Of Collarbones and Crashed Cars
Molly should have expected something to go wrong. After all, Arthur’s love for taking things apart and rebuilding them didn’t equate to skill on the track. And racing vintage cars - really, whoever came up with such a ridiculous idea?
She hurried tearfully through the main entrance of the hospital, clutching her bag to her chest. A security guard took pity on her and offered her his arm, which she took gratefully.
“Who is it you’re looking for?” He asked her gently, steering them along corridor after identical corridor. Molly was distracted by a supine figure with tape over her eyelids and a tube protruding from her mouth, being wheeled past in the opposite direction.
“My - my husband,” she answered belatedly, tearing her eyes away. “He was - he rolled his car. At the track.”
“Ah, I know the one. Got Kingsley on the door as extra security in case the paps try and get in,” he said comfortably. “He’s a lucky man. Looking at his car, it’s magical that he’s in such good shape. They brought him in collared and boarded just in case, but he’s off all that now.”
Molly wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but the image of his ruined Ford Anglia flashed again behind her eyes and she swallowed tremulously.
Moments later, she was delivered into the care of Kingsley, who was a comforting presence at the entrance to Arthur’s bed space and who checked her identification gravely before patting her reassuringly on the shoulder and parting the curtain to allow her inside.
Arthur was sitting up in bed, alert but pale and looking exceedingly sheepish, with one arm bandaged and in a sling. Molly was so shocked by how well he looked that she simply stared for a moment, and then broke down into sobs.
“Arthur Weasley! You absolute idiot! I have to find out from the news - the news! - that you’ve crashed! No call, just a picture of that bloody car all mashed up and - and - how dare you not tell me you’re okay!”
“Molly, dear, I -”
“No! And you’re not replacing that blasted car, either, so don’t even think -”
“Excuse me?” A quiet voice issued from behind the curtain, and then it slid open, admitting a young man wearing purple scrubs bearing the title ‘Doctor’. “Mister Weasley had a local anaesthetic about ten minutes ago,” he said gently. “I need to check it has worked and then do some stitches.”
“Oh,” Molly said. “Stitches?”
“About twenty. I’ve got a gash on my arm,” Arthur told her cheerfully. “And I’ve broken my collarbone. Otherwise, not a scratch.”
“You were very lucky, given the mechanism of your accident,” the doctor said. “I apologise for not getting in touch sooner, Mrs. Weasley. I called you about fifteen minutes ago, but I assume you were already on your way.”
“Yes, I would have been,” Molly agreed, softening.
Arthur’s good arm extended, and Molly saw that he was holding out a box of her favourite chocolate liqueurs, which were infused with amarula. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.
“How did you -?”
“The ambulance stopped off for me,” Arthur said with a grin.
Molly’s scowl returned. “You’ll need more stitches if you do anything that stupid ever again,” she threatened darkly, but leaned down to kiss his cheek anyway.