A/N: I needed some fluff, okay? And, um, I have no actual excuse for this...
Sprawled out on the extraordinarily large bed in the center of the headmaster's quarters, she suddenly has a feeling of... decadence, were one able to emote such. The comforter, long since slunk to the floor, is a sumptuous, pearlescent white threaded with gold so that, in the flickering firelight, it seems to simply glow. The wood of the furniture is deep and rich, and the pillows that lay scattered around the bed are a warm red that takes on the glow of the hearth; she stretches her hands above her head, her back arching in a catlike manner as a contented smile takes over her features. This, she thinks as she hears the door click open and closed, is what Niviane would have felt like were she a smarter lass.
"Good morning, my dear," Dumbledore says as he enters the room, his robe a scintillating purple. Usually such bright colors would be ill-advised on someone so pallidly colored as he; his brightest features, now that his hair has faded to a grizzled russet, are his eyes. The purple ought to, logically, compete with them. But no, there they are—bright, winking, overwhelming as they fall on her, a smile crinkling them at the corners before it reaches his lips.
"Mm," she purrs in response, turning on her side to face him.
"Though I do hate to say so, you ought to be heading back to your rooms."
"The gossip would be most untoward. I should hate anything to sully your thus far spotless reputation."
"I am young, you know. People expect me to have..." she pauses, and moves toward him as he sits on the edge of the bed, "indiscretions."
"Ah," he responds with a raise of his brows as she slinks upward to place a kiss on his the corner of his mouth. "Alas, I am old. People expect me to do only right."
"No," Minerva exclaims in mock horror. He has noticed a distinct change in her personality since they moved to a higher level of intimacy; she is much less restrained around him, much less wont to present him with the strict facade she shows most of the world. She reminds her much of her animagus form, especially in this early, post-coital hours—stretched out, barely clothed, her fair skin reflecting the firelight; her hair unpinned and dark, coiling across her chest and tangling about her shoulders; her eyes, hooded with fatigue and content, green and narrow; her lips curved, as a kitten who had drank the milk; her motions languid, relaxed, fluid... she enraptures him as no human ever has, and though she is only at Hogwarts for the semester to act as a teaching assistant to the Transfiguration Professor, although she is decades too young and all too temporary, he cannot help himself. Even when she was a student thoughts too often crossed his mind that shouldn't have existed at all—now she is three years graduated, still too young, but more learned of the world that he doesn't feel as though he's doing her an injustice. "They expect you to do right?"
"Oh, yes, dear. And do good as well."
"Good!" she exclaims, placing a hand on his shoulder and resting her chin on her hand. "My, my," she murmurs as he places his hand on her bare knee. One brow arches in reaction, though she sidles nearer to him as she shrewdly says, "they must not know you as well as I."
"Am I not good?" he asks quietly, his voice a low rumble as he leans forward to place a kiss on her forehead.
"No, Professor," she whispers so that he must lean forward to hear her. "I think you're quite bad. Which isn't to say that I particularly mind..."
He chuckles and squeezes her knee, but abruptly the contact is withdrawn and he stands. "Really, though, Minerva, breakfast is in twenty minutes and it will be highly suspicious if neither of us attends."
She sighs and lays back on the bed. She has it entirely in her mind to make herself go back to her rented quarters, and is about to relent when she catches his eyes on her, watching her fingers where they drum against her stomach. A wicked smile curves her thin lips. "I don't think I'm feeling up to breakfast." she says abruptly, the drumming fingers slowing into an apparently absentminded caress of her own skin that crawls downward so very slowly that it could nearly be unconscious—his eyes follow her hands.
She feigns a cough. "I'm ill, Albus."
"I haven't missed a day of class to date—I'm allowed three sick days, as per your stipulations..."
"Certainly you can't spend your day off sleeping in my bed."
"I can if you stay with me."
"Do not tempt me, love." Her hand inches downward, and his eyes find hers quickly with a mixture of surprise, reproach, and something much hazier and harder to identify as her fingers find the edge of her nightclothes. His gaze inevitably drifts to her underwear, which is draped over one bedpost; her hand continues to vanish beneath her clothing.
It takes all of four seconds for his resolve to break and him to be upon her, grabbing her rogue hand and covering it with his own. Her eyes flutter, her smile growing smug. "It would be dreadfully poor form for the headmaster to lay about out day..." he murmurs, even though he knows he has already surrendered as he brings her hand to his lips and draws one of her fingers into his mouth.
She makes a sound not dissimilar to purring before responding, "sloth is hardly the worst of your sins at the moment, Albus."
His chuckle rolls pleasantly through her as he leans down to kiss her, but not before adding, "and whose fault is that?"