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TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT (FOR CHRISTMAS)
PART I: The Drunken Aftermath
December 18, 2021
It was nearing three in the morning when Hermione stumbled into her study, a satisfied grin on her face as she searched for her familiar. “Crooks? Crooks, where are you!”
Her ancient cat, who had until that moment been slumbering peacefully on the couch, gave her a sleepy growl as she tottered over.
“Oh, Crooks,” Hermione slurred slightly, “I had the best time tonight.”
Crookshanks glared at her with baleful yellow eyes.
“Don’t look at me that way,” she tutted. “Even the Minister for Magic deserves to get sloshed now and then.”
In private, perhaps. But not at the Ministry Christmas Gala, no. There was a high chance it would be splashed all over the news tomorrow. Drunk and Disorderly Minister for Magic Somethings a Something on Something…
But it had been worth it, Hermione thought, because she’d had the night of her wildest fantasies with the man of her most secret dreams.
She swept the cat in her arms and giggled into his thick ruff.
Crookshanks struggled to escape, but he soon gave up. He’d learned resigned patience in his old age.
“Did you know,” Hermione booped his nose, “That Draco Malfoy is an absolute—” Boop! “Animal—” Boop! “—In bed?” Boop! Boop! Boop!
“I may have heard it once or twice before,” came a smug voice from her bedroom.
Hermione whirled around, a flush darkening on her cheeks. “Draco! You’re naked!”
“And so are you.”
Hermione looked down and confirmed that she was, indeed, without clothing.
Malfoy chuckled. “Most unbecoming of the Minister for Magic.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Are we still playing this game?” he asked. “Just where would you have me go?”
“Oh, I don’t know!”
“Tell you what,” he smirked, “How about you come to bed, and I give you a repeat performance in the morning? You can tell me what you want all over again.”
Hermione was only too happy to release Crookshanks from her hold.
As she walked past Draco and back through the doorway, she heard him address the cat. “Sorry about that, old boy. You know how my wife can get when she’s drunk. I’ll have breakfast ready for her in the morning.”
She watched Crookshanks give an unimpressed growl and curl back into a ball.
PART II: Draco at the Gala, a.k.a. Earlier That Night
December 17, 2021
“If we don’t go soon, Granger, we’re going to be late.”
“Hold on,” she called, “I just need to feed Crooks.”
Draco listened to the sound of his wife’s soft murmurs from the kitchen. No doubt she was issuing reminders to her—well, their—geriatric cat. (As if the furry beast could do anything in the event of a calamity. Then again, Crookshanks was a clever little monster, so Draco wouldn’t count him out.)
Hermione turned the corner, and the mere sight of her had Draco clutching a fist to his chest. Even after their thirteen years together, his wife never ceased to stun him. In that time, she’d fought him at every turn, agreed to marry him, and given him a son (and obtained the most luscious curves for all her trouble), all while working her way up the Ministry ranks and getting elected the youngest Minister for Magic in history just three years prior.
And tonight, in a long-sleeved forest green gown that clung just so to her form, she looked appropriately sexy. (His own thoughts were sexy as well, but far from appropriate. After all, she’d been so busy with year-end Ministry work that he hadn’t had her in a week.) Green was truly her color, though she would never admit it out loud.
“Spin for me,” Draco requested, and he heartily appreciated the view of her bum when she obliged. Had her curls been loose for the evening, then he really wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. “I could eat you up,” he purred.
Hermione smirked, but her playful expression belied her own exhaustion. “That would be nice, but how about you feed me some dinner first? I’m starving.”
Draco knew she’d had a difficult closing week, and they had a long night ahead of them yet. He tucked his randiness away and sighed. “Well, wife, hors d’ouvres await.”
He proffered the envelope containing their Portkey. Once Hermione nodded that she was ready, they touched the ivory card and spun away into nothingness.
Just because Draco grew up boozing and schmoozing didn’t mean he enjoyed it. But as the husband of the Minister for Magic, it was truly an unavoidable chore, especially when his wife used the Christmas gala to drum up support for her numerous causes that she felt strongly about funding, but the Secretary of Finance did not. (Draco himself donated a sizable amount annually via Malfoy Enterprises, and he’d give even more if Hermione asked. But she was a conscientious witch, and she didn’t wish to further mix her politics with her privilege of having a conveniently wealthy spouse.)
As soon as he and Hermione entered the grand ballroom at Hotel Avalon, they found themselves surrounded by a bevy of sycophants, all eager for a minute of the Minister’s time. Draco smiled and nodded at polite intervals, but he left the chatting to his wife as he looked about for waiters bearing trays of tiny snacks. If this first brush with Hermione's constituents was any indication of the evening’s tedium, Draco needed to get his wife fed, stat.
He eventually appropriated an entire platter of hors d’ouvres, but it was no use. Because while he cared little for high society manners these days, Hermione did, and she reminded him quietly that it was impolite for her to eat whilst mingling when she was the hostess. So Draco stood around looking like a very handsome waiter, and his wife had instead taken a cocktail to toast a few foreign dignitaries before they sat down for dinner.
Hermione had enjoyed less than half of her meal—the soup and salad, to be exact—when she was called to the stage to give her speech. Afterwards, she was swiftly ushered to the table of some Asian Wizarding royalty. She’d only returned in time for dessert, and she’d waved away her mains before Draco could insist that she take a few bites. “Dancing begins in a moment, Draco,” she murmured, taking a sip of her wine. “We mustn’t keep our guests waiting.”
And so he obliged, taking her hand for the first turn about the dance floor. Draco held her proudly, feeling everyone's eyes on them. He whispered, “What say you we leave after this? I’ve wanted to peel that dress off of you since I first saw you in it. I can order takeout while we play. Congee?”
(Muggles were brilliant like that, he’d come to admit. Restaurants that were open for post-sex binges, and all reachable via telephone? Just brilliant.)
“Don’t be naughty,” Hermione smacked his chest with a secret smile. “Everyone’s looking. We need to stay until at least eleven.”
They did not stay until just eleven.
As soon as their dance was through, Draco had his wife ripped away from him and then whirled about the room by a manner of foreign dignitaries and scions and researchers and magizoologists. He found himself pulling on a cigar and nursing a double shot of Firewhiskey while he watched her do the rounds, a glass of bubbly always in hand. Sometimes it helped that he was a grouchy bastard. People left him alone despite the fact that he was the spouse of the Minister for Magic. And when he was alone, he could do what he did best: lean back against a wall and watch.
There was something magical about Hermione when she was around people she could share her causes with. Unlike years before, she no longer needed Draco to help her manage her turn of phrase to push her agenda rather than lecture her audience. And Draco liked that. She was wholly her own person, completely in control—
“Hey stranger,” Hermione sidled up to him out of nowhere and ran a finger down his shirt buttons. “You’re handsome.”
“And you’re drunk,” Draco furrowed his brow. “I told you to eat something. Just how many drinks have you had?”
“One, two... many!”
“Marvelous.”
“Oh, marvelous indeed,” she nodded. “Now that you’re here, the party can really get started.”
Draco smirked. His witch was trying to pick him up, was she? As much as he loved this game of theirs, it was usually reserved for their nights off in the Muggle clubs. Now that he thought about it, they hadn’t done that since Scorpius had started at Hogwarts.
He played along. “Do I know you?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I do know you.”
“Oh?”
“You’re Draco Malfoy,” she breathed. “Chairman of Malfoy Enterprises, gazillionaire philanthropist, seven-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Sexiest Smoulder Award, and…”
“And?”
“Infamous Slytherin Sex God,” she smirked coyly, running a hand up and down his arm.
“My, that is quite the reputation.” All true, of course. But it stroked his ego to be reminded of what she saw in him now and then. Especially while she eyed him like a piece of meat.
“Are you single?” Hermione purred, leaning in closer. “It would be a crime for a man like you to be. And I know someone who’s dying to be your next girlfriend.”
Hearing the want in her voice sent the blood running straight to his cock, which immediately began warring with his brain. There were still so many people around, not to mention the press. But she was being docile enough, and his cock was misbehaving. Perhaps he could get her home quicker this way. “That depends,” he finally replied, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. “Who’s asking?”
“You might know her.”
“I do?”
“Everybody does. She’s the Minister for Magic. And I have it on good authority that she’s looking for a hot shag tonight.”
Draco cocked his brow. Hermione had always been a lightweight and a horny drunk, and for instances like these, she had long given him her blanket consent to simply go with what she wanted. “I may be drunk,” she explained once, “but with you I know I’m safe. I trust you. I love you. And if we both want it, well. Would you really deny me?”
He wouldn’t. He promised to take care of her as best as he could, and if that meant giving in to her incessant demands for hot sex, then so be it.
He must have taken too long to reply, because she booped his nose and said in a loud voice, “It’s me, silly! I’m the Minister for Magic!”
Heads turned in their direction, and Draco knew he only had moments to sweep his witch off her feet and take her home before someone with a camera noticed.
“I like a powerful woman,” he murmured. “One who knows what she wants.”
“Uh huh,” Hermione’s gaze was fixated on his lips, which meant she’d want a kiss any second now.
With as much charm as he could ooze, he purred, “Tell me what you want, Madam Minister.”
She fingered his belt buckle and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I want you to take me right no—mmph!”
Draco pressed a finger over her lips. “Quiet now. Wouldn’t want anyone to hear.”
She parted her lips with a small moan, and it took all the might Draco possessed to prevent her from taking his digit into her mouth.
“I’ll need you to be a good girl for me,” he purred, and she pressed her hips against his hard-on.
“I’ve been good all year. And it’s Christmas!”
“You may still get a lump of coal.”
“I’ll be very good,” she promised. “Take me home.”
It was all he could do to say, “As you wish, Minister.”
He let her lean on him as the first sounds of camera shutters began in their direction. Right on time. He kept his face impassive as she told people, “Well, must go! I need to, er, pet my kitty.”
He fished out the return Portkey from his robes and bade her to touch it. But before the Portkey could activate, Hermione leapt into his arms and captured his lips in a sloppy kiss. The crowd gasped, and the last thing Draco saw was the flash of bulbs as the Portkey swept them away.
Theirs was not the most graceful of landings in the foyer of their home, but Draco managed to catch Hermione before she fell. He had his hands around her waist in a low dip, and he swung her up flamenco-style so that their chests were flush against one another.
“All right there, Granger?”
She blinked up at him, acclimatizing to their surroundings. “Yes, gods, yes.”
“Hangover potion?”
“No.”
And then she was kissing him more deeply than she had in a week. Draco felt as though he were the intoxicated one as he reveled in the taste of champagne on her tongue.
“You’re going to drive me mad,” Draco rasped.
She took this as encouragement, and pulled him through the hall, up the stairs and into their bedroom. She only managed to take his dinner jacket off before he stopped her. “Slow down, love.”
She flushed prettily and uttered an incoherent confession: “Worked so hard. Stupid holiday. Waited so long.” She clutched his shirt, which was probably wrinkled beneath his waistcoat by now. “Want you.”
“Are you sure?” Draco knew his frequent checks would frustrate Hermione before long, but he was a gentleman. If she ever decided she’d rather go to sleep, he would get her cleaned up and tuck her in. The sex could wait until after the hangover.
But his wife had a spotless track record of enthusiastic consent, and he rather enjoyed how free and brazen she could get under the influence. “Yes,” she moaned.
And so he pulled away and said, “In that case… tell me what you’d like me to do.” On nights like these, she made all the rules.
“Take off my dress.” Bossy thing. She never could resist when she was drunk.
Yes. “As you wish.”
He bade her to turn around and ran his finger down the exposed flesh of her back as he pulled her zipper lower and lower. He then peeled her sleeves off her arms and watched with rapt attention as the garment dropped to the floor.
Hermione turned to face him. Standing in nothing but a tiny black bralette, high-waisted lace knickers, and heels, she looked… “Wow, Granger. Did you wear this just for me?” Part of him bemoaned the fact that no one would ever know exactly how sexy their Minister of Magic was, but a bigger part—the possessive part—thrilled at the idea that only he would ever see it fully. He coveted her that way.
She ignored him, opting instead to push him until he sat upon their bed. Draco braced himself as she straddled him and undid his tie. He worked on his waistcoat while she unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy fingers. “Take this off,” she ordered him. She ground down on his hardness and pulled at his waistband. “And your trousers.”
“I’ll need you to get off of me first.”
She scrambled over to the center of the bed and toed her pumps off delicately. Gods, Draco loved her legs. He loved her feet.
Draco stood to give her a view—he knew she liked to watch. Slowly, he undid the buckle of his belt, the clinking metal making Hermione’s breath hitch. He knew she liked it, but they would not be playing with belts. Not tonight.
He flicked open his button and pulled down his zipper. And with deliberate slowness, he kicked off his tuxedo shoes and pulled his trousers down with his socks until he stood before her wearing nothing but his hard-on and a smile.
Hermione licked her lips. “You’re so big.”
He smirked. Her drunken commitment to their role-play was commendable.
“Fuck me,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
She whined.
“Tell me,” Draco said again, leaning over her body. “What do you want?”
“Kiss me,” she requested.
He did.
“Down there,” she murmured against his lips.
He smiled his way down her body, freeing her nipples from her bralette. They were already pebbled from the cold, or from her arousal, or both, but he enjoyed paying them due worship nonetheless. Yet his witch clearly had not forgotten her first request, for though she moaned her own pleasure at his attentions, her hands moved up to his head and pushed it down insistently.
“You sure?” he grinned, kissing her breasts lightly.
“Yes,” she said impatiently.
Draco made his way further south, stripping her of her knickers as he went. And then he parted her legs, pushing her thighs up so her feet rested on his shoulder. He admired her pussy as it clenched in anticipation. He hadn’t even touched her yet, and already she was so wet for him.
He hooked his thumbs at her knees and descended upon her with his tongue. She keened—more sensitive, he knew, from their lack of touch in the last week. It was perhaps a blessing in disguise, because whenever they came together after a long time apart, it was always—
“So goooooood,” Hermione moaned. “Don’t stop.”
He chuckled, training his eyes on her face. She met his gaze as he pressed his tongue hard against her clit the way she liked, and then thrust it into her entrance to taste her. He repeated the motions over and over until she was grasping his arms and lacing their fingers for support. But as he felt her body begin to tremble, he withdrew. He swiftly kissed her on the lips, willing her to taste herself on his tongue as he ran his hands up her legs.
“No,” she bucked her hips and whined into his mouth. “Please, I’m so horny.”
“I know,” he sympathized, and he brought his fingers to her clit to see her pleasure through. She came with a long moan, pulling at his shoulders to kiss him hard.
“Take me,” she demanded.
“Are you—”
“I want you.”
Draco rolled over so he was leaning against their headboard. “Have at me, then.”
Hermione began to climb him, but then stopped when her eyes dropped to his hard cock. She stared hungrily and ran one hand down his torso until she had him in her hand. Then she lowered her mouth to the head of his cock, licking the precome that had gathered there.
Draco groaned from the sensation, fixating on her pretty lips as she eased him further into her mouth. The lush sounds of her sucking his cock were only joined by his own labored breathing, and he felt his heart race simply from watching her work him with the help of her hands. “Gods, Granger.”
“Want you,” she mumbled around his shaft.
His wife was nothing but thorough, and if he let her carry on, he’d have a mess in her mouth before long. “Then that’s enough,” he said, sitting up. “C’mere.”
He allowed her to mount him, and before she could lower herself on his wet cock, he held her hips firm and made his first request for his own pleasure: “Let your hair down for me.”
“My hair?” It was still done up in a chignon, though it was rather disheveled by now. She reached up behind her, and Draco appreciated the view of her rising breasts as she pulled upon the jeweled hairpin that kept her mane in place. With a single tug, her curls cascaded freely down her back. Draco bit back a groan as she tossed the hairpin back and grabbed his aching cock in her hand.
And then she slipped onto him—Merlin, she was so ready—and slowly began to rock her hips back and forth against his.
Had it only been a week since they last did this?
Draco couldn’t believe it.
Because she was impossibly tight, impossibly wet. And he was caught up in the sight of her in all her wanton glory.
He found himself thrusting up to meet her, faster and faster until her own hips stilled. Her hair tickled his chest and shoulders as she leaned over the headboard, and throaty sighs of pleasure spilled from her open lips. That only made him grip her arse harder as he drove into her.
“F-fuck,” she gasped. “Harder!”
Draco lost all control. He flipped them over and began fucking her like an animal, grunting and pushing his hips to the limit.
Hermione wailed incoherently, grasping at his forearms and wrapping her legs around him. “Ohh, yes, yessssss. Right—right there, Malfoy!”
He would make her see stars. He’d written it in his vows.
“Malfoy, Malfoy,” she whimpered. She was close.
“Say my name,” he commanded her. “Say it, Hermione.”
Hearing her own name fall from his lips was more than enough to push her over the edge.
“Draco,” she moaned, her pussy tightening like a vice around him. “Oh, gods, Draco, Draco!”
He thrust into her with one last burst of energy, spilling into her with a shudder moments later.
Stilling, he allowed her to caress his face in her hands as he caught his breath. She, too, was panting, but the look on her face was deliriously happy. Drunk, still, that was for sure.
He planted kisses on her cheeks, feeling her smile as she stretched beneath him. And when he eventually pulled out, he cleaned her of their mess with his wand and a conjured towel.
“I hear the Minister’s standards are exacting,” he murmurs. “How do I measure up?”
His wife smiled at him. “Above and beyond.”
He kissed her. “I’ll get you some water and a hangover potion.” He’d also convince her to eat something—she may not have been truly wasted, but running on empty was the surest way to an ulcer or worse.
“Okay.”
Hermione was not in bed when he returned. As he had earlier that evening, he overheard her talking to their elderly cat in her study next door. He listened in amusement as she regaled old Crookshanks with the tale of their latest sexcapade, and then, feeling as though her familiar had had enough, he made his presence known.
He got Hermione to eat, drink water, and take her potion in that order. They had just enough energy to see to their hygiene before bundling up for bed.
“Gods,” Hermione murmured into his chest, finally fully sober. “The headlines tomorrow are going to be awful.”
Draco chuckled. “They can’t write anything too horrible - after all, I own a stake in the Prophet.”
She smacked him on the chest. “What do I keep telling you about that? I can’t use your resources for that sort of thing—”
“I know, I know. But I wouldn’t worry. I got you out of the ballroom quickly enough.”
“You take such good care of me,” she sighed. “Thank you.”
Draco nodded, turning out the lights. “Now get some rest. I made you some promises I intend to keep before we pick Scorp up from King’s Cross tomorrow.”
“I’ve missed him,” she grinned sleepily. “I love you, Draco.”
“I love you, too.”
PART III: The Morning After
DECEMBER 18, 2021
“Hey, Scorp! Your mum’s on the front page again.” Albus handed him the morning Prophet as they readied to board the train home for the Christmas hols.
ANNUAL MINISTRY CHRISTMAS GALA EARNS 2.6M GALLEONS FOR CREATURE RIGHTS PROJECTS, the headline read. Pretty standard do-gooding where Mum was concerned.
But then the subhead caught his eye: MINISTER FOR MAGIC LEAVES PARTY TO “PET HER KITTY”. The accompanying photo showed his mum looking as though she were about to snog his dad.
Scorpius wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”
“What?” Al asked. They read through the article together, though nothing was written to explain the photo. Scorpius knew his father had something to do with it.
“Your mum must just really love Crookshanks,” Al mused.
“Oh yeah,” Scorpius said with false casualness. “He’s getting up there in age.”
THE END
PART IV: Drunk Hermione Outtakes
Hermione: Percy, hi!
Undersecretary Percy Weasley: *Eyeing her empty champagne glass* Hello, Minister. Just how many of those have you had?
Hermione: Goodness, can’t you ask me an easier question? Like our GDP. Ask me about our GDP.
Percy: Let me go fetch your husband.
Hermione: Noooooooooo
Draco: So you’re drunk.
Hermione: I yam, I yam.
Draco: You’ve given me blanket approval over all things sexy, yes?
Hermione: Mmmhmmmmm.
Draco: What if we tried—
Hermione: NO BUTT STUFF.
Draco: (Sad) Okay.
Hermione: *Giggling* I just had a thought.
Draco: Yes, Minister?
Hermione: What if someone cursed your dick, right? And it turned real tiny.
Draco: (Horrified) WHY?!
Hermione: *Cackling* Like a baby carrot.
Draco: You’re done. We’re done. Bartender? Cut this woman off.
Hermione: My friend has a lovely cat named Atlas who’s just as smart as you.
Crookshanks: *Insulted huff*
Hermione: Okay, nearly. Nearly as smart as you. He plays fetch!
Crookshanks: *Walks away with disgust*
Hermione: [Mid-sex] You know what would be great right about now? Con—
Draco: Congee, I know.
Hermione: *Gasps* How did you know?
Draco: You’ve only said it three times so far. It really puts a damper on things, you know.
Hermione:
Hermione: Yes, but there’s this really nice Filipino congee called arroz caldo, and—
Draco: It’s gone.
Hermione: The restaurant that makes it is open 24 hours!
Draco: No, Granger. My hard-on. It’s gone.
Hermione:
Draco:
Hermione: So… congee?
THE END FOR REAL