You didn’t know what to expect when Seamus invited you to stay for a few days over the break. You pictured wind, sheep, maybe a charming cottage. You were not prepared for the sheer speed at which Mrs. Finnigan could talk—or hug.

—“Ohhh, so you’re the one he keeps going on about!” she squealed the moment you stepped through the door, wiping flour off her hands onto her apron before cupping your cheeks. “Prettier than the picture in my head, and that’s saying something!”

Seamus groaned from behind you,

—“Mam, please—”

She waved him off.

—“Don’t ‘mam’ me, Seamus Patrick Finnigan. I’ve been waiting to meet this one since you accidentally sent that howler with their name in it. Remember that?” She turned to you. “He said your name in his sleep, dear. Multiple times.”

You tried not to laugh. Tried.

The Finnigan household was exactly as chaotic and warm as you imagined—teacups clinking, charmed pans dancing in the air, a radio softly playing some Irish folk tune in the background. Seamus showed you his room (still covered in Gryffindor posters and something that suspiciously looked like a burn mark near the curtains) and tried to act all cool while his mother kept yelling offers from downstairs.

—“Do they eat meat? Are they vegetarian? Should I charm the potatoes again? Seamus, answer me before I accidentally feed them something they hate!”