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Creak, creak, creak, went the ancient rocking chairs on the porch.

          “…So, I went to St. Mungo’s to have them take a look at this toe, and they just said it was old age.  I insisted it was a potion I had dropped on it, but no, they just wanted to tell me I was an old codger and to get out because they had some other important things to attend to.  But I just sat there and said, ‘Look at the nail, man; does that look like a normal nail?’ and he said…”

          I wondered when we had gotten so old that the main topics of our conversations were Ron’s infected toenails.  I rolled my eyes a bit and looked down at the knitting in my hands, a new sweater for my soon-to-be-born great-grandchild.  I really had turned into my mother.  Rolling my eyes, I started a difficult cable stitch, all the while listening to my brother prattle on about the pus that sometimes oozes from under his toenail.  I looked up at Hermione and gave her a sympathetic look.  I doubt anyone had told her, when she married my brother one hundred years ago, that she would end up with a white-haired old man with freakish toes.

          Creak, creak, creak.  Damned rocking chairs.  They were lovely and all to sit in and soak up the sun, but we had used them so much they were in great need of repair.  I interrupted Ron by saying, “My hands are full, can someone do a damn silencing charm on these chairs?  Please.”  Ron stuck his long, freckled hand into his pocket and pulled out his wand, with which he easily preformed the charm on our chairs.  Then went on telling us about the Healers he had seen this morning at St. Mungo’s.

          I clicked away with my knitting needles and looked out towards the yard where the three generations of Weasleys that came after us were playing around and having picnics.  From the oldest—Ron and Hermione’s daughter, who was tuning seventy-five this year—to the youngest—my great-grandson, who was born only five weeks ago—they were all having fun.  Everyone was going between Ron and Hermione’s home and the one across the yard, which was mine, getting food, washing dirt off hands, and finding more napkins and such.  There were so many I must confess that I could not remember everyone’s names.  Well I knew everyone of my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  But some of Ron’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren I could not remember.

There was not really a point in knowing their first names anyway.  As long as you could tell they were Weasleys (and you certainly could because they all carried that distinct red hair and freckles) you knew they were family.  There were so many anyway, it was murder to try to figure it out.  The last time the whole family had been together, at the Albus Dumbledore 103^rd Memorial Service, we had taken a census.  Bill and Fleur had four children, 17 grandchildren, and 28 great-grandchildren.  Charlie had one son, two grandkids, and five great-grandchildren.  George had a nice even ten children, 25 grandchildren and 107 great-grandchildren.  Ron and Hermione had tried to keep their family small but had ended up with seven children, 11 grandchildren, and 16 great-grandchildren.  My husband and I had 12 children, 13 grandchildren, and 34 great-grandchildren (soon too be 35).  Percy and Fred, having died in the War, obviously had had no children.  When the numbers were added up there were 292 (soon to be 293) wizards and witches descended from my brothers and I.  So forgive me if I did not know all their names.  The only ones that I ever saw were mine and Ron and Hermione’s, anyway, because we live across the yard from them.

All twelve of mine were past age fifty.  It certainly made me feel my one hundred and eighteen years.  This month my husband would turn one hundred twenty, and the month after I’d be one hundred nineteen.  Hermione and then Ron had already turned the big 1-2-0.  When did we get so freaking old?  I still felt like I could jump up on broom and race around a pitch at 140 kilometers per hour, with a Quaffle tucked under one arm and a glint in my eye. 

I sighed as I continued to listen to Ron list the possible ways he could have contracted the disease that was presently attacking his toe.  Didn’t they remember the days when they talked about exciting stuff like Quidditch, and fighting, and even baby names?  When were we reduced to toe fungus?  Just then my husband walked through the door with a tray of Butterbeers for us. 

I can’t help but call him “my husband” all the time.  It was a habit I had gotten into when we were first married, 98 years ago, because it seemed that I had to wait so long to marry him (even though it was only six years since we had first broken up).  The habit has never been broken.  Rarely do I call him Harry.  Usually, his nickname is “Hubby” or something along those lines.  As he set down the drinks, I said, “Can you please get my brother off the topic of his disgusting toe?”

Harry smiled at me, wrinkles appearing around his eyes, and his rocker creaked as he sat in it.  I sighed again; stupid Ron had forgotten to silence all the rockers on the porch.  Creak, creak.  Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, trying to decide what to talk about.  “Why don’t you all tell me about the surprise party you’re all planning for my 120^th?”

“There’s no party!” Hermione said too quickly.

Harry looked at her pointedly over his mug of Butterbeer.  He licked the foam moustache off his upper lip and said, “I know there is a party.”

“We can’t have a party,” I said, turning back to my knitting.  “Nobody would pay attention to you when Ron and his Amazing Toe are there.”

Ron sent me a scathing look.  “If you would just look at it, Ginny, you’d see that it’s not amazing at all.  You’re the only one here with medical training.”

“Humph, I do not have medical training.  I healed a few people up during the war-“

“You saved Hermione’s life!”

“Shut up, Ron!  You know I had help!”

Hermione broke in quietly, calming the sibling battle that had been going on since the day of my birth. “You did do a lot for me, Ginny.  However, I think your knowledge of battlefield healing does not extend to pus-oozing toes.”

“Thank you, Hermione!” I said, shooting Ron a triumphant glance.  Maybe things hadn’t changed so much; I could still beat him in any argument.

Creak, creak.  Harry rocked back and forth, quietly observing the small staring contest Ron and I were having.  “Is there really no party?” he asked quietly.

I burst out laughing.  “Nope, not a single party for the big 1-2-0!  Nothing.  Who cares that we threw huge blowouts for Ron and Hermione.  We just don’t care about you enough to throw you one, too.”

My husband grinned. “So there is a party.”
          “Harry,” Hermione said. “Stop asking questions and look at Ron’s toe.  It will make him feel better.”

“Yeah, mate, you’ve got to see this wicked green pus.  Sometimes it makes little bubbles from under the nail…”  Ron began to remove his shoe to show Harry.

Surreptitiously, I removed the silencing charms from the chairs.  Maybe the creaking would drown out their nasty descriptions and explanations of the green color.  Hopefully.

Creak, creak.