Notes: This fills the Tomione Christmas Challenge prompt "Drunk at a Christmas party." It is just meant to be fun—and there is a smutty scene first.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Holiday Entertainment

To celebrate the season—and the end, however temporary, of hostilities directed at the Minister—Tom and Hermione had decided to hold a party. After much reluctance, they had decided to hold it in their home. Tom in particular had not preferred this; however, he had not dared to requisition part of the Ministry building itself for a private party, and there were some who would look askance at the Minister for Magic holding a Christmas-New Year's-birthday party in the Serpents' Chalice rather than his own home. Appearances mattered.

Considering all the growth it had experienced, Hermione had somewhat reluctantly had to employ a pair of house-elves at her organization for cleaning and non-magical maintenance tasks. They were free elves, but they would not accept much pay from her. She decided at once that she did not want to prepare food and ready the house for guests herself, even with magic to assist her, so she summoned them to the house and gave the delighted elves their task.

The party was going to be late, which was fine. That gave Hermione the opportunity to put the children to bed. She did this as the elves worked, bathing them and reading to them before tucking them into their beds. Fortunately for all, their rooms were on the topmost floor of the house, making it easy for her to put up warding spells to keep party noises from disturbing them in their sleep. She and Tom had already determined that the guests would be restricted to the ground and first floors, below the two floors where the members of the family slept. She expected that there would be no need, in fact, for anyone to go to the ground floor unless they had to use the loo. The first floor had the parlor, large family sitting room, and the lower level of the library, as well as open hall space. There would be plenty of space for people to mingle, and the valuable or personal items in these rooms could be magically protected from spills, falls, or errant hexes.

At last the children were tucked into bed. It was a mercy that they were young enough that they could have early bedtimes without too much objection. Hermione got up from the crib that stood in the master bedroom, stretched, and turned around to find Tom gazing at her from the doorway.

"I should bathe," he said abruptly. He moved forward into the room.

"All right," she remarked idly.

Tom passed through the bedroom and into the master bath. Before long, Hermione heard water running, but not in the shower—in the green marble tub. Interesting. This was the second time recently that he had wanted to use it.

"Hermione," he called through the doorway.

Her eyes flicked up, acknowledging him questioningly.

"Join me in the bath."

She raised an eyebrow at that. He was unsure for a moment about whether it was because he was going to take a bath rather than a shower, or because he had commanded rather than asked her. Some quick Legilimency revealed that it was both.

"Will you join me in the bath?" he tried again.

She cast a smile at him as she headed into the bathroom behind him.

Once they were undressed and the tub was full of hot, fragrant—albeit not floral—water, they got in.

Hermione's hair was a bit more manageable than it used to be, but she still did not like tending to it. She gladly allowed Tom to shampoo it, relishing the feel of his fingers rubbing against her scalp—and, she noted, her neck and shoulders. She smiled. That was very pleasant indeed.

They shifted in the pool-like tub, Hermione moving close behind him to scrub his back, rub his shoulders, and give him a shampoo in turn. His hair was still exasperatingly perfect, easy to manage and with nary a hint of grey in it. Well, they were in their early thirties. It often seemed otherwise, they had accomplished so much.

Hermione filled a silver pitcher with hot water and poured it over his head, rinsing out the shampoo. It would leave behind a pleasant clean scent.

"I picked up the extra wine," she said, her lips close to the back of his neck. "I hope they don't actually 'need' it all, though. That might be unpleasant for us."

"What about you? Are you going to enjoy yourself tonight?"

She chuckled lightly. "I have every intention of enjoying myself, but if you mean 'am I going to drink,' then yes, this time. I prepared enough bottles for Cynthia in advance… and there is always Sobering Potion."

"There has been Sobering Potion all along."

"I just didn't want to get in the habit of always using it so that I could have my little vice and also safely nurse her. You know that I used to sip quite a lot before the children were born. I wanted to prove to myself—"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. He wrapped his arm around her naked waist, pulling her close, and nuzzled her neck. "I just want you to have a good time at the party, after all the rubbish we've had to deal with lately."

She let him touch her, allowing one of his hands to slip down her hips under the surface of the water and toward her juncture. It was quite pleasant, and the perfumed bubble bath in the water was wafting into the air, helped along by the warmth of the room. A small fireplace crackled near the bath. Despite the fact that this room was often quite steamy and humid after someone ran water into the bath, so much that droplets condensed on the dark grey tile lining the floor and walls, magic kept the fire going and the place toasty. At the moment, it was just this side of oppressively warm and fragrant—but it was on the right side of comfort. Very much so, in fact.

Hermione turned to him, sliding easily in the water, skin smooth as silk. She faced him, smiling as seductively as she knew how. She let her hand trail down his side.

He growled under his breath before lunging in the tub, sloshing water, and pulling her to him in a heated kiss.

Hermione tried to speak. "We should"—he moved down her jaw to her neck—"hold off until after the party"—his hand slipped between her legs—"because we just got clean—"

He chuckled. "Then let's remain in here for it."

Reluctantly, hating the fact that she was doing it, she pushed him away. "We have tried this before, Tom. Remember? It's really not comfortable."

His face fell slightly, but his gaze darted to the little fireplace.

"On the tile floor, then," he said abruptly. He shifted his hands to her waistline and began to lift her out of the bath. "And now."

She did not struggle or attempt to dissuade him from this. The room was like a spa, and the floor would be perfectly comfortable in terms of temperature. As he stepped out, the bath foam and bubbles falling below his waistline, Hermione realized with wide eyes why he was so eager.

He set her down gently on the tile, warm and slick from condensation. Ordinarily this would be less than comfortable, but the thin film of water on the unyielding tile and her own warm flesh, the slickness of the surface, somehow made it so sensual that it didn't matter that it was a tile floor.

Tom did not waste any time. He knelt between her legs and placed his hands on her hips, gazing at her with a truly wicked look on his face. "I like it when you comply so freely when I want this," he murmured in a voice almost low enough to be a growl.

She raised an eyebrow at that even as he pressed his fingertips lightly into her hips and sides. "I thought you liked it when I fought you."

He smirked back. "Oh, I like that too." He leaned over suddenly, allowing his hands to slide up her sides. They moved across her chest, finally settling on her breasts.

Sensing his intent, she made to rise up to meet him halfway, but he quickly shifted his hands to her shoulders and pushed her down, gently but firmly, pinning her to the floor. He leaned in fully, his head next to hers, and whispered in her ear, "But right now, I wouldn't want to have to take you. I don't want pretense right now. You know you're mine, don't you?" He punctuated his statement with a light nip of her earlobe. She drew in her breath involuntarily and twisted beneath him, eliciting a chuckle right next to her ear. He followed by gently licking the shell of her ear, deliberately teasing her.

"I know"—she gasped—"that… you're mine."

He pulled away, regarding her with a surprised look and a raised eyebrow. "Is that so?" he murmured. His hands trailed down her sides once more.

"Isn't it?" she challenged.

He stared at her for a brief moment before a grin blossomed once again on his face. "Yes, it is." One hand trailed idly toward the heated spot between her legs, stopping just short of its destination. A slight moan of dissatisfaction escaped her lips, and he smirked in triumph.

He positioned himself just at her center, teasing her. She arched her back, attempting to slide onto him, but he moved away just enough to prevent it. "You know what you have to say—"

"I'm yours too, then!"

He flashed her a beautiful white smile and pushed forward, filling her, providing sweet relief. Her eyes rolled back in bliss and her mind went fuzzy as they moved together, the strangely erotic sensation of heat and water and hard, slick tile against her flushed skin making this even more intense. He quickly lost the capacity for speech.

She reached for his back, fingers digging into his shoulders, as she gasped out her pleasure. The sounds seemed to excite him even more, and he responded by moving his hands up her sides, across her chest—briefly teasing her hard nipples—and then up the sides of her neck and into her hair. He fisted handfuls of it, but it didn't hurt. The feeling of his fingertips against her scalp was bliss.

A breathy gasp escaped her as she found her climax, sliding a bit on the floor as her release flooded her body. He followed soon after, a strangled cry tumbling from his lips. He did not collapse on top of her, as he usually did when they were in bed, but managed to remain balanced on his palms as he gazed down at her, panting and utterly satisfied.

Eventually they decided to take one last dip in the bath before getting themselves ready for the party.

The party had begun. Hermione was garbed in a dark green satin gown, and Tom in tuxedo-style dress robes with matching dark green lining. They welcomed the guests as they trickled through the front door and into the house, admiring the tasteful decorations of their hosts. The food and drink lay on narrow tables in the hallway, covered but still delicious-smelling and enticing. The guest list was limited to their closest associates and a couple of extras: for Tom, the Rosiers and most of the rest of the usual inner circle; for Hermione, Catriona Dagworth and Lila Brynolf, and four others from her organization. They had also invited Slughorn and—to Tom's sour resignation—Dumbledore, but they did not expect either to attend. School was not in session, but some students were there. The clock ticked ever closer to the party hour, and neither professor turned up.

Everyone who was going to arrive had arrived, so Tom and Hermione waved their wands. The silver lids and coverings rose, revealing the food, and then disappeared beneath the tables onto the benches that were concealed there. There was a punch bowl, and the elves were pouring drinks for everyone who wanted one. Very soon, the guests were munching away at the party food and sipping their drinks, gradually loosening up as more drink flowed into their systems.

Hermione noticed that her personal guests seemed to be sticking to a tight knot, not mingling much with Tom's people, and that the latter were not making any move to change that. It bothered her a bit, before she remembered that they were all scholarly types and not hard-nosed political insiders. With a tender touch to Tom's arm, she moved away from him and went toward her people.

Lila, the werewolf, did not look her best, but the full moon was about a week away. She managed a smile—more of a grimace—for Hermione.

"How is work?" Hermione asked. The werewolf was a historian of Ancient Runes and wrote scholarly papers and books on the subject. It was not very well-paying, but even with the Wolfsbane Potion, there were few jobs for which people would readily hire lycanthropes, and virtually none that required regular dealings with large numbers of people. This werewolf was lucky that she liked something that did not require that.

"I have planned a visit to Finland to examine a prehistoric site of magical power," she said, a real smile blooming on her face. "Cat would like to go with me, but if you cannot spare her…."

"As soon as you know the particulars of the trip, she needs to let me know when and how long it will be," Hermione advised. "I might be able to spare her."

Catriona overheard bits of the conversation and moved away from the cabinet she was pretending to study. "What was that? I didn't catch you."

Hermione repeated herself for her employee. As she finished, a loud knock sounded on the front door. Hermione was closer than Tom, so she went over to it. The panel for identifying visitors said, to their great surprise, that the latecomers were Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. She opened the door, eyes wide.

"Good evening!" Slughorn's voice boomed through the hall. Several heads turned. "So sorry that we're late, but the school—you know how it is."

"Welcome," Hermione said, helping the professors inside. "We're just happy you could make it." She noticed that Slughorn was carrying a valise. "Would you like me to take that?"

Slughorn smiled as Tom approached. "Well, you certainly may, but Albus and I have gifts for the two of you first."

"Oh, gifts!" exclaimed one of Tom's cronies, already a bit tipsy. "Yes—let's see them!"

Pleased at the attention, Slughorn opened the valise and drew out two wrapped gifts from its magically expanded depths. He presented the first to Hermione with a visage of solemnity. "This is from Albus."

Hermione carefully unwrapped the box. Her eyes popped when she saw what it was. "Oh!" she exclaimed in delight. She beamed at Dumbledore, who was standing by quietly, presumably letting Slughorn enjoy being the center of attention.

"What is it?" someone asked.

Hermione opened the cardboard box and slid the item—or, rather, items—out. There were two boxes, one resembling a small wooden jewelry box and the other resembling a miniature, doll-furniture-sized cabinet. Hermione set the tiny cabinet on the floor and tapped her wand, silently casting a spell. The cabinet instantly grew to full size, as large as a wardrobe. Hermione enlarged the other box to the size of a briefcase.

"It's something like a Vanishing Cabinet," Hermione explained to the assembled guests, "except one-way." She set the box on the floor and opened its lid, then stepped inside.

Her feet, legs, torso, and head seemed to sink into the floor, disappearing at once. Immediately after she vanished, the box itself disappeared. Gasps and expressions of surprise came from the guests, and Tom gave the Headmaster a very hard look, but Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled in amusement.

In a second, the door to the vanishing cabinet opened and Hermione stepped out, holding the box in her hands. She smirked at the open-mouthed expressions on her guests. "I can't use the cabinet to travel out of the house, but I can carry this box with me, in a shrunken form, and use it as a getaway. It's very useful if one ever needs to escape and there are no Floo outlets—and Apparition wards are up!"

"What about security?" Tom asked, still giving Dumbledore a hard, distrustful look. "Someone else could use it to break into the house, couldn't they?"

Dumbledore spoke up. "This one can actually be set with a passphrase. There are instructions for the spell in the packaging. And it's always possible to magically lock the cabinet."

Slughorn moved forward, intervening before this turned into a dispute. "I'm afraid that my gift is less novel and clever, but here it is nonetheless! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to you, Tom, happy birthday." He handed his gift to Tom.

Tom set it down on the nearest table and opened it. A grin spread across his face at the sight of the gift: four bottles of fine, well-aged brandy. The guests craned their necks to see, and as they caught sight, most of them burst into hoots of applause and expressions of "Good old Sluggy!" Tom winked at Hermione—and a rapidly growing sense of apprehension filled her as he lifted one bottle out of the gift box. He opened the bottle, summoned a glass from the nearest table, and filled it with a smug flourish.

"To a successful next year!" He raised the glass high and brought it back to his lips at once. His eyes fluttered shut at the taste. He opened them again and flashed a smile at Slughorn. "Excellent choice. We'll definitely enjoy this!"

The Riddles and their guests moved into the sitting room, Tom still holding the bottle and glass. He immediately became engulfed by a circle of his own cronies, whom Slughorn joined. Hermione found it very questionable; in an environment with such strong political factional loyalty, this would be seen as the Deputy Headmaster choosing a side. However, this was Slughorn, and he had always skirted the ethics line when it came to networking….

With a mild smile, Dumbledore assimilated himself into the smaller circle of Hermione's friends. Lila Brynolf began a conversation with the Headmaster, her former Head of House, about the planned trip to Finland to study the ancient runic magic. It quickly became an involved discussion, and Hermione could not resist the interesting subject matter herself. She also rather enjoyed the wine that she had purchased for the party, but she was careful not to overdo that.

Some time later, a loud guffaw cracked across the room from Tom's group. The researchers' talk subsided, and they turned to look at the other circle. Tom was smirking broadly, holding his glass in one hand and the brandy bottle in his other. Hermione noticed at once that it was rather less than full. Her eyes widened.

"That's great, Minister," one of his cronies said sycophantically, oblivious to the fact that the attention of everyone in the room was on them.

"It mustn't leave these walls, of course," Tom said. His voice did have some of its usual menace, but right now there was also a certain odd jocularity. Hermione wondered what in Merlin's name he had just said to make one of his people laugh like that.

"So then," slurred the wizard, "I don't suppose it'll be on the Minister's agenda for the next year?"

Tom sipped his drink. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled. "There might be broad support for it." The group again burst into a storm of chuckles, even Slughorn, though he looked a bit uncomfortable.

Hermione had no idea what they were joking about, but this sounded ominous. She scurried past her guests, trying to stand next to him so that she could keep him from having any more drink.

"So," another crony began, a gleam in his eye as he addressed Tom, "when are you going to make the Defense NEWT require compert—competrice—"

"Competence," put in a very tipsy Vincent Rosier.

"Yes, that. In casting the Unforgivables?" finished the first wizard. "You know Lovegood thinks you're going to do that," he added.

Hermione was pretty sure that she saw a bead of sweat form on Slughorn's head.

Tom merely smirked again. "Oh, why ever should I stop with that?" he said sarcastically. "There's a world of evil, wicked magic. According to some, I'm the second coming of Grindelwald, after all, so nobody should get a Magical Creatures NEWT until they can successfully set a dragon on a city of Muggles." He raised his glass as the group of people laughed at the supposedly hilarious sarcasm of it.

Hermione decided that enough was enough. This sort of "joke" might be harmless enough among Tom's own crowd, but Albus Dumbledore was also present—and Slughorn—and she knew that the former, at least, did not particularly trust Tom on the subject of Dark magic. She shoved Rosier out of the way. Now no one was between her and Tom.

Tom glanced at her, then moved the hand holding his glass as she reached for it. The drink splashed up the sides of the glass, but none spilled.

"The bottle," she murmured, gently tugging it out of his other hand. He did not object to that, at least. She banished it to the box in the hallway with the others, but the damage was done, and she did not have any more Sobering Potion, having used it for herself.

"On a more serious note," Tom continued, waving the glass around, "I don't support censoring information, even dark information, and Hogwarts—"

That was it. Hermione was not sure if that was going where she feared it was, but it certainly could not go anywhere good. Tom's boastful, combative, grandiose side took over when his inhibitions were down, and they were absolutely down right now.

"Information isn't censored," she interjected. "The Ministry doesn't ban books. And we fully support freedom of the press. In fact," she added hurriedly, almost babbling as she observed Tom's annoyed glance, "part of the next year's agenda for the Minister will be to make some much-needed reforms to our justice system."

"Oh, that is interesting," Dumbledore said. He seemed to understand perfectly well what Hermione was doing—and she kept her eyes from making contact with his own, so he would not obtain any private details of anything—but he was also truly interested in the idea of justice reform.

"Yes," she said emphatically. "Isn't that so, Tom?"

Fortunately, in his drunken state, Tom was easily distracted. He took up the discussion. "Yes," he said. He tipped his glass, finishing the last of the brandy, then handed it to Rosier as if the latter were his servant. "It is an utter disgrace that witches and wizards have fewer rights than Muggles in the legal system. A disgrace. I am proud to say I never sent anyone to Azkaban unless they were convicted, but even then… we should never treat our own worse than the Muggles treat theirs. It's wrong."

Well, that could have gone better, Hermione thought with a mild grimace. Dumbledore was in favor of all sorts of reforms to the criminal justice system, but this particular argument might not be the most compelling to him. At least he's not making ill-considered jokes about setting dragons on Muggles or going on about open discussion of the Dark Arts, she thought.

Tom turned to Rosier. "I'm hungry," he said in an undertone. Rosier, still holding Tom's empty glass, stiffened.

Hermione held her breath for the inevitable explosion, but to her surprise, Rosier relaxed at once and dutifully summoned an elf to have some food brought to the clearly inebriated Minister. Hermione took the glass from him and surreptitiously cast a spell to fill it with water. Tom would have to sober up the natural way, but it was definitely time for that to happen before he said something irrevocably damaging.

The little circle of researchers returned to their own conversation, Dumbledore among them. Hermione felt a pang as she watched across the room, wishing she could be part of that discussion, but for the moment it appeared that she had to dance attendance on Tom for his own good.

Before long, people began to yawn from the food, drink, and lateness. Slughorn drew out his own pocket watch and glanced at it. "Oh, look at the time," he rumbled. He peered across the room, trying to catch Albus's eye. "We should get back to the school. Hopefully Minerva hasn't let them burn it down around her ears," he chuckled.

Hermione managed a chuckle of her own at the idea of Minerva McGonagall—even a new, young one—allowing anything.

As the professors prepared to depart, the rest of the guests seemed to take stock of the time and their own belongings. Hermione turned to Dumbledore and Slughorn as the "borrowed" elves helped them with their winter robes.

"Don't let him enjoy all of that," Slughorn remarked with a wink to the box of bottles in the hall.

Hermione smiled grimly. "I have no intention of it." She gave Tom a pointed look. "He doesn't need all of it."

Tom was just sober enough now that he appeared to be considering some of his comments in a rather different light, and the memories had put a furrow in his brow. Good.

The stout professor reached to wrap his Slytherin scarf around his neck as he and Dumbledore stepped outside into the cold. "Brrr!" he exclaimed. "I almost don't want to leave! We must, though. Take care! Happy holidays!" he called.

After everyone had left, including the elves, and all the decorations had been put away, Tom was fully sober again. He turned to Hermione with a grateful look in his eyes.

"Were you going to say what I think you were?" she asked, hands on her hips.

"Honestly, I was just going to rant about the school's suppression of Dark topics in a general sense," he said. "I might have mentioned specifics, of course—the mind leaps about wildly and the mouth often follows suit under those circumstances—"

"And you'd better hope that Slughorn's mind didn't 'leap about.'"

"Or what?" he scoffed. "I know of the existence of something, so therefore I must have done it?"

She raised an eyebrow pointedly at him, her silence speaking for itself.

"My point is, nobody would assume that. Anyway, Dumbledore has no authority anymore over the scope of my magical knowledge… but… no need to mention it in public, you're right. And I suppose that merely complaining about Dark Arts censorship in a general way would have been quite bad enough in the old codger's presence." He scowled.

"The 'old codger' will be on your side if you do go ahead with justice reform when the Wizengamot is in session again," she said severely. "Unless you alienate him."

"I know that."

"I have some specific ideas that I'd like to see happen," she continued.

He took her hand. "I'm sure you do. We should confer on this, because it won't be good to ask the Wizengamot for something that we'll never have enough votes to approve… but later."

She smiled a genuine smile, enclosing his fingers with her own. "Indeed."