A/N: Hello there, readers! This is just a short note to warn you that there is a bit of language in this chapter. I don't include any of the specifics of what George said to Malfoy (though it's fun to imagine what George cussing him out might have entailed) but I do include a bit of language anyway, so please forgive me! I try to keep this story as clean as possible while still being somewhat realistic. Angry George Weasley, though, means a bit of language.

I hope you've all had fun with these updates today! I look forward to hearing your thoughts, about this chapter especially. Without any further ado, I present to you the third chapter of the day! Fear not, there is hope yet for Gryffindor Quidditch!

GEORGE:

It was late, and I was the only one in my dorm still awake. My mind was racing. I let it race. I was burning. Alicia had worried I was sick with how flushed my face had been for the hours after the match, but it was just the white-hot fury still coursing through my veins.

Obviously, nothing about today was fair.

Really, the unfairness had started a long time ago. What happened that day was really just a culmination of unfair moments, building and building and building until I just couldn't take it anymore. Trying to get to the root of it all was giving me a headache.

The stab at Harry's mum was unfair. So was the stab at my mum, and Dad. Not to mention all of the stabs at Ron, because, yeah, Fred and I teased him relentlessly, but we loved him and (almost) always stopped before it went too far and actually hurt his feelings. Draco had no such reservations, and, as such, went way, way, way too far.

But really, the unfairness of the ferret boy started sooner than that. It was unfair that he was allowed to have so much power over everything and everyone, prick that he was. His father too, for that matter, I realized with a rush, recalling that day in the bookstore all those years ago where Dad and Lucius Malfoy got into a scuffle not unlike the one I'd gotten into just hours ago.

Harry, too. I'd always liked the kid, but there was something about the way we charged him down together, beat him to a pulp together, that bonded us. Neither of us would soon forget that moment, for a lot of reasons. I wished Fred had been allowed to jump in, too, but Fred was Fred. He'd find a chance one day and seize it around the neck. And by "it," I meant Malfoy.

Everything had happened so fast, yet I remembered a lot of details fairly clearly. I had seen Harry snap. I had seen the fire in his eyes as he dropped my arm and hurtled toward Malfoy. I had been angry, furious even, but Harry was a force. I was cussing Malfoy out more so than I was throwing punches, as if I were trying to compensate for Fred since he was generally the mouthier of the two of us, but Harry was silent, and his silence was probably even more terrifying for Malfoy. Harry was a force, his rage somehow both calculated and feral, cold and fierce. The unfairness of that day didn't start that day. I wasn't sure where the unfairness at the hands of Draco Malfoy had started for Harry, but I knew it was far from over. I made a mental note to remind him in the morning to watch his back when Malfoy was around.

With Umbridge and Snape both in his pocket, Malfoy could get away with just about anything, I reckon.

Umbridge. Umbitch. The Pink Venomous Tentacula. It was something of an honor to have become tangled within her thorns at last, despite the obvious wound of having Quidditch stripped away from me so violently, so permanently, so suddenly. That would leave a scar, but that's really where I found the honor. I had always found a sort of honor in scars right along with the pain they carried, a solemn tribute to the battles survived, a nod to the life lived anyway. Harry's scar, for instance, was a big deal, it always had been and always would be, both to him and to the world as we knew it. Lucy's scars, too, from the small one beneath her eye from the caves over summer to the scars from that night in the Forbidden Forest four years ago to the scar I knew must exist somewhere from the night she was bitten. In a sense, there was even something to be said for the matching scars on their hands. While they were horrible, obviously, and should never have existed in the first place, that night was when Lucy finally told Harry everything.

So yeah, life without Quidditch would be different. Horrible for a while, most likely. Merlin only knew what Mum would say when she found out. I optimistically hoped she wouldn't bite our heads off before we could explain. McGonagall had said she didn't want to risk the owl being followed to London, so she sent it to the Burrow, so we weren't quite sure if or when she would find out. But Merlin only knew what Professor McGonagall had included in that letter, too, so there were a couple of unknowns.

There were three things I knew that night. Life was unfair, Harry and Fred and I had all tried to fight against that unfairness, and we were met with even more unfairness. But in all of that, I don't think we would have done anything differently. We might have waited a bit, to beat Malfoy to a bloody pulp a bit more privately and with less risk of serious (thankfully not Sirius, we weren't in Azkaban — yet) consequence, but I didn't regret what I had done, and I doubted the others did either.

Oh, and there's something else I know: the Quidditch team is in trouble.

I didn't regret what I had done for my sake, but bloody hell did I feel awful for Angelina, and the others still on the team. She was with Fred in the bed next to me, having fallen asleep crying into his chest. Fred fell asleep not two minutes after she did, but I was still awake. My racing mind was beginning to slow, though, as the day began to take its toll, so I turned my back to the sleeping couple and buried my head in my pillow before releasing a decent amount of my inner turmoil into a muffled sigh.

I closed my eyes and waited for sleep, a couple of prominent details of the day swirling in my mind.

Harry's right fist disappearing into Malfoy's stomach. My right fist colliding with Malfoy's temple. Harry's left fist connecting with Malfoy's cheek. My left fist catching Malfoy's chin. Harry was a force. I was on fire. Malfoy didn't stand a chance, really, though he did manage to bust my lip. Another scar, though I was less proud of this one. Little ferret bastard. I would be forever upset I hadn't gotten to see that glorious ferret transfiguration moment with my own two eyes, but a Ravenclaw friend of Alicia's had seen it and had a Pensieve, so I had at least gotten to see her memory.

I made a mental note to learn that ferret spell as soon as possible, seeing as I probably couldn't get away with Ducklifors again. Maybe the real Moody would be able to teach me over holiday.

My mind wandered to holiday. It would be nice to have everyone at Grimmauld Place again, with Lucy hopefully feeling a bit better this time around. It was possible, probable, maybe even certain that she wouldn't, seeing as it would be her first Christmas without Cedric, but hey, I had a lot of brothers that I was willing to share. I would be willing to share Ginny, too, since she had always gotten along really well with Lucy, even better than Hermione got along with Lucy sometimes.

I froze. Lucy and Ginny. Ginny and Lucy.

I shot up and launched myself at Fred and Angelina, shaking my twin's shoulder roughly.

Fred stirred first. "What? What is it?"

"I've had an idea. For the team."

"What is it?" Angelina asked, suddenly wide awake.

I grinned, really grinned, for the first time all day. "You need Beaters, don't you, Angie?"

"Only I can call her that," Fred mumbled in protest, rubbing his eyes.

"Shut up," Angelina snapped, swatting him and sitting up to see me better. "Yes, obviously I need Beaters."

"Two Beaters?"

"Yes, obviously, two Beaters."

"I happen to know just the duo."

"Oh, cut the theatrics, Weasley," she huffed. "Who are you thinking?"

"Lucy and Ginny."

Fred shot up in bed. Angelina's eyes widened. Neither spoke.

I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my eyebrows, tilting my head as my grin widened. "So? What do you think?"

Angelina blinked. Blinked again. Grinned. "Oh, George Weasley, you are brilliant! Yes! They'd be perfect!" Her smile faltered. "I'll have a hell of a time convincing, Lucy, though, you should have heard her when I asked if she'd be reserve again. The look on her face..."

"We can help, darling," Fred murmured in her ear, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her down into bed beside him. "Well done, Georgie, but good night."

Angelina smiled at me one more time before closing her eyes and snuggling back up against Fred. I almost crawled back under my covers, but I didn't. I couldn't. I was on fire again, for a different reason this time. So instead, I grabbed parchment and a quill from my trunk, pulled the curtains shut, lit my wand, and gnawed on my quill as I contemplated what to write. I pressed the quill to the parchment after a moment, writing The Mischief Managers' Guide to Playing Beater.

Right off the bat (Get it?) there are a couple of basics you should keep in mind:

1. Never back down from a fight, even when shit hits the fan. Especially then.

It was time to pass the torch. Might as well pass it in style, I reckoned.

I would check the title and step one with Fred in the morning, but for tonight, it was enough. Umbridge might have tried to douse the fire, and she might have stopped it from spreading at least in terms of the Quidditch Pitch, but if she thought the firefight would end there, she was dead wrong. I had matches in my back pocket, and even if I couldn't strike them myself, I'd pass them onto people who could. Starting, I hoped, with Lucy and Ginny, force and fire in their own ways.