd come to sit on the edge of the table, with Lucius standing between her parted legs, and they might have gone all the way, had not Hermione's elbow encountered the sharp end of a quill when she was lowering herself to lie back.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, half laughing, half howling with disappointment, when Lucius took a step back to rub his nose, which had made painful contact with her forehead. 'Does it bleed?'
Lucius shook his head. 'No it doesn't, only hurts like hell. Which goes to show that intercourse must not be undertaken in dangerous surroundings. A kitchen table bristling with quills certainly qualifies as dangerous.' He grinned at her, let go of his nose and pulled his shirt out of his trousers to cover his obvious arousal. 'But,' he continued, taking a step towards the table and grabbing Hermione's buttocks with reassuring enthusiasm, 'maybe we might continue this in a more suitable environment?'
'What about the moles?' Hermione murmured into his chest.
'There is a very nice mole on my left buttock, so perhaps you'd like to start with that?'
'Excellent idea. Accio blanket!'
Lucius ducked just in time, when a neatly folded blanket came hurtling through the kitchen door and into Hermione's waiting hand. 'What on earth was that for?'
'Everybody has their little fantasies,' she said and winked at him. 'I've always wanted' – she hopped off the table and took his hand – 'to have sex on the lawn, with the sky above me and the air caressing my naked skin. Come on!'
'There are ants!' he complained.
'Not on this blanket. Anti-vermin charms, anti-humidity charms, anti-wrinkle charms. So we won't end up in a cocoon.'
'A woman who thinks of everything. I like that. Do you have a particular spot in mind?'
Hermione nodded and led him to a secluded place between apple trees, where the grass was short and the ground even. 'What about this?' She unfolded the blanket. 'And now' – she stripped off her underpants and flung them away – 'let me get that blasted shirt off you.' She made quick work of the buttons, and the shirt followed the panties. 'Now let's get rid of these trousers' – they described a graceful arc and joined the shirt – 'and briefs. Holy stars, did you use an engorgement charm or what?'
'Completely unnecessary,' Lucius said smugly. 'Just like mother nature made me. You like what you see, I trust? Oh yes, you obviously do,' he panted, when Hermione went down on her knees to demonstrate just how much she liked what she saw. 'Merlin, your tongue moves like a serpent!' His knees gave way, and he joined Hermione on the ground.
A short wrestling match followed, as each tried to push the other onto their back.
'Will you be good!' Hermione stared at him. 'I get to be on top first.'
'I don't quite see why,' Lucius growled, when she'd successfully twisted his arm and brought him down on his back. 'And that was an unfair trick! What-' His eyes widened, when the blanket wiggled a bit and then took his wrists and ankles in a fluffy but firm grip.
'A woman who thinks of everything, wasn't that what you said?' Hermione straddled him and rubbed herself against his cock. 'It's all part of my little fantasy. Don't be afraid, though, my forehead bumping into your nose was the only discomfort you're going to experience.'
'I'm not afraid!' he protested. 'Just… well, overwhelmed. Oh ye gods!' He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, as Hermione slowly slid down his cock.
'Would you like me to move?' she asked, grinning wickedly.
'Oh yes, please. And don't-' Lucius opened his eyes again. 'What the hell was that?'
'That was me, moving. Since you asked so nicely…'
'No, not that! The thing under my back!'
'Lucius,' she murmured, leaning forward to gently bite a nipple, 'you're being a very, very bad boy. I don't fall for cheap tricks.'
'It isn't – oh yes, do that again! It's not a trick! Oh, gods yes!! Now it's under my arse!'
Something was moving under her right knee, and Hermione got up with a squeak. A flick of her wand freed Lucius's hands and feet, and together they peered under the blanket.
'Well,' Lucius said, 'if we had needed any proof of moles being attracted by magic, we'd have it now. Good heavens, they really seem to like it.' He scooped Hermione up in his arms. 'This is the agenda as proposed by me: We go up to your bedroom and fuck each other senseless. Then, we have lunch and after that, we tackle the mole problem. Once we've done that…'
'Any Other Business,' Hermione said and kissed him.
