I don't know when it exactly happened; I just remember waking up one day and just knew. I look back and think of all the little things, the things that people overlook. Not many see the side of things that I do; Albus was an exception though. Staring at the flames in the fireplace before me I let my memories play out like a black and white movie reel. Always the little things, the cup of tea, the blanket on a cold night, the strengthening hand when I feel I've lost it all. Most people don't see what I see. They miss that tightening of his mouth when things are at the worst, the subtle weariness that plays on his face when he thinks that no one is looking, the loneliness that flows out of his obsidian gaze late at night. No, most people miss the many layers of the man that I have come to love, instead, they see exactly what he wishes them to see - a cold, unfeeling man.
I don't move as a warm blanket is wrapped around me, a gentle squeeze of my shoulder before the warmth of his hand moves away. No, most people don't see him . . . and they don't see me. He always understands in the middle of the night when I stare at the fireplace, the memories playing in my head. No words are necessary between us, they never were. He is always ready with a small, almost invisible gesture of comfort . . . of love. The years seem to melt into minutes, the memories start to overwhelm, both the good . . . and the bad. Yet, he is always there. I never knew when it happened exactly, whether it was before the war, during, or after the war. It does not matter. I do remember that morning though, that sweet morning when I woke up and knew. I knew that he would always be there for me . . . and I for him.
