“Hey,” said Harry, plopping down next to Draco in the booth. He set Draco’s Pimm’s Cup cocktail down, took a drink from his own ale. There was a rare snow falling outside and he almost wished he ordered them hot toddies instead.

Draco glanced at him, smiled briefly, then returned to his conversation with Hermione. 

“But what I think you’re failing to realise, Granger, is that sometimes when I’m drunk I am really, really gagging for it, and I absolutely want to have sex—a great deal of sex, in fact—even more so than when I’m not drunk.”

Harry perked up. He pushed the Pimm’s Cup closer to Draco’s hand.

“But that’s my point!” Hermione said. “Alcohol inhibits your inhibitions and makes you do things you wouldn’t normally want to do.”

Harry frowned, pulled the Pimm’s Cup back a little bit.

“I do normally want to have sex,” said Draco. “I just want to have more sex when I’m drinking.”

Harry grinned, started to slide the Pimm’s Cup closer once more, but Hermione noticed it, and gave him a pointed look. He smiled winsomely at her, and casually drank more of his ale.

“But you’re not fully of your own mind when you do,” Hermione said. “You can’t consent. It’s just like with love potions—”

“Oh, not the love potions again,” said Draco. “Those are so last year.”

Hermione frowned, pushing one long braid out of her face. “But people are still—”

“Yes, other people. Not Draco people,” Draco said, waggling one finger at Hermione. He finally noticed the cocktail Harry’d brought him, picked it up, and took a sip, giving Harry a fond smile. 

Harry beamed. 

The Draco continued: “I don’t care for using love potions. I care about getting a nice buzz and then fucking Potter—”

Harry beamed further. Ron looked heavenward.

“—Or him fucking me.”

The expression apparently became permanent on Ron’s face.

“Well, you know—” Harry began.

“And really,” continued Draco, “isn’t it my choice?”

“It is your choice,” Hermione insisted. “But how can you be sure you really want to?”

“Because I always want to fuck Harry,” Draco said, exasperated. “One-hundred percent of the time. A cocktail’s not going to change that.”

Harry sat up straight, grinning like a loon. Ron gave him a thousand-year stare from across the table, which Harry ignored. What a lovely holiday season to be alive!

Hermione huffed, rolled her eyes. “All right, all right, I can see your point—in this small, singular, isolated case—but I still don’t think it’s applicable to all other situations.”

“Who cares about other situations?” said Draco. “I mean, well, I care, certainly, but on a daily basis, it’s just Harry’s sex life I’m concerned with. Usually. Unless something terrible has made the news, and it becomes public discourse—”

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Harry advised, sotto voce. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given Draco the second cocktail after all.

“You are such a prick, Malfoy,” Ron said, though it was lacking any heat.

Draco stuck his nose up a bit. “Harry likes my prick.”

Hermione choked on her wine. Ron rolled his eyes.

“Are you two ever going to stop broadcasting your sex lives to us?” Hermione asked. “Ron told you about giving me head one time. How about a little Christmas spirit?”

Draco seemed to consider this. He took another long drink of his Pimm’s Cup. “Unlikely,” he finally said. “Malfoys don’t believe in Christmas spirit.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He reckoned he was going to need to drink Draco’s cocktail himself to make it through the night. He hoped it would still end in some hot, messy sex for him (don’t tell Hermione).