AH

The air in the French estate was usually thick with the scent of jasmine and the quiet, rhythmic hum of ancient magic, but tonight it tasted of copper and cold, unyielding iron. Draco stood in the center of the grand foyer, his breath hitching in his chest. He had made a mistake—a small, trivial thing in his eyes, a misplaced comment regarding the lineage of a visiting dignitary—but in the eyes of Alaric Malfoy, it was a stain upon the tapestry of their house.

Alaric did not raise his voice. He was the next in line for the throne, a man whose presence commanded the very shadows to still. When he stepped toward Draco, the cousins—Annalise, Julius, and Edmund—froze. Even Sebastian, usually so sharp and lethal, went rigid.

"You forget yourself, boy," Alaric said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.

Before Draco could stammer an apology, the first blow landed. It wasn't a clip to the ear or a shove. It was the heavy, crushing force of a man who had led armies. The back of Alaric's hand cracked against Draco’s jaw, sending him spinning. Draco hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, his vision blooming into white sparks.

"Father!" Annalise gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, but she did not move. No one moved. The authority Alaric wielded was absolute, a crushing weight that pinned them all to the spot.

Alaric didn't stop. He stepped over Draco, hauling him up by the collar of his silk shirt. "You are a Malfoy by blood, but you lack the soul of one," he hissed. He struck him again, a brutal punch to the ribs that elicited a choked, wet sob from Draco’s throat.

"Please," Draco whimpered, his hands clawing feebly at Alaric’s iron grip. "Uncle, please—"

The third strike was a closed fist to the temple. Draco’s head snapped back, and as he fell again, a spray of crimson splattered across the white marble—and across Alaric’s pristine cuff. Draco lay there, curled into a ball, shaking so violently his teeth rattled. He wasn't just hurt; he was shattered. The humiliation of being beaten like a common cur in front of his cousins, the servants, and his brothers was a pain far worse than the broken skin.

Silvanius and Darien stood paralyzed. Their faces were masks of horror. Darien’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white, his eyes misting with a protective rage he didn't dare voice against the head of their house. Silvanius looked as though he might faint, his breath coming in shallow hitches.

Alaric looked down at his blood-stained hand with a cold, detached disgust. "Clean this mess," he commanded the air, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.

The silence that followed was deafening. Draco scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of blood and tears. He didn't look at his brothers. He couldn't. He turned and bolted, his boots slipping on his own blood as he vanished into the labyrinthine corridors of the estate.

It was Lucius who found him an hour later, tucked into the darkest corner of the wine cellar, shivering behind a rack of dusty vintages. Lucius’s face was a storm of barely suppressed fury. He didn't have his cane, but his presence was no less formidable. He knelt in the dirt, his expensive robes trailing in the grime.

"Draco," he whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out, but Draco shied away, a broken sound escaping his lips. "He... he hit me, Father. He hit me like I was nothing."

Lucius pulled him into a crushing embrace, ignoring the blood staining his own chest. "I know. I am going to deal with this, Draco. But first, we must move. Your brothers are losing their minds."

Lucius had to leave shortly after to confront Alaric—the only man he could truly fight—leaving the actual healing to the two people Draco trusted most, yet feared facing in this state.

When Silvanius and Darien finally entered the small infirmary room where Draco had been brought, the sight stopped them dead. Draco was hunched over, his head buried in his knees. The damage was extensive. Alaric’s rings had caught Draco’s scalp, and the wounds were jagged, matted with dried blood and hair.

"We have to shave it, Draco," Silvanius said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to be the composed scholar.

"No!" Draco shrieked, his voice raw. "No, please! Not my hair!"

"It’s infected, Little Dragon," Darien said, stepping forward. His usual jovial warmth was gone, replaced by a grim, heartbreaking resolve. "The wounds are deep. We can't heal them properly through the hair."

It was a nightmare. Draco fought them, sobbing and begging, his pride the last thing he had to cling to. But they were stronger. Darien held him down, his arms like bands of steel, while Silvanius used a silver blade to carefully, agonizingly, remove the platinum locks Draco had always been so vain about. By the time they were finished, Draco was bald, his scalp a map of bruises and stitches.

The next morning brought no reprieve. The fever had set in, a byproduct of the shock and the harsh antiseptic Silvanius had been forced to use. Draco lay in the middle of the large bed, his head wrapped in bandages, refusing to look up.

"Drink this," Silvanius said, his voice firm. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding a vial of cooling draught.

Draco didn't move. "Go away."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, you will drink this or I will make you," Silvanius snapped, though his eyes were full of pain. He pulled Draco upward, and when Draco resisted, Silvanius gave him a sharp, stinging slap across his thigh through the covers. "Stop being a martyr. We are trying to save you."

Draco broke. He rolled over, his face puffy and unrecognizable. "Why do you even care? I'm a disgrace! I let him beat me! I’m not like you! I’m not a prince, I’m not a warrior—I’m a leech!"

He threw himself off the bed, collapsing onto his knees at their feet. He ignored the fire in his ribs and the stinging of his scalp. He grabbed at Darien’s boots, his fingers trembling.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed, the sound rhythmic and haunting. "I’m sorry I ruined your standing. I’m sorry you have to be seen with me. Please, don't cast me out. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your servant, just don't tell me I'm not your brother anymore."

Darien let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. He reached down and caught Draco under the armpits, hauling him up with such force that Draco’s feet barely touched the floor. He didn't put him on the bed; he sat on the plush armchair and pulled Draco directly into his lap, manhandling him until Draco was curled into a ball against his chest.

"You idiot," Darien hissed, his voice thick with emotion. "You absolute, arrogant little fool." He began to rock him, his large hands stroking Draco’s back with a frantic rhythm. "Do you think our love is so fragile? Do you think we care about 'standing' when you’re bleeding?"

Silvanius moved then, too. He didn't stay distant. He climbed onto the side of the chair, leaning his weight against them both. He took Draco’s hand—the one that had been scraped raw against the marble—and began to apply more of the stinging ointment.

Draco hissed, trying to pull away. "It hurts! Stop, it hurts!"

"I know it does," Silvanius whispered, his face inches from Draco’s. "But you will sit still. You will let us care for you." He leaned forward and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Draco’s bandaged temple. "You are our brother. Not because of your hair, or your politics, or your pride. Just because you are ours."

For hours, they stayed like that. The morning sun crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Draco’s sobs eventually faded into hitching breaths, and then into a low, vibrating purr that he couldn't suppress. He felt small, humiliated, and physically broken, but the warmth of his brothers acted as a balm the potions couldn't match.

There was a soft knock on the door. It was Annalise. She stepped in tentatively, carrying a tray of sweets and a soft, silk cap. Behind her stood Sebastian, his expression uncharacteristically soft.

"We brought... things," Annalise said, her voice small. "Father is... he has been confined to his quarters by the Queen. She is most displeased."

Sebastian stepped forward, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. It was a brief, firm pressure, but for the cold uncle, it was an ocean of affection. "He will never lay a hand on you again, Draco. I have given my word to Lucius."

Draco didn't look at them, hiding his face in the crook of Darien’s neck. He felt the shame rising again, the knowledge that they had all seen his weakness.

"He thinks he’s a leech," Darien told the room, his voice bitter.

Julius and Edmund appeared in the doorway then. "A leech?" Julius snorted, though his eyes were wet. "More like a pestering kneazle. But you’re our pestering kneazle."

"We’re going to help you grow it back," Edmund added, gesturing to Draco’s head. "We’ll find the best tonics in France. You’ll be even more insufferable by Christmas."

Draco let out a weak, watery chuckle. He felt Silvanius’s fingers begin to comb through the air where his hair used to be, a soothing, repetitive motion that made his eyes heavy.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered one last time, his voice slurring with exhaustion.

"Hush," Silvanius commanded softly. "Sleep, Draco. We have you. We always have you."

As the youngest Malfoy finally drifted into a deep, feverish sleep in his brother's lap, the rest of the family stood guard. They were a house divided by many things—politics, wars, and secrets—but in the quiet of the infirmary, they were a single unit, a fortress built around the broken boy they all, in their own silent ways, absolutely adored.