[for bartemius]

[manwithstyle]

There were many times when it was readily apparent that Albus Dumbledore did not fit many of the preconceived notions of a young man of only eighteen years of age. Times, for example, when he seemed much, much older and far closer in personality to the wizened Headmaster of his alleged future than anyone at his present age had any sense in being.

That morning was most definitely not one of those times.

In fact, it was rather fair to say that any morning in which Albus awoke in the bed of one Bartemius Crouch Jr was not one of those times. On that particular morning, however, it was even less so, mostly owing to the fact that, save for the Resurrection Stone that he wore at all times, he was completely nude and his long, auburn hair, having been freed from its plait the night before, fanned around in his head in a wild and massive tangle of waves. One of his hands rested casually on Bartemius's chest, fingers curled ever so slightly.

He woke up gradually, waiting a few moments before finally opening his eyes. Stifling a yawn, he propped himself up onto one elbow and leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of Bartemius's mouth.

"Good morning," he murmured.