secret

Past

September 30, 2002

Theo’s Townhome —  Rome, Italy

Dear Bella, 

I used to think heartbreak would feel dramatic. 

Like something violent. Something catastrophic. 

A curse to the chest. A broomstick plummeting from the sky. Some grand, terrible unraveling befitting the sheer devastation of loving you. 

I was wrong. 

Heartbreak, I’ve learned, is much quieter than that.

It is sitting across from you at dinner while another man makes you laugh. It is smiling when you introduce him, pretending my entire world isn’t quietly collapsing beneath my feet. It is realizing that the life I had been too frightened to reach for has continued on without me. 

I always knew there would come a day when someone else might hold your heart. 

I just never allowed myself to imagine what it would feel like to witness it. 

Now I know. 

It feels like grief. 

Not the sharp, immediate kind. No, this grief is slower. More insidious. A thousand tiny deaths stretched across polite dinners, shared laughter, and every moment I’m forced to watch someone else stand where I have spent years aching to be. 

The worst part is that I can’t even hate him. 

Merlin knows I’ve tried. 

But Cedric is good to you. 

He’s steady where I am restless. Safe where I am fractured. Open in ways I have never quite managed to be. 

And you seem happy. 

You seem beautifully, devastatingly happy that I can’t even bring myself to resent you for it. 

So instead, I do what cowards do best. 

I love you silently. 

I stand beside you as your best friend while every selfish part of me grieves something I never truly had. 

I wonder, sometimes, if things would be different had I been brave enough to hand you the letter myself. 

Had I trusted you with the truth instead of hiding it between folded parchment and fear. 

But I wasn’t brave. 

And now I must live with that. 

You once told me that healing requires honesty. 

I think perhaps that’s why I remain so thoroughly unhealed. 

Because I have never been honest with you about the one thing that mattered most. 

I love you. 

I suspect I always will. 

Even if loving you means learning how to survive being left behind. 

For Always, 

Teddy

There was something ritualistic about this now. Like self-inflicted punishment, torturous and masochistic at its very core.

He stopped pretending these letters were for you. 

They were for him. 

A way to bleed without making a mess anyone could see. A way to say things he had no right to say out loud, because saying them out loud would make them real in a way he could no longer take back. 

And maybe that was the point. 

Because in the writing, there was a strange kind of control. If he couldn’t change what had already been lost, he could at least decide how honestly he mourned it. 

Even if no one reads it. 

Even if it changed nothing at all.

Past

September 1, 2002

Rosemere Cottage — Cornwall, England

When Theo returned from Rome, he already knew. 

Or perhaps knowing wasn’t quite the right word.

Hope, after all, had a way of making fools out of people. 

Even when your letters had gradually begun mentioning Cedric more and more. Even when your words remained warm but carefully absent of any acknowledgement toward the confession Theo had poured onto parchment with trembling hands. 

Still, some deeply pathetic part of him had clung to the possibility that perhaps you simply hadn’t read it yet. 

That perhaps life had merely gotten in the way. 

That perhaps—

Then Cedric arrived at dinner. 

And just like that, Theo’s last fragile delusion died a swift and merciless death. 

Your mother, as radiant as ever, welcomed Theo home with enough enthusiasm to almost make him forget the slow collapse currently unfolding inside his chest. 

“Theodore!” 

Before Theo could so much as set down his coat, Estelle was already pulling him into an aggressively affectionate embrace. 

“Oh, look at you,” she fussed, holding him at arm’s length for a proper inspection. “A few weeks in Rome and somehow you’ve come back even more handsome. Honestly, it’s sickening.” 

“Careful, Estelle,” Theo drawled, forcing ease into his voice. “Keep flattering me like this and I may become unbearable.” 

You nearly choked on your wine. “Too late.”

Theo turned to you with mock offense. “Betrayal. From my oldest ally.”

Cedric laughed lightly from across the table. “He does make a strong case for himself.”

Theo placed a hand over his chest. “Diggory, I’m touched. I had no idea you were capable of such excellent judgment.” 

“I have my moments,” Cedric replied good-naturedly.

“Don’t encourage him,” you muttered, already fighting a smile. “Theo’s ego is already unbearable without validation.” 

“Unbearable?” Theo echoed, scandalized. “I prefer exceptional.” 

“Delusional,” you corrected.

“Gifted,” Theo countered. 

Estelle laughed softly into her wine. “Unfortunately,” she said, “he’s been like this since birth.” 

“And yet,” Theo replied, grin widening, “you adore me anyway.”

“That,” Estelle said as she rose to retrieve dessert from the kitchen, “is because unlike my daughter, I know how to properly appreciate a menace.” 

And there it was again. That warmth. That unshakable, maternal love Theo had clung to for years in the absence of so much else. 

Something in his expression softened. “Thank Merlin,” he said lightly.

When Estelle returned carrying her famous chocolate cake, the entire table visibly brightened. 

“Well,” you said, sitting up straighter. “Here we are. The true reason Theo came back from Rome.” 

Theo grinned cheekily. 

“Honestly,” Estelle sighed fondly, slicing into the cake. “I don’t know why I bother cooking actual dinner when this is clearly all any of you care about.” 

“Because you love us,” Theo replied. 

“Some more than others,” you quipped.

Estelle ignored you entirely. 

Instead, with all the ceremony of a queen bestowing favor upon her chosen heir, she placed the largest slice directly in front of Theo. 

Your jaw dropped. “Mum!” 

Theo looked down at his plate, then back at Estelle with an expression of profound satisfaction. 

“Well,” he said, utterly insufferable. “I do believe that settles it.” 

“This is outrageous,” you declared.

Cedric laughed softly, shaking his head. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Traitor,” you accused.

Theo took an obscenely smug bite. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Victory has never tasted sweeter.”

“You are the worst.” 

“And still the favorite.” 

“You’re not even her child!” 

“Love transcends blood, bella.” 

Estelle was openly laughing now, completely unapologetic. 

Cedric watched the ease between you and Theo without interrupting it.

For a while, it was easy. Laughter bounced warmly through the dining room. Your mum looked happier than Theo had seen her in ages. You glowed in that way you always did when surrounded by people you loved. 

Cedric fit into the evening like he had been part of it all along. 

And Theo…

Theo played his part beautifully. He smiled. Teased. Stole bites off your plate. Let himself exist in the comforting illusion that perhaps nothing had truly changed. 

Until, somewhere between dessert and coffee, Cedric’s hand found yours beneath the table. 

Like it belonged there.

His appetite vanished entirely. Wine suddenly tasted sour. Cake turned to ash on his tongue. Conversation blurred at the edges. 

Two months. 

Two bloody months. 

Two months of a declaration you never acknowledged. 

Two months of hoping. Of rationalizing. Of telling himself that perhaps things were simply delayed, not destroyed. 

And all along, you had already begun building something new. 

Something that did not include him in the way he had once foolishly imagined. 

Theo remained until the end of dessert through sheer willpower alone. By the time Estelle offered tea, he was already pushing back his chair. 

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly. “I promised Nonna I’d owl her once I arrived.” 

Estelle’s expression softened immediately. “Don’t be a stranger, Theo.” 

Theo’s smile was gentler. Realer. “Never, Estelle.” 

You stood to hug him goodbye. And that, perhaps, was the cruelest part. Because you hugged him exactly the same. With the same amount of love and care that he knew no longer belonged to him. 

As though his entire world had not quietly collapsed over cake and candlelight. 

“I’m really glad you’re home, Teddy.” 

Theo swallowed the ache rising in his throat and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, bella,” he murmured. “Me too.” 

He stepped back before he could change his mind.

And as he turned toward the door, something small and uninvited surfaced in his mind. 

My dad planted the rose garden when I was born.

Your voice, not now, but then. Cornwall sunlight in your hair. Bare feet on warm stone as you led him through the garden paths like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to talk openly about grief while the sea watched from a distance. 

“Mum named it Rosemere Cottage after he passed,” you had said. “She said it felt right…like even after everything, this place still belonged to both love and memory.”

At the time, he hadn’t understood why he remembered it so clearly. 

Now, he did. 

Because as he stepped out into the cool night, he realized with starling clarity that home did not always mean safe. 

Behind him, laughter still echoed faintly from the dining room.

Inside was warmth. 

Light. 

You. 

Theo would later think that Rosemere Cottage had been the first place he had ever learned what home truly felt like.

And for the first time in his life, Theo understood that sometimes the thing you love most can become the very thing that ruins you. 

Mattheo found him several hours later, halfway through a bottle of Ogden’s and rapidly working toward self-destruction. 

“I’m so sorry, mate.” 

Theo laughed then. 

A broken, splintered laugh that sounded far too much like grief. 

“She’s happy.”

It was the only thing he could manage. 

Mattheo, for once, didn’t offer wit or teasing.

He simply stayed. 

Though the drinking. Through the unraveling. Through the quiet devastation Theo could no longer suppress. 

And later, when Theo’s heartbreak had exhausted itself into something quieter but no less painful, Mattheo guided him to bed, left water and potion by his nightstand, and said nothing at all about the tears Theo had been too drunk to hide. 

It was, perhaps, the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. 

But heartbreak, unfortunately, did not end there. 

Because there were still two weeks of summer left. 

And you, blissfully unaware of the destruction Theo was carefully concealing, wanted to spend them together. 

Present

June 2, 2003

Madame Malkin’s Robes — London, England

“You’re spiraling,” Padma observed without looking up from the rail of dresses she was sorting through.

Hermione paused mid-step, an emerald gown draped over her arm. “Padma.” 

“What?” she asked, entirely unbothered. “She is.” 

You exhaled through your nose, smoothing your hand over the silk fabric you had been pretending to examine for the last ten minutes. It didn’t need smoothing. Nothing did. Still, your fingers kept moving anyways, like the action might keep your thoughts from settling too heavily in one place. 

“I’m not spiraling,” you said. 

Padma finally glanced at you, one brow lifting slightly. 

“You’ve been glaring at chiffon for twenty minutes." 

“What Padma means,” Hermione cut in gently, “is that you seem a little distracted.” 

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically. 

The response came too quickly, too practiced. Like if you said it enough times you might actually start to believe it. 

Padma hummed, unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t press. 

Hermione hung the green dress back and moved a little closer instead, her voice softening in that way she had when she didn’t want you to feel cornered. 

“You’ve just been quieter than usual,” she said. “That’s all.” 

“I’m always quiet when I’m shopping,” you said lightly.

Padma let out a small sound of amusement. “That’s not what Hermione meant, and you know it.” 

You huffed a breath, setting the dress aside at last. It slipped from your hands too easily, like everything else in your life lately. 

“I’m here,” you said.

Padma tilted her head. “You know, you’re not a very good liar.” 

That almost pulled a smile from you. 

Hermione shot her a look. “Padma.” 

“What?” she repeated. “She isn’t.” 

There was something comforting in the way they spoke to you. Direct, but never cruel. Honest in a way that didn’t feel like punishment. 

A contrast you couldn’t stop noticing lately. 

You adjusted the fabric again, even though it was already perfect. 

“How was the fundraiser?” Hermione asked, easing the conversation forward. 

You blinked slightly, grateful for the shift. 

“Fine,” you said. “Busy. Cedric was there, the team was there. People drank too much firewhisky and pretended it was networking.” 

“And Cedric?” Hermione asked again, softer now. “How is he liking the Cannons?” 

You opened your mouth, then paused. Because you didn’t actually know. Not properly. 

“He likes it,” you said finally. “He’s…busy. They travel a lot.”

Padma hummed again, quieter this time. “That’s it?” 

You hesitated. 

The silence that followed felt louder than your answer. 

Your fingers stilled on the fabric. 

For some reason, you thought of Theo. You hadn’t meant to, but your thoughts always seemed to drift towards him, like a reflex your mind hadn’t quite unlearned. 

If Hermione had asked you about Theo, you would’ve known everything. 

What he was reading. What he was avoiding. What he was pretending not to care about. You would’ve known without asking because Theo never required translation. Knowing him was like instinct. Almost as though you were always meant to be fluent in him. 

He would’ve known the same about you. 

He always had. 

Cedric was kind. He was steady. He made space for you in his life. 

But sometimes it felt like you were playing a role rather than being yourself. 

Theo had never made you feel like something to display. 

He would’ve been proud of you, yes, but not because of what you represented or how good you looked standing next to him. Just proud because he had always been your biggest supporter, even when you had no idea what you were doing. 

The thought lodged itself in your chest before you could stop it. 

You didn’t say any of it out loud. 

But Hermione’s expression shifted anyway, like she had caught something in the silence between your words. Padma, of course, noticed too. 

“You’re thinking too hard again,” she said, quieter now. Less teasing. 

“I’m not,” you replied, though it sounded weaker than you intended. 

Hermione stepped closer and adjusted a mauve dress against your shoulders, her hands careful and familiar. 

“You can tell us,” she said gently. “Whatever it is.” 

Something in your chest tightened. 

“I know Theo needed space,” you said suddenly, voice quieter than before. Your fingers brushed over silver embroidery you hadn’t actually been seeing. “I know that. Merlin, I know him better than anyone.” 

Hermione’s movements slowed. 

“But everyone made choices for me,” you continued, and now the words were harder to hold back. “They let him disappear. They let me sit there and wonder, and none of them thought I deserved answers.” 

Padma folded her arms. “That’s because your friends,” she said dryly, “are emotionally constipated aristocrats.” 

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted.

Hermione shot Padma a look, though there was no real heat in it. 

Then she looked back at you. 

“Then maybe it’s time they stop deciding what protects you,” she said simply. 

That settled something in you, though not fully. 

Not yet, anyways. 

Because even as you stood there, surrounded by silk and gold thread and the easy warmth of people who actually listened when you spoke, there was still a missing space inside you that nothing quite filled. 

And you hated that you could name exactly who it belonged to. 

You weren’t sure how long you stood there after that. 

Hermione eventually returned to fussing over fabric choices like the conversation hadn’t shifted something important beneath all of you. Padma moved on to commenting that half the current season’s dresses looked like “they were designed by someone who has never met a human body before,” which unfortunately, you agreed with more than you should have. 

It was easier that way. 

Easier to pretend that you were just shopping. Easier to pretend that nothing had changed except the dresses on the rack. 

But something had. 

It stayed with you as you moved through the boutique, trailing silk and lace and too-expensive tags that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. 

Cedric texted you once. 

Then again later. 

You didn’t open either immediately.

You told yourself you were just busy. 

It was a little while later, as you stepped out of the boutique with far too many garment bags in hand and Hermione still debating whether she needed a backup gown “just in case,” that Padma suddenly slowed beside you. 

“Here comes trouble,” she muttered.

You followed her gaze before you could ask what she meant. 

Mattheo was leaning against the edge of a storefront like he had all the time in the world and nowhere particularly urgent to be. His dark coat hung open, posture loose and careless, with that familiar air of someone who was either about to flirt, fight, or do something profoundly reckless.

Possibly all three. 

His hair was slightly unruly, his expression rakish, and there was something unmistakably dangerous about the sharp cut of his grin. 

And yet, when his eyes landed on you, that grin softened into something far more familiar. 

“There she is,” he drawled, pushing himself off the wall.

Hermione smiled politely. Padma looked unimpressed in the way she always did with people she deemed potentially chaotic. 

“Riddle.”

Mattheo glanced between them, looking faintly entertained. “Granger. Patil. Always a pleasure being judged by London’s most terrifying intellectuals.” 

Padma crossed her arms. “And yet you still insist on lowering the collective standard.” 

That made him huff a quiet laugh. “Some of us commit to a brand.” 

Mattheo stepped closer then, and whatever teasing edge he carried with everyone else dulled as his attention settled fully on you. 

“You look tired,” he said simply.

“I’m fine,” you replied out of habit.

Mattheo’s gaze held yours, sharp in a way that reminded you he missed very little when it truly mattered.

“No,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not.” 

Hermione, perceptive as ever, glanced between you both. “We were actually just heading to dinner,” she said lightly, like she was offering an escape route rather than an interruption. 

Mattheo nodded once. “I won’t keep her long.” 

Padma tilted her head toward you. “We’ll wait a bit ahead.” 

Hermione gave your arm a gentle squeeze before following her, the two of them giving you space without making it obvious they were doing so. 

Only when they were out of earshot did Mattheo speak again.

“I should’ve told you,” he said simply.

Your jaw tightened. “Yes,” you said quietly. “You should have.” 

He nodded once, accepting it without defense. “I wanted to.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, gaze briefly dropping to the cobblestones beneath his boots.

“Because Theo asked us not to.”

The hurt that had already been simmering low in your chest twisted into something sharper. 

“So he comes back to London after a year and just…what? Pretends I don’t exist?” 

“That’s not what this is.” 

Your laugh came out brittle. “Isn’t it?” 

Mattheo’s expression tightened slightly. “No,” he said firmly. “It isn’t.” 

He glanced up, and for once, there was no mischief there. No easy charm. Just the fierce protectiveness that had always existed beneath the sharp edges.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, “Theo coming back here…it’s not easy for him.” 

Your hurt flared hotter. “Easy?” you repeated, incredulous. “Mattheo, he left.” 

His silence was brief, but telling. “I know.” 

“Do you?” you asked, more quietly now. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like everyone’s more concerned with protecting Theo than actually considering what any of this felt like for me.” 

That, at least, seemed to hit. 

Mattheo scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less like the effortlessly composed wizard most people saw. 

“We handled it badly.” 

You scoffed softly. “I'd say catastrophically, actually.” 

“No,” he said, more serious now. “You’re right.” 

His gaze met yours fully. “We should’ve done better by you.” 

The sincerity in it stole some of your anger, though not nearly all of it. Mattheo had always been many things, but disingenuous was not one of them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

And somehow, coming from him, the words felt heavier. Mattheo never apologized unless he truly meant it. You knew he was being sincere. 

You swallowed hard, looking away before the sting behind your eyes could fully betray you. “I just don’t understand,” you admitted. 

Your voice came out smaller than intended. “If I mattered so little to him, then why does this hurt so much?” 

Mattheo went very still. For the first time since you’d known him, he seemed genuinely caught off guard. Something flickered across his face—uncertainty, recognition, something like a thought he wasn’t prepared to voice. 

His brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not…” he started, then stopped. 

You looked back at him. “What?” 

But Mattheo, for once, seemed to think better of whatever he’d nearly said. 

“Nothing,” he replied, though it was far too quick. 

Your eyes narrowed. “Mattheo.” 

He offered you a crooked smile then, but it lacked its usual mischief. 

“Trust me,” he said lightly, though something about it felt carefully measured now. “There are a lot of things in this world Theo considers insignificant, but you aren’t one of them.” 

The statement settled strangely in your chest. 

Before you could press further, Mattheo gently took one of the heavier garment bags from your hand. 

“You should go,” he said, nodding towards the direction Hermione and Padma had headed. “Before Granger starts organizing a full scale search on your behalf.” 

Despite everything, you let out a soft laugh. “She absolutely would.”

“Terrifying witch.” 

“Why do you think we’re friends?” 

Mattheo handed the bag back, his grin returning, though softer this time. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said. “I am sorry, Y/N.”

His sincerity, so familiar and warm, nearly undid you. 

He stepped back then, returning once more to that dangerous, careless persona he wore so effortlessly. 

“Now go,” he added. “Before Patil decides I’ve emotionally compromised you beyond repair.”

“It’s a little too late for that.” 

Mattheo smirked. “Please. If I were truly trying to ruin you, you’d know.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the affection was there. 

As you turned to leave, however, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted. 

Because beneath Mattheo’s apology…

Beneath his loyalty…

Beneath all his carefully chosen words…

There had been hesitation. 

As if he knew something. 

Something he wasn’t ready to say. 

And for the first time, you began to wonder if Theo’s silence had never been quite as simple as you had allowed yourself to believe.

Past

September 22, 2002

London Floo Station — London, England

Theo made his decision a week early. 

He couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending that it wasn’t killing him. So he lied. 

“Nonna needs me back sooner than I expected.” 

It came out steadier than he felt. 

Your face changed immediately. 

“Oh,” you said. 

One quiet syllable threaded with disappointment that somehow made everything worse. 

Theo nodded once like it explained anything at all. 

It didn’t. 

The guilt hit him straight after, sharp and familiar, settling low in his chest like it had nowhere else to go.

But it still wasn’t enough to make him stay. 

At the Floo station, everything felt too bright, too loud, too normal for what this actually was. 

You stood beside him, fidgeting with your sleeve in a way you only did when you were trying not to think too hard about something. 

“Are we okay?” 

Theo’s entire body went still. 

You looked endearingly earnest. 

“I know things have been different,” you said softly. “And I know Cedric’s around more now, but…I just…” You swallowed. “You’re still the most important person in my life.”

Theo thought his heart might actually stop. 

“If something’s wrong,” you whispered, “just tell me, Teddy.” 

He could.

Merlin, he could. 

He could ruin it all.

Tell you everything. Tell you that nothing was wrong between you and that was the problem. Tell you that Cedric wasn’t the issue. Tell you that the issue was him. 

That he was standing here loving you in a way that had nowhere to go and no future to land in. That he didn’t know how to stay near you without it hurting. That he didn’t know how to leave without it killing him. 

He swallowed it all down instead. 

Because that was what he always did when it came to you. 

He chose you. 

Even when it cost him. 

“We’re okay,” he said quietly. “Bella, we’re okay.” 

Your shoulders loosened a little, like you’d been holding your breath without realizing. 

Theo forced something that might’ve passed for a smile. 

“As long as you’re happy,” he added softly, “I’m happy too.” 

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

You always did. 

That was the cruelest part. 

You stepped forward then, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t everything, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

Warm. Familiar. Safe in a way he didn’t deserve anymore. 

Theo closed his eyes for half a second too long. 

“See you soon—”

“Goodbye, Y/N.” 

He said it before you could finish. 

Before he could lose his nerve. 

It made you pause. 

Just for a second. 

Like something in the words didn’t sit quite right, even if you couldn’t name why. 

Theo didn’t give you time to question it. 

He stepped into the Floo before either of you could undo what was really happening. 

And the moment he stepped through the emerald flames and arrived back in Rome, Theodore Nott finally shattered.