A/N: The semester if finally, finally over, and I got a break from work, too. I was planning on continuing one of my WIPs, but alas, I'm visiting family and forgot my laptop at home. So you get a short Christmas story instead.

It's set in the same 'verse as my other Kingsley/Hermione stories (including some unfinished ones), so you might not catch some references if this is the first you're stumbling upon. However, it's meant to stand alone, so you don't have to go around reading LtSLtB first (but are invited to, of course.) I hope you enjoy this, and if you have the time and inclination, please review. Merry Christmas!

Disclaimer: You know the drill. J.K. Rowling owns it, title comes from "All I Want for Christmas is You", beta-ed by the wonderful Nat.

Kingsley Shacklebolt hates Christmas.

No, really. He does. As far as he's concerned, the whole holiday could vanish from existence and he wouldn't complain. Notice the disappearance he would, because, well, it would mean one diplomatic headache less.

Christmas hasn't always been on his bad side. As a child, he used to love the whole paraphernalia: transfiguring old brooms into healthy trees, decorating, sampling the cookies that the one member of his family who isn't cooking-impaired bakes. Even as an adult, he and Christmas were initially on fairly civil terms: he stopped going out of his way to do any of the aforementioned activities after his sisters moved out, but he would happily engage in them should they rope him into it.

But this is his second Christmas since becoming Minister for Magic, and the holiday becomes a whole lot more tiring and overwhelming when you're in charge of keeping the most zealous Christmas fanatics from spreading the holiday magic, literally, into Muggle territory. Honestly, if he never again has to be on the receiving end of the Prime Minister's will-I-ever-be-rid-of-you looks, it will be too soon.

Not that he blames the man, mind you. He imagines that having to explain self-glowing trees and actual flying reindeers to a whole kingdom of Muggles must get wearying. But for heaven's sake, it's not as if he is idiotic enough to jeopardize all their hard-earned peace by parading a little too enthusiastically in front of the non-magical population. It'd be nice if the Prime Minister realized that.

"Long day?"

He doesn't move from the door against which he leaned as soon as he walked in, but only opens one eye. Hermione is perched on his couch, reading from a massive book he doesn't recognize. "Like you won't believe."

"What did George and Audrey do this time?"

"Amazingly enough, it doesn't have to do with George and Audrey. Even more amazing, it doesn't have to do with George and Audrey's inventions, either."

She puts the book down. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He plops down on the couch, not even bothering to loosen the collar of his robes. "Some idiot had the brilliant idea of enchanting a sleigh and transfiguring a couple of puppies into reindeers. I just finished dealing with the Prime Minister. Again."

Her burst of laughter is not sympathetic in the least. "You're joking."

"I wish. You know, one of these days, I will turn him into a reindeer. That way, maybe I could have one good memory of dealing with that man." He sighs, rests his head on the back of the couch. "How was your day?"

"Not half as eventful as yours, apparently. I mostly spent it researching ancient laws and looking for precedent to Higgins' latest brainstorm. If there is a god – any god– it will be his last one this year."

"We need a holiday."

"That's a thought. Isn't the current one work enough for you?"

Kingsley tugs on a curl of hair in retaliation. "You know what I mean. Let's pick a weekend and take off."

She leans up from her current spot on his shoulder to peer at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

"Very funny."

"I thought so."

"I can get most of my work for next week done, delegated or postponed without much hassle. Come on," he nibbles on her ear. "It'll be fun. We could get a break from this Christmas craze."

"I like this Christmas craze," she reminds him, but the idea of a vacation makes her cave. "But… I have a handful of days off that I haven't used yet. I suppose I could get Friday and Saturday off."

"Do it. We'll escape this bloody holiday spirit. There won't be a single ornament in sight."

She is laughing so hard she has trouble staying upright.

"Stop that," he says. "It's not funny."

"Oh no?" She gestures. "Then what do you call that?"

He glares at the massive Christmas tree in the corner of the cabin, so heavily ornamented that only magic can keep it from toppling over. Hermione gives in to another burst of hilarity. "We'll escape Christmas, he said. Not a single ornament in sight, he said."

"I asked the manager to make sure that no Christmas decorations remained. I even owled him yesterday to remind him."

"Maybe he doesn't agree with your politics," Hermione suggests.

Kingsley gives her a look. It only makes her laugh harder. "Oh, wait until Rowena and Julia hear about this. You will never be able to live this down."

He rolls his eyes. Hermione and Rowena hit it off like a house afire, and after some initial distrust, Julia welcomed her as well. It figures that his girlfriend's first thought would be to share the anecdote with his sisters so they can laugh at him together. "Hilarious."

"Oh, please. It is. Whatever happened to your sense of humour?"

"I believe it was accidentally misplaced somewhere between having to send an entire squad of Unspeakables to Obliviate most of London after a joker dressed as Santa Claus decided to fly a sleigh at noon, and being forced to explain to the Prime Minister that no, we can't cast a spell to prevent it from happening again."

She wisely swallows another laugh. "Look out. Do you see any floating sleighs out there?"

Kingsley doesn't look, but only because he's half worried he might spot one. He refuses to deal with another public relations crisis this weekend. He's crisis-d out.

"Come on. There are no extra festive wizards anywhere in the vicinity. Plus it does look rather cosy in here, don't you think? What with the tree and the garlands and everything?"

"Are you trying to sell Christmas to me?"

"Maybe." She waves her wand, does a quick nonverbal spell. "How am I doing so far?"

He chuckles when he sees the mistletoe. Lowering his head to hers, he murmurs against her lips. "I'd say you're off to an excellent start."

Neither of them thinks of Christmas after that.

"Kingsley. Wake up."

He only grunts. Having expected this reaction, Hermione rolls her eyes. A morning person this man is not.

"Operation: Christmas is on. Step one is a Christmas breakfast."

"Operation: Christmas?"

"Yes."

"You can't be serious."

"You said I was off to an excellent start," she reminds him. "Last night. So naturally I assumed that you wanted me to continue. Which, by the way, I'm delighted to do."

He buries his head in a pillow, and mumbles something that sounds a lot like, "of all the women in the world."

She decides to take that as a compliment. "Up you go."

"You go. Away. I'm staying here, and I'm planning on sleeping the morning through."

"All right. Then I suppose I'll have to do something to amuse myself in the meantime. Like, drink all the coffee in the cabin."

He fixes her with an annoyed look. They both know he would rather plow through snow barefoot than do without his morning coffee.

"Give me that," he demands, and nearly dunks his head into the mug in his haste to get the coffee in his system. Hermione smiles at that. "Cinnamon? Really?"

"Why be subtle? Here, have one of these," she reaches out and grabs a gingerbread cookie from the breakfast tray. "I promise they don't fly."

Kingsley stares at it before lifting his eyes to her. He doesn't smile – the man has an impressive poker face– but she catches the telltale sparkle of humour in his eyes.

Her reindeer-shaped cookies are a success.

"Are you really tackling a project to make me like Christmas?" He asks after breakfast is over. "Don't you think that's exaggerating a bit?"

"Oh, yes I am, and yes I do. But this happens to be both my first Christmas with my parents since I got them back, and my first Christmas with you, period. So sue me if I want to treasure ev…" she brings herself to a halt when her brain catches up to her mouth, ducks her head to avoid his now watchful eyes.

They've only been together a few months, and have yet to discuss their relationship beyond the simplest of terms – they only talked about it, briefly, when they agreed that neither would be seeing other people. She sort of fell into calling him her boyfriend by accident, and Kingsley accepted it in much the same manner. Their relationship delights her, and she's been very careful not to tangle it up with the way she feels about him.

She could barely drum up the courage to invite him to spend the night at her place all those months ago. There is no way she can work up enough to tell him she loves him.

She clears her throat. "Never mind. I think I'll go snap a few pictures for my parents, and put together some lunch." She starts to get to her feet, nearly swears when he takes hold of her arm.

Brilliant. So he wants to have a Talk. Why can't he be like most of the other men she knows, the ones who would entirely bypass the implications of what she just said?

"Hermione."

Well, you are the one who wouldn't let sleeping dragons lie. "Yes?"

Kingsley's other hand grabs her chin, turns her head so she'll look at him. Then he kisses her with enough force to make her teeth rattle. He only pulls back when it feels like most of her brain has liquefied. "What's step two?"

"I said no."

He gives a look of mock surprise. "I was led to believe you were trying to infuse me with the holiday spirit. Shouldn't this plan be tailored to suit my tastes?"

"Not when your tastes are poor."

"Now, Hermione, that's cheating."

She glares. He smiles.

Finally, she huffs out a breath. "Fine. We'll add the damn raisins."

Still smiling, he takes the small bowl of raisins and dumps them into the batter. "Thank you, love. You're so accommodating."

"Shut up," she starts to bare her teeth, ends up laughing. "I have to say, Mr. Shacklebolt, you look quite… domestic."

"I do, don't I?" He looks down at the apron he's wearing, shakes his head. "And I haven't even set it on fire yet."

"You are not going anywhere near that oven. I'm drawing the line there."

"This was your idea," he reminds her. "Baking cookies, Christmas scents, holiday spirit. It went something like that, didn't it?"

"I don't imagine you'll grow much fonder of the season if you associate it to that one time you ended up with third degree burns on your hands."

"Third degree?"

"Muggle thing." Hermione slides the baking sheet in the oven. "Different measurement system."

"Oh, right. Well. You have a point. How long do we have to wait for those to be done, again?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take."

"Excellent," he takes off the apron, grins at her. "Want to kill time necking?"

She laughs. "Kill time? You romantic bastard."

"You want romance?" Kingsley advances on her with a look that freezes the laugh in her throat. Yes, he can do romance, she manages to think before rationality is wiped away by an upsurge of need. He can also do desperate, endless craving, with just a tinge of danger or strokes of comfort, depending on his mood and hers. Right now, it is apparent that comfort is not at the forefront of his mind.

His hands are on her hips, tugging until she's pressed flush against him, until the flicker of arousal kindles that same old fire that threatens to consume her. She arches into his hands, moving with him until she finds herself on the counter with her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands dragging at his sweater so she can feel his skin against hers, his muscles rippling under her palms. She presses her lips to his chest as he pulls both sweater and t-shirt over his head, dimly hearing him swear when they get stuck on his earring. She tastes his heated skin with her tongue, shuddering along with him, and running a hand down until it reaches the zip of his jeans.

The loud beep of the oven timer makes them both jump.

"I…" disoriented, she meets his eyes. "The cookies."

His grip on her tightens. "Let them burn."

Hermione gives a shaky laugh. "All right."

"I'm looking forward to step three," Kingsley comments as she opens the windows to let the cold air in.

She doesn't have to look at him to know that he's smiling a very satisfied smirk. "Step three doesn't involve sex."

"Neither did step two, but we have a batch of burnt cookies to show for the change of plans."

Hermione spares him a glance. "Is that all we have to show for it?"

His lips twitch. "I could've healed those bruises, you know."

"And I those scratches, but you wouldn't hear of it either."

"Vanity is a funny thing." He manages, Merlin knows how, to say it soberly.

She answers in kind. "Isn't it just. Anyway. Get your coat and shoes. We're going out."

She Apparates him to a Carol service. Neither of them is a religious person, but Hermione grew up attending them with her parents, and it doesn't really feel like Christmas without them.

"So this is Muggle Christmas music."

"It is. What do you think?"

She smiles when he pulls her into his chest, his arms loosely wrapped around her waist. "I like it."

They watch the rest of the concert in comfortable silence.

They're curled up together on the couch that night, Hermione sitting between Kingsley's legs with a throw flung haphazardly over them. Two half empty glasses of wine sit on the side table.

"I'm glad you thought about this," she says, burrowing deeper into his chest. "I didn't realize how much I needed this weekend until we were already here."

He presses a kiss to her temple. "It's not over yet. Any more Christmas plans for tomorrow?"

"No. I decided to cut you a break."

"Oh."

His tone makes her lips twitch. "Is that disappointment I hear?"

He smiles against her neck. "Could be."

"So, am I to understand that Christmas is growing on you?"

"Stranger things have happened," he watches her reach for her glass, sip. "Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

And choke. "What?" The glass forgotten, she twists in his lap to look at him. "What did you just say?"

"I love you," he gives a little shrug, and that boyish smile she loves so much. "Seemed like a good moment to bring that up."

"You mean it," she manages after a moment. "You love me?"

"I must have been a politician too long," he decides, "if you find it that hard to believe what I say."

Even now, he makes her laugh. "Maybe you have," she brings her hands to his face, pulls him down for a kiss. "But either way, I love you, too."

This, he thinks as the kiss deepens, might be his best Christmas yet. It might even be the start of a new tradition.