Though George didn’t realize the science behind it, the high pressure gave way to dry weather and less clouds. The sunshine was blinding as he weaved his broom between the goals, one hand up to shield his eyes while watching the chasers. He needed to keep his attention on all the players, yes, but as he was the person to stop Quaffles only... he needed most of his attention on the chasers.

The seekers could get in your way while they were dilly-daddling looking for the snitch, and the beaters often hit the bludgers in any direction, as long as it was away from them. His gloves creaked as he gripped his cared for broom, freshly oiled the night before. They were coming back. Grinning, George dropped his hand from his face and let it rest on his thigh, casually moving himself back and forth amongst the three goals. This was his job.

There had been a small break between games for the camps and international friendly matches. It was amazing to see how much he had improved in less than a year, and how much he still had to learn. He had been offered another season with the Cannons, as well as first string Keeper for the Appleby Arrows; since he knew the coach and his team, he chose to stick with the Cannons. Maybe by the following year, he would be picked up for the British National Team.

The opposing Chasers came at him, passing the quaffle back and forth before one tried to curve it towards the middle goal. George barrel rolled down and out, catching it, allowing himself to continue to roll out of the tailspin he had started. Once his brain felt like it was back on track, he shook his head out and grinned, quaffle in hand. Glancing around, he motioned for Devereaux, still feeling a little lightheaded as he lifted the quaffle up above his head with both hands.

Perhaps it was his arms in the way, the spin that disoriented him, or the sun in his eyes. No matter what it was, when he went to let the quaffle fly, George did not see the bludger coming his way until the sound of movement came close. He turned his head, arm lifting to try and protect it, when the bludger knocked solidly into his ribs. A breath escaped him as he lost his grip, having been knocked off his balance by the ball. Fingertips fought to try and grasp the broom as he slid over, but to no avail.

George plummeted down and away from his broom, still unable to draw in a breath as he fought to keep conscious. The roar of the stadium couldn’t match the deafening sound of air as the ground rushed up to meet him. They say your life flashes before your eyes when something catastrophic happens - George would call bull on that. All he could see was the sky, the colors it was tinted; a fiery blood orange fading into the blue above. All he could feel was pain and terror, before it all went blissfully black.

---

It was a dry day in the Falcons’ stadium, where Waker was standing for the first time. The stands were packed with people enjoying the start of a new, warmer season and the peak of the quidditch season. The game in question had been going on for hours: and not just football hours, but hours and hours and hours. Waker loved to watch George play, even if the idea of doing all of that on a broom made her nervous. On the pitch, he was the same daunting, cheeky keeper she’d fallen in love with, except magnified somehow. Maybe because keeping. Or because he was fifty meters in the sky on a tiny piece of wood.
A passion for watching George aside, Waker hoped for all of their sakes that they they would get to sit down to a warm dinner together soon— and celebrate a win.

She had been there all day with Amelia (who stuffed into a bonnet, swaddled warmly, and shaded by an umbrella charmed to hover overhead) and Emmylou (who was none of those things, and even louder than the baby could be on her most impressively sleepless nights). George’s cousin had made so many rowdy comments that Waker was convinced that the Carter girl could have recorded it and had enough material to publish a book. Emmylou had no qualms with telling the enemy side exactly what she thought, even if they were far too busy and far away to hear her. The chorus of fans below them were of similar mind.

If the players couldn’t hear Emmylou, they could hear the collective crowd just fine, their steady, guttural roar.

Waker’s reactions to dizzying moves, lightning-fast goals, and penalties were more fidgety, but even she sometimes let her guard down and cheered, or even shouted at players who tried to hit the Cannons with bludgers or steal the quaffle. The crowd was contagious in the same way George was. When her keeper made a particularly impressive save (which was every save, to Waker), she broke into a big-cheeked smile and bounced Amelia with a little hum of cheer, her wand going into the air and letting out harmless orange sparks.

Amelia was slumped comfortably into Waker’s chest, on the verge of sleep despite the loudness. Waker had just taken a break to feed her, and to have a snack herself (with Emmylou insisting they get chips with cheese, among other, slightly healthier things). Now the Nolan girl was pointedly ignoring George’s cousin’s sales pitch for drinks. Not the Amelia kind of drink, but the sway-in-the-stands-with-the-body-painted-quidditch-superfans kind.

“I’m trying to watch,” she said, finally, logically, and though she wasn’t looking at Emily, she knew the other young woman was rolling her eyes.

“Tell your mum to lighten up,” was the response.

Amelia had the cleverness to ignore her ‘aunt.’

Waker really hoped they would catch the snitch soon.

She looked down to make sure the baby wasn’t exposed to the sun after the last round of cheering, and when she looked back up, a bludger was flying at George. It was mere meters away, inches now, impacting… and before she could blink, she saw him spin and fall.

He was on the ground before she could finish screaming, the first scream of several.

Waker almost dropped Amelia as her stomach plummeted.

Emmylou, despite her superior knowledge of the game, looked puzzled and then pained, and then grabbed her, steadying Waker before she could faint or tumble into the people in front of them, or hurt Amelia. She helped take the baby from Waker wordlessly, had a good hold on her even before Waker could ask.

And then she was weaving around people, slightly gangly and awkward, but numb to the awkwardness, to the head’s turning in her direction as they tore reluctantly from the scene on the field. Emmylou trailed behind, power-walking with Amelia in arms, looking ready to barrel over people like a troll if they got in her way.

Waker ran down several flights of stairs from their seats up in the stands. Before she could set foot on the field, however, she was stopped by security, huge figures in Dept. of Magical Games and Sports emblemed robes.

Usually one to try polite reasoning before anything else, Waker was beyond that. She tried to dodge them before one reached out and grabbed her by the waist. She was still trying to run, half-shouting at him, half-shouting for George. Her wand was brandished in her hand, but she panicked and trying see through welling eyes.

One of the coaches for the Cannons recognized her, and waved and shouted for the man to let her through. He let go slowly, saying nothing, and Waker frantically ran toward the swarm of people under the goal posts. The other two were still somewhere behind her, and any and all of Emmylou's shouts were drowned by the buzz of the crowd. Waker didn’t look back, trusted that Amelia, who had been close to the ground throughout the game, was just fine. It was George she needed to see, George was terrified to see.

At Figaro's home in London...

Figaro had the wireless set up in his room and he was reading magazines and munching on crackers and peanut butter with the Quidditch game on in the background.  The Falcons were playing Chudley.  Figaro was an enourmous Falcon's fan, but he actually knew a player with Chudley - George Carter.  It was rather amusing to Fig to listen to the Cannons get wholloped by the Falcons...

"And Weidman has a straight line to Carter and delivers a slamming overhand bludger hit at the Chudley Chaser."  Normally the announcer would then describe the collision of ball and broom with the same tone of excitement and detail as the rest of the match, but this time the announcer broke decorum.

"OH! My word! I don't think Carter saw that coming! Right in the ribs and he's on the pitch.  Enormous fall.  Play's continuing above and there are Healers and other benched Chudley's streaming out to meet him..."

Figaro leaped from his bed in confused excitement.  He appreciated a brutal take down like anyone else, but it was Wiedman clobbering George!

"The referree has halted play - Carter isn't stirring and it's clear to me even from up here that he's unconscious."

"Holy -!"

"What! What!"  Figaro's little brother Frank ran into the room, having clearly been outside his shut door listening.  "What?!"

Figaro usually kicked the little kid out, but he was too worked up.  "I went to school with him.  Weidman's murdered him! George Carter."

"Who?"

"Carter! On Chudley.  I know him.  He's out cold."

Frank scampered all the way in and he and Figaro huddled over the wireless as if being closer would allow them to better hear the macabre scene unfold.

It was one of those times when adrenaline had got the better of him, and threw it out the window.  Hours and hours on Pitch could do that to a body - to a body that ached and was familiar with aching, to a body that always wanted to be in catharsis, to Dominik's body, that liked so much to be pushed against the limit, and past.

All he wanted was a goal, to be closer to the end of this match and to the end of his last season of Quidditch.  He would play hard, do it all in a blaze of glory and bloodshed that had come to be tied to his name - holding fast to his gruesome Beater's reputation till the very end, when he could finally lay down his bat and call it a day.  He had made this promise to Liadán.

Dominik angled himself to support the Chasers headed this way, attention divided between them, Carter, and his nearest mark. 

Forrester was on point, curving the Quaffle towards the middle goalpost and it was headed there fast.  Dominik knew better than to leave it at that, though; Carter was quick and moved to intercept, spinning in his momentum. 

He had a clear trajectory but getting to the bludger took time, time enough for George to emerge victorious with the red ball above his head, calling to Devereux.  It didn't matter the goal was already shot.  Dominik cracked the bludger hard at the perfect target created by Carter's victory reach - aiming toward his center and putting his full body weight and a good deal of momentum into the overhand swing.  With so little time between, the sound of the bludger against his bat was obscured by a deafening roar from the Chudley crowd. 

And instantly their roar transfigured into a wail.  A deafening wail of horror, over what Dominik had just gone and done.  On impact, he must've had the wind blown out of him.  Dominik pulled up and zipped around the goal posts, watching Carter fall. 

There was no whistle and play continued.  A reserve Keeper came up from below, where a crowd was forming around a clearly unconscious Carter.  Dominik felt a lurching in his stomach, a sudden onset of nausea, and he wanted off his broom.  But it wasn't won, yet.  And the insane Falcons fans chanted his name from the stands of their own stadium, stomping in tandem. 

It was the strangest feeling in the world.  Dom could only hope he hadn't killed the man, as he did as his coach would have wanted and pleased the crowd, flying in close to the stadium stands in a show of pride.