Not Every Day.
By alloy
Summer seemed to stretch out so much longer at the Burrow, leaving it languidly basking long after London had become more chill and unpleasant than normal.
Fall was defiantly allowed only a few short days to strip the trees of their leaves before the blanket of crisp clean white snow fell preparing the house for Christmas and New Year in proper style.
Hermione decided to wear the summer dress.
Bright yellow, covered in a smattering of ladybirds it was an almost an exact replica of one that Ron had so proudly presented to her almost 50 years before.
Her hips were slightly bigger of course, a testimony to the five children she had born, her breasts a trifle fuller for the same reason, and her carves so delightfully shown off by the dress were almost exactly the same.
Her only daughter Rose, now herself a mother, and sporting the venerable name of Longbottom had voiced her approval, Ron had growled and tried playfully to lift the dress there and then in front of their children.
So different from the boy she had seduced in her parents abandoned and vandalized house in a long ago fall season.
Hugo, so named after Ron's venerable great uncle, had been dispatched to collect her father from his retirement home.
Rose had commandeered the kitchen, she had almost by default become the only heir to Molly Weasley's recipes both magical and mundane, though Molly was blithely unaware of this feast. At least Hermione hoped so.
Arty had been dispatched to collect his grandmother and his namesake.
Alastar and Rupert, assisted by a grumbling Ron were putting the garden to rights and gnomes to wrong.
They began to shuffle in.
The guest of honour's children, and grandchildren and great grandchildren; his cousins, nieces and nephews, and their children, and grandchildren.
At least two dozen centenarians had decided to attend.
Arthur Weasley's birthday party.
Not everyday your wizard turns a hundred now is it?
Fin