Alaric Hit

The morning had begun with the usual, gilded grace that defined the Malfoy and de Valois households. Sunlight spilled across the breakfast hall, catching the silver embroidery on Darien’s tunic and the pale, shimmering gold of Draco’s hair. There was a lightness in the air, the kind that only existed when the family was gathered away from the prying eyes of the world. Draco was leaning into Silvanius’s side, half-whispering a complaint about the stiffness of his new riding boots, while Darien watched them with a smirk, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat on the table.

It happened in the span of a heartbeat.

A crash echoed through the hall—a Ming Dynasty vase, a relic of the Queen’s personal collection, lay shattered across the marble. Draco stood frozen, his hand still outstretched, his face pale. It was an accident—a clumsy, teenage stumble—but the air in the room didn't just chill; it solidified.

Alaric stood at the head of the table. He was the epitome of royal authority, a man whose shadow governed the very ground they stood upon. Usually, Alaric was the indulgent uncle, the man who had raised Silvanius with the same stern but steady hand he gave his own children. But today, something in him snapped. Perhaps it was the stress of the brewing tensions in the southern territories, or perhaps it was the sight of the youngest Malfoy—the one who hadn't been forged in the fires of their wars—acting with such careless ease.

"Draco," Alaric said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the silver on the table rattle.

"I—I'm sorry, Uncle, I didn't mean—" Draco started, his voice small, his eyes darting to Silvanius for protection.

Alaric didn't wait for the apology. He moved with a lethality that reminded everyone in the room that he had killed men with his bare hands before he was twenty. He was across the floor in a blur of motion.

The first blow was a backhand so powerful it sent Draco spinning. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was sickeningly loud in the silent hall. Draco hit the ground hard, his breath leaving him in a wheeze.

"Father!" Julius cried out, half-rising from his chair, his face a mask of horror.

"Stay down," Alaric barked, and the sheer weight of his command pinned his own children to their seats.

Alaric reached down, his large hand fistting into the collar of Draco’s silk shirt and hauling him upward as if he weighed nothing. Draco’s eyes were wide, blown out with a terror so profound he couldn't even scream. He looked like a broken doll in the grip of a titan.

"You come into this house with your whims and your tantrums," Alaric hissed, his face inches from Draco’s. "You think because your brothers shield you, the world will do the same? You are a Malfoy. You are a prince of the blood. And you are a disgrace."

He threw a punch into Draco’s midsection—a short, brutal jab fueled by the strength of a trained warrior. Draco folded, a choked sob finally escaping his throat. But Alaric wasn't finished. He gripped Draco’s shoulder, his fingers digging in with such force that the fabric of the shirt tore, and the sound of a muffled pop suggested a joint pushed to its limit. He shook the boy, a violent, bone-rattling motion that made Draco’s head snap back and forth.

"Alaric, stop!" Elodie screamed, her voice cracking as she finally broke through the shock. She rushed forward, but Sebastian was already there, his hand on Alaric’s arm, though even the cold, lethal Sebastian looked shaken.

"Brother, that is enough," Sebastian said, his voice taut.

Alaric shoved Draco away. The boy hit a side table, his face slamming against the edge before he tumbled to the floor. Silence reclaimed the room, heavy and suffocating. Draco lay curled on the marble, his body shaking with silent, racking sobs. Blood began to pool under his nose, and a deep, jagged cut on his cheek dripped crimson onto the white stone.

Alaric stood over him, his chest heaving. He looked down at his own hand—the knuckles were split, coated in the bright, hot blood of his nephew. He looked at the brothers.

Darien and Silvanius were statues of pure, unadulterated horror. Darien’s face had gone a ghastly shade of grey, his hands trembling so violently he had to grip the table to stay upright. Silvanius looked as though he had been turned to stone, his blue eyes fixed on the broken form of the brother he had spent years trying to protect.

The guards at the doors had turned away, their faces stoic but their eyes filled with a rare, flickering pity. To see the Crown Prince descend into such a primal rage was something they would never forget.

"Get up," Alaric commanded.

Draco didn't move. He couldn't. He was drowning in the humiliation, the pain, and the sheer, shattering realization that the safety he felt in this family was a lie. He had always felt lower than them—lesser, weaker—and Alaric had just confirmed it with his fists.

"I said, get up!"

"He can't!" Silvanius finally found his voice, a raw, strangled sound. He lunged forward, but Alaric’s cold gaze stopped him mid-stride.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung open. Lucius Malfoy walked in, his stride purposeful, his expression neutral until his eyes landed on the scene. He saw the blood. He saw Alaric’s stained hand. He saw his youngest son crumpled like discarded parchment on the floor.

Lucius didn't scream. He didn't draw his wand. The air around him simply died. He walked forward, his boots clicking softly on the marble, passing his brothers without a word. He knelt beside Draco, his hands hovering over the boy’s shaking shoulders.

"Draco," Lucius whispered.

At the sound of his father's voice, Draco let out a wail—a broken, high-pitched sound of pure agony. He scrambled back, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, his eyes blind with tears. Before anyone could grab him, he shoved himself up, ignoring the way his leg buckled, and bolted. He ran past the servants, past the stunned cousins, and disappeared into the labyrinthine corridors of the estate.

Lucius stood up slowly. He turned to Alaric, his eyes burning with a lethal, barely suppressed rage that rivaled the Dark Lord’s. He didn't look at the vase. He didn't look at Elodie.

"If you ever touch him again," Lucius said, his voice a whisper that carried more weight than Alaric’s roar, "I will burn everything you have built to the ground. Throne be damned."

He didn't wait for a response. Lucius turned and strode out, his heart hammering against his ribs as he went to find his son.

***

The gardens were vast, filled with hidden alcoves and ancient stone statues. Lucius found him tucked into a narrow gap behind a statue of a weeping willow, his face buried in his knees, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.

"Draco," Lucius said softly, kneeling in the dirt. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he brushed a stray, blood-matted hair from Draco’s forehead. "Look at me."

Draco looked up, and Lucius felt his heart shatter. The boy’s eye was already swelling shut, his lip was split, and the cut on his cheek was deep. But it was the look in his eyes—the absolute, crushing shame—that hurt the most.

"I'm sorry," Draco sobbed, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Father, I'm so sorry."

"Hush," Lucius murmured, pulling him into his arms. He held him tightly, letting the boy’s blood ruin his expensive robes. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing."

Lucius held him until the frantic sobbing turned into low, exhausted whimpers. He checked his watch—he had to meet with the ministry officials in ten minutes, a meeting that could not be delayed without risking their entire standing. He hated it. He hated the world that forced him to leave his broken child.

"Darien and Silvanius are coming," Lucius whispered, kissing Draco’s temple. "They will take care of you. I have to go, but I will be back. Do you hear me? I am coming back for you."

Draco nodded weakly, his head lolling against the stone. Lucius stood, his face hardening into a mask of cold iron as he walked away, leaving the boy in the shadows.

Minutes later, the sound of rushing footsteps echoed through the garden.

"Draco! Draco, please!" It was Darien. He sounded frantic, his usual composure completely gone.

Julius, Alaric’s eldest, was with them. He was the one who spotted the flash of blonde hair in the shadows. "There! Behind the willow!"

Darien was there in a second, sliding on his knees into the dirt. He didn't care about his clothes or his dignity. He reached for Draco, but the boy flinched so violently he hit his head against the statue.

"No, no, it's me, it's Darien," the older brother choked out, his eyes filling with tears as he saw the extent of the damage. "I've got you, little bird. I've got you."

He pulled Draco into his lap, manhandling him with a desperate, fierce tenderness. Draco didn't purr this time. He just shook, his fingers clutching at Darien’s tunic as if he were drowning.

Silvanius arrived a moment later, his face pale and set. He dropped to the ground on Draco’s other side, his hands moving with practiced, scholarly precision as he began to murmur diagnostic spells.

"His ribs are bruised, possibly cracked," Silvanius whispered, his voice trembling. "The facial trauma is... God, Darien, look at his hand."

Draco’s hand was swollen, the fingers bent at unnatural angles where Alaric had crushed them.

Julius stood back, his face filled with a profound, quiet horror. "Father... he's never been like that. I don't know why... I'm so sorry, Silvanius."

Silvanius didn't even look up. "Leave us, Julius."

"Silv—"

"Leave!" Silvanius snapped, his eyes flashing with a cold fire that made the cousin flinch. "Go back to your father. Tell him he has lost his nephews. Tell him he is no longer welcome in our sight."

Julius bowed his head and retreated, his heart heavy with the weight of his father's sin.

Back in the alcove, Darien was rocking Draco back and forth, pressing his face into the boy’s hair. "I'm so sorry we didn't move faster. I'm so sorry, Draco. I'll kill him. I'll kill him for this."

"Don't," Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. "He’s right. I’m... I’m nothing."

"You are everything," Silvanius said, his voice cracking as he pressed a vial of calming draught to Draco’s lips. "You are our heart, Draco. And anyone who touches you is an enemy of the Malfoy name. Even a King."

Draco finally let go, his body sagging against Darien as the potion took hold. He fell into a fitful, pain-filled sleep, cradled by the two brothers who would have burned the world for him, while the blood of his own kin dried on his skin—a permanent stain on the legacy they all carried.

In the distance, the palace remained silent, but the foundations had already begun to crumble. The youngest Malfoy had been broken, and in doing so, Alaric had unleashed a darkness in Darien and Silvanius that no crown could ever hope to contain.