"Maybe we love this rollercoaster,
Maybe it's what keeps us alive."

Edmund trotted slowly up the creaking, barely maintained stairwell of his flat. Keys in hand, angry fingers gripped them tightly to prevent shaking - images of George Carter reeling in his mind. He just wanted to take a shower, go to bed and ignore the monkey that defend the Chudley goaline at every opportunity possible. After all, when did a Beater and a Keeper really have to work together? Everything the delayed graduate said incensed Edmund on another level. Perhaps it was his constant presence in his life, perhaps it was the silently simmering idea that Lou, at the end of it all, would always be on the Carter side. That was family after all - but it didn't stop Edmund hurting.

A key slid into the increasingly familiar lock, and he exhaled. Things had gotten out of hand. He expected a good telling-off from coach and manager alike - Edmund had to admit it was deeply unprofessional. But then again, what eighteen year old thrown into a world of fame and cut-throat competition wholly understood the concept of 'professionalism'? George's words stung and that's all there was to it. Edmund, being a typical Klint, bit the bait every single time and wanted to hex Lou's cousin into the middle of next week. Sooner or later, an act of great regret (and secret satisfaction) would unfold. He needed to do something before a bad temper got the better of him.

Opening the door, Edmund gritted his teeth immediately. Lou. Sprawled out on his sofa in the tiny living room, a modest debris of magazines and sweet packets surrounding her. There she was, adorable and beautiful and waiting for her lovely Quidditch player boyfriend, but he couldn't even smile at her. "Hey." The word left his lacklustre lips without a hint of excitement or enthusiasm. Edmund didn't even want to discuss George - he just wanted to cool off. Alone.

Removing muddied elbow pads, he quickly tossed them onto the side of a nearby cabinet next to a collection of framed photographs. One of the proud family, another of the boys, and three of Lou and himself on happier days. The magical moving pictures couldn't be further removed than Edmund's silent hostility, tense shoulders and clenched jawline. Walking through to the tiny, conjoining kitchen, he filled a glass full of ice cold water - probably the only attractive thing Edmund would think of. He gulped, and gulped, the burn of training still fresh and the mocking figure of George even fresher. Just forget about it... Pretend everything's okay.

Turning around, Edmund leant against the kitchen counter to face Lou once. He could blame the red face and uncharacteristic ruggedness on training, but covering the bad mood would be somewhat more difficult. She always did like him fresh from the testosterone coliseum of the Quidditch pitch but Edmund wasn't particularly thinking of lust and passionate kisses and all the other fine activities that came with it.

All he could think about was the argument. And how it always affected him and his girlfriend.

"Quinn been over?" he finally asked, raising a nonchalant eyebrow. It was a bad attempt to seem distracted by other affairs, but an attempt nonetheless. Judging by the light mess and finding Lou in the sweet glow of relaxation would suggest her party girl partner-in-crime had turned up to the flat, but he may have been wrong. Lou sure did give McAvoy a good run for her money. "Been doing much?"

Every word he spoke seemed like an effort. He just wanted to sleep - nobody wanted to deal with a cranky, wound-up, frustrated Edmund Klint.

Lou rolled over from her tummy to her back, stretching out so that her legs fell over the arm of the couch (as opposed to her ankles, which had been propped up before). Her fingers hovered over the little trove on the floor: sweets, a paycheck, and the new record she’d wanted to share with Edmund when he got home. Whenever he got home. She worked odd hours-- nights quite often-- and he seemed to keep a schedule that stretched over the entire day. Coaches apparently had few qualms keeping newly-signed players past sundown.

She looked away from the ceiling and glanced toward the door when she heard him unlocking and opening it. Her eyes landed on Edmund. “Hey,” she echoed, noting his expression. He did not look terribly thrilled in the way one might expect of a young, newly-signed professional quidditch player who had just stepped into his new flat to find his girlfriend lounging around, waiting for him.

There was a cautious suspicion to her voice. She held back a smile for the moment and sat up, her eyes following him to the kitchen.

“Did the coach try to steal your soul?” She asked, after he’d had a sip of water. He didn’t appear to be cooling off. “Does a man need to have a word with a dementor?” She raised a brow, and finally chanced a little smile, but as he looked out of sorts, she had to force it a little. Lou could be wonderful actress, but she wasn’t one for not taking challenges head on. And yet, there was also a teenage need to keep things light. They had only been back together a couple of months, and that had been a big step in and of itself: confronting that she had been wrong, and taking the next step. Now she was visiting him at his place, using a spare key he’d given her.

She stood and stepped over a magazine-- one of her favorite players was half naked and leaning nonchalantly on his broom, with the headline This Means War. She had changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of micro shorts and a loose cotton shirt belonging to Edmund. She'd knotted it where necessary.

She considered the question and looked around-- and down at the sweets and magazines-- before looking at him again, smiling. “No, I just got off work,” she explained. “There’s coffee in there, if you want it...” She had remembered a heating charm this time. More often than not, Lou was still getting used to constant change in shifts and not spilling coffee on customers. Quinn may as well have been there, given the tell-tale signs of teenage girl-- minus all the prissiness! But Lou could make a proper little nest, too. As for what she was doing now... well, trying not to fall asleep before her boyfriend got home for proper entertainment (slash entertaining).

She stifled a yawn and clambered past her stuff into the kitchen. “I was waiting for you. Did you want... to order in or go somewhere?” She knew the latter was not going to happen. For either of them. She stopped in the small threshold of the kitchen. She looked him up and down. “You need a shower?” She asked. She moved forward and stood at his side, glancing down at the cup.

"Did the coach try to steal your soul?" No, your idiot cousin does a good enough job already. It was a reply that danced on the tip of Edmund's tongue, but uncharacteristically, he managed to keep it in. The last drips of water disappeared down a dry, parched throat, and he placed the glass by the sink with more force than intended. A loud chink echoed through the kitchen - the only sound to accompany his girlfriend's pleasant, cheerful words. She didn't have a clue - she never did when it concerned George. He was just super fun and super kind and just the best cousin in the world. Edmund wanted to shake Lou sometimes and alert her to the ogre that unfortunately belonged to her family.

His eyes flicked towards the coffee before shrugging nonchalantly (a remnant of adolescent indifference). "Dunno, don't really fancy it." Edmund's words were short, the lines in his forehead prominent and beaded with sweat. Her attempt at conversation steered towards their stomach, and Edmund ran a hand through damp and marginally greasy hair as he pottered around the kitchen. "We'll order something - can't be arsed with going out this evening." That wasn't entirely true. He could be persuaded to go out if one of the boys called with the promise of pints and general rowdiness - but an evening with his girlfriend wasn't ideal. He was just dying to say something about George, but the threat of her leaving him was just too real. 

"Yeah, a shower sounds good," he replied blankly, walking back through to the living room. Mud-caked boots were kicked off by the door and Edmund hastily unbuttoned his training robes. Tossing them into the wicker laundry basket (a tasteful gift from Mrs Klint), his shirt was pulled off and joined the pile. "I might just go to bed after, really bad day." Turning to look at Lou, he attempted a smile but the post-anger frown still remained.

"I - " he broke off immediately, about to collapse under the strain of his own eagerness to air any problem concerning George Carter. He headed for the shower. Seeing Lou try her best to greet her boyfriend with all the warmth and loveliness a girl could employ broke his heart a little - she had no understanding why Edmund was acting this way. What did he do? Bottle it up and stay in that perpetual state of quiet wrath? Or finally tell her, in the best way he could?

Unsure, nervous hands unbuckled his belt, and Edmund could feel lines of uncomfortable moisture visibly fall down his back. Red skin was patchy, and although his body was a paragon of youthly, boyish tone, the rigours of training had started to develop cruel muscle and thick, athletic arms. The transformation from teenager to adult was well underway, but Edmund couldn't let go of all the insecurities that plagued him at Hogwarts. Getting Lou back had been an arduous task that was ultimately worth the final prize, so why was he so set on upsetting her again? Why was he letting George win, once again?

"Your cousin and I had another blowout today."

His voice was shy, almost regretful. Facing the bathroom door, he couldn't muster the energy or confidence to turn around and face her. Instead, fingers lingered on the doorknob and the star Beater gave a less than stellar sigh. "We just can't get on Lou. We hate each other."

Moments passed and Edmund eventually locked his eyes onto hers. "I just don't know what to do anymore."

The 'nice game' came to an abrupt halt when the glass echoed through the small flat. Lou stopped talking, stopped probing. Her face became harder. Standing beside him, she stared at his profile, unsure where to begin a new, less friendly interrogation into his grouchy mood. The only explanation was that he'd been told flat-out they were going to lose their next match. She knew he could get his ego in a twist, but really!

He didn't want to go out-- couldn't pretend he did for her sake-- and it was quite clear as he walked away that the shower would involve soaking and sulking, and not much else.

Bed? She standing about in tiny shorts, waiting for him to come off his grumpy mountain, and he wanted to go to bed... Right, then. Lou raised her brows, crossed her arms and stepped back into the other room after him, leaning against the wall as she watched him.

Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal. He’d said he’d had a bad day...

She bit her tongue, but couldn't help thinking are you serious? And then, raising her voice a bit, deciding that-- even if he seemed in a bad mood, there could still be a reasonable explanation to his standoffishness-- she asked, “Are you ill?”

He sounded and looked as if he were going to confess he'd just shagged the entire Harpies lineup at lunchtime.

Even his smile looked sad. When it finally came out, though, Lou let her arms fall softly. She cringed. She had hope this boyish scrap between George and Edmund might fade out now that they were no longer bound to Hogwarts' corridor etiquette. They might hate each other, but they would eventually get so tired of hating each other (having to work together), that it would turn into a pleasant coexistence of ignoring each other. Too much to hope for. And Lou, a Gryffindor alum as likely to back down as a Grindylow, knew, perhaps deep down, that she wouldn't have dropped it either. It didn't mean that Edmund and George weren't being giant prats who both deserved a hex and a month of timeout. She had better ways to spend her time than playing referee-- sweet, understanding girlfriend and supportive, through thick-and-thin cousin. She was not made of paper.

“So why don't you switch teams?” She asked suddenly, though she knew she ought to have said something nicer now that he'd confessed what was bothering him. She was sick of this, though. If they couldn't get along, they'd have to man up and do something about their current, impossible work schedule. If this became a nightly occurrence, it wouldn't be good for any of them. She knew as well as he that even being recruited for a starting lineup right out of school was almost impossible.

She stared at his back, noting bruises, trying for a moment to decipher which had been hits to the muscles, which were not training and quidditch-related.

When he finally looked at her, she wasn't sure what to say. Which was ridiculous. She was Emmylou, she always had words in her mouth. They had established what this was about, but she was still letting her ground her. She backtracked. “This is about George? Really? I thought you were ill or...” She shook her head, smiling in disbelief. “You’re sulking away from me because of something my cousin did?” Or because he didn’t want to tell her about it? She knew he knew that she didn’t like them arguing, but she’d rather hear it now than let him go on like this for weeks. Still, it felt... like an ultimatum. He looked lost, and she felt something unpleasant inside her. “I'm not choosing between you, Edmund. You can't ask me to do that. If you ask me to do that, you aren't going to like--” She stopped. It was the same thing she would say to George, if he brought her to this point, heaved his worries onto her, compelled her with his eyes to give some advice. She had told them over and over to get over it, to get along-- and Edmund had notably stopped making comments, probably for her sake. She had assumed maybe things were calming down, or had just wished it. She knew it wasn't healthy for him to keep it all in, that the point of being in a relationship was that he could share his worries with her, that she could make them less heavy, but if this was going to be a sore point between them... “He's my family, Edmund. He's the first friend I had as a kid. My oldest friend.” Milestones, all those things. She had been through them with George.

Which made her want to punch George in the face, too. He should know better. Selfish prat. He had had a penchant, of late, of tangling himself precariously in Lou's relationships. Luckily, she had not had to make the same choice between others, though she was still angry that it might have come to that.

She felt like they had been here before. But this was a new ledge, higher up. They were no longer school children (Lou had not felt like a child for a long time... alright, maybe she had... but she certainly did not feel like an adult.)

“If you would give up your pissing contest, this would be over. Can't you just tell him you're done? Why do you rise to the occasion? Just--” Tell him he's won. even Lou wasn't mouthy enough to say that. Just yet. “He has to grow up, too, you know,” she warned, as if it were a conspiracy between Edmund and George to stay immature. Their one joint effort. (Apparently reviving the scoreboard of the Cannons was not so pressing.) “Now that he's gone and...” She trailed off. She hadn’t even discussed it with him. She assumed he knew because he worked with George. She was a bit worried, but she had promised not to be the same voice of reason, say, George’s parents would be-- or Lou's own mother, who had sat her down and made her vow she wouldn't do what George had done. That didn't mean she couldn't have a serious relationship.

Did Edmund really even consider it that? He'd asked her forgiveness, won her back-- she'd conceded a bit of humbleness, too, had given him what she was not likely to give many others. She had been sorry about the way things had gone, and she’d wanted him to know it. But here they were, bickering about cousins and bland nights in, with the prospect of Edmund going to bed all by his lonesome. In his own little bachelor's flat. Maybe she was choking him. Maybe she reminded him too much of George. But how he could hate George’s face and loves hers? She ignored the stubborn tugging at her heartstrings and looked at him stonily, arms folding again. She was not shy or likely to back down, to accept things the way they were.

"So why don't you switch teams?" she immediately responded, and Edmund gave a loud laugh of frustration followed by that groan his girlfriend met so often these days. The cool beads of sweat that ran down his chest were beginning to boil once more, Edmund trying to keep his cool. No matter how softly he broke the news, when it came to George, the argument that ensured was of Death Eater proportions. The Carters didn't do battles by half, and the Klints held a grudge like a goblin. It was a draining combination. Turning to face Lou, Edmund raised both hands in mock surrender. "Straight away, it's my problem, it's my issue that I've got to sort. Have you ever thought, that one time, George might have fix things? Why should I have to leave the Cannons to make room for his problem?"

Slumping down onto the sofa, Edmund ran warm palms over his face and into his hair, exhausted and unprepared for Lou quickly turning from girlfriend into adversary. His lack of drive turned into pure disbelief as she continued to talk; swearing allegiance had never been on the agenda as Edmund knew that getting Lou to commit to one side was impossible. Looking up, his mouth parted, trying to find words. "I never even asked you to choose sides," he murmured, half-frowning, breathing heavily and blinking in confusion. "But obviously, you chose your side a long time ago."

How could he compete? How could he ever compete with his girlfriend's closest relative and long-time friend? Edmund struggled to find a comparison. Clarissa was undoubtedly a firm favourite in his family, but he wasn't completely alien to scolding her when Lou was involved - point in question, the vicious howler and the temporary fall-out. He'd been the first person to reprimand his sister for such slapdash vengeance. Would Lou do the same, however? Edmund was starting to think otherwise. Unlike usual, however, he wasn't overcome with absolute rage and typical stubbornness. He just didn't have the energy. Instead, he leant back, listening to her words closely and rubbing his left eye. The Beater had a terrible feeling that George's punches were starting to leave their mark as purple bruises grew larger and larger.

"You just seem to think that it's a little boys' quarrel," Edmund stuttered, beyond the ability to stare back at her. "Do you realise I could lose my dream job because of this? Do you not think it wouldn't have come to blows if it wasn't a big deal?" Listening to her encourage Edmund to concede defeat, his toes curled up in dirty, off-white socks. "So I'll always have to lose and come second place to keep you and George happy, then."

Getting to his feet once more, Edmund faced Lou. The distance between them in the flat was only a few metres, but it felt like she was slipping away all over again. Except this time, he had the suspicion that no words or books or photographs would win her back. This time, it wasn't about his wrongdoings, but her family - and the stakes were a lot higher.

"I love you, Lou, I love you so much," he began, crossing his arms to mirror his girlfriend. "But I can't back-down, and I won't. He's always had a huge problem with me ever since we got together, and he always will have a problem with me. So, you either stay with me and this carries on, or you leave me, again, and your problems will be solved." Edmund jabbed himself in the chest with a swollen thumb, his words lethargic and self-tormenting. "After all, I'm the problem, right?"

The former Ravenclaw paused, and registered something she said. Something, out of tone, perhaps? "Wait, he's gone and down what, exactly?"

Edmund felt the cold steel of the spare key - her key - as it was pushed into his palm. Limp fingers gently curled around it, before Edmund started to shake his head, lips parted and eyes turning from exhausted misery to immediate panic. She was doing this, again? One argument about George and she was ready to up sticks and leave? The key fell to the floor as Edmund slid bare arms around her waist, his face resting on her neck. A kiss was planted on it, a direct attempt to hold back tears. "I can't lose you again, Lou," he whispered. The crack in his voice that she knew all too well was starting to re-emerge. "You can't leave me, you can't." His hushed pleading almost made Edmund want to retract all his statements about George - but that was just something he couldn't do. He'd rather just try and forget about it till the next day, lay in bed with Lou and laugh at the mundane things in life like they always did. "You know how good we are together, but you can't just get rid of me every time something gets difficult. You can't just keep on abandoning me when we hit a shitty patch. I love you Lou, so much, but don't use it against me." He dug his face into her neck, his breath grazing her skin. "It'll kill me if you go again."

"Waker's pregnant." He froze, pulling back to regain eye contact. She was what? The trauma and misery Edmund had previously bathed in was overswept by confusion and panic. Pregnant? Was this some sort of a joke? "She's pregnant?" Leon hadn't mentioned a thing, neither had Waker - which was surprising. She was his friend, right? "What? Her and George are having... a baby?"

Edmund sunk down in his usual position on the sofa, hands pressed together in thought. It was a mixture of emotions, and the news seemed to gloss over the fact Lou was going to take off. What the hell was she doing? Waker was essentially messing up her life - and for what? For George Carter to do the unforgivable and introduce his DNA into the genepool? Miniature versions of Edmund's arch-nemesis were a terrifying thought, and undoubtedly a source of potential chagrin for Klint's own offspring in later years. He looked up at Lou, frowning, sweat still glistening on his shoulders. "And you're cool with this?"

If she supported her idiotic cousin on this, then maybe it was right that she was to pack her bags and leave.

His kisses were like perfect little stings to her skin, to that oft-exposed, ever-sensitive part of the human body. Sweet, and convincing in a way that most people’s kisses were not. A wonderful, complicated way that their kisses had not been once upon a time ago on the quidditch pitch. Then they had also been wonderful, but with less attachment. Blustery passion, skills that should not have been, and a proud, suave immaturity. If those were the same ingredients now, they had been mixed differently, and were much harder to walk way from.

But somehow it seemed the easier choice, the less claustrophobic one. Or it had, a minute ago. The key had long since dropped to the floor, but Emmylou still heard it echoing in her ear.

She stood there, stiff and useless for a moment, in his arms. Finally, she let out a breath against his skin. The warmth radiating from his muscles was, even now, much more appealing than the sidewalk outside, which was a different kind of warm, an empty, anonymous one. The edge to his voice was much more alarming to her ears than the clink of the key on the floorboards. She felt a weird, rare rush of heat to her cheeks that surely rivaled Edmund’s bare skin. Was she so cruel? “I don’t want to lose you, either,” she repeated in a whisper, apparently the only words she could come up with at the moment. She tightened her arms around his back for a moment and closed her eyes as he did his, though neither could see the other’s face-- for which she was somehow, despite her Gryffindor bravery, very thankful. “I know you love me. I love you.”

They were stuck. She couldn’t take sides, couldn’t choose, but somehow had to, may already have, if Edmund’s opinion was valid. If she stayed, knowing how he felt, knowing that he and George wouldn’t come to any happy conclusion, she was liable to let bad, moody feelings build up-- and there be row after row between moments of forced forgetfulness. If she left, it would exactly like last time, but worse, and they’d both be miserable.

His words struck a chord. Again, she felt a little sick at the idea that she was being brutal. A lesser person than Edmund might accuse her of playing games. But all she wanted was for him to work out his problems with George, which seemed impossible. She couldn’t stick with it when things like this happened, wasn’t the sort of person who had been in something like this long term. Largely, for a while, she had stopped taking things seriously when her father had died. Elements of that still remained, and at times she felt choked by the idea of staying, committing, being an adult. But she loved Edmund, too. “This is the longest relationship I’ve ever been in,” she said suddenly. It was a blunt truth, and part of her trouble stemmed from the fact that it was a new experience, and not the sort she could tightrope walk with cheeky grace. “I’m not that great at it, am I?” She sighed, her hand moving up to the back his neck. She was somehow, despite her confession, beholden with the familiarity of his skin and hair.

“You have to work things out with him like an adult,” she murmured back, with a plea that was not unlike his own. “It’s the only way the three of us are going to be able to...” Maintain some weird relationship? “Fit in England,” she added, wanting, for a very inappropriate moment, to laugh at how ridiculous this was. That their collective egos should be too big living and working and enjoying life in the same country. Instead she sounded weary, unsure, forfeiting. “I can’t be the quaffle in the middle. I won’t be.” Her ultimatum stood, that it was his responsibility to work out... but perhaps she would be there waiting for him to do it, instead of running out the door like a giant child. Being a giant child was easier, though. Love was hard. Edmund was worth it.

As he pulled back to look at her, she met his eye and seemed to give affirmation in a glance. He had heard her right. She pulled away, slowly, not evasively, bringing her arms to her sides. “Yes. Waker and George.”

She stood there as he walked toward the couch, unsure whether the new distance was a relief for the next impending leg of their argument, or whether she had preferred mapping their disagreements in close whispers. “I don’t think it’s the smartest decision he’s ever made.” But George and ‘smart’ were not synonymous. “He knows I think he should be more careful--” With whom- with what- “Where he--” She made a gesture, which on second thought, wasn’t exactly timely given the serious tone of their conversation. “But to go through with it... it’s not my decision to make. It’s his. And hers.” She eyed Edmund carefully, wondering how best to word this. Also, to decipher his feelings on Waker’s choice. “They’re having the kid, whether anyone else likes the idea or not. So I can walk away, or I can be there for him.” And George was, as they’d established-- it was a sticky point between Edmund and Emmylou, to be sure-- her family. “He’s got enough lectures to last a lifetime, trust me.” Emmylou had given him a piece of her mind. And then she’d decided the best thing she could do was support him. He seemed to be putting in effort; he was a loyal person, George. Maybe the loyalest person she knew. She was proud of him, even if he could be a giant blockhead. “You have a problem with my supporting him through this?” She didn't know why she posed it as a question when the answer was obvious. And here they were, at square one, with Emmylou keeping her eyes trained on him, arms crossed with grumpy hostility, so that she wouldn't be tempted to look at the key they both knew was glaring at them from the floor.

Edmund leant back, ruffling a hand through damp, sweat-dewed hair. Lou and him had never been the serious sort of relationship - of course it was serious, but their days were spent poking mild fun at each other, going to the pub and cuddling up on a Sunday morning. Talking about the future, talking about the real world and talking about (Edmund gulped) babies were very much out of bounds topics. He was always a little jealous that Lou and Quinn ventured out, presumably fluttering eyelashes and laughing with boys - but it meant nothing. They weren't even twenty and although it made Edmund a tad grumpy, it was normal. Merlin only knew how many girls he giggled with and charmed in the Quidditch stands, and it was all fair game as long his kisses were planted on her lips and her lips alone.

George and Waker, however, were a completely different story. They'd always had this romantic, 'take my breath away' whirlwind affair. Two opposites attracting, the stars aligning, blah blah blah, it made Edmund thoroughly uncomfortable. And now there was a mini Nolan-Carter on the way. "Of course you're going to be there for him," he murmured, "that's what families do." Her loyalty was admirable, no matter how much it irked him. Clarissa, despite all her imperfections, was still always welcome into the family home no matter what stunt she pulled. Hugo and Arabella, orphans since they were five, were brought into the Klint home and raised as a son and daughter as opposed to nephew and niece. That's what families did. "I just think it's pretty ridiculous - we're barely eighteen? We can't even look after ourselves, never mind them two looking after a baby. Yes, yes, I know Waker's mature, but a baby? You must be kidding me?"

Edmund clenched his fists in frustration. It was a difficult situation - and although it was next-level anger inducing, Lou was doing the right thing. She always did. The only mistake his girlfriend could make was to leave him over the feud with George - Edmund didn't know how he could handle telling everyone all over again, telling them that Lou had gone and dealing with the heartache and the embarrassment. Getting to his feet, Edmund's left eye had begun to darken and the traces of bruising were undoubtedly visible. Both hands were pressed to her cheeks, and he planted a kiss on the rosebud, irresistible mouth between them.

"We can sort this."

His voice was still a little shaky, but Edmund was sure that they could. They could get through this.

"I'll sort it."

She still looked as sour as the day she had tried to bully an auror in his own place of work, but she felt herself softening, her eyes letting up their sharp focus on the key. Part of her had expected a fight, a protest, but he conceded she was right, in his own way, with a mumble that seemed to somehow suit Lou’s defensive stance and stare. It was not, of course, without an opinion-- and she had demanded as much, though the lion in her was ready to roar at it. Even if she knew he was right.

She let out a breath, shaking her head in a way that did not exactly disagree with him, but seemed to be saved for the entire argument. I know, she thought. “They’re in for a change.” Of sorts. “He’s got the contract... she’s doing... whatever at the Ministry.” That would probably be put on hold, of course (or maybe Nolan would get George to do the stay-at-home thing). Unless someone’s parents were willing to watch the kid; Lou thought there was no way George’s mum would see her baby’s baby-- a baby George-- and not melt, but his parents expected him to grow up, even if they would probably help. “I’m glad it’s not--” She stopped, shrugged. She knew he felt the same, but it was strange to talk about. “I couldn’t do it. But it’s their plan.”

And, she added, “If you both keep rising to the challenge, you’re going to get yourselves chucked off the team.” She caught his eye, willing him to understand. Edmund didn’t want to be sacked, she knew. If George lost his job... It was quite the jump, and she wasn’t one to worry about things so far in the future (in fact, she was vaguely shocking herself at how mature and logical she sounded; she was hardly a shining example of young adulthood that parents put on a pedestal), but if it was leverage between the pair of Cannons... “Not to be shocking, but... you need each other, Edmund.” If this was the culmination of seven years at Hogwarts, maybe she had gotten more than just a good handful of N.E.W.T.s to her name. Ha. Wouldn’t her dad be proud? “Neither of you can do it unless the other one is cooperating. Like an adult,” she reiterated.

Her arms were crossed one over the other as he approached. She willed her eyes up, stared back at him plainly, and did not protest the kiss. Her eyes shut with some trace of comfort and she unfolded her arms to settle them at the waist of his trousers. Though she hardly might have believed it under any circumstance, neither from Edmund, nor from George, she took his promise at face value. She had to, for now, or the key would call to her again, and she knew that wasn’t fair or particularly brave. Trusting people was something she was relearning; not running was harder than it seemed for a girl who boasted a healthy ego and brash boldness. Her friends were often friends for life, and she trusted them intuitively, without condition, but putting the world and her anger into perspective was not always easy since her father’s death. She set her head on Edmund’s shoulder and breathed out the stress of their row. The adrenaline of arguing still purred in her chest, but she was calming down, too. He looked sore. “You need a shower,” she murmured, this time not a question, eyeing his muscles, dirty from the pitch. Her fingers came up from his waist to gently brush one of the bruises.

"Well, just make sure you tell him the same thing too," Edmund mumbled, taking a deep breath that bordered on a sigh. "Otherwise you'll have a beaten-up boyfriend every time he comes back from training." The former Ravenclaw smirked despite the dull pain behind one of his eyes. He was sure he'd given George a good few digs in the face but his opponent was more accustomed to brawling and the more savage things in life. Edmund had been brought up to read books, use the correct knife and fork at different servings and speak properly. When it came to manners and charm, Edmund was the self crowned victor.

Tapping his thumb and index finger underneath her chin, Edmund gave her a smile, his eyes exhausted from hours of exercise, fighting and arguing. He was supposed to be in the prime of his youth - but it'd take some strength potion to overcome this sort of fatigue. "I do love you, y'know." He always felt the need to reassure Lou, as if complete affection should be the reason to overlook his fierce stubbornness and argumentative streak. "I really do."

"You need a shower."

He nodded slowly, realising that the smell of sweat would only add insult to injury for Lou and their argument. Putting both hands on her waist, Edmund raised an eyebrow, still eager to make it up to his girlfriend. "I think you need a shower, too."

It was always worth a try.

Things were calming down. And then... Lou looked up at him with sharp, grumpy disapproval. "Make sure you tell him," she corrected. "And don't make jokes so soon." She might as well have poked him or tugged at his sides (if he had been wearing a shirt) to make sure he understood. Her tone was somewhere between stern teacher (not a good look for Emmylou, who was done with academia) and bossy young child. "I'll tell him," she grumbled, forehead pressed to his shoulder. "Once. Then it's on you lot to sort, and don't punch him just because you feel like it." She felt like it, too, sometimes. But a bruised cousin and an equally scraped up boyfriend were hardly good indicators of Lou's genetic good looks or attractive boyfriend. Oh, and it wasn't cool to beat them up.

Betwen there mumbles and grumbles, there were coming-around clings, pouty faces that were less decisive now that they were no longer shouting or threatening to leave or go to bed without so much as a goodnight kiss. "Maybe I should get your sister to talk some sense into you..." Now that they were on decent terms, Lou could use it to her advantage. Maybe. Family loyalties were tricky (she would know).

Looking up at him, she seemed to nod with her gaze, somehow. She knew. It was scary sometimes, but usually it was thrilling. She knew. It was part of why she was still here. "I know," she echoed. "Me, too. I mean, I love you," she clarified. Bold as she was, it was sometimes hard to say, sometimes took a different sort of bravery, even if she always felt it, felt love for him. Tying herself like that, in an adult way, to another person-- confirming that even the dating world wasn't carefree and just for lust and laughs-- was leap from adolescene that was harder than the one that involved no more curfews or rules about drinking on campus (they had no campus). And yet, it kept them thoroughly trenched in teenagedom. "Really, really," she added teasingly, with a small smirk, grabbing a bit of lean muscle between his waist and the small of his back. She smiled straight into a kiss.

Oh, hell, why not? It was more of what she'd had in mind before this silly fight. (And surely they would both need a bit of soap between now and the next one.) "Mmm, maybe." She sounded as if she was trying to decide, could possibly be convinced. Even so, she began to unknot the t-shirt she'd stolen borrowed from his dresser. It loosened around her waist, fell just past her hips in wrinkles as it became its normal, unknotted size again. She moved past him toward the door (not the one in and out of the flat). "But we were supposed to listen to that new album," she added, falsely innocent. It would be there later, or in the morning, or the next evening.

---

Sorry for typos! I will edit when I get back on my other computer.

"I'll do my best, I promise," Edmund lied. Even picturing George's face now made the boy see red. They were both completely idiotic for letting it ruin something like their career, and Edmund faced a double-mistake for letting it affect his relationships and friendships also. Waker was nowhere to be seen these days, and sometimes he felt like Lou's heart existed on his very fingertips, soon to slip away with the slightest movement. Maybe it was time to try shake it all off - no matter how ego-damaging that could be. "But probably best to leave Clarissa out of this. She's... unpredictable." The seething anger quickly transformed into a smirk. The only Klint girl was a complete wildcard, and Lou knew this better than anyone with the advent of her infamous howler.

Hearing his girlfriend mirror his confessions of love made Edmund instinctively fall into her kiss, remembering their first romantic exchange during that detention. He never forgot how infectiously devastating those lips were. They brought him so much joy but the thought of being without made his heart skip a beat. Both hands clutched her waist, fingers grasping a little tighter. Edmund tried to remember such events with the utmost of clarity in case she ever left. There was always that threat.

Seeing her slope off towards the shower made Edmund far less emotional and far more primal, however. She knew exactly how to play the opposite sex, and judging by the former Ravenclaw's blood pressure, she was winning once again. Strange how such a terrible argument could turn into such a delightful make-up. His hands deftly moved to his belt, quickly unbuckling it with the promise of more than her kiss. "The album can wait."

And soon enough, he joined her in the shower, and their argument became a distant memory of something far more memorable.