Is that all? That ought to have been a warning that he had already said too much. His father wanted him to change tack, of course, make a turnabout and perhaps start pleading his case.
But he wasn’t sorry about Robin. The only thing he was sorry about was losing his chance of playing professional quidditch, because Rowle Sr. had found out from the wrong person, and found out just a few weeks too soon – because Philip had had offers, and he only had one real passion to boot, and if he had been able to bring it to their father, an action completed, a plan achieved, what would the man have done? Philip was nineteen now; his father could hardly just take him by the collar and escort him home from the pitch if he had already been publicly announced a beater. Could he?
No, because that would be an embarrassment for the family. Embarrassment struck him as one thing Algernon Rowle would not tolerate.
There was just a flicker of reservation in Philip’s eyes as he opened his mouth but weighed up his options for a split-second more. What if he gave it up this once, and grovelled? Would a pained apology, a bent knee and a hung head be enough to see Father forgive him for hexing Robin?
Maybe.
But would it be enough to placate his father about the fight and restore his hopes of quidditch? Philip wasn’t that much of an optimist, and he wasn’t an idiot.
Robert was in the Ministry. Father was in the Wizengamot. He would not allow anything less than a respectable career, that was obvious – and swinging about a bat for the next fifteen years would not have been an easy sell, even before The Incident. Philip supposed he would get his pick of dull Ministry departments instead. If he was lucky, maybe he could still swing something in the Quidditch league.
Restraint had never been his forte, though, and the thought of that was not reason enough to rein in his bitterness.
“Why, what do you want me to say?” Philip countered, undaunted, levelling an unyielding stare at his father as if he could possibly intimidate the man who had raised him. “I’m not sorry.”
But he wasn’t sorry about Robin. The only thing he was sorry about was losing his chance of playing professional quidditch, because Rowle Sr. had found out from the wrong person, and found out just a few weeks too soon – because Philip had had offers, and he only had one real passion to boot, and if he had been able to bring it to their father, an action completed, a plan achieved, what would the man have done? Philip was nineteen now; his father could hardly just take him by the collar and escort him home from the pitch if he had already been publicly announced a beater. Could he?
No, because that would be an embarrassment for the family. Embarrassment struck him as one thing Algernon Rowle would not tolerate.
There was just a flicker of reservation in Philip’s eyes as he opened his mouth but weighed up his options for a split-second more. What if he gave it up this once, and grovelled? Would a pained apology, a bent knee and a hung head be enough to see Father forgive him for hexing Robin?
Maybe.
But would it be enough to placate his father about the fight and restore his hopes of quidditch? Philip wasn’t that much of an optimist, and he wasn’t an idiot.
Robert was in the Ministry. Father was in the Wizengamot. He would not allow anything less than a respectable career, that was obvious – and swinging about a bat for the next fifteen years would not have been an easy sell, even before The Incident. Philip supposed he would get his pick of dull Ministry departments instead. If he was lucky, maybe he could still swing something in the Quidditch league.
Restraint had never been his forte, though, and the thought of that was not reason enough to rein in his bitterness.
“Why, what do you want me to say?” Philip countered, undaunted, levelling an unyielding stare at his father as if he could possibly intimidate the man who had raised him. “I’m not sorry.”
