Last September, Edmund was full-speed ahead to Hogwarts on that familiar, comforting train, bags packed, new parchments at the ready. Major concerns consisted of the usual; girls who'd gotten hot that summer, and how grades and exams were finally of some importance. Oh, how things changed. He'd just played his first, ever, serious Quidditch game. Patriotic Ravenclaws had been replaced with die-hard Chudley fans - there were expectations, a reputation to pull out the gutter and a paypacket for doing something he loved. Getting signed was a momentous occasion in the Klint household. Hard work, talent and luck had all played a part - and Edmund couldn't believe his luck.

Of course, the Cannons were no Tornadoes, but it was a start. It'd all been a blur. The tears of joy from mother, a bear hug from father, excited chatter from the brothers and sisters and cousins. Things with Lou were still going strong, and Edmund couldn't quite believe how straight forward everything had been. He even had his own place. Sure, it wasn't all that impressive - just a tiny studio flat on the Caledonian Road in London, but it was his little cave. The girlfriend stayed over whenever she liked, but it was his. A corner, a haven.

There was a downside though. A very big downside in the shape of an even bigger idiot. George Carter.

Edmund hadn't seen the last of the shit-for-brains at graduation it seemed; that'd be too easy. Instead, he just had to be on the same team. They had to co-operate. How it was possible to co-operate with a troll, he'd never understand. Their last game against the Kestrels proved testament to their incompatibility: a stray bludger had thwacked the Cannons keeper and Edmund hadn't been able to finish the deflection. It had been a nasty hit, but his lack of compassion and a mere shrug of the shoulders made it seem less accident and more intentional. Despite being the former, he took a little glee in George's misfortune and their mutual hatred was becoming more and more apparent on-pitch.

The plague of the Carter family was unavoidable it seemed, and would be for the rest of Edmund's time with Lou. It was always a source of contention - but both lads were far too stubborn to ever seek a compromise. That'd be simply too easy. Edmund needed a victor out of this, but now a career was involved, he just had to rethink tactics.

Wandering off the pitch as their latest training session finished, Edmund breathed in the fresh Devonshire air. Mud-caked, ruffled and keen to wipe away the beads of forehead sweat. His eye caught George's on the way towards the locker room, and he couldn't help but grin. Edmund didn't even need to say anything. The smugness was all too visible.

George didn’t do losing very well. He liked to be on top of things and he considered himself good at what he did. Clearly he needed to do even better. It was time to up his game. He needed to be the best. It was a hard lesson to learn: losing the first Quidditch game was a lot to swallow.

If he was completely honest, himself aside, he’d wanted to make Waker proud. George wanted to prove that he could provide, that he was doing a good job, and that he wasn’t just playing a field every day for fun. Other than the seeker, George considered the Keeper to be the most important position. George alone were responsible for three hoops. The other players help prevent the scoring, and hopefully do some scoring of their own, but he was the one in charge of making sure the game stayed level (or in their favor) to allow the Seeker some time to find the troublesome snitch.

Not only did they end up losing to the Kenmare Kestrels, but Edmund Klint made yet another mistake. However it happened, a bludger collided with his forearm, and the pain that followed the break nearly knocked him off his broom. He’d had to switch out with the other Keeper and swallow some disgusting bone repair potion. All of it without any remorse from the useless Beater whose job it was to stop that sort of thing.

Yes, one could say George was still heated from the game. His arm was still a bit sore, even though it had been a few days-the medic had said the muscle would need time to heal as well. With a baby on the way, George had no time to slack at work, and so he was at practice working hard whether he felt up to snuff or not.

After literally jumping through hoops (dodging bludgers and catching quaffles) for a couple of hours, George was glad to be back on solid ground. Shaking out his arm, he’d accepted a couple of pointers from the others he had been practicing with-they had all taken turns as the bludger hitter and quaffle thrower.

It was when he glanced over towards Edmund that his blood started to boil again. The pompous asshole was always smirking: George wanted to see how his smirk looked with a couple teeth missing. Maybe Lou would get her head on straight then. He had just started to head towards the locker rooms when the idea came to him. George’s expression suddenly changed and he smirked right back, eyes dark as they stared across at the worst addition to the team.

Luckily the distance wasn’t that far. George rolled his foot over the top of a quaffle, spinning it on to his toes before popping it up into the air. With it in hand, he took a couple of leaping steps as his arm swung back. The upside to his job was his accuracy with a lobbed quaffle: he had to be able to send it to his teammate since it wasn’t enchanted like the beater.

As soon as he set it sailing towards Edmund, he continued his light jog towards the annoying Ravenclaw Alumni. It was time to settle this, and if he had to use a beater bat to wipe that smug smirk off Klint's face, so be it.

Edmund looked away, still smirking but believing that his trip back to the locker room would be uneventful and another standard day of practice. That was until a cleverly aimed quaffle struck him on the back of the head. Hard. He immediately recoiled, wincing as he leant forward from the shock of the blow. Sure, quaffles were relatively nifty little buggers, but hard red leather from a distance would cause considerable discomfort to anybody unlucky enough to fall victim. "Merlin's beard," he gasped, deft, gloved hands instantly rubbing the back of his head. A few teammates turned around, utterly perturbed by the sudden attack.

And then the culprit in question came running through. Edmund's blood hit boiling point quicker than the Hogwarts Express. George Carter, of course. He'd started it all with the smirk, but surely, what was a smug grin compared to a planned attack with a quaffle? Carter was sprinting, and Edmund immediately followed suit, running towards the Gryffindor goon at full speed.

Thoughts of Lou immediately dissipated. This wasn't to do with his girlfriend anymore, nor was it to do with Waker. When young male pride was questioned and compromised, most important issues were thrown to the sidelines. This was about Edmund's respect, and reputation. It would seem that George couldn't contain his impulses, and Edmund was keen to make such digs on the down-low, away from the prying eyes of Quidditch superiors and more experienced colleagues. Sure, he was showing his age with such retaliation - but who could blame him? Edmund's own thought process attempting to reason the counter-attack seemed logical, although was in all actuality tainted with intense wrath.

The two boys finally closed the distance on one another, and Edmund immediately lashed out. A warm-palmed fist was sent on it's angry little way to George's jawline as his other arm snaked around his waist in an attempt at a rugby tackle to the floor. There were no spells, no hexes - this was primitive warfare at it's finest very worst. Landing on the floor with a thud, Edmund saw red, and as a result, lost complete control of his body. Punches, kicks, he was trying it all.

If he had stood still and admired his handiwork, he probably would’ve laughed it off. Chalked it up to one of those things George got away with while acting completely chill and charismatic. An ‘oops, did that Quaffle just slip out of my grasp and hit you directly in the head?’ sort of look.

George was just as baffled as Klint! Well, maybe not quite that much. He felt triumphant, having nailed his mark. It was one reason he had passed the other Keepers on the journey to finding a professional team. And since he didn’t always make it, it was probably one reason he was with the Cannons. He was working on it, though. Maybe if he incorporated this sort of target practice, he’d hit the mark every time!

While on his way towards Klint, George knew what he was getting into. They weren’t about to hug it out and get some ice cream. This was no time for neapolitan. Klint’s sudden run at him was slightly alarming. He dropped his shoulder a little, however, expecting the impact and the off balance reaction it would create. Thoughts of where they were quickly slipped away.

With his slightly bent in stance, George had a harder time dodging the first punch, allowing it to hit his shoulder to not lose that first jolt as he collided into Klint. Wrapping both arms around the taller boy, George pulled his weight in the opposite direction he’d been going, twisting the two back onto the ground. Klint fought like a girl, but since he wasn’t one, George didn’t hold back with his heavy fists and tight and forced elbows.

Time was different when you were in the thick of a fight. It seemed to slow down everything around you and speed up everything you were doing. It was easy for a spectator to see flaws from both boys, areas they left themselves open, decent punches and kicks. There was one point that Klint got a hit on George’s nose, just hard enough to make his eyes water and the cartilage give way. It was a sudden pain, a blinding light that exploded upon impact, and cost him a few moments that he had to fight to get back.

George found himself rolling Klint over, attempting to pin the little chicken legs down as he focused on continuous punches to the head. At least with that tactic, though they weren’t necessarily full strength, they would get the point across. If you continued to get hit in the same spot, it seemed to reason that it would eventually cause the same amount of damage and pain as a couple of really good full body punches (it just wasn’t feasible in this position).

What seemed like forever and a second, they were suddenly pulled off each other. Shouts started to filter in and George huffed and puffed as he fought against the restraints that held him back. Once he realized it was over, however, he wiped blood away from his nose and grinned. The adrenaline in his system made him fidgety, though he couldn’t jump around on the balls of his feet. Damn magic, always getting in when it wasn’t needed. Still, he had to hand it to Klint. He was a decent fighter.

Angry, testosterone-fuelled fists flew all over the place, and Edmund gritted his teeth with victory as a spurt of blood erupted from George's nose. Such pride was short-lived however, as knuckles caught Edmund in the eye. The taller yet skinnier figure of Edmund Klint soon lost the upper-hand yet he continued to lash out relentlessly, throwing blows in the direction of George's neck, face, chest, any place possible. His adversary however, wisely focused on Edmund's face, and the series of blows were sure to leave swollen lips and blackened eyes.

Carter was quickly dragged off, and Edmund leapt to his feet, ready to take another blow. "I'm gonna knock the shit out of him!" he snarled, drawing his fist back. The much calmer, rather confused Cannons prevented this from happening though, and Edmund was soon being carted off by one of the trainee scouts. Turning around, he gazed in George's direction, chest heaving up and down wearing a frown that looked like it would last forever.

He knew this meant trouble. Not only would both boys be reprimanded for letting personal issues get in the way of the game, but he was sure to receive an ear-bashing off Lou. George had the ability to get in the way of everything, but a warm glow of satisfaction managed to shine through. That crack on the nose was a beauty, for sure.

 

The bruises and swollen pride that would come later were being left unknown to George. Or if not unknown (because it did sting when a fist landed), then currently unthought of. The important area of his face was something he was trying to protect as best he could, though. Bruises on his body could be easily covered up. Something to think about later...

“I’m gonna knock the shit out of him!”

George started laughing, his anger seeping out of him little by little. He had to hand it to Klint. He just kept going. As he flexed his fists, George took a few deep breaths (through his mouth), leaning his head forward so he wouldn’t swallow too much blood. Making a face as he worked his mouth, he could tell his jaw was a bit sore as well.

The grin he had was quickly wiped off when he saw their coach looking between the two-and he didn’t look very pleased. George was finally released from his restraints after Edmund was encouraged away, accepting a towel to help clean up his face a little. The team medic was all ready pulling a couple vials out of their bag. Perhaps doing this at work, after practice, had been a bad idea... Hindsight was a pain sometimes.

Worries started to etch into his head. He had to have this time. He had to keep his job. George had a family to support, a little one on the way. To be able to keep the apartment and help put food on the table, he had to behave himself. Silently berating himself back to the locker room, and keeping the distance between Klint and himself (whether it was made on his own accord or the couple of fellow teammates who kept between them), George was fretting over Waker's reaction.