Teddy is mine!

Draco was back at Hogwarts.

He knew it wasn’t real.

Just another dream, another memory haunted by the war. Yet when Pansy’s voice rose in protest, when Crabbe’s trembling hands and Blaise’s narrowed, scrutinizing eyes emerged, every detail was vivid enough to threaten drowning him in despair.

“Pansy, you’re not going,” he said, his tone firm yet laced with sorrow.

“Why not?!” she snapped, springing to her feet as if the very idea could shatter the fragile illusion.

They’d divided roles already—some would search for the diadem, while the others would lead the younger Slytherins to safety. There was no time for debate—and yet, bickering still filled the air.

Blaise, slouched against the worn arm of the couch, finally broke his silence. “They were chosen by No-Nose. They didn’t volunteer,” he said, his voice calm but weighted with reluctant truth. “If they could, they’d hide.”

Greg snorted—a hollow laugh against the echo of impending disaster.

Draco’s gaze shifted to Blaise. “Would you come with me if I asked?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “No. Unlike you, I actually like breathing.”

“Coward,” Draco muttered. The word was more resigned than venomous—a reflection of his fear.

“I prefer being strategically prudent,” Blaise countered, his tone edged with defiance.

Pansy’s voice was tinged with uncertainty. “I—I’m not great at Divination, but every vision I had was the same.” Her eyes darkened with the memory. “I saw… death.”

Draco exhaled sharply. “Yeah, Divination’s prodigy, there’s always death in a war,” he scoffed, dismissing her words as if they were mere background static. Perhaps he wished to believe it wasn’t serious, to shield himself from that crushing truth.

But Pansy’s eyes pleaded for him to understand. “You don’t get it. I saw our future—just ours—ended in death.”

“You sleep through every Divination class—you’re bound to be wrong.” Draco countered, his tone more defensive than compassionate. “Blaise, make sure she leaves with the others.”

Blaise gave a reluctant nod.

Then, for the first time that night, Crabbe’s quiet voice broke the stillness. “I don’t want to die.”

Draco clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “Then don’t die,” he said, as though the command could defy fate, even as the words carried the unbearable weight of inevitable loss

Everything was a blur. Draco stood frozen in the Slytherin common room, the emerald light from the lake casting jagged shadows across his housemates' faces. Pansy's shrill voice cut through the murmurs—"Let's hand him over!"—but her hands were shaking. Crabbe kept cracking his knuckles. Goyle stared at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

And Blaise? Blaise just looked at Draco.

And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the dream shifted. The roar of fire replaced every murmur.

In an instant, the Room of Requirement was ablaze. Draco was running, pursued by nightmares incarnate. Greg clung desperately to Weasley’s broom, blood staining his hands, while Potter’s shouts blurred into a chaotic symphony. His lungs burned under the oppressive heat of Fiendfyre—a wild, consuming, unstoppable force.

Draco remembered it too well, how he had stepped out of the Room of Requirement, engulfed in flames. He’d survived, thanks to the nobility of Saint Harry Potter—but he hadn’t spared a glance for Vincent Crabbe. His anger blazed hotter than any spell: Crabbe’s desperate bid to please Voldemort, the reckless spell that had set the room alight.

Draco would forever remember how Crabbe had begged and how he had dismissed him. He would remember Pansy’s warning, the one he had stubbornly refused to heed. Crabbe was gone.

He had fled from the Golden Trio without looking back, leaving nothing but regret. Greg had run beside him until he abruptly stopped.

“Pansy,” Greg had gasped.

“Right. She and Blaise are still out there, being idiots,” Draco had replied sharply.

He’d forgotten—a fleeting moment before entering the Room of Requirement, they spot Pansy and Blaise outside.

Later, Draco would learn that Blaise had promised to wait for Crabbe, to protect him once he left the room, and that Pansy, shaken by her dire vision, had needed to do something—anything—to stop it.

In that nightmare, Draco knew only uncertainty: were they still out there, or had they vanished into the chaos? With Crabbe lost in such a senseless way, both he and Greg felt a futile duty to search the war-torn corridors for friends who might already be gone.

Even if it wasn’t that long, Draco didn’t remember much about the war, and honestly, he was better off not remembering it. The few flashes and scenes he had already tormented him a lot.

A Death Eater tried to curse Draco. Potter saved him (again). Weasley cursed at him (again). Draco didn’t thank them (again).

He blinked and Blaise was there, alive, whole. Draco raised his wand to carve a “B” into his palm when, suddenly—

For the briefest of moments, it was as if a crushing weight settled on him, pulling him to the ground. His breath hitched, his lungs burning, and his legs buckled, sending him crashing to his knees. The world seemed to tilt, his vision swimming, as if the very air itself had turned thick and suffocating.

Draco gasped, trying to force air into his lungs, but it felt like the walls were closing in on him. It wasn’t just exhaustion, or the smoke from the fire—no, it was something far worse. The weight was too much, too immediate, pressing down on him from all sides.

In that instant, he understood.

His vision went black, and when he recovered, he was outside Snape’s office. Pansy appeared, her makeup a smeared mask streaked with tears. She hesitated, then threw herself into Draco’s arms—just as she always did—and this time, he didn’t push her away.

She glanced down the long, rubble-strewn corridor. Draco followed her gaze. They couldn’t see much, but they both knew: Greg was beneath the wreckage.

Draco told Pansy to leave, but she wasn’t listening. Her world was shattering too quickly; in her mind, she replayed the moment Greg cast that protective spell—saw his body crushed beside her untouched one.
“No, no. Greg is dead. And he told me Vince was dead. You are next. I saw it. I couldn’t stop any of it. I did everything wrong—”

Draco felt a surge of anguish—he wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at a world that had failed them. But if anyone had failed, it was he. Instead, he only embraced silence.

He pulled Pansy into a tight embrace. As she slowly relaxed, he gently covered his mouth. Blaise’s eyes widened in shock as he realized too late what was happening.

“Confundus Duo,” Draco murmured the incantation.

Pansy’s cries dwindled to uncertain blinks. Blaise staggered, his face a mask of disbelief.

“You’re upset because I won’t go out with you tonight,” Draco said quietly, his tone almost tender. “It’s a silly reason to cry, isn’t it?”

After a moment, she nodded, looking both foolish and lost. Draco smiled—a rare, warm smile—and gently wiped away her tears. Blaise, still speechless, couldn’t reconcile this tenderness with the hard man he’d known.

“Go to the pub with Blaise. Find Nott. Get out. Don’t listen to the sounds. Don’t look back. Just go.” For a fleeting moment, Draco considered Obliviating her memory—erasing the pain—but he couldn’t. He wanted her to choose, to remember, if ever she wished.

"Now what? You’ll Imperius me?" Blaise shot back.

"If I have to."

For a second, they just glared.

Draco’s gaze hardened as he took in the carnage of the night. In that moment, he felt the cold truth settle over him: he was going to die today anyway, and nothing mattered if it meant saving a few shattered souls. With a bitter shrug, he accepted the inevitability of his fate. 

“If I’m doomed, then I’ll face it on my own terms,” he murmured, stepping away as Blaise’s unsatisfied glare followed him.

Then Blaise grabbed Pansy’s wrist. "Come on, love. Let’s get a drink."

With that, Blaise grabbed Pansy’s wrist and dashed into the darkness.

And Pansy ran, pulled by Blaise. 

….

Draco’s eyes snapped open with a sharp, disorienting jolt. His body was drenched in cold sweat, and for a moment, the world around him felt unfamiliar, distorted. His heart was still racing, the phantom weight of loss pressing down on him, even though he was no longer on his knees, no longer trapped beneath the rubble of his own grief.

The nightmare had felt too real, too suffocating. For a second, he could almost still feel it: the crushing weight of Greg’s death, the air thick and heavy, the loss so sharp it felt like his own heart was being crushed.

But now, the room was dark and still. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Teddy, who had somehow found his way into Draco’s bed. The little boy’s small form was curled against Draco’s side, his hair a bright, soft blue even in sleep.

Draco's chest tightened at the sight, the ache in his heart not completely gone, but the presence of Teddy—warm, alive, so full of life—was the anchor he desperately needed. Without thinking, he pulled the boy closer, burying his face in Teddy’s soft hair. His arms wrapped tightly around him as if he could protect him from all the things Draco couldn’t save himself from.

The steady rise and fall of Teddy’s chest was a gentle reminder that, despite the weight of the past, there was something worth holding onto, something worth fighting for.

“It's okay,” Draco whispered, though it was more to himself than to the child. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, he allowed himself to be comforted, the remnants of the nightmare fading with each breath he took. Teddy shifted slightly in his arms, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep, and Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The world outside, with all its chaos and loss, seemed far away for just a moment.

As he held the boy close, Draco closed his eyes again, the weight of his nightmare still lingering but a little less unbearable. He had to keep moving forward—for Teddy, for himself, for everything he hadn’t lost yet.

The dream that had gripped him just now felt like a bad omen. The weight on his chest, the sudden collapse, the suffocating breathlessness—it wasn’t just about Crabbe, about Greg. It was everything he had been too afraid to admit: the danger was real, and it was closing in on them all. He couldn’t shake the thought that Harry might not come back safe this time.

The warmth of Teddy against him did little to ease the gnawing anxiety in his gut. Draco didn’t want to admit how much it had shaken him, how close he had come to losing control completely.

He shifted, carefully wrapping his arms tighter around Teddy, but the sense of foreboding lingered, heavy in the air around him. He’d barely said goodbye to Harry, but the words that had slipped from his lips still haunted him: I’m going to fight.

Draco’s heart raced again at the thought, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this fight was different. It wasn’t just about them anymore. It was about everything they had built, everything they were trying to protect. And with every passing second, it felt like the ground beneath him was slipping away, the darkness closing in.

…..

Upstairs, away from the low hum of the restaurant and the chaotic world outside, Morgana’s small flat felt both intimate and oppressive. The air carried the familiar scent of old parchment and well-loved books, mingled with the lingering aroma of her last meal. Tonight, it was more than just a quiet refuge—it was a stage for difficult truths.

Draco had never intended to set foot in this place again—not after everything. Not after realizing that the one person he’d once trusted so implicitly had been keeping secrets of her own. Yet here he was, drawn back by Teddy’s insistence. Earlier that evening, the little boy had tugged at Draco’s sleeve, clutching a set of bowls and dishes Morgana had left behind—remnants of a time before everything shattered.

“Dwaco, I miss Morgana.”

How could he explain betrayal to a child who still struggled to pronounce “apple”? Teddy’s world was simple: love was given freely, trust was unearned, and Morgana was the woman who sang silly songs while feeding him mashed peas.

Draco had tried to dismiss the request at first, ignoring the hopeful gleam in Teddy’s eyes. But the boy’s pleading was relentless, and eventually, Draco had agreed—not out of desire, but because explaining to a four-year-old why Morgana was no longer their friend was simply not an option.

Now, standing in Morgana’s flat once again, Draco felt his stomach twist. Earlier, the moment they’d arrived, Teddy had bolted straight to her with open arms, hugging her like nothing had changed, smiling innocently—just as Draco himself had once done when everything seemed simpler. That innocent display, so full of trust and hope, now cut him to the core.

He stood by the window, arms crossed, his mind churning with conflicted thoughts. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to leave—to take Teddy and get as far from Morgana as possible. Yet his feet felt like lead, unwilling to move, trapped by the weight of unspoken words. 

Morgana, oblivious to the storm raging inside him, greeted Teddy with a soft laugh as she knelt to ruffle his hair. “You took care of my bowls?” she asked gently.

“Uh-huh!” Teddy beamed, clearly pleased with himself.

At those words, Draco stiffened. His jaw clenched with a mix of anger and sorrow. Liar. He wanted to scream at her, to demand the truth, but something held him back. He couldn't. Not here. Not with Teddy so close. His protective instincts flared, a fierce desire to shield the boy from whatever darkness Morgana had brought into their lives.

Morgana’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt a tremor of annoyance rise in his chest. “You’ve been taking good care of him,” she said, her tone light, as if nothing had changed.

Draco’s hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to lash out—demand answers, tell her exactly how much she had betrayed them—but the tightness in his chest told him he couldn’t. Not while Teddy was so close. He couldn't lose control. Not again.

Instead, he forced his voice to remain calm, though it cracked with the weight of his restraint. “Teddy, I made that tart you like.”

Morgana smiled, her eyes flicking to the stairs as if sensing what was coming next. She was already trying to redirect Teddy away from him, away from the tension in the air.

“Tart?” Teddy’s eyes lit up, his focus shifting entirely. “Dwaco,” he murmured, reaching up with his small hands to grasp Draco’s sleeve.

Draco hesitated, then looked at Morgana. “Don’t take long.”

Teddy, without another word, skipped down the stairs, his little feet pattering across the floor. For a fleeting moment, Draco almost followed him, but he held himself back. It felt like a lie, this false normalcy. He couldn’t let it go on like this, not without knowing just how deep the betrayal ran.

“You told them everything, didn’t you?”

Morgana met his gaze, her expression steady but cautious.

“Not everything.”

Draco’s tone was sharp, measured—a veneer over the hurt within him.

“Just enough to make it impossible to trust you.”

Morgana tensed. “You think I wanted this? To report every time Harry snapped at you, or you flinched at a loud noise? They didn’t care about Teddy—they wanted you. Proof you hadn’t changed.”

Draco’s wand hand twitched. “And you gave it to them.”

“No. I gave what I saw.” She met his glare, unflinching. “I wrote that you take good care of him and how he likes you. When you cursed Potter for letting Teddy eat mud, I wrote ‘expressed concern for child’s health.’”

His jaw tightened. He wanted desperately to believe she had kept him and Teddy out of it—to believe she wasn’t betraying them. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at him.

Between them on the worn-out couch, Teddy fidgeted with his warm teacup. His wide eyes moved between them, sensing the tension but not fully understanding.

Morgana sighed and rose, moving to a small cabinet by the bookshelf. She pulled out a worn leather folder, her fingers brushing over its edges.

“Copies of everything I sent,” she said.

Morgana finally handed him the folder, her fingers brushing over it one last time before stepping back, as if giving him space to read. But Draco’s attention remained on her face, searching for the flicker of guilt or the truth she was hiding.

Morgana shook her head, stepping away. “I’ll get some tea.”

The woman went the same way as Teddy. Draco continued to analyze the letter, which seemed impersonal by the formal language, but still had details, such as his life, which was real. 

Draco’s eyes scanned the pages of the folder, the impersonal, sterile language of the documents doing nothing to ease the unease that gnawed at him.

There has been no change in Malfoy’s behavior toward the child, though it is noted that the subject is highly protective. Teddy Lupin has been allowed to mix with Muggle children, though necessary precautions are taken to ensure their safety. Malfoy’s reluctance to embrace Muggle society is changing.  

His behavior toward Morgana has become more open, though no signs of emotional attachment beyond basic respect for her presence have been observed. Malfoy has expressed concerns regarding the child’s well-being, which remains following Ministry expectations. Noteworthy: Shows tenderness towards the child.

Her words tried to balance the impossible—protecting Draco’s fragile trust in her while still ensuring that nothing too personal slipped through. She lied. Draco knew he had opened up to her, and he considered her a friend.

But she was careful not to make it seem like they were emotionally invested, even though, deep down, Draco knew that wasn’t the truth. He had felt it, in the moments they had shared, in the small acts of kindness. 

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy continue to share a household and maintain a working relationship regarding the care of Teddy Lupin. While there are frequent disagreements, the two have demonstrated an ability to compromise and share responsibility for the child’s well-being. No evidence of physical confrontation has been observed. The dynamic between the two is complex but appears stable, despite occasional tensions.

Reading those words, Draco could almost hear the carefully controlled neutrality in Morgana’s voice. She hadn’t said much, but there was something in the phrasing that seemed deliberate. She hadn’t said how Harry had gone to Muggle London to get a remedy when Teddy was sick, or how Draco had, on more than one occasion, caught Harry’s eyes across the room, a silent understanding passing between them. Morgana didn’t write about the small moments, the unspoken trust between them, or how, despite their differences, they had started to work together as a team. 

No. She had only written down what was safe, what wouldn’t betray the delicate balance she was walking. On one hand, she had to follow the Ministry’s orders—this was what they wanted to hear. But on the other hand, Morgana had done her best to balance the weight of the truth, to protect what she could without giving too much away.

It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself that all of it—the daily routine, the reports, the careful detachment—was worth it. As if the Ministry’s demands, the constant surveillance, weren’t just a weight on her conscience. But in the end, Draco saw the cracks. He saw how she had tried to argue that Teddy was fine, that he was being well cared for, and that everything was in its place. But there was no denying that the care Teddy received was real. It wasn’t just another impersonal line in a report. Morgana had, in her own way, shielded them, even as she followed orders.

But Draco couldn’t ignore the implications of what these reports meant. They were more than just notes—they were a constant reminder that someone had been watching, that someone had been judging, and, worst of all, that someone had been feeding the Ministry exactly what they wanted to hear. Morgana had kept the truth hidden, wrapped in bureaucracy, and never let herself slip. She had tried to protect him and Teddy, but she had also bound herself to a system that required her to report, to observe, to betray.

Yet as Draco closed the folder, a heavy realization settled over him. These reports were not merely observations—they were constant reminders that someone had been watching, judging, and recording every detail of their lives

Before he could dwell further, he heard soft footsteps behind him. Morgana appeared beside him, her tone unexpectedly light. “Guess your friends are worried.”

Draco didn’t even glance up from the folder. “What friends?” he asked, confusion lacing his tone.

Morgana paused. “Two young men and a gentle lady, they always come here. I figured you met them here.”

Draco didn't talk to anyone there besides Morgana, and his only guy friend was in the hospital. In an instant, he was on his feet, urgency replacing his calm veneer.

When they reached the stairs, the restaurant was eerily silent. The space where Teddy had been just moments ago was empty.

Teddy was gone.

Morgana’s eyes widened, and she reached out, voice trembling, “He was right here… I saw him talking to someone.”

In that charged silence, Draco’s thoughts churned—about having to confront Morgana again, to demand answers, to hear her recount every detail to justify her actions. It was a confrontation he dreaded, yet one he felt compelled to face. The memory of Teddy’s innocent hug burned in his mind, a painful reminder of what was at stake.

Draco’s stomach twisted as he stalked through the restaurant, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The tables, the chairs, the scent of roasted lamb still lingering in the air—it all felt wrong now, tainted. The place where Teddy had been, where he had laughed just hours ago, was now a crime scene. And Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that Morgana wasn’t just a bystander in this.

“You were the only one here,” Draco said, his voice ice-cold. He turned slowly to face her, his wand still clenched in his hand. “The only one close enough to let them in.”

Morgana’s eyes flashed. “You think I—?”

“I think I don’t trust you,” Draco cut in. “Not anymore.”

Morgana took a step forward, but Draco didn’t back down. If anything, he felt the weight of his suspicion settle deeper in his bones.

“They took him from here,” Draco pressed, voice tight. “From your restaurant. Either you let them in, or you weren’t paying attention. And I don’t know which one is worse.”

Morgana’s expression wavered, guilt flickering there for half a second before she masked it with something defensive. “I didn’t know, Draco. I swear.”

His hands curled into fists. “If I find out you had anything to do with this—”

“I didn’t,” she snapped, her voice shaking.

Draco didn’t believe her. Not completely. Not anymore.

Draco’s gaze hardened. “Friends,” he repeated bitterly, the word laced with acid. He leveled his glare at her. “What did they look like?”

Morgana’s mind raced, her voice faltering. “The woman had brown hair, I think… I—I wasn’t paying close attention. I was just passing by—”

Draco cut her off, whirling around, eyes blazing with anger. “Save it. You didn’t even look. You just let them—”

“I thought they were Aurors!” Morgana’s voice cracked. “Ministry’s people!”

“Harry’s people don’t snatch children!” Draco hissed.

“Draco, let’s be rational. Maybe it was Harry’s friends, maybe is a bad prank.” Morgana said, trying to sound calm, although she was obviously on the verge of going crazy.

“No, no. Harry is out of town—” Draco stopped, realizing it was on purpose. “I need to warn him.”

“I’ll send a Patronus,” Morgana said quickly, latching onto the task like a lifeline. She turned, already focusing, her wand raised with shaking hands.

Draco tried a tracking spell.

Blocked.

Another.

Blocked again.

He cast a third—more violently this time—but it sparked uselessly and died in the air.

Whoever took Teddy had thought of everything.

Each second stretched impossibly long. Each heartbeat was a hammer blow in his chest. His breath grew shallower, sharper, as panic swelled inside him, threatening to consume everything else.

How long had it been?

Minutes?

Too many.

Too many moments Teddy had been without him. Scared. Alone. Maybe hurt.

And Draco hadn’t been there.

His knees nearly buckled.

This wasn’t just fear. It was agony—pure, unrelenting. A clawing, screaming thing inside him that wouldn’t be soothed until he had Teddy back in his arms. Safe.

The room spun slightly. He reached for the edge of the counter to steady himself, chest heaving.

He had failed.

Again.

“Teddy…” Draco whispered, voice breaking as the silence pressed in.

Morgana’s Patronus flickered and vanished. She turned, pale, lips trembling. “There’s… one thing,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Draco didn’t answer. His fingers twitched toward his wand—useless, useless—before curling into fists.

Morgana stepped closer, her usual poise fractured. “Draco.”

He rounded on her, fury and fear sharpening his voice to a whip-crack. “Unless your next words are ‘I know where he is,’ save your breath.”

She flinched but held her ground. “I have dark magic books upstairs,” she whispered. “I don’t use them since… But I couldn’t destroy them.” A beat. “There might be a tracking spell.”

The word dark coiled in the air between them, venomous. Draco’s stomach turned. Of course. The universe wouldn’t let him outrun this. Not ever.

Of all things, why would she have kept them? 

What else could she have been involved in? 

He had sworn off that kind of magic long ago. The idea of delving into it again, especially in the presence of someone who was already under suspicion, made his skin crawl.

But in the silence that followed, the weight of his desperation bore down on him. He looked around the empty restaurant, remembering the space where Teddy had been, the absence too sharp to ignore. And just like that, the rational part of his mind quieted. His thoughts flashed to the tracking spells he’d already tried. Each had failed. And now, Morgana was offering something else, something that could lead them to Teddy.

His mind screamed not to trust her. But…

Without a word, Draco nodded sharply, the decision already made. “Show me.”