Past

December 12, 2002

Theo’s Townhome — Rome, Italy

Dear Bella, 

I don’t know why I keep writing these. 

Perhaps because there are some things I can’t say aloud, even now. Or perhaps because some foolish part of me still likes to pretend that one day you might read them and understand why I disappeared. 

The truth is, I wasn’t noble when I left. 

I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t selfless. 

I was heartbroken. 

For three months, I was hardly a person at all. I moved through Rome like a ghost in tailored suits, signing documents for the family business, reviewing vineyard accounts, attending meetings I scarcely remember. Every day felt identical to the last. 

Wake. Work. Breathe. Sleep. Repeat. 

I wasn’t living, bella. 

I was simply enduring. 

Nonna tolerated my sulking for precisely ninety-two days before she slapped me upside the head with her dish towel and informed me that if I insisted on acting like a tragic loon, I could at least do so while making myself useful. 

So she put me to work. 

At first, it was only small things. Helping at the restaurant. Delivering food to struggling magical families. Managing donations for local charities. Visiting hospitals and community centers she quietly funded, because apparently terrifying old Italian stregas are also saints. 

And somehow, in helping others, I began to feel less hollow. 

Nonna told me grief could either rot a man from the inside out or soften him enough to let the light back in. 

I think, perhaps, she was trying to save me from becoming my father. 

I learned more about my mother in those months than I had in years. About her laughter. Her kindness. The way she used to sing while cooking. I grew closer to my cousins, to my family, in ways I never expected. 

And still, through it all, I missed you. 

Merlin, I missed you. 

I missed your letters, though I didn’t deserve them. 

I missed Estelle’s warmth and chocolate cake. 

I missed the way your presence made every room feel less lonely. 

I miss my home. 

And though I had convinced myself I lost it, I have never truly stopped carrying it with me. 

For Always, 

Teddy

Past

December 12, 2002

Tenute Grimaldi — Tuscany, Italy

Rome did not heal Theo. 

Not at first. 

For the first three months, he existed in a haze of grief so dense it felt almost physical. Though he maintained a polished townhouse in Rome for business, Theo spent most of his days at Tenuta Grimaldi, his mother’s ancestral estate nestled deep within the Tuscan hills.

The vineyard had belonged to the Grimaldi family for centuries. 

Rolling hills of ancient vines stretched beneath the golden Italian sun, bordered by cypress trees and olive groves older than most wizarding bloodlines. The estate itself was sprawling and storied, all weathered stone, ivy-covered terraces, and enchanted cellars lined with generations of rare vintages. It was a place built on legacy, light, and survival.

A stark contrast to everything the Nott name had ever represented.

Theo buried himself in ledgers, contracts, vineyard inspections, and long afternoons helping at Nonna’s bustling restaurant nearby, where the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes clung to his clothes long after sunset. 

He worked because working was easier than thinking. 

At family dinners, his cousins filled the Grimaldi villa with laughter loud enough to shake the walls. They spoke over one another in rapid Italian, argued over harvest yields and wine pairings, and stole food straight from each other’s plates beneath frescoed ceilings that had witnessed centuries of family history.

For a while, Theo could almost pretend he was whole again. 

Until one evening, his youngest cousin glanced up from her pasta and asked, “Will Y/N come visit for Christmas?” 

The question struck like a blade between his ribs. 

Theo’s fork stilled. For half a second, the entire table went quiet.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think she will.”

His voice was calm, but his chest caved inward all the same. 

Nonna, seated at the head of the long oak table beneath an enchanted chandelier of floating candlelight, watched him with knowing eyes. She said nothing then, only reached over to place another piece of bread on his plate, as though feeding him was the only comfort she could offer in front of the others. 

Later that night, Theo stood alone in one of the villa’s western corridor’s, staring at the enchanted wedding portrait of his parents. 

His mother looked radiant, all soft smiles and bright eyes. Alessandra Grimaldi Nott had been luminous in a way that made the canvas itself seem warmer.

Beside her stood his father. 

Tall. Stern. Cold. 

Even in the portrait, the difference was devastating. 

“You have her eyes,” Nonna said quietly from the doorway. 

Theo didn’t turn around. “Was she happy?” 

Nonna’s silence lingered. 

“Not always,” she admitted. “Our family believed in duty before love. My marriage was arranged. Hers was too.” 

Theo’s jaw tightened. “She deserved better. “

“Yes,” Nonna said simply. “She did.” 

The old woman moved to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on her daughter’s portrait.

“But when she spoke of you, Theodore, she never regretted her life. Not once. She told me that if enduring all of it meant having you, she would choose it again.” 

Theo’s throat burned. 

“She loved you enough to make peace with her darkness.” 

For the first time in weeks, his carefully controlled composure cracked. 

Nonna reached for his hand and squeezed it gently.

“The Grimaldi family has survived for centuries because we endure," she murmured. “But your mother believed survival was not enough. She believed in love. In kindness. In light.” 

Theo swallowed hard, his grief suddenly feeling both heavier and more bearable all at once. 

“Never forget, tesoro,” Nonna whispered. “You come from that light too.” 

Theo didn’t respond right away. 

His gaze stayed on the portrait a moment longer, on his mother’s softened smile, as if trying to memorize something he had never fully understood before. Something he had always been given, but never truly claimed. 

When he finally exhaled, it was steadier than before. 

Not healed. Not fixed. But no longer just surviving. 

He reached up and pressed two fingers briefly to the edge of the frame—an absent, almost unconscious gesture—and then let his hand fall back to his side. 

“I think…” he said quietly, voice rough but grounded, “I think I forgot that for a while.” 

Nonna said nothing, only watched him with the kind of quiet patience that he had come to rely on. 

Theo lingered there a moment longer, then turned away from the portrait. 

For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was being pulled under by his own life. He simply stood within it. 

And then, slowly, he walked back down the corridor—toward the sound of his family still living, still arguing, still laughing in the distance.

Not away from the past. 

But no longer entirely trapped inside it.

Past

September 30, 2002

St. Mungo’s Hospital — London, England

You had never intended for Cedric to become so essential. 

At first, he had simply been kind. 

A familiar face during grueling healer training. A steady hand when your world felt fractured. Someone who never pushed too hard, but always seemed to appear when you needed comfort most. 

And after Theo vanished, comfort became dangerously easy to cling to. 

Cedric filled silences Theo had left behind. He distracted you when your thoughts spiraled. He gave you something tangible to hold onto when the absence of your best friend felt unbearable. 

It started small. 

Some mornings at St. Mungo’s, you would arrive to find a paper bag waiting for you at the front desk. Breakfast from a bakery you liked but never had time to visit. A tea that was always still warm enough to drink. 

They always came with a note. 

You forgot breakfast again. I thought you might need it.

And then later, Cedric himself. 

He would show up in the late afternoon between his own work commitments, leaning against your office doorframe with an easy smile and two steaming cups of something he insisted you drink. He never stayed long. Just long enough to make sure you had eaten something, and long enough for you to pretend you weren’t quietly relieved when he did. 

“When was the last time you rested?” he asked once, watching you scribble through charts without looking up. 

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically.

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “You said that yesterday. And the day before that.” 

You finally glanced up at him. 

“You’re persistent,” you said. 

He grinned. “It’s a Hufflepuff thing.” 

But even as your relationship deepened, some hidden part of  you remained hesitant. 

You told yourself it was grief. Confusion. The natural adjustment of adulthood. 

You didn’t realize you were waiting for something—only that it never quite settled into place, no matter how carefully you built your life around it.

Past

October 31, 2002

Witch's Brew — London, England

It became routine that after particularly long shifts, you ended up out with your friends in a dim, noisy lounge tucked somewhere off Diagon Alley. 

The Witch’s Brew was Hermione’s compromise and Ginny’s indulgence, somewhere between comfort and excess. 

Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Cho, and the Patil twins would gather around a low marble table beneath amber-lit chandeliers, laughter softening the edges of long days. The air smelled faintly of spiced wine and citrus. 

Cedric was a frequent topic of conversation, usually brought up after someone noticed the way he always seemed to know exactly where you were without needing to ask. 

“He brought her soup last week when she had a cold,” Parvati said, swirling her drink. “Who does that anymore?” 

“He remembers her shifts better than she does,” Ginny added, smirking. 

Luna nodded thoughtfully. “That is a very dedicated form of attentiveness.” 

Hermione glanced at you. “He’s good to you.”

You shrugged lightly, but didn’t deny it. 

Across the table, Padma stirred her drink slowly, watching the conversation unfold with quiet observation. 

Then, almost lazily, she said, “Isn’t it a bit strange that Cho dated him before?” 

The table went still for half a beat.

Padma didn’t look up from her glass. “I mean, not morally strange. Just statistically interesting. Small world and all that.” 

There was a brief pause, then a few people let out uncertain laughs, as if deciding whether they were allowed to be amused. 

Cho blinked in mild surprise, then chuckled softly anyway. 

She was engaged now, to a Muggle architect named Callum. He remained firmly rooted in the non-magical world, but Cho moved between both with an ease she had grown into over time, like she had never seen the two as things that needed to be chosen between at all.

Still, she waved a hand lightly as if to dismiss the topic. 

“Relax,” she said. “I’m perfectly happy. Cedric and I were teenagers when we dated.” 

Then, after a beat, she added with a small, genuine smile, “Besides I think he and Y/N make a great couple.” 

The tension dissolved instantly, folding back into easy laughter and clinking glasses. 

Padma finally looked up, unimpressed. “Good. Because otherwise this would be a very awkward night.” 

Ginny snorted into her drink. “Padma, you’re awful.” 

Padma shrugged as if she had no idea what the redhead was talking about.

And just like that, the conversation moved on again, 

Still, it always seemed to circle back to Cedric in some way. 

“He’s very consistent,” Parvati said once, almost absentmindedly.

“He shows up,” Hermione added.

“And,” Ginny added, a grin tugging at her mouth. “It doesn't hurt that years of Quidditch have kept his arse exceptionally fit.” 

A few people choked on their drinks. 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ginny.” 

“What?” Ginny said innocently. “We were all thinking it.” 

Parvati laughed into her glass. Luna nodded as though this was a valid contribution to the discussion. 

You let out a small, reluctant breath of laughter despite yourself, shaking your head slightly. 

Ginny only shrugged, entirely unrepentant. 

“He’s good to you,” Hermione said again, softer this time, bringing the conversation gently back down. 

You lowered your glass slightly. 

“I know,” you said quietly.

You knew exactly what Cedric was—kind, reliable, attentive in ways that felt rare and grounding. 

But sometimes, in the quiet moments between conversations, you also realized something else. 

That knowing someone was good didn’t always feel the same as being known.

Past

November 14, 2002

Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch — Scottish Highlands, Scotland

A few weeks later, you attended a casual Quidditch match held at Hogwarts, where the old pitch had been reopened for a friendly game between former students and Ministry-affiliated players. 

It felt strange being back. 

The castle walls held so many memories, haunting you every corner you turned. 

Harry, Ron, Cedric, and a handful of Ministry and former Hogwarts peers formed one team against Draco, Mattheo, Enzo, and a group of Slytherin-aligned colleagues who treated the game with far more competitive aggression than needed. 

You stood in the stands with Hermione, Ginny, Parvati, Pansy, Blaise, and a few others, bundled in coats against the sharp winter chill. 

There was an easy rhythm among most of the group, laughter threading through conversation, but something slightly more restrained beneath it whenever the Slytherins were involved. An awkward tension birthed from avoiding certain topics. 

It had been like that more often lately. 

Padma was notably absent. 

“She hates Quidditch even more than Hermione does,” Ginny teased, earning a sharp glare from Hermione. “But someone’s got to support the ferret, right?” 

The game was loud, chaotic, and slightly reckless, the kind of frenetic energy Hogwarts had always carried even back in your younger years. 

Cedric, as always, was steady on his broom. Reliable. Controlled. He moved like someone who had never needed to prove anything, only to do everything well. 

Every time he scored or blocked a shot, someone in the stands inevitably commented. 

“He’s actually perfect for you, Y/N,” Parvati said, almost under her breath. 

“He really is,” Ginny agreed.

Behind them, Pansy exchanged a small, subtle glance with Blaise. It lingered for a fraction too long, like a thought neither of them wanted to voice aloud. 

Neither of them said anything for a moment. 

Then Pansy lifted her flask slightly. “I suppose…he’s acceptable.” 

Blaise smirked faintly. “For a Hufflepuff.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. 

You noticed, though, the way conversations softened just slightly around certain silences. The way your friends never quite stepped into anything that might lead back to Theo, and the way that you, in exhaustion and defeat, allowed them not to. 

On the pitch, Cedric glanced briefly toward the stands. 

His eyes found yours. 

He smiled. 

And you, despite everything, smiled back.

Past

December 15, 2002

Rosemere Cottage— Cornwall, England

One rainy weekend in Cornwall, you sat cross-legged on your childhood bedroom floor beside your mother, flipping through old family photo albums. 

There were dozens of moving pictures. Your mum and dad dancing in the kitchen. Beach days. Birthday candles. Soft kisses pressed to scraped knees. 

Your father had looked at your mother as though she hung the stars. 

“How did you know?” you asked quietly.

Estelle glanced over. 

“That Dad was the one?” 

Your mother smiled, soft and wistful.

“Your heart knows before your mind does.” 

You frowned slightly. 

“One day,” Estelle said, touching her own chest, “you meet someone and everything settles. You look at them and think, finally, I’ve found you. My person. My home.” 

Your breath caught. 

“Have you ever felt that way?” your mother asked gently. 

You opened your mouth. 

No, you almost said. 

But instead, your mind betrayed you. 

A frightened boy with tear-bright eyes. 

A trembling hand in a dark carriage. 

The quiet squeeze of fingers that never truly let go. 

You forced a smile. 

“I can’t say that I have.” 

Present

June 18, 2003

Tenute Grimaldi — Tuscany, Italy

By the time you arrived in Tenute Grimaldi, dawn had not yet broken. 

The estate sat heavy against the dark Tuscan hills, stone and vineyard rows fading into one another under a sky still bruised with night. Lantern light flickered along the drive, catching on hurried movement in and out of the villa, like the entire place was held in suspense. 

You stepped out of the Floo with your stomach in knots. 

For a second, you just stood there. 

The air smelled like damp earth and rosemary, like old stone warmed by the golden Italian sunshine. Somewhere in the distance, a gate creaked in the wind. 

Then you saw him. 

Theo looked wrecked. 

He was standing just outside the doorway to Nonna’s room, one hand braced against the frame as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. His usually composed appearance had completely fallen apart. His curls were unkempt, his shirt wrinkled, sleeves pushed up without thought. His face was pale in a way you had never seen before. 

But it was his eyes that stopped you. 

Wide. Shaken. Unmoored. 

Like he had been standing too close to the edge of a cliff. 

Your chest tightened painfully. 

“Teddy.” 

The nickname slipped out before you could think about it. 

He turned instantly.

And the relief that broke across his face was so immediate it almost hurt to look at. 

“Y/N.” 

He spoke your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. 

You crossed the space between you without thinking. 

There was no dramatic reunion. No careful rebuilding of what had been fractured. Only urgency. Only instinct. 

You moved straight into healer mode before emotion could catch up and undo you. 

A sharp greeting to the local healer. Precise questions. Clear directives. You assessed symptoms in seconds, your mind snapping into place the way it always did when someone needed you more than you needed to fall apart. 

Magical influenza. 

Serious, but treatable. 

Older patients meant complications, but not hopelessness. 

“She has to be transferred,” you said firmly. “Immediately.” 

Theo didn’t argue. 

He looked like he would’ve signed away the entire estate if you had asked him to. 

“Whatever the cost.” 

You nodded once, already moving. 

For the next hour, you didn’t stop. 

You Floo-called St. Mungo’s before the panic could fully settle into your bones. 

Your supervising healer answered first, groggy but instantly alert the moment you explained who the patient was. Within minutes, you had Hermione coordinating hospital intake protocols from London, while Padma, sharp and unshakable as ever, began arranging specialized potion reserves and private ward accommodations. 

It became a machine almost immediately.

A frantic, delicate machine held together by urgency, intellect, and the kind of love that didn’t allow failure. 

You coordinated emergency transport with a clarity that felt almost distant, like you were watching yourself from somewhere slightly above your own body. You directed Theo’s cousins, packed belongings, and gave instructions with a precision that left no room for panic to root itself. 

Because if you let it in, even for a second, you would break. 

Present

June 18, 2003

St. Mungo's Hospital — London, England

Hermione met you at St. Mungo’s admissions, wild curls hastily tied back and already halfway through reviewing treatment pathways before Nonna had even fully arrived. 

Padma was waiting too, expression calm in the way only she could manage under pressure, though her eyes betrayed the gravity of the situation. 

Neither wasted time on pleasantries. 

They simply stepped in beside you. 

As they always had. 

Only once did your hands still. 

When you fastened the blanket more securely around Nonna’s frail shoulders before transport, your throat tightened so sharply you had to look away. 

Because this was her. 

Theo's Nonna.

And somewhere along the years, in all the summers beneath the Tuscan sunshine and all the meals pressed lovingly into your hands, she had quietly become yours too. 

By the time you arrived at St. Mungo's, exhaustion had already begun settling deep into your muscles, but your voice never wavered. 

You led the intake team through every symptom, every fluctuation, every treatment already attempted. Hermione seamlessly took over diagnostic coordination while Padma began restorative drafts and antiviral support, her efficiency cutting through chaos like a blade. 

And you stayed where you were needed most. 

At Nonna’s side. 

Monitoring. Assisting. Healing. 

For hours, the three of you worked in tandem, years of training and friendship blending into something almost instinctive. There were no wasted movements. No unnecessary words. Just focused magic, medical precision, and relentless determination.

Theo couldn’t do anything. 

So he watched. 

He watched as Hermione stabilized complex diagnostics.

He watched as Padma reinforced potion cycles. 

And, above all, he watched you. 

Watched your steady hands. 

Your unwavering voice. 

The way you anchored every room you entered, even when your own heart was clearly fraying at the seams. 

He watched you save his family. 

Again. 

An hour later, after treatment plans were finalized and Nonna’s condition had finally stabilized, you stepped out of the consultation room with Hermione and Padma close behind. 

Theo was already on his feet. 

“Y/N?”

You looked at him then. 

Really looked at him. 

And despite your exhaustion, something in your expression softened. 

“She’s going to be okay.” 

The breath that left him was sharp and shattered, like his body had been bracing for devastation and no longer knew how to release it gently.

“They’ll keep her here for a few weeks,” you said quietly. “But she’s stable. The treatment is working.”

Hermione offered him a reassuring nod. 

Padma, never once for unnecessary sentiment, simply said, “She’s strong.” 

And somehow, that seemed to steady him too. 

For a moment, Theo just stared at you. 

Like he couldn’t quite reconcile the woman standing before him with the girl he had spent a year trying to forget.

Then something in him finally gave way. 

You barely had time to set your coffee down before he crossed the space between you. 

He collapsed into your arms like his body had finally run out of strength to keep itself upright. 

His hands gripped you tightly, almost desperately, fingers curling into your back as though letting go might undo him completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.” 

Your own tears came then.

Hot. Immediate. Uncontrollable. 

Behind you, Hermione quietly guided Padma away, giving the two of you privacy without a word.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said, voice breaking. “I thought it was for the best. I thought…I thought I was making things easier for you.” 

You held him tighter. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

“No,” he said brokenly. “It’s not.” 

Your hand moved slowly over his back, grounding him in the same way you had all those years ago in a dark Hogwarts carriage when grief had first found him. 

“Maybe not,” you said softly. “But we’re here now.” 

His breathing hitched painfully. 

You leaned closer, your forehead brushing his shoulder for just a second, as though you needed the reminder too. 

“I’m here, Teddy,” you whispered. “I’ll always be here.”

Theo’s breathing broke entirely. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your arms like he was still trying to convince himself you were there.

His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted, devastated in a way that stripped him down to something painfully boyish. 

Something achingly familiar. 

“For always?” he asked, voice so fragile it nearly shattered you. 

Not a question, not really. 

A plea.

An echo.

A frightened third-year boy in a dark carriage. A trembling hand reaching for yours. A promise made before either of you had fully understood what it would come to mean.

Your throat tightened. 

You cupped his face gently, your own tears falling freely now. 

“For always,” you whispered.

The words seemed to undo him more thoroughly than any breakdown had. 

Theo let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and relief, before pressing his forehead to yours. 

And in that moment, surrounded by hospital corridors, exhaustion, grief, and all the lost time between you, it felt less like forgiveness and more like finding something sacred that had never truly been gone. 

“For always,” he repeated, softer this time. 

Like a vow. 

Like coming home.