18th November, 1893 — Pre-Match Drinks, Sponsor’s Box, Falmouth Quidditch Pitch

He had left Alexandra in charge of most of the invitations, as if it were old times. (Philip presumed that was like old times, because she had seemed to know what she was doing and he didn’t have any opinions on their general circles of acquaintance as far as he could recall them.) It wasn’t quite like old times, because today they had invited anyone and everyone along to Cornwall to watch the match against the Ballycastle Bats.

Naturally, Philip was bluffing his way through this almost as much as he did at the Ministry on a regular basis, because (on top of everything else) it had also been twenty-four years since he’d kept up with the quidditch league – but at least he had already made a better showing of a keen student here. Besides quidditch being a thousand times more entertaining to him than the research committee, it felt like rebellion and vengeance in a way that his siblings really couldn’t complain about when it came to it, when Philip’s alternative suggestions had been sniffed at. (Never mind that he had already developed an unhealthy habit of picturing his father’s skull every time there came the crack of bludger against a bat in the team’s training sessions.)

He was aware this might all be rather childish of him. Somehow that made it all the more enjoyable.

There were still about twenty minutes before the match was set to start – and Philip suspected his team would lose, but they were not the sort to go down without a fight, and it was still early in his tenure, so he could not be blamed for it – and he had sauntered towards the front of the box with champagne in hand, overlooking the still-empty pitch with a vague thrill of impatience.

There was someone beside him to whom he didn’t think he’d spoken yet today.

“Would you like a falcon?” Philip asked them, offhand, sparing them a brief sidelong glance to see whether they were interested or not.

“They came with the team,” he explained, “but I’ve got a few more than I need.” Thirty-seven more falcons than he needed, to be precise. One was a mascot, but thirty-eight was probably in the region of too many.

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open to anyone who could possibly have been invited! UC/MC society types, quidditch-adjacent, Ministry acquaintances, friends of the fam, whatever you can swing!

  

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One of the things that had found Lionel befriending Philip Rowle in their Hogwarts days was that the man was from a prestigious and wealthy family. Another had been that he had always been so entertaining, entertainment which had made Lionel look better in comparison. But then they had all grown up and Philip had become, well, dull. Even so, Lionel had kept up a friendship over the years, seeing no reason not to.

Lionel had settled into his seat to wait for the game to begin. Something seemed off about Philip but Lionel did not care enough to probe deeper. It was not like he was informed of the mans home life.

He rose an eyebrow as his friend offered him a falcon. What even. "I am not sure my wife would appreciate a falcon but I would not mind taking one off your hands." He could train it to send letters or something.

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Ah, Lupin. He had known Lupin a long time. Which was precisely why he had done so well to avoid him thus far today, because after Hogwarts he could recall very little. They were both in the Ministry. Lupin had – run for Minister recently, in fact. The marriage was also recent. Philip had done a little research... but what one could find in the papers was not always helpful at reconstructing past decades of apparent friendship.

To fresh starts, then, Philip thought to himself, sardonic, as he took another sip of his drink – fresh starts and falcons. Was he supposed to know anything about Lupin’s wife? (He hoped not. After all, he scarcely knew his own.) He laughed at that remark, in any case, and offered him a smirk. “Take two, why don’t you,” he suggested (glib, but sincere). “One for you and one for her. How could she say no to such a thoughtful husband?” (He suspected this was not the reason Mrs. Lupin wouldn’t appreciate the bird, but who knew.)

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"Perhaps I might," Lionel said, accepting this offer. He didn't know if Cecilia would appreciate a falcon but they were rather lovely. He would put them through retraining just to be sure before gifting one to her. After all, he was very fond of her and wouldn't want to see her hurt by what was meant to be a gift.

"What possessed you to take on the Falmouth Falcons, if you do not mind my curiosity?" Lionel asked. They had not really spoken about Quidditch in like a decade despite both having been on their respective house teams and even serving as Quidditch Captains. And now Rowle was sponsoring the Falcons. With their propensity for violence, he would have easily believed it of the Philip Rowle he had known in their school days but not so much the adult that Philip Rowle had morphed into somewhere along the line.

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"I confess, I was rather wondering that myself," Madoc offered as he joined the pair, a freshly topped-off glass in hand.

A barrier. That was how he had long seen Philip Rowle—a barrier to the pursuit of knowledge. The Research Committee was a tool of the Ministry of Magic, not of actual research, best skirted around when they couldn't be Managed, as far as Madoc Yarwood was concerned. Still, the two had long had some circles vaguely in common (as gentlemen often did), and had been enough in one another's orbit that when an invitation to the match had come in, well, Madoc was comfortable enough accpeting.

Not to mention the fact that the Rowle he had observed over the years had seemingly tired of being a massive stick in the mud (or something else that rhymed with "stick") in recent months, something that Madoc found fascinating, in a scientific sort of way. The predictable, after all, was tedious.

"I never really thought of quidditch as a late-in-life passion—and I daresay without passion, any sort of investment is bound to be lacklustre at best."

  

And here came the questions. Philip recognised Yarwood, of the dragons (though he certainly wouldn’t have, if there had not been so much timely uproar about dragons in the last few months). What he didn’t know was if they were, or had even been, friends. They must have been at Hogwarts together, but...

No matter. Both of the men thought him possessed. A late-in-life passion? “An old one, in fact – dormant, you could say,” Philip said, with a slight smirk. “A last vestige of my errant youth.” He fancied that if he could get away with this to anyone’s eyes, it was to the crowd who might actually remember him in his youth. “Forty-three is murder,” he confessed, in a lower, joking tone, as if to warn the pair of them of their approaching birthdays, of the tiresome dangers of middle age. “One has to do something a little drastic to survive it.”

(And if that couldn’t directly be murder, then...)

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   Aldous Crouch

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"I do remember some of those days. Both you and Yarwood were on the team together and faced off against my house of Gryffindor. Were those days really so very long ago to be called old and dormant?" Lionel asked with amusement. As it was, he supposed Rowle must have taken stock of his life and decided to return to an old love. He could understand that. After all, he too had loved quidditch but been made to put it away in adulthood.

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((ooc: fun fact: Madoc and Philip were on the team together from 1866-1869 and Philip was Madocs captain for that final year. Lionel was on Gryffindors team during that same period of time (1865-1870) xD we have a trio of men that all played school quidditch for overlapping years <3))

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   Aldous Crouch, Philip Rowle

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"They are if 43 is to be considered old—why, I feel positively sprightly in comparison, now," Madoc chuckled in response.

It was true, he realized—he and Rowle had played together back in their youth. That seemed like a lifetime ago, really, with all that had transpired in the intervening years. He was impressed that Lupin recalled as much but then, it was the other wizard's job to have a keen mind for details.

"If you'd like some real excitement, perhaps a little hunting party in spring. Ride out, shoot a stag, sight some dragons from a respectable and non-lethal distance, you know, as one does."

  

Ah, hell – Lupin remembered things too well. Given Lupin had also apparently remained his friend through the curse years (in so far as Other Philip had had any passionate attachments to people) this was probably someone he could stand to be more careful around.

Unfortunately Philip was not in the mood to be careful. So he leaned back in his seat and grinned in a way Other Philip never would have. A hunting party? “I’m game – count me in. Eh, Lupin?” He didn’t know if invitations such as these had been forthcoming or readily accepted, before. But with twenty-four years of lost rage to process, he wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to shoot things now.

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   Madoc Yarwood

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Lionel chuckled in response to Yarwoods poke at Rowles age. He listened with idle and then more invested interest as Yarwood continued to speak. It had been a couple months since the Dragons debacle so catching sight of them was not something he was keen on. The rest of it, though... He was quite into it.

Rowle was not acting like himself which Lionel noted and filed away into the back of his mind. "Oh hell, I'm in as well. It will be something interesting to tell my wife about at the dinner table." He was truly fond of his young wife but he was not deluded to think they had many truly interesting things that they conversed about.

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   Madoc Yarwood

Madoc beamed. He did not expect anyone—well, outside the Glen at least—to share his fascination-bordering-on-obsession with dragons, but he did enjoy showing off his home and the creatures that inhabited it.

(The fact that the land technically belonged to his sister was an unnecessary and cumbersome detail.)

"I shall make the arrangements delightedly—though if your wives wished for a forray into the wilds, such as it is, themselves, I am sure Mrs. Yarwood would be delighted to play hostess."

Madoc was sure of no such thing. Indeed, his wife cared little for the Glen, venturing to Wales only when social custom dictated. Still, it would be rude not to at least extend the offer for such a multi-day endeavour, and it would hardly be more work for him if the wives were in attendance.

  

Privately, Philip thought Alexandra would be perfectly at home in a dragon’s den – but she would not thank him to say that aloud. And, to be quite honest, she had been less-than-amused by the purchase of Falmouth’s team to begin with, so every move he made these days was a plague on her patience.

Still. “Oh, why not,” Philip said carelessly, shooting a swift glance over his shoulder to see where she was hovering in the box, probably stiff with indignation. “She could use a trip to the wilds.” She would probably not be grateful for the invitation – so he was happy to subject her to it.

With new friends, or old friends – what did it matter, what he had been like before? People were allowed to change.

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A nod. Madoc wasn't altogether certain that the wilds, even the tepid version of it experienced in country houses, would necessarily be Mrs. Rowle's cup of tea, but if not, she would find good company in his own wife.

"And Mrs. Lupin?" he asked the would-have-been Minister of Magic.

  

Lionel was more than content to let the Yarwoods arrange for a visit. He didn't know how his own young wife might feel about the wilds but Cecelia had proven early on to be willing to attend things if Lionel needed her to. He would have to buy her something extra sparkly to make up for it if she proved to find this outing distasteful.

"Mrs. Lupin will likely find it beneficial to find herself in the company of your wives," Lionel said to show his approval on her behalf. At the very least, it would only be a boon for his wife to be more acquainted with the wives of those he deemed friendly acquaintances.

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Philip resisted the urge to snort at Lupin’s remark, as if Alexandra, in all her stilted coldness, was any great inspiration to her younger models. (In fact she probably was – but any attempted perfection on her part rubbed Philip the wrong way now that he was fully conscious of her.)

“Then I think we have ourselves a plan,” he declared, regardless, as if they had signed off on some great diplomatic treaty or business dealing – he raised his glass in a mock-toast to their fun (and their subjecting their wives to company, whichever). “Enjoy the match today, fellows.”

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