There were ten of them. Ten intricate patterns, traced onto long lean appendages over ten years with the combined magic of the greatest wizard and muggle artist in the world. It had taken her nearly that long to see them all, to learn their secret locations and press her fingers and her lips delicately to each.

The first had been on her first trip to his home, when her hair was far too bushy for her small head and she had yet to grow out in the proper womanly places. The men in the family had taken to a pick up game of Quidditch and were spinning around the backyard, subjecting her to the perfect view of his bare left bicep. It was a small, tiny snitch with dancing wings and manly black outlines that made his bulk look much less intimidating.

The second was when she was 17 and absolutely foolish about men, good wine, and dancing. Bill and Fleur's wedding had brought out the flirt in her bossy body that she had not known to be existent and as she spun around on the dance floor with Ron, she caught a glimpse of the small Hungarian Horntail on his exposed ankle. It blew a loud puff of smoke tantalizingly up his calf in her direction as he danced far too close to his current girlfriend and blew chills up her own spine.

The third, fourth, and fifth were in a picture she had lifted from Ron's knapsack on the hunt for their last Horcrux, from a family trip to Egypt in their third year. Admist the bustling Weasley crowd and the heat of the moving wizard picture, she could see the tiny words etched across his right hip, a phrase in Latin that read "learn to fly". She wondered if her heart had taken the meaning far too literally.

The sixth and the seventh were from the hospital wing, weeks after a run in with a group of giants and a deadly excursion through the heart of Russia. She had been left battered and bruised with gigantic scrapes that ran the length of her chest and torso, but unlike so many others she had escaped alive and healthy. He had sat at the foot of her bed, staring at her with his incredulous blue eyes. He had said it was to replace Ron's presence, which had disappeared after a romance-shattering argument days before the final battle. With his bare feet propped up (the Burrow, and all his shoes, having been destroyed a few days earlier) on her bed, she saw them even in her dreams; a broomstick and a large orange W.

They became friends before she saw the eighth (a very tiny Gryffindor crest) when she was twenty and lovers before the ninth (a curly insignia of their names entwined) only a few months later in a location that made the apples of her cheeks blush crimson. The war had ended and the wizarding world had rebuilt itself from the ground up. She was a professor. He was a trainer. He had bought her a cozy cottage on the way to Diagon Alley and she had decorated it like his family home. They would visit occasionally, Molly and Arthur, Fred and Angelina, George, Percy, Bill and Fleur, Ron and Luna, even Ginny and Harry; welcomed into their home as they embraced all that had come about since the years of You-Know-Who.

It was Lena that brought the tenth, a baby girl with unbelievably blue eyes and bushy auburn hair. He had it made almost the second she breathed her first tiny breath, an airbrushed version of her birthdate right across his breastbone.

Every night, just before falling asleep, she would brush her fingers over them in order; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten, the tattoos that etched not only periods in time in Charlie Weasley's life, but moments in her road to becoming his wife.