Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Prologue

She is beautiful. His wife. She completes his world.

Light pours in through the window illuminating her, making her look so radiant, as she stands by the cooker, transfixed, completely absorbed in her own little world. He loves everything about her, including how much she can completely annoy him. But that is a part of who she is. He would be at a loss without her. He wants to creep up behind her, pull her into his arms as she cooks, he does none of that. He knows she hates it, that it reminds her of a time she felt trapped. He has no words for the bastard that ruined her life, though he has serval for what he would like to do to him. But he reminds himself, he is lucky to have her around at all.

His son spots him, beaming - he never thought he would see the day, that his son would be smiling so care-free like. But then his wife - she had been the reason, the cause to his smiling son. They had healed each other, he had long ago come to realise that. His son waves him over excitedly. He glances back towards his wife, her back is still facing them. It is meant to be her birthday, he should have been up earlier and left her to have the lay in - for once.

"It's the small things - and making those moments - those things matter."

How many times had she told him that ... he had lost count. But she was right, sometimes it was about appreciating those tiny little moments, the ones that you could visualize and add up in your head, because every other moment - not that it was a waste of time, but those moments, unlike the things you loved about a person, just did not add up in the same way.

He walked across the length of the kitchen floor that separated them, he placed a hand on her shoulder, her head spun around, her startling bright eyes met his own, a soft smile greets him. He captures her chin with his hand, his thumb tracing a thin white scar on the side of her cheek. A scar she won't let be healed to fade away because she wanted to prove she was stronger than the person who gave it to her. He thinks she is nuts of course, he says nothing of the sort, but his wife is stubborn, and he had long ago learned she had a deadly aim and versatile knowledge of hexes to hand.

"It's your birthday," he said, "Go sit down."

Eyebrows arch upwards, he knows that look well - she disliked being thrown out of her own kitchen. She does join his son - their son, she did, after all, marry him and does love his son like he was her own.

"So what were you making for breakfast?" He asked.

Stupid question, he thinks to himself as both his wife and son smile at him, and raise a close hand, primary thumb, making upward flicking motions in front of their bodies. He groans, apparently his wife and child think that it is hilarious as they both smile knowingly, his son going as far as laughing at him. He was not very good at doing pancakes - but his standard skills would never compare to that of his wife's.

"Maybe mum should do it." His son said. "Her pancakes are amazing!"

How could he deny his seven-year-old anything when he looked at him with pleading eyes. Years ago, he never thought he would hear his son speak. But as he said his wife had changed all that. How lucky they had both been, that she had answered the owl, that had started it all.