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Welcome to Charming, the year is now 1893. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.

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Discovered today that spotted dick is a pudding with raisins in it. But more importantly that "dick" was the victorian word for pudding. — Fallin
His sister and her group were not yet performing, however. Instead it was a plain looking young woman that he did not recognize. She seemed to believe she was singing.
My Idea of Fun

learn to itch (where you can scratch)
January 10, 1892 - Quidditch Pitches; Chudley Cannon Practice
@Theodore Gallivan
So maybe Reg missed playing quidditch; it wasn’t like he had the skills to play professionally (nor did he actually want to paid to play, even if the thought had briefly fleeted through his mind when he was floundering for what he was going to do after the auror training failed miserably), but it seemed like after he left school all he was able to do was watch the sport. It helped to itch the scratch he constantly felt to get up a broom and play, but at least he still had the sport in his life in some fashion, if one counted being a sports reporter. Sometimes he was able to get on a broom for an interview or to test out some new product to toss into his story, but those occurrences were far and few in-between.

He was friendly with most of the sponsors because he hung around the quidditch pitches so often, although Anthony coming home and suddenly deciding to sponsor a team rubbed him the wrong way — his own brother hadn’t even thought twice about making him look biased in the quidditch world by deciding to sponsor the bloody Holyhead Harpies. Well. Someone else would write about them because he wouldn’t give Anthony the satisfaction of any sort of publication and only wrote about them when he was explicitly told he had to. (And even then he made sure the piece was as short as he could manage.) Instead Reg set his sights on the Chudley Cannons for multiple reasons: he hadn’t seen Theo in a while and craved his company, and he had a new captain opening.

He perched himself on one of the wooden stands to watch the practice until it was over, his hands rubbing together to keep warm because damn was it cold out today. The players looked cold too, zipping around where the wind was whipping around them, and their faces were red when the finally touched down on the ground. Reg was on his feet as he approached Theo with a slight wave and a grin. “Long time no see.” As if Reg could go an entire couple weeks without wanting to see him. He missed the days where he could just flop down on the other’s bed when he missed him, or find him hiding away in Hogwarts. His eyes were drawn downward and he nodded toward the trunk he had next to him, “And whatcha got there?”

A portable fire, he hoped. Reg shivered and puffs of white floated from his mouth with each word he spoke.

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Theo had known Reg so well for so long that it was difficult to feel any real trepidation when he stopped by on a visit, although he probably should have – he would have if said sports reporter had been anyone else.

But there was some comfort in the fact that Alderton would probably be kind in print – give him the benefit of the doubt; or at least he was more likely to than anyone else, and Theo would take that. Actually, for once Theo would prefer to pretend entirely that this was a social call, and keep him off work as much as possible, professionalism be damned.

In his defence, it was hard to be professional around people he’d been to school with. And in this case he’d shared a dorm with Alderton for seven years: it was near impossible to put on any front of formality there.

Training hadn’t gone terribly today – not their best showing, maybe, but nothing too damning – and after a quick word with the coach, Reg had made it down to the pitch to meet him. “Yeah, feels like years,” Theo quipped, with a quick grin back, watching him shiver.

“Just some new practice equipment,” he explained, nudging the trunk with his toe. Training bludgers, mostly – the sort that were good for a few swings of the bat, but which would explode into a harmless splatter mark, like ink or paint or a snowball, when they came into contact with anything human. They didn’t want to give the mediwizards too much work mending fractures every day. Theo cocked his head at Reg hopefully, wondering if he could entice him to get stuck in and distract him or whether this was supposed to be strictly a question-and-answer kind of day. “You want to see? Or try them out with me?”

Reginald grinned at his friend. If he had it his way he’d live with all of his friends in an estate and be able to see them on a daily basis, society be damned. They could hang out, throw parties and enjoy each other’s company — almost like an adult version of Hogwarts, with classes being replaced with people going to their jobs. Of course alcohol could be thrown in the mix (not that Reg hadn’t been able to get his hands on some at Hogwarts), which would make living together even more fun. Then it wouldn’t feel like it’d been years since he saw Theo last. He missed his friends much more than he missed his own family.

Blinking down at the box, Reg nodded. Training equipment, it was kind of boring, plus he was here on official business but then again… “Of course I want to try them out.” Reg almost bounced up and down, but instead dug his feet into the ground as he beamed at his friend because he lived for playing quidditch; it simply wasn’t something he did often anymore, which sucked. Whatever questions he had for Theo either vacated his head (no one said he was the best reporter in the world) or could be asked once they were done. Reg hadn’t been good enough to be a professional quidditch player, but he didn’t realize that not playing professionally meant not playing at all.

“I tried to entice Anthony onto a broom to just fly around, and he moaned and groaned like he hadn’t spent most of his time at Hogwarts on one.” He rolled his eyes. His brother had been home for all of a few months and he’d done nothing but piss Reginald off. If he didn’t like quidditch anymore, why the hell even bother sponsoring a team? He grit his teeth together as he shook his head before he started to remove his favorite jacket — he didn’t want to get any sort of splatter on it. “I’m rusty, so don’t laugh too hard, okay?”

In the back of his head Reg knew he could spin this into a story if he didn’t get to his question and answer portion of the day.

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Excellent. If Reg was game, then this would be easy – and they could fall back into the ease of old times, the physical fun of house quidditch practices or that early (now tainted for them both) excitement of their auror training drills; Theo wouldn’t have to manufacture his enthusiasm so much if Reg’s rubbed off on him instead.

(And they wouldn’t have to talk about Cash’s retirement.)

Theo cocked his head in interest at Reg’s remark about his brother. That was unexpected, he decided; the elder Alderton, from a distance, always seemed so energetic and affable, the sort who would do anything just for fun, no matter his age or position or status. But maybe Reg and Anthony weren’t getting along so well these days. Hm.

“Aw, but I don’t get to laugh at people’s flying often enough,” Theo quipped, with a wry grin – one, because he only ever watched professionals these days, and two, because laughing at his own team’s mistakes wouldn’t be a very good look for a sponsor. “You’re fine, I wasn’t a beater either,” he reminded Reg, with a shrug that confessed they would probably be well-matched – and what was more, Theo didn’t fly for fun often enough either. Maybe he should start giving that a try again.

He summoned a couple of brooms from the broomshed and opened up the trunk, offering Reg a bat and eyeing the multitude of paint-bludgers. “A bat each, and we’ll see who takes the most hits?” he offered, sure a little friendly competition wouldn’t hurt, even if they were both as terrible as each other. And, at least, “It’ll warm us up, anyway.”

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