ImSoMMAD - I completely agree with you. Love's not a disease, but the inability/fear of expressing it is.
Now this one may rot your teeth. I don't really like it, but I'm really sick of the time prompts.
010: Years
Those wild months would never be forgotten, those months of the initial courtship, the first conspiracy of glances. The tide burst forth; there was the time they had lost to compensate, as well as the words they had thought but not voiced. Small heavens came in snapshots. That first Christmas, walking with him in the snow, and laughing as he made an angel. That meal down in Hogsmeade, entwining hands under the table, and saying nothing as nothing was needed. The dances, the dinners, the operas and the concerts, and the quiet moments curled together in front of a fire – and most of all, the sacred and the profane-
"Minerva, Minerva…"
His voice in the dark, whispering, endearing – and the knowledge of what was to come-
Silence replaced the words. Instead there were movements, and the maturation of wine. The seasons cycled. They were suddenly at the Yule Ball, dancing the dance which had never ended, and the war, grief and the flux of that bloody century were nothing, for there was this one constant-
Anniversary grew upon anniversary. His hair whitened; she gained some grey. Ripeness came with time, the intensity not lost but enriched. They held hands, and loved more comfortably. Their dance continued, more elegantly, revolving in and out of work and their castle full of children. Their silence continued, as a new language made up of gestures and expressions and thoughts, and even their constant was changing, but changing benignly, and their love continued…
…Moving into the deepening of years.