Make me
Holiday music rang through the air, the singer’s soulful warble accompanied by sleigh bells and the images of fat snowflakes drifting in whirls and spirals. Hermione bobbed her head along to the melody, mouthing the lyrics and only occasionally getting them right.
“Is it even allowed, playing Christmas music before December?”
She popped up behind the refrigerator door to level a look at the wizard who dared ask the question.
“In that case, are you even allowed to drink eggnog?”
Hermione eyeballed the glass he clutched in one hand. Draco raised a single brow in response, before draining the rest of the evidence and sending it flying to the sink with an elegant wave of his hand.
“Who says that eggnog can’t be enjoyed any time of the year?”
“My case stands.” She resumed her rifling, on the hunt for the perfect snack. She knew she’d purchased fruit tarts just yesterday with the intention of enjoying them today while she read over the existing Centaur cases. “Where are my tarts?”
She was met with silence.
Hermione slowly stood and turned once more to the man who was now looking around the kitchen as if his mind was elsewhere. She ignored the way his shirt stretched over his muscles when he placed his hands in his back pockets the way he did just now. She was in no way interested in the flattering pink blush working its way across his cheeks.
“Draco…did you eat my tarts?”
“Hm?” He finally brought his gaze back to her, eyes wide and clear.
The bastard.
“Draco?”
He stood up straight at the faux sweet tone she now used, every muscle in his fit body tense and ready to react. “Yes, dear?”
She walked silently towards him, both of her hands resting at her sides. Appearances would have him assume she meant no harm. If he knew her any less, he’d think the way her lips curled up at the edges was indicative of pleasure.
“Please get me fresh apple tarts to replace the ones you ate.”
“But, I didn’t–”
“Or else.”
The innocent look on his face vanished and was replaced with his more familiar smirk, and he had the audacity to cock his head to the side as he peered down at her. “Or else what?”
“Or else I will charm Christmas music to play throughout the house at max volume until the new year.” She stepped back as his hand attempted to hook under her jumper. “And that includes in the bedroom and bathroom and anywhere else you think you might try and convince me otherwise.” She snickered at the fantasy of his platinum hair between her legs as Gwen Stefani’s “You Make It Feel Like Christmas” played in the background.
He responded to the addition with a pout so pronounced she was tempted to hop onto her toes and bite it.
“That’s not fair.”
“You know what they say…” she sang to the melody of “Carol of the Bells.”
His scowl grew more pronounced. “You can’t just Christmas-fy everything.”
“Yes, I can, and I will, and the chances of it happening only increase with every minute that passes.”
He attempted one more time to step into her space and pin her against the kitchen island, but she anticipated the move and spun away to the other side.
“You can’t make me forget what I’m owed, Malfoy.” A cackle joined her demand, and she grinned widely at his look of disgruntlement.
There was only one place that made the apple tarts that she loved so much, and he knew it. Hermione also knew that the second he showed up at Pansy’s bakery to make his order, the other witch would suspect what had happened and lay into him in the way she did best.
It served him right.
As he made his way towards the Floo, he looked over his shoulder to make one last parting shot, “You’re lucky you’re pregnant, Mrs Malfoy.”
Both hands resting on her stomach and rubbing in comforting circles, she maintained her maniacal grin. “You’re lucky it’s yours.”
She smacked her lips in anticipation of the tangy sweetness she’d soon enjoy. Pansy didn’t even offer the simple treat in her shop, preferring to cater to more elaborate orders, but she couldn’t say no to Hermione. Those tarts came from a special recipe tailored to Hermione’s exact pregnancy cravings and satiated her in a way no other substitute could.
Returning to the fridge, she poured herself a tall glass of eggnog, sprinkled it with a bit of cinnamon, and plopped down in her favorite armchair.
He had only four more minutes until it was Christmas everyday in every way.