Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

June, 1962

TW: Mention of child abuse in the form of verbal and physical abuse.

12 Grimmauld Place.

25 June 1962.

The absolutely gorgeous young witch pauses for a moment, slowing the pushchair until it finally comes to a stop. Lifting her hands up and off it, she takes a few seconds to carefully tuck the stray windswept blonde strands of hair back behind her ear. In doing so, her jaw droppingly ornate black diamond encrusted earrings catch brilliantly in the warm summer sunlight. Stepping around to the front of the pushchair, she leans over to check on her young son. The boy, a toddler aged two, smiles with delight as his eyes meet his mother's.

Her eyes and his, both the exact same shade of glacial blue;

Her hair and his, both the exact same shade of golden blond;

He truly is his mother's son, this little boy.

Chubby fist outstretched, the toddler babbles and grasps at the air in a bid to get his mother to pick him up, to hold him. Finding his voice, he calls to her determinedly, "Maman!"

Sighing, she smiles regretfully as she mentally replays the command her husband issued to her over breakfast this morning:

"Do not hold him unless you absolutely must, yes?"

Ever the obedient wife, the blonde witch now fights against the urge to pick her son up. Instead, she settles for bringing her finger forward to meet his hand, his fat fingers immediately latching on and squeezing at her tightly.

"Maman," he repeats once more.

And then, eyes hopeful, he begs of her, "... Le doudou!"

He wants his blankie, the one he was gifted by his grandmother the week he was born. His blankie, his most treasured possession in all the world. The object he chews on, buries his face in, coos at, and crawls around with. But she can't give it to him; not anymore.

If she had her way, she'd be a far more indulgent parent. But her husband Achille has deemed Evan already far too old for such infantile comforts as hugging and blankies. He seeks to raise a strong son, a completely capable heir. After all, it's his - their - primary objective at this stage of life: raise a son fit to inherit the Rosier family legacy. And that legacy includes inheriting and managing all the estates, as well as upholding the family values.

It means bringing Evan up incredibly strictly, with absolutely unflinching rules.

Achille Rosier let slide a few things these first few years, though. And that's because he's madly in love with his wife, Toinette. She's a rather young witch, a young mother at the age of twenty. But in the end Mr. Rosier's sense of duty and familial obligation won out over love. And shortly after Evan's second birthday he laid down the law quite firmly: no more blankie, no more excessive pampering, and above all else, absolutely no risking indulging any whims that might lead to a soft child.

And so, to Toinette's silent displeasure, Achille burnt the blankie; took it from his sleeping son and incendio'd it back in early April when Evan was napping.

Yet Evan, still far too young to have caught on to any of these finer details, knows only that he misses his beloved blankie. And every single day since then he begs his mother for it. Like right now, for example:

"Doudou - doudou - doudou -"

Biting at her lip guiltily, Toinette Rosier shakes her finger free of Evan's iron-like grip, "Non, mon chou. Pas de doudou -"

His protests growing louder, Evan continues to repeat himself determinedly, "Doudou - doudou -"

And just when she worries her son will fully wind up, that perhaps he'll throw a tantrum - here, in public of all places - here, just moments before they're to knock on the door of 12 Grimmauld for little Regulus's birthday playdate, a soft pop just to the side of the pushchair suddenly draws both her and baby Evan's attention.