19th July, 1894 — Rowle Country Weekend, “The Castle”, Scotland

Philip was agitated. He had been agitated since arriving at the Castle – earlier than the other guests, but with no intention of being social with the wider family. He had no real desire to leave their wing of the castle all weekend, though he doubted he would get away with it. But he had no intention of faking a good mood, either, not when he would be forcibly in the vicinity of his ever-recovering father. (And Robin, of course, which never helped his mood.)

He could tell his wife, on the other hand, had been looking forward to this. (She had been as effusive as she ever was about anything, in her cool imperious way.) So he had held off until they had ‘settled’ into their rooms, and she had suggested going down for tea to greet people when he stepped in her way, locked their doors, and pulled her into the bedroom – to put as many rooms as possible between them and any potential intrusions.

“Alexandra,” he said, as he let her go – sharply, and without any trace of sarcasm. This was too serious to be facetious about; perhaps it was too much of a risk, and he would fast regret it. He had been weighing the idea up for a while, and urgent as the matter had grown, he still wasn’t sure that he trusted his wife enough for this – but he also knew he didn’t trust his siblings, so she would have to do. “I need you to do something for me.”

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Alexandra Rowle/Rosalie Hunniford

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   Alexandra Rowle

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Nothing — not Philip and his dourness, not her children and their rowdy behaviors, not even her sister's inability to attend what was always the highlight of her year — would detract from Alexandra's growing excitement for the annual weekend at the castle. She hadn't forced the subject with Philip beyond the first few times she'd mentioned wanting to visit the family's estate last year, but she'd grown to miss the towers nestled into the Scottish highlands. Sometimes, on the rare instance that she found her social calendar lacking, she even missed her sisters-in-law, a feat that never occurred before Philip's reluctance to return home.

She had dressed carefully for tea, pausing at every step to ensure she looked impeccable. Once she was certain there wasn't a wrinkle or stray piece of lint in sight, she began to reach for the door so they might head down.

Only for Philip to ruin both her mood and her dress by yanking at her so aggressively.

"Philip!" She screeched, yanking her hand out of his grasp to flatten the newly formed creases. Alexandra would've continued to rage at him too, might've even gone as far as to hex him, were it not for the sense of doom that lurked about his face. "Philip," Alexandra repeated, this time her tone completely lacking in anger and entirely full of concern, "what is it?"

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   Philip Rowle

Something about being at the castle had set a nervous thrumming in him from limb to limb. He felt like a child, like he was nineteen again. He – could fake it, he would have to fake it if his siblings could manage to, but he didn’t know how he was going to survive the weekend.

What is it, she asked, and he felt a pall come over his face, a muscle twitching in his jaw in spite of his best efforts to seem calm and impassive. It would not be straightforward to make her agree, he knew, but – he would just have to convince her, somehow.

He moved as close to her as he could without making any move to grab her wrist again, and spoke quietly in her ear, just – in case. “I want you to cast Imperio.” His tone was still perfectly serious. “Now. On me.”

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Are you mad?! She nearly hissed. Alexandra wanted nothing more than to shriek at the indignity of the ask, of the crime he was requesting she commit. There were many times over the course of her life where she had debated the use of the unforgiveable curses (namely crucio and its ability to inflict immediate pain on someone) but never once had she come near actually casting it. (Not only did she not come near casting any of the unforgiveables, she wouldn't have even known how to cast them!)

The only reason she remained by his side instead of screeching like a banshee with her demands and questions was how serious Philip seemed. There were countless changes in him from the events of this last year — some subtle and some most definitely not — but he was rarely stern or demanding like this. So, rather than cause a scene, Alexandra took a steeling breath, met his stare with a glare of her own, and demanded in a low whisper, "why?

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For someone who was evidently battling no small amount of disbelief or outrage, she held herself in check exceptionally well. Philip almost wanted to crack a smile at her own self-control. What a strange pair they made – someone with supernatural self-possession, that rigid control of her own impulses, beside someone with absolutely none.

Was that something his father had seen and admired in her, whilst he had been wielding Philip’s will for him? The thought made him feel a little sick – but it had hardened his resolve to this experiment.

Although he wasn’t interested in explaining it. “Because I asked you to,” Philip answered first. Somewhere in him, he wished that could be reason enough for her to heed him – but there was no love lost between them, and although he had not asked her for anything before, he wasn’t sure a plea held any power for her. So he doubled down, brandished his uncommon seriousness as a threat. “Because if you don’t, then I’ll cast it on you instead,” he continued, unflinching. “Just put me under it. Just for a minute. Make me do something. Anything. And then stop.”

He wanted to know if he could fight it. And – if he was going to be here, in close quarters with his family and his father – he needed to remember, vividly, how it felt.

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Nothing — short of saving him from committing some horrible atrocity that would destroy their children's futures perhaps — would have guided her to cast an imperio on him before the shift. Even now, as he stood there threatening her with the loss of her own control, she still had her doubts about this. There was a reason the spell was an unforgiveable one, and she didn't have the time to go to the library and research what possible effects might happen were the spell to go awry. He would possibly under her control, sure, but to what end? How did she end it? What if she couldn't end it?

"Philip..." Alexandra warned as she took a half step back and (hopefully) subtly unlatched the inner pocket of her sleeve where her wand was stored. She was no duelist, and she certainly wouldn't stand a chance against him, but what other option did she have if he meant to impair her like this? "Give me a reason - a valid one, not a threat - and I might. You will have to show me how to, too. I never learned." It was a risk to continue to negotiate rather than flee. Perhaps if she began to scream one of the maids might still hear her. Something - anything - to prevent her husband from enacting whatever plans he had in mind.

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“How about neither of us will leave this room until you do?” Not a threat, she said, but he could see how keen she was about enjoying this weekend: she would probably be more afraid of that than of any illegal curses.

But she hadn’t said no. Philip latched onto that sliver of hope, and forced himself back to calmness. “It’s as easy as Stupefy.” He had researched the Unforgiveables more intently than he had researched anything since the waking, no matter the committee he ran. So even if she cast it, Philip doubted it would be as strong or as convincing a spell as his father’s had been; even if she could not end it, he felt certain it would wear off just as rapidly, if there was no will behind it. The Unforgiveables required conviction above all else.

“Alexandra,” he said, still gravely quiet, as close as he had ever come to begging. “All you have to do is point your wand at me and say Imperio.”

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Casting the spell may have been as easy as Stupefy, but Alexandra had enough knowledge to know one had to have a strong sense of conviction to cast an unforgiveable curse. Regardless of her qualms against it or her ineptitude in casting it, she had to believe it to be her will. She had to mean it.

Could she mean it?

"The wand motion. Show it to me." She answered lowly after a long stretch of silence.

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The silence might have lasted years, but Philip had waited steadily through it, trying to read any flicker of a thought or a decision cross her face. Patience was hard enough; but when she finally spoke again, he swallowed.

It suddenly felt very close. He jerked his head in some attempt at a nod, and stepped over to help slide her wand out from her sleeve pocket. He took her wand, tucked it into her palm and waited for her to curl her hand around it. Gentle, Philip rested his hand under her wrist and raised her hand, slowly tracing out the wand movement with her once, twice, again. It was simple enough.

Satisfied, he took a few deliberate paces back to find some space and nodded again at her, poised there to meet the spell. He had no idea what she would have him do, but he was having trouble thinking about it now – his pulse, thunderous in his chest, was drowning everything else out.

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It seemed impossible that such an evil spell could be cast with a simple flick of her wand. Alexandra had always envisioned the unforgiveable curses as these elaborate and intentional decisions. However, as Philip gently and soundlessly guided her through the motions, she realized it was impulse that drove these dark spells. Impulse and fear and the desperate power to control.

Her wand arm remained lowered for another long stretch even after Philip took his stance across from her. Her casting needed to be impulsive but intentional, fearful but powerful. She loosed a steadying breath, raised a brow as if to ask are you sure? and, when given the confirmation, Alexandra aimed her wand and purposely attempted to Imperio her husband.

It took a second for her to register that the spell worked, that that all too familiar distant look in his eyes had returned. (Later, she would have to process what that meant later.) Her heart pounded in her ears even as she commanded him to first kneel, then bow his head down to the floor in submission.

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   Philip Rowle

It was worse, knowing what was coming. He hadn’t known how viscerally he remembered that last inexplicable moment until she had lifted her wand at him: his father, sat across from him at his desk, disappointed and resigned. Is that all? Algernon Rowle had asked, and then picked up his wand.

He had forgotten the feeling, though: like he lived in clouds and sunlight, like his limbs were made of air. Every other desire had slid from his body at once. He looked at Alexandra, devoid of any enmity. She was beautiful. He trusted her. There was something calming about her brown eyes. He could have been content to stand there and look at her forever.

But she wanted him to kneel. He dropped promptly to his knees. His hands and his forehead found the floor. (But why? Why was he on the floor?) The command was like iron in his mind, kneel: it was as though gravity had altered, and he was pinned down. (Did he want to be?) Philip – in spite of his better judgement – tried to lift his head, and could have cried out at the ache of it, because his head was too heavy to move. And suddenly getting dizzy, the harder he tried –

The spell lifted, and the world came rushing back as fast as the blood had gone to his head. Philip’s limbs felt heavy, and although he meant to push himself up (to assert his freedom), he made it to one knee before collapsing to the floor again. The dread flooded back in, late; fear and fury mingled with relief. He heard himself panting. His arms felt shaky. “Yes,” he breathed anyway, because this was good, this was what he wanted, it was as bad as he’d remembered. “Again.”

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   Alexandra Rowle

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The once was enough for Alexandra. For all her complaints about his changes this past year, she hadn't missed that glazed, empty look in his eyes. Not truly. Not enough to cast that spell again and have him kiss the soles of her shoes. Alexandra would have been content to never again experience her husband's expressive facial features slipping into that neutral, distant one he'd worn for so long.

(Later, she reminded herself again as she stared in shock at his collapsed form, she would consider the implications of this later.)

"They are expecting us downstairs." Alexandra reminded him as she knelt besides him, crumpling her skirts without a second thought. "We don't have time for this."

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He had intended to argue with her – but fighting the imperius curse for even a minute had sapped him of all his will now. Dizzy, delirious, he pushed off the floor and slumped against her instead, half-sitting, half-lying in her lap. We don’t have time, she had said, but Philip was only half-listening. It had to sink in again first, before he could fathom anything else. But Alexandra was real. She was the only real thing he had.

He shut his eyes, still reliving that sudden surge of contentment forcibly stripped away again. “Later, then.” His voice sounded hoarse and faraway, reality still knitting itself back together into this harsher version of the world. Philip was sure he looked as wild as he felt. “But you have to do it again. I need to keep remembering. I need to be able to fight it.” He didn’t know how possible that was. But he had to have something, to do something, if he was going to be able to face his father again.

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   Alexandra Rowle

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Her hands were shaking even as she instinctively moved to brush them through his hair, much like she'd once done for their children when they were small. Despite her intention to dwell upon this later, the pieces were all clicking into place. The feral energy now radiating off him again, the necessity of casting imperio now, his refusal to have come here at any other point this past year. Philip was afraid, more afraid than she'd ever seen him, because someone had already stolen his control once before.

Someone currently downstairs, someone they'd now have to go face.

Alexandra was bursting with questions even as she guided him back into a seated position, her hands warm on his face. "We will make a plan later, after dinner. You will explain this to me and I will help you." She would help him because he was her husband, because her duty was to him first and foremost. Then, with an almost deadly calm she added, "I will not lose you to it again."

That he'd likely already been lost before they met wasn't something Alexandra allowed herself to consider for more than a heartbeat at present.

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   Philip Rowle

Nothing had ever felt so good – not the false peace of being under the curse – as the simple feeling of her hands in his hair. Tenderness, he could call it; Philip could not remember ever experiencing tenderness, not during the curse, and not before. He and his siblings may as well have been hewn out of rock like the castle in which they had grown up. He felt it more here than anywhere. He wished he could burn it to the ground.

Alexandra’s hands were warm. He looked at her as she spoke, letting the numbness ebb away from him. His throat felt dry, although he hadn’t spoken; he swallowed and it didn’t help. There was – no way he was going to be able to satisfy her with an explanation. He didn’t know if he could properly put it into words. He had told her enough this way, hadn’t he? She understood. He felt as though she understood, because her last sentence felt like an oath. He nodded at her, and put his hand briefly to the side of her face in turn, fingers grazing from her hair to her chin.

He wanted to say – thank you or I think I could love you or something honest to her – but he felt too exhausted of vulnerability already. Instead, he rasped: “I can’t trust – any of them.” His father might be the devil, but he didn’t trust any of his siblings or their spouses not to sell him out to save themselves. But Alexandra was different. She had to be.

They would go down for dinner, and take it from there.

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