Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maybe the reason Leander Rosier moved so noiselessly was that he’d been taught to as a child in a house that punished carelessness.
He heard the muffled sound of voices in Evan's room - laughter, low and warm, the sort of careless tone that turned his stomach in inexplicable ways. Suspicion flared. Leander pushed the door open.

There they were: His six-year-old son and little Regulus Black, on the bed. Evan’s shirt was untucked, his hair wild. He was laughing. Straddling the younger boy, he pinned Regulus’ hands above his head. Regulus looked up at him, all wide eyes and parted lips. The picture of innocence, as always.

It looked like a game. It might have been a game. But Leander’s eye caught too many things at once.

Regulus, with that face. In fact, Regulus looked so much like his uncle Alphard, it hurt.

It wasn’t just the bone structure or the fine, pale skin. It was the softness in his expression. The openness. The kind that had no business surviving in their world. But more than anything, it was the eyes. Regulus had Alphie’s eyes.

Alphie, who still walked into rooms like he owned them. Who laughed in ways that made Leander still feel too much. Alphie, whose very presence had never stopped turning Leander’s thoughts sideways.

And now, here was Regulus. Made in the same image, but smaller, younger and … well, unspoiled.

To see the child like that transported Leander twentyfive years back. And it was like a punch to the ribs.

Leander couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe.

His throat closed up, as though the very air had turned to vinegar. He was mortifyed. His gaze fixed on the scene before him, but his mind reeled. Something terrible surged up inside him: it wasn’t rage yet, it was more treacherous. Shame.

Evan looked up, startled by the door, and Leander’s breath caught again. Everyone said they resembled one another, father and son. But Leander had never quite seen it before.

But now, in this moment, there could be no denying it: the child was him. And that was the worst of it. Evan - his only son - with his face and his gestures and his careless, laughing sin. Leander’s own moral failure came back to him with terrifying clarity.

And then, then something in him went white-hot. Something snapped.

Leander crossed the room in three strides, yanked his child out of bed by the collar, and slapped him. Once. Twice. Left, then right. The sound of it cracked through the air like a whip.

You insolent, filthy little-!

Leander cut his own thoughts off. He would not say it. Would not even let the full shape of the thought form in his mind. The image of Alphard burned too vividly behind his eyes. And that boy… Regulus…

He did not trust himself to speak.

He wanted to shout, to spit words like venom at Evan, but there were none that would do justice to the thing rising in him. No language sharp enough to name it. And when words failed, action had to speak in their place.

Leander seized his son by the arms and shook him like something that had broken and might rattle back into place. Evan’s fair head snapped forward and back, the tousled blonde hair he’d inherited flopping with each jolt. Leander’s fingers clamped down with punishing force, digging into the soft upper arms of the boy he had once cradled.

Evan was crying already. Well, he’d be crying a great deal more before Leander was finished with him. Red handprints bloomed across his cheeks. Leander had not held back when he struck him. The boy’s face was twisted in terror, eyes wide, lips trembling in a soundless sob.

Confusion mingled with fear. Evan didn’t seem to know what he had done, but his father was too far gone to even register it.

Leander dragged him to the edge of the bed, and sat down heavily. With no ceremony, he hauled the child over his knee.

“Papa, non-!”

The half plea made no difference. Leander’s jaw was clenched tight. His mind was full of ghosts and shame and the crushing need to blot them out.

Leander yanked Evan's trousers higher, pulling them taut over the little backside before raising his hand and bringing it down, hard.

None of the smacks were measured. They came fast and sharp, one after the other, so quick Evan could scarcely draw breath between them. The flat of Leander’s palm struck down again and again, his fury only mounting with each blow.

He hadn’t laid a hand on Evan like this in years. Not since the Muggle incident. He’d promised Vireline it would never happen again. And he had kept that promise. Until now.

Because this - this was different! This wasn’t mere defiance. This was depravity.

This was the echo of something Leander had fought, tooth and nail, to destroy in himself.

Evan kicked and bucked, legs thrashing, crying freely now, hiccuping and gasping. His little fists pounding uselessly at the bed.

Leander was beyond reason. The image of that bed, the implication of what he’d seen, the echo of his own shame, it all burned through him. Every time he paused, his mind conjured it up again, and his fury flared anew.

It angered Leander even more that his son was kicking instinctively. Evan’s breath caught. His face was red. He tried to muffle a sound into his sleeve, but more blows came before he could recover.

Leander's palm was smarting. Evan’s trousered backside gave no satisfaction under his hand. If the other boy hadn't been there, Leander would've pulled his son's trousers down by now. He was beside himself with anger.

He smacked and smacked. His breath came heavy. His palm throbbed. Still, he struck on.

A twitch, a breath - anything that hinted at defiance - and he started again. Brutal. More than necessary. A fresh volley. Five or six smacks in quick succession.

Leander's hand was so big it covered the child's whole bottom. He kept smacking away. Then he began to alternate between the cheeks as the flanks of the boy also got their due.

The slaps landed hard, unrelenting, punishing through the fabric. Evan jerked with each blow, shoulders drawn tight, fists clenched in silent fury or shame -Leander didn’t care which.

A father disciplines his son. That was what his own father had said. What his father had taught him. What had been beaten into him on cold stone floors before he was old enough to hold a wand. And Evan - his only son, for Merlin's sake! - looked too much like Leander. He struck again. And again.

Evan let out a sound that would have undone any adult. Not a cry. Not pain. Just… defeat. But even that couldn't soften Leander's heart for the boy. This was no longer correction. It was madness masquerading as discipline, the only kind of lesson Leander had ever been taught.

Eventually, Leander's breath caught. His hand ached terribly by now. Evan was a sobbing mess draped across his lap.

And only then did Leander stop. He simply stood, and left Evan crumpled on the floor, sobbing. The boy's face was blotched. His lip was bleeding where he’d bitten it.

Leander felt the sudden urge to kick the boy. But he didn't give into the temptation. His own father would've. Leander was sure about it.

But Mathurin Rosier was a cruel man. And Leander wasn't. He had taught his son a good lesson, nothing more, he told himself. Nothing more. Nothing less. That’s what decent fathers did. At least, that’s what he’d always been told. To question it now would mean peeling back everything and he couldn’t afford to look that closely. Let's see if the little brat would ever try something like this again, Leander told himself this, as though his own cruelty might pass for parenting.

“If I ever catch you doing this again,” he said, voice shaking with fury, “you’ll wish you hadn’t been born.”, he told Evan. "You will go to hell for this sort of thing!"

Regulus had gone utterly silent.

The boy stood as though turned to stone, his arms locked rigidly by his sides, his mouth half-open. But his eyes were wide, glassy. Too wide. He seemed utterly uncomprehending and scared. His presence made it worse. Made everything worse.

How in Merlin’s name was Leander supposed to explain this to Orion Black if the child breathed a word of it?

Without speaking, Leander reached for Regulus’ arm and steered him gently but firmly out of the room, closing the door behind them.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he saw Evan’s face again, he wasn’t sure whether he’d strike him again or fall to his knees. He felt weak. In the silence of the corridor, Leander realised he was shaking. Merlin, he needed a drink!

He drew a long, controlled breath through his nose, squared his shoulders, and smoothed down the front of his robes. There was no time for trembling. Rosiers didn’t fall apart. Rosiers never let anyone see what broke them.

Then he crouched down, slowly, until he was eye-level with the boy.

Regulus looked at him, pale and trembling. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as if to hold in a scream. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin as paper:

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he whispered. “So sorry. We’ll never play on the bed again. Never. I promise.”

His eyes were enormous in his small face.

Leander wanted to ask the boy just how far their little game they played had gone. But he couldn't, because he knew he couldn't tolerate the answer. What he had seen was already enough. If his son had touched the other boy in an even more disreputable way... Merlin, help him! Leander already felt the urge to go back to Evan's room and smack that boy some more. What an impossible, depraved, corrput little brat! Children like this simply needed to be hit.

Regulus bit his lower lip again.

“Sorry, Uncle", he said again.

The boy expected to be smacked, too. There was no doubt about it. He more than likely had been punished in a similar manner before, judging from Orion's parenting style. And the way he hit his oldest son, this couldn't be the first time Regulus had witnessed someone getting his bottom warmed.

"Please?", he asked now. "Will you tell my Father what Evan and I did?"
Merlin, no! How could Leander explain this to another parent? That his own son had ... commited a serious offence like that? Seduced, abused ... indecently assaulted another child.

But how in Merlin’s name was he meant to get out of this without Regulus running straight to Orion and blurting everything out? If Orion so much as raised his voice, the child would no doubt confess the whole wretched story. Leander didn’t doubt it for a second.

Leander didn’t answer Regulus right away. He was waiting. Waiting for the boy to beg properly. To plead. To offer him a reason not to tell Orion.

But nothing came.

Leander felt a flicker of pity for the boy. Perhaps it was only because he looked so painfully like Alphie. Those cursed Black genes! And to the child’s credit, he had apologised without anyone even raising a hand to him. That had to count for something. Still, it was Evan who was his son … regrettably so.

Leander could feel the fury beginning to bubble again. He hadn’t given that boy half the hiding he deserved, not for this. Not by a long stretch. And yet… Evan was his. And if he couldn’t bring himself to defend the boy out of affection, then he’d bloody well do it out of duty. For the sake of their family’s honour. Over his dead body would anyone hear a whisper of his only son’s moral failure.

He cleared his throat. Then spoke.

“Evan has been…”
... a depraved little brat who hadn’t received half of what he had coming, Leander thought. His fingers twitched with the urge to go back in there and drag the boy back over his knee. What that child needed - thoroughly and without question - was to be smacked so soundly he wouldn’t sit comfortably for a week.
"... very naughty. I’m his father, and it’s my responsibility to give him a good hiding when he misbehaves,” Leander said sternly. “All decent parents must punish their children when they’re disobedient. You know that, don’t you? Your father smacks you and your brother too, doesn’t he?”

Regulus nodded at once, his wide eyes growing even wider.
“Yes, Uncle, he does.” He rubbed at the seat of his robes, as though reminded of the fact.

“So then,” Leander went on, watching him closely. He was counting on the child to beg him. To plead for silence with big, frightened eyes, the way children often did. That would give him his out. A reason not to tell Orion, and to frame it as mercy rather than self-preservation. “do you think I ought to tell your father that you’ve been naughty?”

The boy looked torn. He glanced up, then down again, lips pressed tight together. Evan would never have hesitated like this. Leander’s son would have lied without blinking. The boy hadn’t an honest bone in his body. But Regulus? This child clearly had a conscience.

“Um… I suppose you have to?” he offered nervously, and lowered his head.

That was not the answer Leander had expected. Nor the one he’d wanted. Not the script he’d written in his head. He had been quite sure the child would beg him to keep quiet, plead for leniency.  The boy’s conscience was an inconvenience. A liability.

With a tired sigh, Leander reached out and gently lifted Regulus’ chin.

“Your father will be very cross when he hears about this,” he said gravely. “You understand that, don’t you?”

Regulus nodded, eyes brimming with tears.

“Ye-yes, Uncle. I-I know,” he stammered, voice breaking on the last word.

A flicker of guilt passed through Leander. It wasn’t like he was completely unscrupulous, was it? It was horrible to frighten the boy quite so badly. Whatever Orion had been doing to his sons, it had clearly left its mark on the younger one.

“I know it was Evan’s fault,” Leander said, tone softening.

But Regulus shook his head at once.
“No, Uncle. I did it too. We were playing on the bed together.”

Leander waved a dismissive hand.
“He talked you into it, no doubt. He’s a dreadful boy.”

But the child shook his head again.
“No. He didn’t. Please don’t be angry with Evan any more.”

The boy was crying now. Leander blinked. He hadn’t expected that, either. He had given him a way out - an easy one - and Regulus had refused it.

“Listen to me, child,” Leander said, doing his best to sound gentle. “You weren’t the ringleader in this… this impropriety. It was Evan who led you astray, and we both know it. You saw how I had to punish him for it, didn’t you?”

Regulus gave a trembling nod. More tears spilled down his cheeks.

“I shan’t trouble your father with this. He would be beside himself. And if he were to find out, I daresay he’d punish you quite severely.”

The boy was sobbing now but still managed another nod.

“You must promise me,” Leander said, his voice lowering to a murmur, “you won’t ever speak of what happened today. Not to anyone.”

Regulus looked up at him, dazed, his eyes glassy and wet. Leander reached out and placed his hands lightly on the boy’s small shoulders, giving him the faintest shake. Gentle, nothing like the way he’d gripped Evan.

“Can you do that for me?” he asked again, more softly.

“Yes, Uncle,” Regulus whispered at last. “I can do that.”

Chapter Text

The firewhiskey glass shook slightly as Leander set it down on the desk. But he didn’t need drink to feel the heat rise in him. It was anger. Still. Hours later.

The house was quiet now. Vireline had not asked questions. Regulus had gone home with a strange, frightened expression on his face, but at least he hadn’t spoken out of turn. And Evan? Upstairs, no doubt sulking. Crying, perhaps. Or brooding, which was worse. That defiant little mouth twisted into some sullen pout, as though he had been wronged.

Leander himself had been so thoroughly unsettled that he had exchanged not a single word with any member of his household. He had withdrawn at once to his study, instructing the house-elves in no uncertain terms that he was not to be disturbed. Not even the usual bedtime ritual was permitted; the children were not brought in to bid him good night. He did, admittedly, regret upsetting Pandora’s sense of routine, poor thing. But the truth was, he simply couldn’t bear to look at his son.

Leander stared into the fire, jaw set. His thoughts were scattered: darting one way, then another, refusing to settle. The firewhisky did little to help. He’d taken it to calm his nerves, to dull the edges of memories best left buried, but instead it only left him clouded, adrift in a fog of guilt and flickering recollection.

He had warned the boy. He had told him what was expected. Again and again. But Evan didn't care. He had tested him with this behaviour. And he hadn’t liked the answer he’d gotten from his father.

His son had done a thing that made Leander’s blood run cold. That display with Regulus, that was no longer childish folly. It was wilful. Disgraceful! A line crossed. The sort of thing that could ruin a name, a bloodline, a future. And worse: it was unnatural.

Leander had witnessed it before. The same sin that lived in his own chest, quiet and treacherous, now curling behind his son’s eyes. Leander’s hand clenched around the armrest.

No. No, he would not let it happen.

Leander’s hand fairly itched with the urge to take Evan across his knee once more. If ever a child was in need of a sound thrashing, it was undoubtedly his son. The sheer audacity of what the boy had done! He could scarcely believe it.

Leander had been raised properly. No softness. No excuses. His own father had always corrected him firmly. Without apology. Without weakness.

Yes, Mathurin Rosier had crossed the line into cruelty more than once. His father hadn’t merely struck him. He had thrashed him, without restraint, and on occasion with the sort of force one might use in a brawl between grown men. And worse still, he had used his wand. Leander swallowed hard, his adam’s apple rising and falling as the memory surged up

‘As your father I had to punish you for your misbehaviour. And I dare say I did my duty on you thoroughly.’, His father’s voice echoed in Leander’s head. ' But as a pureblood, I’m obliged to react to the shame you brought onto our family. To take vengeance for it.'

Leander felt his throat dry thinking of that day.

He had been eight years older than Evan was now. And he hadn’t done anything half as bad.

If his father would ever find out what Leander had done with Alphie… He would kill them, both. And who could blame him for an honour killing when his only son did such unspeakable things?

Leander felt a gnawing guilt settle in his chest. Whatever he’d told himself over the years, whatever excuses he’d fashioned, what he had done to Alphie had never been right. He’d told himself it was affection, but it hadn’t looked like care. It had been selfish. Shameful. Humiliating.

He used Alphard not as one treats an equal, but as one might claim a thing, not a person. Like a woman, really. Yes, that was it. Alphie was a man but he used him as one would use a woman. To treat another wizard like this was horrible. That wasn’t how you showed lo- … fondness. Not real fondness, at any rate.

Degrading! That was why it was quite obvious that Alphie was … well, a homosexual. And that wasn’t as clearly the case with Leander. He played the active part in their relationship. He was the one… giving. So he was still a real man, wasn’t he? He could do both.

He was married. He had fathered children with Vireline. Alphie had never done such a thing. But then… whose fault was that, truly?

Leander had asked things of Alphie no man should ask of a friend. He’d insisted on secrecy, on loyalty to him above all else. And Alphie had given it. Given and given, until there was scarcely anything left. There was nothing Alphie wouldn’t do for him. No one had ever gone so far for Leander before. Had proved their devotion with such quiet, ruinous certainty. It had been love from Alphie’s side, unmistakably so, and it had teetered so near to self-destruction it was painful to recall.

Perhaps that was the part that shamed Leander most. It had gone so far that Alphie’s family had accused him of madness. His uncle had wanted him committed. He had almost been disinherited over it. And all of that for what? For a man who could never give him what he needed in return. Who had, in the end, gone on and married. Had children. Played the part.

Leander had been a dreadful friend to Alphie. A poor excuse for a brother to Ella. And, if he were honest, a disgrace of a son. Not that it troubled him to think of his father’s feelings - he had none worth sparing. But his mother… oh, his mother would perish all over again if she were made to witness any of this!

He reached for the glass and downed its contents in a single swallow.

And he was a terrible father, wasn’t he? What sort of example had he set that his own son felt emboldened to behave so brazenly under his roof? He had always been hesitant to thrash the boy. It had only happened twice. Both times in the heat of fury, both times thoroughly earned, or so he’d told himself. More often than not, he resorted to shouting, the occasional threat. Left the smacking to Vireline. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fatherhood. He had not taken the role seriously enough.

It was possible, Leander supposed, that his own father had taken discipline rather too far. Cruel, even undeniably so. But had it not been effective? Not once had Leander dared to behave as Evan had done today. Not once. He would never have imagined laying about with Alphie, not under his father’s roof! Leander had to silence the thing inside Evan. Drive it down. Where it belonged. Before it was too late.

He rose abruptly.

That boy had not learnt his lesson. Not yet. The way he’d squirmed and cried earlier had been pitiful, but not penitent. Leander's hand still ached from the smacking he had doled out hours earlier. The hand had done what it could, but it wasn’t enough. Clearly not enough. The next time Evan decided to dishonour this family, it might not be in the safety of his own home. It might be seen. Spoken of. Spread like rot through the respectable corners of wizarding society. He could not allow that.

Leander crossed the room to the old cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer: The martinet. It was a curious little thing by British standards. No more than a short handle with a fan of slender leather lashes dangling from it like a cat’s whiskers. Imported from the Continent, a gift from his own father. 

His fingers closed around the handle. The martinet still felt weird in his own hand. He took it out sometimes to threaten the children with it. That had worked well enough until now. Leander had never intended to use it on his children but he had more than enough experience on the receiving end.

He set it on the table and looked down at it.

Leander could still remember how he had reacted when his father had given him the martinet as a gift when the children were born. He had been appalled by the mere suggestion he would use it on Evan or Pandora. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined that his son would ever behave in such unspeakable ways!

'You’ll remember me the first time you have to beat your own children.', Leander's father had said. He had been right. And Leander’s stomach turned at the thought, but he couldn’t escape it: This wasn’t the only matter in which his father - damn him! - had been right all along.

The boy needed a proper reckoning. A lesson engraved in the flesh. And Leander Rosier was not a man to shirk his duty. Not as a father. Not as a Rosier. Not when the name itself was on the line.

It would be the first time Evan made actual acquaintance with the martinet. The wretched thing had haunted Leander’s boyhood like a spectre. His father had wielded it with such severity that Leander would often end up black and blue, though that was generally the result of prolonged punishments and Mr Rosier lashing it about as though drilling a regiment into obedience. Yes, Leander had endured the proverbial 'éducation au martinet'. Still, it was preferable to the belt or the cane. Naturally, his father had employed those as well.

The martinet, with its many soft leather straps, delivered a sharp sting without leaving permanent damage. One didn’t require a particularly accurate swing, nor was there much danger of causing serious injury ... unless, of course, one applied excessive force.

Even Leander's mother had made use of it when disciplining him and Druella. Though his father never failed to complain that she went too easy on them. 'Les femmes sont trop tendres', he would say, claiming she hadn’t the nerve to hit them properly.

He could really kill Evan for making him do that! Why would the child insist on behaving in such unforgivable ways?

This would not be pleasant. But discipline was not meant to be. The boy was nearly seven now. Old enough to understand the gravity of his actions. Old enough to remember. If he didn’t learn fear now, what would stop him next time?

Leander let out a long breath, controlled and cold. With a tight grip, he took the martinet from the table. Evan had brought shame to their family. Leander had no choice now then to use the whip.

L'heure de la fessée, mon fils.

...

The boy was already in bed when Leander entered, but had the good sense to scramble out the moment he realised it was his father stepping through the door. Evan’s face was blotchy and swollen from crying, and his wide, childish eyes grew even rounder when they landed on the object in his father’s hand.

The martinet.

Leander had always kept it as a symbol of warning. A final measure when stern looks and firm words had failed. One sharp promise that it would 'do the talking next time' was usually all it took to bring the child back into line. Tonight, there it was, not merely mentioned, but held, visible proof that his father’s anger had not cooled.

“Papa, I’m sorry!” Evan wailed, his voice already trembling. “I won’t do it again!”

Leander said nothing to that. He knew it wouldn’t happen again. He would see to it, personally.

“Ce qu’il te faut, c’est une bonne vieille fessée.”, he told Evan. “Quelques coups t’aideront à te reprendre en main.”

“Noooon, Papa”, Evan whined.

The child was clearly putting on a show. They’d been through this before: Leander lifting the martinet, Evan dropping to his knees in frantic promises to behave, swearing he'd be good from now on. But this time, Leander wasn’t swayed.

"Tu vas prendre une bonne correction," he said, letting the martinet sway in his grip, just enough to make the point unmistakable.

Evan edged back towards the bed, eyes wide with fear.

“Papa, please - please don’t,” he choked out, voice trembling. “I’ll behave, I swear. I’ll do everything you say. Please - please don’t be cross with me. Don't give me another smacking!"

Leander was beginning to grow irritated. The boy ought to be standing to attention, not blubbering like a little girl. What sort of behaviour was this, already festering in Evan? Leander's little sister had always pleaded with their father in the same heart-wrenching way, begging him not to strike her. But Druella had been a girl. Not that Leander himself hadn’t tried it, once or twice, when he’d been very small. But his father had merely sneered, 'Je vais te dresser, moi.' And trained it out of him, he had. Ruthlessly.

"Bend over the bed! Now!"

The martinet swung again in Leander's hand, a quiet warning.

Evan hesitated. Then obeyed.

Leander said nothing more. He pulled the child's night shirt up to bare his little bottom. The martinet was only truly effective on bare skin. Leander knew that well enough. He had received it himself across the backs of his legs or, more often, his bare behind. That had been part of the point, of course. The lesson was more thoroughly impressed and the indignity of it all only added to the intended effect.

Truth be told, Leander was going for an increase in the severity of the penalty. To get hit with the martinet over a still sore backside would hurt awfully. And that was just what that little beast of a child had coming!

Evan's behind was still red from the smacking his father had given him earlier. Leander hadn't exactly held back when he had disciplined his son.

The first lash of the martinet came down.

"Aïïïïe, Papa!", Evan cried and promplty came up from the bed. He rubbed his bottom furiously. His lower lip was trembling, visibly struggling to keep his composure, though the effort was failing him rather miserably.

The defiant little wretch! Couldn’t even summon the decency to hold still whilst being chastised.

"Get back down!", Leander ordered and gripped the child by one shoulder, pushing it roughly towards the bed again. "You stay in position or you won't like the outcome of it!"

With agonising slowness, Evan turned his head back towards the bed, his narrow shoulders quivering with each stifled sob. Leander could see the stripes the martinet had left on Evan's little behind. He blandished the straps of the whip while Evan settled down again.

When the second blow came, Evan didn't jump up. But he was made a heartbreaking sound and gripped the blanket tighter.

The third blow came down, then the forth, then the fifth. Quickly. They weren't measured at all. Leander was still to angry for that. It was a very harsh punishment. For Evan. For himself. 

He didn't even count the lashes anymore. Better hit the boy too much than too little. Leander didn’t want to repeat this lesson anytime soon.

The child had no notion how fortunate he truly was, having Leander for a father. His own had meted out punishment with dreadful regularity - daily, on occasion - and never with a shred of restraint. Even now, Leander loathed the man for it. And yet, despite the years, a part of him still feared him. And to be scared of his father would do Evan some good. When Leander was through with the boy, he wouldn’t dare to think about doing anything filthy ever again. Leander would beat that straight out of him.

He could feel a sheen of sweat gathering at his brow. He’d had far too much to drink, and disciplining his son was proving to be thoroughly exhausting business. Leander had already abundantly walloped the child. Evan was in bits, reduced to a snivelling wreck. Tears streamed freely down his face, mingling with the snot trickling from his nose. He made a pitiful sight, thoroughly undone.

“This is what happens to children who behave in such vile and disgraceful ways,” Leander said, his tone clipped and cold before he let Evan taste the martinet one final time. The child gave a high-pitched squeal of pain.
"We're done.", Leander informed his son. "You may get up now."

“I’ll… I’ll be good now,” Evan stammered through his sobs, lips trembling, as he obeyed.

“You’d best be,” Leander snapped, his temper flaring once more. “I’m still furious with you, you depraved little brat.”

Evan’s tear-swollen eyes lifted to meet his father’s face, wide and fearful.

“W–will you be… angry with me… forever?” he whispered, barely able to shape the words between shuddering breaths.

"Yes!", Leander yelled at him. "Forever!" At the same time he backhanded his son with so much force, the boy flew against the bedside table.

Leander froze, a jolt of horror rippling through him. He had quite forgotten he wasn’t still holding the boy by the arm. Now, faced with the full weight of what he’d done, the truth struck him like a blow. 

Evan looked up at him, eyes glistening, and - once again - Leander saw a reflection of his own small, broken face. The look the boy gave him, wide-eyed and shaken, was the very same he had once cast towards his own father.  A wave of nausea washed over Leander. What on earth had he done? His first instinct was to go to the child, to steady him, to apologise.

But he couldn’t very well do that, could he? He was the boy’s father, for Merlin's sake! What sort of lesson would that teach? That a parent might mete out discipline and then retract it, undone by sentiment?

Instead, Leander drew himself up and turned sharply away, as if the sight of the child unsettled him more than he could bear.

“Do you see what you made me do?!”, Leander accused Evan. “Look what you've brought upon yourself with your immorality!”

He really needed to leave or he would kill that boy! This horrible child pushed all his buttons today.

“To bed with you now,” he ordered, his voice clipped and unforgiving. “And you’d better be on your very best behaviour over the next few weeks, or Merlin help you, boy!"

With a brisk flick of his wand, Leander sent the martinet flying to the wall, where it fixed itself neatly with a faint metallic click, suspended by an invisible charm.

“This stays right here,” he said coldly, nodding towards it. “So you can look at it and remind yourself exactly what happens to unruly little boys who don’t know their place.”

Chapter Text

Leander needed to talk to Alphard.

Not that he’d admit as much. Not even to himself. He loathed that this was his first instinct: find Alphie. Go to him. Why? What was wrong with him? What had Alphie got to do with any of this?

Alphard didn’t even have children. And as Regulus’ uncle, of course he’d be inclined to take the boy’s side. Blood ran thick in the Black family. Still, Leander had long suspected Alphard had a soft spot for the other nephew, the older one. Merlin knew why. Sirius Black was about as insufferable a child as they came. Louder than necessary, endlessly cheeky, and always two steps ahead of his own good sense. He was the sort who made noise simply because he couldn’t bear the sound of silence.

From time to time, Leander found himself wishing he might speak with Orion about their sons. Once, long ago, they’d been dormmates at Hogwarts, friends, even. Between the ages of eleven and seventeen, Leander had spent more time in the company of Alphard and Orion than he had with his own family. But the years had not been kind to their friendship. A horrible falling out had settled into a thick frost of mistrust. Leander considered Orion a man of questionable morals and a coward. Still, circumstances bound them. His sister was married to Orion’s brother-in-law, Cygnus, which made Orion practically family, whether Leander liked it or not. And with old Arcturus Black counting himself among Mathurin Rosier’s confidants, Leander could hardly pretend Orion was a stranger.

The truth was, men like him and Orion didn’t talk about feelings. Especially not to each other! Still, Leander felt certain that Orion, of all people, might understand the predicament he now found himself in. Their lives, after all, had not been so different - raised under the same cold expectations, shaped by fathers who believed affection a weakness and discipline a virtue. They had walked parallel paths and the old familiarity lingered in memory.

Leander’s own son was just as horrible as Orion's eldest! Of course, today Evan had outdone himself with that appalling display. But truth be told, Leander's son was a trial to endure on even the most ordinary of days. His mother was always finding something to complain about when it came to the boy. Forever sighing, fretting, or declaring Vireline Rosier simply couldn’t manage another day of his mischief without losing her mind. Evan had been a whirlwind from the moment he could walk. Always running, always fidgeting, always forgetting things halfway through doing them. He could scarcely keep his thoughts in a straight line long enough to remember which hand he was meant to be using! His thoughts seemed to outpace his body more often than not, and he’d never been much good at sitting still, let alone keeping quiet.

Leander couldn’t recall ever being like that. Probably because if he had, his father would’ve knocked it straight out of him. Quite literally.

Pandora had always been easier to parent. But then, girls were at that age. At least in the eyes of a father like Leander, who saw his daughter as something precious, breakable, to be shielded and shaped, not disciplined in the way boys required. She’d always been all soft curls and wide eyes, always quick with a curtsy, quiet at the table, and clever enough to sense the mood in a room before speaking. A perfect little lady.

Leander might find his wife dull and endlessly exasperating, but he had to admit: Vireline had raised their daughter properly. Most of the day-to-day parenting had always been her domain, especially with the girl. And rightly so. Leander would never raise a hand to his daughter; it wasn’t a father’s place. He knew Vireline smacked Pandora on occasion, when it couldn’t be helped, but it was never anything serious. Besides, Pandora rarely gave cause: She was as good as gold, that one.

Orion’s younger son, too, seemed easy to parent. Quiet, biddable, painfully eager to please. But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? It was all well and good in a child, but the boy would grow into a man one day. And what sort of man came from that softness? No grit to him. No steel. Evan must’ve talked him into that nonsense on the bed without so much as a second thought. The child didn’t even know how to say no.

At least Evan was a proper boy: boisterous, defiant, and in need of the occasional hiding to keep him on the straight and narrow. Leander saw no reason to feel sorry for the child. He was raising a man. And if that meant firm hands and hard lessons, then so be it. He had no time for softness: not in himself, and certainly not in his son. It was the natural order of things. Every wizard he knew had been given a sound smacking growing up. It was simply part and parcel of a proper upbringing.

His mind meandered in sluggish circles, returning to Alphie as if pulled by some invisible string. Drink always did that. 

Leanders could almost hear Alphie now: cool, condescending, telling him that this wasn’t how one spoke about a child. That women and children were in fact people. That Regulus was just a little boy, not a soldier in need of hardening.  That Leander ought to speak to Evan - reason with him, even - instead of taking a firm hand. Alphard always said the same to Orion as well, his tone practically brimming with contempt whenever his cousin so much as raised his voice to that precious nephew of his. As if Alphie knew the first thing about raising a son!

One could say many things about Alphie but the simple fact was, he had no children of his own, and he’d never endured a proper day’s parenting from his own parents in his childhood. Not the sort that demanded obedience, respect, and sacrifice. He’d been coddled from the cradle, let off lightly while the rest of them were taught the hard way.

And anyway, Leander told himself with force, Alphie was the last person he wanted to see right now. The very last! No man would go running to someone like that in a moment like this.

Still, Leander felt he couldn’t bear to be alone just now. It was a ghastly thing to admit, even to himself, but there it was: he needed another person. Someone to sit beside him, say something sensible, or simply exist within reach. And who offered comfort better than women?

His second thought was to go and see his sister. She would understand. They had grown up close, after all. But perhaps moral decay ran in the family, for Druella hadn’t quite lived up to the standards Leander himself struggled to meet. And even a man like Cygnus might raise an eyebrow at his brother-in-law turning up half-drunk and unannounced that late, simply to speak with his wife. It was improper. Unthinkable, really! He couldn’t possibly do that.

However, Leander was married himself, wasn’t he? This was what wives were for. It was Vireline’s duty, after all, to make him feel good, to be of some use when he needed her. She had no right to turn him away. If he wanted warmth, he would damn well seek it in the proper place: from his wife, where such needs belonged.

He made his way to her room. His steps weren’t quite straight, though he told himself they were.

He pushed open the bedroom door without knocking - Why knock, in his own house? The handle felt colder than expected, and he gripped it a moment longer than necessary. Inside, the light struck his eyes with more force than usual. 

Vireline looked up, startled. She was seated at her dressing table, hair already half unpinned, slippers on, and her night-robe wrapped primly about her. A small jar of cold cream sat open by her hand. The look she gave his reflection in the mirror was one of puzzled apprehension: as though unsure whether she ought to be concerned or scared.

“Is something the matter?” she asked at last, her voice cautious, as though bracing herself for trouble.

She said nothing of the half-buttoned collar, the smell, or the wobble in his stance.

Leander didn’t answer. He leaned against the doorframe a little harder than intended, arms folded, watching her. He didn’t speak at all, just looked. There was something oddly reassuring about her stillness, the precise way she folded her hands in her lap, the faint scent of lavender and talcum powder that clung to the room.

She could be attractive, he thought vaguely. She was, in the way a proper wife ought to be: clean, composed, unflappable. Vireline had always been the picture of refinement, her features delicate and symmetrical, her hair swept up just so. She usually wore pale colours, pearls without fail, and always sat with her back straight. There was nothing loud or common about her. She was bred for this life, a woman of old blood and proper bearing, the kind who could host dinner for thirty with a calm smile and never put a foot wrong.

She was, in short, everything a respectable pure-blood wizard was meant to want.

And yet, standing there now, Leander couldn’t quite summon the feeling he was supposed to. Not love, nor desire: only the vague comfort of someone he saw on a daily basis, and the shameful need to be in someone’s company.

Vireline turned from her dressing table, a silver-backed brush still in her hand. Her brows knit faintly as her gaze landed on him directly.

“Did something happen?” she asked at last, her voice light but edged with reluctance, as though she already regretted asking.

Leander didn’t answer. Truthfully, he couldn’t blame her for the question. This wasn’t their routine. He never came to her room unless it was expected of him. And she, for her part, usually had the decency to never demand explanations.

She set the brush down with a soft click, composed as ever, and glanced at him.

“You didn’t say goodnight to Pandora,” she said. “She asked for you. You know they’re always brought in to wish you goodnight.”

Leander huffed. Not at the girl, Merlin forbid, but at the implications. It was the boy. What had Evan told his mother? Had he gone running to her with those big, wet eyes, snivelling some twisted half-truth to win her sympathy?

Of course he had. Of course he bloody had. That was just like him. Always looking to worm his way out of consequence.

“I was busy,” Leander said, straightening his shoulders as if that might make the lie sound more like a statement of fact. His tongue felt too large in his mouth when he spoke.

Vireline didn’t reply at once. She just looked at him for a long time, her eyes searching his face in that unreadable way she had. But she didn’t ask. She never did.

Like any proper pure-blood wife, she knew her place. It was unthinkable - vulgar, even- for a woman to demand answers from her husband. Where he went, what he did, who he did it with… That was HIS business. Not hers. And usually, it was for the Cause. Or to drink. Or to spend time with Alphie. None of it had ever been Vireline’s concern. It simply wasn’t done.

She rose from her chair without a word, the silk of her nightgown and robe whispering against the carpet.

“You’re upset,” she remarked softly.

How did she know? Did he truly look as frayed as he felt? It hadn’t been a question, so he gave no reply.

“Did Evan do something to anger you?” she ventured, hesitant now. “He seemed… rather upset, too.”

Of course he did. The boy had clearly gone crying to his mother.

Leander arched a brow dismissively.

“I had to correct him,” he said tersely. “Firmly. Twice."

“Ag-?”

She had meant to say 'again', it seemed, but stopped herself short, a hand flying to her mouth as though to catch the word before it fully escaped.

Her eyes widened, betraying the instant regret. She looked as though she feared she’d said rather too much. She had paled. Something shifted in her posture: a slight drawing back, a tremor at the corner of her mouth, when she put her hand down.

It unsettled Leander in ways he couldn’t quite stomach.

He felt a flash of guilt. Not because he regretted disciplining Evan - the boy had richly deserved it, he told himself - but because he could see he had frightened her. And that reminded him, against his will, of his own mother: She had worried for him, always. A saintly woman, really. The very picture of obedience and piety. She had borne everything Mathurin Rosier had inflicted on her without so much as a murmur of complaint, and she had poured into her children all the love their father had withheld. If she could see him now – scaring his own wife in much the same way – she’d likely slap him across the face. His mother had standards. And Leander was not living up to any of them. She was likely turning in her grave over all this nasty business.

Still, Leander could not help feeling a familiar prickle of irritation toward Vireline. The woman made no sense at all! She never stopped lamenting the boy’s behaviour: always weeping about how unruly Evan was, how impossible, how he gave her migraines, begging Leander to be more involved. But the moment he took a firmer hand, she looked as though he’d murdered the lad. Typical!

“Don’t look at me like that, Madame,” Leander said stiffly, his voice authoritative. “You know perfectly well that I only discipline the boy when I’ve no other choice. And it’s not as though you haven’t asked me, time and again, to uphold a proper standard of behaviour.”

Vireline still looked pale. Her slender fingers were wringing the edge of her dressing gown now, her eyes lowered.

“Leander,” she said gently, almost in a whisper, “please don’t take this the wrong way.”

Well. That was a fine beginning! His own wife was about to offer him a critique

“You’re the boy’s father, of course. It’s your decision how to deal with him. You have the final word.”

Quite right he did. So spare him the lecture, would she? Leander didn’t need a woman’s counsel on how to raise a son.

He swayed slightly on the spot. 

“Don’t you think,” she continued, carefully choosing her words, “that it might be wiser to correct Evan more regularly, but…in a…rather more restrained manner?”

A more restrained manner. Hah! Leander nearly scoffed aloud. That sort of approach might work on a girl, but boys were another matter altogether. Boys needed a firmer hand. Everyone knew that. There was no sense in delicate measures. One might as well ask the wind to change direction with a polite letter.

“Absolutely not,” Leander said. His voice came out louder than he’d meant it to, sharpened by drink and wounded pride.“Un père sévère fait des enfants droits. I won’t coddle the child, Vireline! And you won’t, either! Je te l'interdis! He must learn there are consequences. You know perfectly well how appallingly he behaves at times! He needs to understand what happens when he pushes his father too far.”

She looked up at him, almost pleading.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just… I feel sorry for him. He’s still so little.”

Leander waved a hand, brusque and dismissive.
“We had worse when we were half his age. Didn’t your parents keep the martinet hanging in the nursery as well? We knew what it meant when we disobeyed. The martinet did the talking, and it did us no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

He remembered clearly, even his mother using it. Most of the time it had been for things he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - do. Saying his prayers. Sitting still. Stop fighting with his sister. He hadn’t been nearly as difficult as Evan, of course. Then again, perhaps that was only because his parents had been so diligent in applying the discipline necessary.

Vireline offered him a small smile.

“Of course you’re right,” she said gently. “Forgive a mother for having a soft heart. You know how it is: le père corrige, la mère console.”

Leander very nearly rolled his eyes. What a ridiculous thing to say. Sentimental nonsense! He was already regretting coming to her. His wife was, as ever, utterly exasperating.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to.”

Well, that was something, Leander supposed. A start. And if she had the good sense to stop talking now, so much the better.

For a moment, Vireline simply stood there, poised and uncertain, then stepped forward and reached out.

“I’m glad you came to me,” she whispered.

Her fingers brushed his hand hesitantly. Her touch startled him. Everything felt too immediate, too loud. Drink had dulled his thoughts but not the raw edge of everything else. Leander’s first instinct was to pull away. He almost did. He hated being touched by her, more often than not. It always made his skin crawl in some vague, unnameable way.

But this was what he’d come for, wasn’t it? This was the point. Just contact. Human closeness. Comfort. Something to drown out the thoughts. He had come here for a reason. And it was important to prove to himself that he could. That he wanted her. That he was still exactly the man he was supposed to be.

So instead of recoiling, he placed both hands on her waist.

Her waist was still as small as it had been when they married. Delicate. Malleable. She felt soft beneath his touch. And Vireline was a soft creature, in the way women were meant to be, in the way society had always promised him they would be. Familiar, domestic, compliant.
He let out a slow breath and held her there.

She touched his face. Carefully, as if not to startle him and let her fingers rest against his cheek. He flinched ever so slightly, not because it hurt, but because he wasn’t used to being touched like that. By no one. And yet, she looked up at him with quiet patience, her fine-boned features tilted in expectation, and Merlin help him, she really was quite beautiful.

Leander felt ashamed, though he could hardly have said why. She was the one who’d touched him first. That wasn’t the way it ought to be. A man was meant to lead. He was supposed to want this.

He bent to kiss her, missing by a breath before finding her lips .The drink made everything slower, but more urgent. He closed his eyes. His grip on her waist tightened without meaning to. He took what was his. His wife. His home. His role. This would settle him. Remind him who he was. The kiss deepened, messier than intended, and still he kept his eyes closed. She could likely taste the alcohol on his lips. Though it was hardly unfamiliar. He’d never come to her without a few drinks in him.

If he imagined hard enough, he told himself, maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so far from what he wanted. She was everything a good woman was supposed to be. And he - Merlin help him - was trying to pretend that was enough.

But it was no good. Vireline didn’t feel like Alphie. Of course she didn’t! She was all woman, which he became painfully aware of when he felt her breast.

He opened his eyes. She was still looking at him. Her eyes were glassy, lashes wet. And then, without a sound, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

It took him aback.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, though he was fairly certain he hadn’t. He would never hurt a woman. Never!

“No,” she murmured. “It’s nothing,” she whispered, eyes lowered.

Foolish creature, crying over nothing as though he’d struck her. Elle a la larme facile, he thought confused. Tears always came too easily with her. It made no sense at all. What on earth was she weeping for?

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak again. Her fingers rested lightly on his shoulder.

He swallowed.

“This isn’t-“ he began, then stopped. Because what, exactly, wasn’t it? The right moment? The right reason? The right person?

“Non, non, Leander!” she said quickly, reaching to hold him back. “C’est parce que je suis heureuse. I’m crying because I’m happy.”

Merlin’s beard. What utter nonsense! Who cried for happiness? Only women could say something so daft and mean it. There was no reasoning with them!

An awkward silence settled between them. He cleared his throat.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go to bed, then.”