Alaric slap

The grand salon of the Malfoy estate in France was a testament to centuries of undisputed power, its walls draped in tapestries that had witnessed the rise and fall of kings. But today, the air was heavy, thick with a tension that even the softest summer breeze through the tall windows could not dissipate.

Draco stood near the center of the room, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life. To his left, Silvanius and Darien stood like twin pillars of marble—protective, silent, and formidable. Across from them stood Alaric, the Crown Prince of the French magical line, a man whose presence didn't just command a room; it redefined it. Beside Alaric were his children—Annalise, the twins, and Mathilda—and further back, Sebastian and his husband, Adrian.

The argument had started over a matter of ancient protocol and the lingering shadows of the war in England—a war Alaric viewed with a mixture of royal disdain and tactical judgment. Draco had tried to speak, to offer a defense of the Malfoy name that his father, Lucius, wasn't there to provide. He hadn't been disrespectful; he had merely been... Draco. A bit too proud, a bit too sentimental about the Manor in Wiltshire.

"You speak of legacy as if it is a toy to be polished, Draco," Alaric said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "You have no concept of what it means to bleed for a crown, to hold a line while your world burns."

"I only meant that Father worked to—"

The movement was so fast Draco didn't even see it. Alaric, a man who had led armies and mastered the most brutal forms of combat, moved with a lethality that defied his regal robes.

The first blow caught Draco across the side of the head, a backhanded strike of such sheer, raw power that it sent him spinning. Draco didn't even have time to gasp before Alaric’s hand closed around the front of his robes, hauling him back up only to strike him again—this time a closed fist to the ribs, then another across the jaw.

The sound of the impact was sickening—a dull, wet thud that echoed against the vaulted ceiling.

"Alaric, stop!" Annalise cried out, her voice cracking with a shock that was mirrored on every face in the room.

But Alaric was a storm of barely suppressed rage, his eyes dark with a frustration that seemed to have been simmering for decades, now unfairly directed at the youngest, most vulnerable member of the line. He struck Draco again, a blow so heavy it threw the boy across the polished floor. Draco slid, his limbs tangling, until he hit the base of a heavy oak table with a bone-jarring crack.

Silence fell. It was a vacuum, a horrific absence of sound.

Draco lay on the floor, his breath coming in ragged, broken hitches. Blood—bright, Malfoy crimson—began to seep from his split lip and a gash above his eye, staining the white marble. His hands trembled as he tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him. A sob, sharp and pathetic, broke from his throat.

Alaric stood over him, his chest heaving. His knuckles were split, coated in his nephew’s blood. He looked down at Draco not with mercy, but with a cold, terrifying disappointment that hurt worse than the physical pain.

"You are weak," Alaric hissed, the words cutting through the air like a blade. "A pampered child playing at being a man. You disgrace the blood you carry."

Silvanius moved first. He didn't go for his wand; he went for Draco. He dropped to his knees, his movements frantic, a stark contrast to his usual calculated grace. "Draco? Draco, look at me."

Darien was a second behind, his face a mask of such lethal fury that even the guards at the door stepped back. He looked at Alaric, his eyes glowing with a feral light born of the German trenches. "If you touch him again," Darien whispered, his voice vibrating with a promise of death, "I will forget you are my kin."

"He needed to learn," Alaric snapped, though a flicker of something—perhaps realization—crossed his features as he looked at his bloodied hand.

"He is a boy!" Sebastian shouted from the back, stepping forward, his face pale. Adrian held him back, but even Adrian’s eyes were wide with horror. They had seen Alaric stern, they had seen him cold, but they had never seen him break the sanctity of the family with such violence.

Draco looked up, his vision blurred by tears and blood. He saw the shock on his cousins' faces—Annalise covering her mouth, the twins staring in stunned silence. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing the air out of his lungs. He felt lower than the dirt beneath their boots. He was the outsider, the weak link, the one who had brought this onto himself.

"Don't," Draco choked out as Silvanius tried to touch his shoulder. "Don't touch me."

With a desperate, agonizing effort, Draco scrambled to his feet. He staggered, his ribs screaming in protest. He didn't look at Alaric. He didn't look at his brothers. He turned and bolted, his boots slipping on his own blood as he sprinted for the gardens.

"Draco! Wait!" Darien roared, starting after him, but Silvanius caught his arm.

"Give him a moment, Darien," Silvanius breathed, his own eyes misting. "He’s... he’s shattered."

The servants stood like statues, their eyes averted, the shame of the moment hanging over them all. Elodie, Alaric’s wife, stepped forward, her voice trembling. "Alaric... what have you done?"

The Prince didn't answer. He looked at the blood on the floor, then turned and walked out of the salon without a word.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the manicured hedges. Draco ran until his lungs burned, until the taste of copper in his mouth was all he knew. He found a secluded alcove near the old stone fountain, a place hidden by weeping willows. He collapsed into the dirt, curling into a ball, his forehead resting against the cold stone.

He sobbed then—not the dramatic, whining cries of his youth, but deep, soul-wrenching sounds that shook his entire frame. He felt broken. He felt like a failure. Every insecurity he had ever felt since meeting his brilliant, powerful brothers came roaring back. He was nothing. He was just a boy from a fallen house, and his uncle had just confirmed it in front of everyone.

"Draco."

The voice was sharp, authoritative, yet laced with a frantic edge. Draco stiffened, trying to stifle his sobs. He knew that voice.

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the clearing. He had just arrived, having missed the dinner but hearing the whispers of the servants the moment he crossed the threshold. He stopped dead when he saw his son.

Draco’s robes were torn, his face was a mask of bruises and drying blood, and he was shaking so violently he looked as if he might break apart.

Lucius moved with a speed he rarely showed. He was on the ground in an instant, his hands—usually so careful to maintain decorum—clutching Draco’s shoulders. "Who did this?"

Draco couldn't speak. He just shook his head, burying his face in his hands.

"Draco, look at me!" Lucius demanded, his voice cracking. He pulled Draco’s hands away, and when he saw the extent of the damage—the swelling, the deep gash, the sheer terror in his son's eyes—Lucius’s face transformed. The refined mask of the English aristocrat fell away, replaced by a cold, murderous rage that rivaled Alaric’s.

"Alaric," Lucius whispered, the name a curse. He didn't need to ask. Only one man in this estate had the power and the gall to do this.

Lucius pulled Draco into his arms, holding him with a fierce, desperate strength. He didn't care about the blood staining his own expensive silk robes. He rocked his son, his jaw set so tight it looked ready to snap.

"I have to go," Lucius murmured against Draco’s hair, his voice thick with suppressed fury. "I have to deal with this, Draco. I have to... I have to ensure he never breathes the same air as you again."

"Don't leave," Draco whispered, his voice small and broken.

"I will be back. I promise you," Lucius said, his eyes burning with a lethal light. He stood, his hand lingering on Draco’s head for a brief second before he turned and strode back toward the manor, his stride that of a man going to war.

Draco stayed there, slumped against the fountain, the silence of the garden feeling like a tomb. He felt as if he were fading away.

A few minutes later, the grass rustled again.

"Draco? Little dragon?"

It was Darien. He approached slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Silvanius was right behind him, carrying a basin of warm water and a stack of clean linens.

When they saw him—really saw him in the fading light—Silvanius made a soft, choked sound. He knelt beside Draco, his hands trembling as he dipped a cloth into the water.

"He’s gone, Draco," Silvanius whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Father is... Father is dealing with Alaric. They are in the study. I’ve never heard Father shout like that."

Darien sat on the other side of Draco, sliding a powerful arm around his shoulders and pulling him firmly against his chest. He didn't ask for permission. He simply took hold of him, anchoring him.

"I should have stopped him," Darien growled, his voice thick with guilt. "I saw him move and I didn't... I didn't think he would actually—"

"No one thought he would," Silvanius interrupted, his focus entirely on dabbing the blood away from Draco’s eye. "He has never laid a hand on us. Not like that. Never."

Draco leaned into Darien’s heat, his eyes closing as the warmth of his brother’s body started to seep into his chilled bones. "He said... he said I was a disgrace."

"He’s a fool," Darien snapped, his grip tightening. "He’s a man obsessed with a crown he hasn't even inherited yet. You are a Malfoy, Draco. You are *our* brother. You have more courage in your pinky finger than he has in his entire royal guard."

Silvanius finished cleaning the gash, his movements tender, almost reverent. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Draco’s. "You are not lower than us, Draco. Do you hear me? Never. You are the heart of this family. Alaric... Alaric is a relic. You are the future."

Draco let out a long, shuddering breath. The physical pain was still there—a dull throb in his ribs and a sharp sting on his face—but the crushing weight in his chest began to lift, just a fraction.

"I want to go home," Draco whispered.

"We are going home," Darien promised, kissing the top of Draco’s head. "As soon as Father finishes tearing the wing off the chateau, we are leaving. We'll go back to the Manor. Just us."

Silvanius pulled a small vial from his pocket—a Calming Draught they always carried for him. He uncorked it and held it to Draco’s lips. "Drink, little one. We’ve got you."

Draco drank, the potion sliding down his throat like liquid peace. He felt his muscles finally begin to relax, his head falling back against Darien’s shoulder.

In the distance, the sound of raised voices drifted from the manor—Lucius’s cold, sharp tones clashing with Alaric’s booming roar. But here, under the willow tree, Draco was surrounded by the two people who mattered most.

The cousins—Annalise and Mathilda—appeared at the edge of the clearing, their faces full of sorrow. They didn't come closer, sensing the private sanctity of the brothers' bond, but they stood guard, a silent apology in their presence.

"You're okay," Darien whispered, rocking him gently. "We're here. We're always here."

Draco closed his eyes, a single, final tear escaping. He was hurt, he was bruised, and the memory of the blows would haunt him for a long time—but as Darien’s arms held him tight and Silvanius began to hum a low, familiar tune, he knew he wasn't alone. He was a Malfoy, and though one of them had tried to break him, the rest would spend their lives making sure he stayed whole.