Albus Dumbledore gazed fondly into the familiar eyes of the headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had taken them this long to realize what they meant to each other. Now, in the dark recesses of Dumbledore's office it all seemed so real.
Various odd articles that filled the room served as distractions and yet, at the same time, they enhanced the experience: this was the world they lived in. There were the old books that seemed to glimmer on the shelves and they reminded them both of the love they had toward their world, and each other. The moving pictures and portraits on the walls gazed at them with eyes of solitude, saying without words they knew, for the sake of the students and the outside world, that they were sworn to secrecy. The pensieves, the crystal globes, the wands, they reminded them of the dangers of the world around them-- and their secret love. Although perilous, was it also not sacred? And beautiful? Indeed. And last of all, the crimson glimmer of the ruby feathers on the soaring phoenix that passed overhead was yet the most symbolic of their eternal affair, for it was much more than that. They were together, and always would be.
Their fingers intertwined, their eyes flitted the other's wrinkled countenance. Though aged, there was certain artfulness in how they had become, both of them, masterpieces of the genius that was time. They knew it. All knew it. It was them. They were one.