The Horny Peacock.
' But when it comes to magic that I love best
Outshining the rest
It's time to confess
Out of all the charms that ring my bell
There's nothing like a holiday spell!'
Nothing Like a Holiday Spell by Celestina Warbeck.
Chapter 1: The Horny Peacock.
Molly Weasley grins as she pulls stocking after stocking from the heavy trunk that houses the family's holiday decorating knick-knacks and attaches them to her expanded mantel with a practiced Sticking Charm. She is aware that she is starting early. Arthur will probably chuckle when he comes back from work, shake his balding head in amused wonder and kiss her softly on the cheek before reminding her that he'd have helped if she'd waited for the weekend.
Molly knows that, of course, but it's three-thirty in the afternoon on the first of December, and she's already finished all her household chores. Supper is merrily bubbling away on the stove, and she's refusing to drink another cup of tea on principle. She's already had two in the last half hour. There are no grandchildren to babysit today, and Arthur won't be back for at least two more hours. She's got time on her hands now. So she might as well tackle this task before the madness of the season takes over her best-laid plans, as Christmas is wont to do.
It's quiet at home these days, the calm after the storm of raising so many children and surviving two wars. She's lost Fred and still misses him every day despite the decade that has passed since the Final Battle. Still, the family has expanded so much in the intervening years that she can't count herself as anything other than lucky. Married. Every one of her children is married, all of them already parents to at least one adorable tot for her to dot on.
Everyone except Harry.
It's not the first time Molly worries about the messy shambles that is Harry's life in general. Today, though, as she stares at the long line of stockings dangling merrily from her mantle, Molly feels her concern more keenly. The Weasley Christmas stockings are handmade; every last one of them a lovingly knitted piece created by her own two hands. They're a colorful array of clearly matched sets, two for each partner and the tiny ones belonging to their children. Pairs. The stockings are arranged in complementary pairs. There is only one drunk Doxy swimming on the surface of Molly's perfect potion: Harry's stocking hangs distressingly alone. It's not only unmatched but also unattached, just like its owner.
Molly stares unblinkingly at Harry's offensively lonely Christmas stocking, a familiar wave of motherly frustration settling in her chest. She understands Harry's struggles to find a partner. She really does. The sheer amount of outright creeps that poor boy attracts on any given Sunday simply boggles the mind. Still, just because Harry has terrible taste in men doesn't mean the right wizard isn't waiting somewhere out there for him to pull his head out of his arse, so to speak. Harry is almost twenty-eight by now. It's high time he stops prowling every gay pub in Knockturn Alley like a tomcat in heat. If he wants sex that badly, then he is bound to have a hell of a lot more with a partner at home. There is no need whatsoever to wait until the weekend to doll up like a modern-day Lockhart, just to nab himself someone with no interest in staying past sunrise. That's no way to live one's life. And it messes with the family's Friday night dinners too, which he knows drives her crazy.
Molly hums under her breath. Chubby index finger tapping gently against her lips as she makes up her mind to help her wayward son. Harry has had plenty of time to shape up on his own. But he's a stubborn soul, that boy. Harry desperately needs her guidance. He's old enough to know better already, and he's not growing any younger either. Merlin! All the good prospects are getting snatched away from under his nose while he struts about like a horny peacock. The situation can not continue thus. It's time for a motherly intervention.
TBC.