The Great Oak

July 18th. Right in the middle of the summer. It had rained the days before this particular date, but not today. The Weasleys were very happy that it didn't because now they could have their annual picnic.

A whole bunch of gingers walked up the hill this morning. They had expanded over the years, they were so many of them now that no one actually knew exactly how many. Most of them still wore them name Weasley, and as always, there were children involved.

The usual Quidditch game was spent in a tournament, because they could now form almost five teams, and two or three were judges. And as usual, now Quidditch game was complete until someone knocked their cousin of the broom.

Our dear Hermione passed away a long time ago, after a long and beautiful life with grandchildren, great grandchildren and many more. The last of her generation to move on was Ginny, with the age 114.

But the Weasleys lived on. They wouldn't let death disturb them, they'd plant another tree. They barley visited the graveyards anymore, they'd come here. To the oaks.

When this year's Quidditch Cup winners was announced by old Tristan Lupin (the grandchild of Teddy Lupin and Victorie) it was called for lunch. When almost every one of them headed for the picnic and food, there was one little boy who didn't.

He stood watching the biggest oak of them all, and it was huge. The boy had flaming red hair, so characteristic for the Weasleys, and the brightest blue eyes of them all. He tilted his head to the left, curiously studying the tree.

He was about five or six and wondered where the tree came from. Why it was there. Why they all visited the trees every year this one day. Why not at Christmas, or the Easter?

"Honey, are you coming?" A woman, the little boy's mother, came walking up to him. She too was a redhead, a very pretty one with freckles all over her face. Freckles that her son had inherited.

"Mom, how old is the oak?"

"Oh, I don't know …" The woman put on the mother-face when she thought if it was best to try a guess or leave him with that answer. "I bet it's a hundred years, what do you think?"

"Yeah. I think its hundred years." The boy nodded very seriously to himself, it seemed very accurate. "Why are we here mom?"

So many questions, his mother thought, and she was starting to get hungry. "I think it is because someone died and that his wife planted this oak to his memory. And then we started doing that every time someone dies."

"Oh." The little boy became serious once more, getting that thoughtful look only a six-year old could have. "Do you know whose tree this is?" He pointed at the biggest oak, the one who rose several meters above ground, the one with the biggest crown of them all.

His mother shook her head. "No, I don't."

They were silent for a little moment, and when the mother felt her stomach screaming for food, she looked at her son. "Come on now, we have to go so that we get any food at all." She smiled brightly – she knew how to make him come with her: "I heard there's chicken, Ronald."

Ronald's face broke into a smile; chicken was the best on earth. But before he left, he hugged the Great Oak. His ancestor. His namesake.

So. It's finished. Finito. Done.

I just want to say thank you to you who has read this, who reviewed it, and so on. I enjoyed writing it. No, I loved writing it.

Thank you. 3