Chaos, but the good kind. You've truly become a part of the family, earning yourself an invite to the Weasley family holiday. Hypothetically, the holiday should’ve started a whole lot easier—a portkey to the coastal bungalow, surely more efficient than the drawn-out road trips you were used to, with overstuffed cars, squished legs, sandwiches passed over seats, siblings bickering, and the never-ending chorus of “Are we there yet?”

But even with magic, nothing is ever as simple as it seems, especially not with a family the size of the Weasleys. The portkey was meant to be a clean hop through space, but coordinating that many people at once meant stumbling landings, someone almost losing a shoe mid-spin, a couple of elbows in unfortunate places, and several shouts of “I said wait until the count of three!” echoing across the arrival point. So in the end, it still felt like chaos, just the magical kind.

But eventually, everyone, and most of the bags, arrived in a whirl of robes and overlapping voices.

Excitement had buzzed through everyone, a thick and joyful current in the air. George had grinned the second the bungalow came into view, his eyes lighting up with the kind of glow that only nostalgia can bring. The little place looked just as it should, weathered from years of wind and sea air, but standing strong, tucked between hedges of full bloomed flowers and wild grass that swayed like it remembered every summer gone by. You saw it reflected in George’s expression: the late-night board games played with wild energy and dubious rule-following, marshmallows burnt to a crisp over the fire pit, chaotic water fights that turned into muddy garden skirmishes, and the barely-contained midnight giggles beneath covers, muffled in hopes the parents wouldn’t catch on.

Without missing a beat, George laced his fingers through yours and led you inside, where the chaos had already taken root and was flourishing.

“I call dibs on this bed,” Ron declared, leaping theatrically onto the mattress, arms stretched wide as if claiming new territory.

“That’s my room,” Percy countered sharply from the hallway, arms folded and a look of long-suffering irritation firmly in place. “I stayed there last year.”

“Exactly. It’s time someone else has a turn,” Ron scoffed, settling in deeper. “Plus, I’ve got Harry. Guests don’t get put on blow-ups.” He pointed toward the single bed beside his, where Harry stood looking vaguely apologetic, like someone who wasn’t sure whether to sit or just disappear into the wallpaper.

The argument only got louder from there, voices bouncing off the walls until Molly emerged, wiping her hands on a tea towel, with Arthur right behind her lugging in the last of the bags.

With practiced efficiency, rooms were assigned. Bill and Fleur got the other double room, while you and Ginny were offered the room with two singles.

“No, I’d rather stay out here. It’s more fun,” Ginny protested immediately, eyes flicking toward the lounge where suitcases were already being pushed aside to make space for inflatable beds. “Trust me, Katie.”

Katie only smiled at Ginny, offering her a shrug paired with a casual, “I don’t mind,” though your voice carried a hint of curiosity, wondering what exactly counted as "more fun" when it involved sleeping on a living room floor.

Eventually, the room assignments were settled, and to Ginny’s delight, you two are officially part of the group destined for the blow-up beds that would sprawl across the main room like an unorganized sleepover camp. You're a little unsure—there's something vulnerable about sleeping in the open with no door to close—but Ginny looks genuinely excited, already dragging blankets and pillows into a cozy nest by the unlit fireplace.

George comes up behind you, warm and close, his arms sliding easily around your waist. “It’ll be fun,” he murmurs, chin resting on your shoulder. “Surprisingly, you forget how much they all piss you off when we’re down here. It’s like a big sleepover every night.” He grins against your cheek, brushing a kiss there, soft and familiar. “And you’r