A/N: An inexcusable, silly piece for the rarepair shorts prompt table on LJ. The prompt is oh, the insanity and I'm a hack...

No, but really.


"This is vastly inappropriate," he says, pressing clutching tightly at her hips and leaning forward to place a trail of sloppy kisses along her jawline.

"Then we best not invite the Headmaster," Minerva responds cheekily, and his eyes hold reproof as he glances at her for a second. She is nervous that she has put him off, and bites her lip unsurely, but the very action undoes him again and he pushes her more closely against the wall as her lips find his. Their previous interactions were tender—this moment is decidedly not. He holds her hard and fast, and her nails scrape at his neck and back as her hands slip beneath his shirt. She bites his lips and his teeth clash against hers; when she moves against him, preening along the wall like a cat in heat, it is not a pleading action, but a demanding one, and her hand forces the small of his back forward so that he is so tightly against her that the line between them is indistinct. His lips leave her mouth and find her ear, and her head is thrown back with the sudden sensation, a groan tearing from her throat, her nails digging into the pale skin of his neck as she clutches him. "We... should... stop now," she pants, moving her hands to the bottom of his shirt and forcing it upward.

"Certainly," Albus responds, his glasses chinking endearingly against hers as he peers very closely at her, blue to green, inches apart—heavy breaths and swollen lips. She smiles wickedly and pulls his shirt further, and with a twinkle in his eyes, his hand begins to climb up her own shirt.

Her blood is boiling, she's sure. Her blood is boiling and her lungs are constricted and her heart is off-kilter and her stomach is filled with pins and needles, a deliciously warm sensation that spreads down, down, down...

"Albus," she breathes, "someone will be coming..."

His laugh is rich and warm against her neck, a sound receding as he bends down, following the creeping sensation wracking her body and coming to kneel on the ground before her. "I shan't even make the joke. It's far too easy."

She grins. His hands begin to creep up her skirt, and he places a kiss on her stomach, and though even the feeling of his skin on her thighs nearly makes her knees buckle, she grabs his arm and pulls him up to her level once again. "Now," she orders, her hands finding his zipper even as she moves against him, making no secret of what she wants.

It occurs to him that this is why he has fallen so in love with her—women of his generation are so restricted. Confidence is a trait not often seen, and even then it is limited, an act to attract men. Minerva McGonagall loves who she is, what she is, why she is—she knows herself intimately and is proud of the fact. She is a libertine, he thinks hazily, pressing his lips tenderly to hers as his affection for her threatens to overwhelm his desire. She exudes confidence, self-assuredness, and he loves it—her—everything that she is, the promise of the woman she will be in the future.

"Oh, but this is insane," she murmurs against his neck as she forces his trousers down his waist, his hands pushing her skirt up. He smiles, and his internal monologue on her better qualities cuts off the moment her small fingers wrap around him, directing him to the place she needs him most. Her chest heaves against his, and he pushes her more tightly against the wall. She reaches up to grab a low-hanging beam with one hand, giving herself leverage with which to lift herself up and wrap her legs around his waist. She crosses her ankles, drawing him closer as he pulls her down upon him, filling her, completing her in the way that only he can. They both cry out, but before she makes another noise he covers her mouth with his, the hand that is not supporting her moving down between her legs and before she knows it she's falling, flying, her toes curling, her body tensing in anticipation of release, and then she comes and with a shuddering cry of pleasure.

Moments later, as he slides out of her and steps slightly away, allowing her to find her feet once more, however weak-kneed, he kisses her neck, murmuring, "what's insane?"

"This—us—you, me. All of it."

"Why?" he asks as she wraps her arms around him.

"Not even touching upon the way you make me feel," she says, "the other students would simply die if they knew that I, bookish, stern—"

"—beautiful, brilliant, breathtaking, bold, ballsy—"

She lets out a most unladylike bark of laughter, which he loves. "Ballsy?"

"I was running out of b's. I was trying to be poetical, but it seems I need the whole alphabet to compose an ode worthy of you—"

"You're full of it," she responds, grinning from ear to ear. "I simply meant to remark upon the lovely insanity of the reality that I am having a torrid love affair with my Professor..."

"Insanity?"

"Mm."

"I think it makes perfect sense."

She smiles at him, and they kiss. A few moments later, Minerva slips away from him, and he follows her receding back with his eyes, a stupid grin upon his face as she leaves him alone behind the bleachers to rejoin the students at the Quidditch match. A while later, he follows, only in the other direction. Oh, the insanity, he thinks as she grins at him from across the stands. But really, it's not that crazy at all.


In later years, he'll laugh whenever someone calls him venerable.

Quidditch matches will forever make her giddy.