Madam Pomfrey rose in the early hours of the morning, as was her custom, to check up on the Hospital Wing's patients, apply ointments, and give pills and medicines to the group of invalids. When she drew open the curtains to Molly's bed and found her staring into space, but definitely awake, the school was sent into an uproar. Even the imposing Poppy Pomfrey was unable to keep the hordes of sympathetic Gryffindor students, dying to visit the heroic Seeker who'd been cursed off her broomstick but still managed to win them the game. Even supporters from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff paid her visits. Molly was laden down with hundreds of wellwishing, get-well, and congratulations cards. Sifting through them seemed a daunting, and next-to-impossible, task.

Through these many brief visits, Molly was able to piece together a vague version of the events that unrolled at the Quidditch game. She gathered that the Slytherin Seeker, Bellatrix Black, had cursed her from her broom as Molly was reaching for the Snitch, desperate not to lose the game, and that she had fallen towards the ground.

"You were falling, and you probably would've died," explained a group of excited first-year Gryffindor girls, "if Arthur Weasley—" giggles erupted amongst them, "—hadn't stopped you."

"Arthur Weasley?" said Molly, frowning. "Who's Arthur Weasley?"

The group of girls fell silent, seemingly shocked that she did not know.

"He's the boy who saved you."


"He might be the boy who saved you but he's also the one soaking up all of your attention," said Mafalda Hopkirk, sitting next to Molly on her hospital bed. "Take my word, Arthur Weasley is basking in the sunlight of a million devoted admirers all because of your heroism."

Mafalda, Molly's best friend, had come to see her on the afternoon of her first day revived. She was pleased to see that Molly had made a full and unimpeded recovery, but had also wanted to relay the events of the past few days.

"After you fell (and after they found out you caught the Snitch, too!), you were stretchered off to the Hospital Wing. First, everyone was silent, but then Headmaster Dippet sent us back our dormitories. He seemed to think it was best," she said scathingly. "When all we wanted was to make sure you weren't—" she paused, then said, "—dead."

"We'd all seen you fall, you know. It was quite spectacular, unless you count half the Gryffindors pissing themselves with worry (me included.) Then that great buffoon Arthur Weasley waved his wand and he stopped you. Of course, you wouldn't have hit the ground anyways, Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore and Dippet and Slughorn and Flitwick and Kettleburn already had their wands raised, but he had to go and steal quite a bit of spotlight, didn't he? For once stopped reading up on Muggles and instead decided to save your life, because he fancied some glory?

"Well, after that it was uproar, I promise you. After the quiet there was a huge explosion of noise. First Mr. Ferris forced that Bellatrix girl to come down—hexed her broom, or something, I think—and Professor Slughorn blustered around about disgracing the Slytherin name—and he escorted her back into the castle, but quite honestly I just think he was more shocked than upset.

"Oh, and then everyone started crowding around Arthur. He was putting up a good show, pretending to be horrorstruck and that he didn't care that throngs of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and even Hufflepuffs (!) were crowding about him, treating him like a hero and such and just gawping. I, of course, saw right through his act."

Mafalda paused to talk a break, glancing over at her bedridden friend to see if she was listening. Molly was leaning against the backboard, eyes open wide, watching her friend intently, waiting for the next part of the story.

"It's my job, you know, to protect you, seeing as you're my best friend," added Mafalda lazily. "So I quite quickly drew attention away from that ginger prick—not you, no, you don't look like a prick—by declaring quite loudly that I was worried about you (which of course, I was, anyways.) They abandoned him and began positively writhing with fright, with whispers and such.

"Now, of course, he's got all of the attention back and is trying to steal your glory, or whatever it is you Quidditch players call it. You're the only one who can stop him from completely taking over the school and setting all of his Muggle-loving rules on us. We can't have it, I won't have it, and you'll be able to change it up."

Quite pleased with herself and her story, Mafalda rested comfortably on her elbows, waiting for the response that was sure to come from her friend.

Molly shifted nervously. She wasn't used to this kind of potential attention—and even now, being in the limelight just felt wrong. Quite honestly, she didn't care if the Weasley boy "stole all of her glory"—because all she'd done was fall a hundred feet. It wasn't anything to be proud of, although Mafalda did seemed quite pleased. Drawing her bedspread up to her chin, feigning cold, she murmured,

"Well, it's all the in past now. I expect this will all die down in a few days."

"Whatever you say, Molly," said Mafalda patronizingly. "Well, I really must get back to the Gryffindor common room, Professor Flitwick has assigned us a full scroll on the difference between Wingardium Leviosa, and Arresto Momentum. I think the entire school's been inspired by your plunge," added Mafalda thoughtfully. "I might stop by after supper, did you hear there's a feast tonight? Too bad you'll be missing it, they're serving your favorite meal: roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas."

As Molly waved her out, she wondered at the strength of her friend's jaw. If it had been her, it would be falling off by now.


Molly's confinement settling into an achingly dull routine. Madam Pomfrey allowed visitors between 9:00 in the morning to going on 11:00. After that, she distributed midday medications to her patients and reapplied Molly's casts and bandages. Unfortunately, because of the number of broken bones in Molly's body, Madam Pomfrey had decided it was wisest to simply let them mend themselves properly, without the use of the wizard's tonic Skele-Grow. Even with healing charms, it would take Molly a good three weeks before she could walk, or go back to classes.

After the lunch hour, Molly was left to rest, or sift through the ever-growing pile of cards and chocolate boxes, or perhaps engage in small talk with the other patients, all of whom seemed sufficiently awed by the bandages that covered her body and the story behind them—awed enough, that is, to clam up after whispering a nervous "hullo." In any case, most of them were gone by the next evening.

On her third day awake, Molly received a letter from her parents, delivered by their weary, aging owl, Truffle, who flopped dispiritedly at Molly's feet after seeing that she'd opened the envelope.

Dear Molly,

Ever since we heard of your accident we've been senseless with worry. Dad's been crazy with anxiety, guilty, I expect, because he taught you how to play the sport that landed you in the Hospital Wing! I do hope Madam Pomfrey has been taking good care of you—but I'm confident you're in good hands. Poppy always was quite the healer.

We can't wait to see you come Christmastime. Your father and I have been missing you terribly, and especially so after we heard the news. We would be up at Hogwarts, I promise you, if not for your father's job. He's been loaded with paperwork and can't leave at the moment—also, our broomsticks have been malfunctioning recently. But again, we are very excited to see you in December—and Gideon and Fabian will all be there as well!

All My Love and Best Wishes,

Mother

Molly folded the note up with a genial smile on her face. She was pleased to hear of her family and touched (though not surprised) that they were worried for her. She lay back, relaxed, on her pillow, letting the late afternoon sunlight seeping through the colorful stained-glass-windows shroud her in heat.


"Excuse me."

Molly's eyes flickered open. She realized she was curled up in a fetal position. Had she been sleeping? Quickly, she propped herself up on both elbows, blinking as bright light temporarily impeded her vision.

When her eyes cleared, she found herself looking into the unmistakable face of Arthur Weasley.