Part 1: Hermione

Author�s note: �custodis animus meus� is Latin for �keeper of my heart.�

My husband likes to remind me that morning people like myself are a rarer breed in this world than goblins who can smile. I suppose he�s right. But I also think he secretly likes the fact that I�m always the first to rise.

I like to watch Ron when I first wake, when he�s still sleeping, all still and quiet beside me. He sleeps like a child, with peace settled over his features and his breath a slow, even rhythm. His body is curled perfectly against mine, radiating warmth and strength as he cradles me in the shelter of his arms. I can always when tell he�s dreaming, for his eyelids flutter ever so slightly and he murmurs every so often. Nonsensical words mostly, although the names of his favorite sweets will also slip out on other occasions, making me smile. And sometimes... sometimes I catch him saying my name, soft and fleeting like his very breath, like the gentle caress of his hand.

And I think to myself, there are far too few who are this lucky, who get to wake up to someone like this every single day.

This morning I wake even earlier than normal; outside the sky is still a dull, nondescript gray, with the sun still an hour or two from emerging from its slumber. I want to return to sleep at once, with only the promise of a cold, brutal morning to greet me, but then I catch sight of the figure beside me. Ron�s arm lies draped across my stomach, his lips pressed against my shoulder. Gently, so as not to wake him, I turn over to face him. There are the beginnings of stubble on his face, rust-colored and rough, and I brush over his cheeks with the back of my fingers. He stirs, but doesn�t open his eyes, whispering my name as his arm absently tugs at my waist.

I study his face carefully, the face I�ve known for over half my life, whose every line and angle I�ve memorized over the years. There�s a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose--long since faded with adulthood, but still there if you squint closely enough--and I trace a pattern with my finger, sweeping down the length of his nose and coming to rest on the little indentation just above his upper lip. There�s a tiny scar there from an unfortunate accident, when Caroline was a baby and had been particularly fussy during one of her feedings, sending a spoon flying out of Ron�s hand, striking him just above the mouth.

There are other scars as well: smaller ones, and some not so small. There�s the finger-length mark that runs down from his collarbone to the top of his breastbone, the product of a fierce struggle with a werewolf when he was only eighteen--the day I almost lost him. It�s this scar in particular that always gives me pause, that I always reach out to touch when we make love, because it reminds me of how fragile life is.

I feel him move beside me, see him open his eyes tentatively as I hover over him, propped on one elbow.

�Watching me again, are you?� he says, his voice still gravelly with lingering sleep. He chuckles, reaching a hand to take mine and touch it to his lips. �Can�t get enough of looking at my manly body, can you?�

I laugh. It�s exactly that wicked sense of humor of his that really led to my downfall.

�I was just thinking...�

�Mmm,� he says, �you�re always thinking.�

I lean down and give him my best stern look, which is perfectly useless of course; he knows full well a smile is playing just beneath the surface of my sneer.

�I was thinking of the day we met.�

He looks up at me in earnest. �Were you?�

�You�ve changed so much since then.�

Again he laughs. �Well, I should hope so, love.� He pretends to shudder. �Can�t stay eleven forever.�

�Don�t you think it�s something, though,� I say, �to know someone from the time he was this skinny, gangly little boy-�

�I was not gangly, thank you very much-�

�With bright orange hair and dirt on his nose-�

�Which you pointed out quite nicely, if I recall-�

�And now...�

He grins up at me.

�And now?�

I brush aside a stray lock that�s fallen across his forehead. When Ron was in sixth year, he had shorn his hair short, a spiky cut that had got him plenty of attention from other girls, but in time he grew it again so that it curled at the ends and fell into his eyes from time to time. He knew I loved it that way.

His hair is darker now, I realize. A deeper, brownish-red, without the violent shock of the orange from his childhood. And his face is more angled, the set jaw of a man, not a boy. I press my lips to the underside of his jaw, just beside his earlobe and hear him suck in a breath.

�I love you,� I murmur.

The words come out of context and take him a little by surprise, but they are no less true and he knows this.

I look at this man with whom I�ve spent decades of my life, and can not help but marvel at my good fortune. How many people get to say they met their soulmate at eleven? How many people get to grow up with this person, experience the highs and lows of life, its dangers and its wonders, its darkness and its light? Life wove us together in a tapestry that can no longer be unraveled. I found this out ages ago.

He smiles at me, cupping my face and sweeping the apple of my cheek with his thumb, then pulls me into him, touching his lips to mine.

Against my mouth, he whispers back, �I love you.�

I press my body against his, and feel his heart drumming against my ribs, knowing he can feel mine just the same.

And at that moment, I can�t help but thank whatever forces there were that brought us together.

To be continued...