A Time for Tomorrow

The rhythmic tap, tap, tap against the glass pulled Hermione from the depths of sleep. She stirred, disoriented, the weight of exhaustion settling over her like a heavy quilt. It wasn’t the sharp jolt of waking from a nightmare, nor the gentle pull of natural rest—it was that groggy, reluctant kind of awareness that came after too few hours of sleep and too many thoughts left unresolved the night before.

For a moment, she thought she had imagined it.

And then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She exhaled through her nose, rubbing her eyes as she turned toward the window. Silvery dawn light filtered through the curtains, casting pale ribbons of colour across the floor. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and the lingering warmth of sleep, but the sound—persistent and patient—demanded attention.

Perched on the windowsill was a sleek, dark-feathered owl, its sharp golden eyes fixed on her with unmistakable impatience. A low hoot escaped it, as if to say, Finally.

Hermione sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet met the cool wooden floor, sending a small shiver up her spine. She hadn’t expected anything urgent—official Ministry correspondence was usually delivered through formal channels, and personal letters from friends rarely arrived this early.

Still, the owl’s presence made something coil low in her stomach, an anticipatory hum that she wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

She crossed the room and unlatched the window, letting in the crisp morning air. The owl wasted no time; it hopped inside with the graceful ease of a creature that knew exactly how important it was. With a rustle of sleek feathers, it extended one leg and dropped a folded envelope onto her bedside table before fixing her with an expectant look.

“You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Hermione murmured, arching a brow at the bird.

The owl let out a final, self-satisfied hoot before launching itself back into the sky, disappearing beyond the rooftops with a few powerful beats of its wings.

Hermione hesitated, her fingers hovering over the envelope without touching it.

She didn’t need to turn it over to know who had sent it.

Blaise Zabini.

For a moment, she simply stared at the parchment, her mind catching up to the reality of what she was holding.

Last night had been… unexpected. What had started as a moment of idle curiosity had spiraled into something far more intriguing—flirtation laced with sharp wit, a challenge disguised as conversation. And the strangest part? It had felt easy. Effortless, even.

It had been a long time since she had felt that kind of playfulness, the thrill of something unfolding that wasn’t entirely in her control.

But a fleeting moment of amusement was one thing. This? This was different. This was real parchment, real ink, a deliberate act of reaching out.

It made her hesitate.

A part of her considered setting it aside, pretending it could wait until later—after coffee, after work, after the world had sorted itself into something less uncertain. But another part of her, the part that had sent that final teasing message the night before, the part that had felt something stir awake, reached for the letter before she could think twice.

With a slow inhale, she unfolded it.

Granger,

Woke up this morning and realized I had a choice—be productive, or write to you. Clearly, I made the right decision.

I’ll admit, last night was… unexpected. But I think I like unexpected. (Don’t let that go to your head.)

So, let’s test a theory, shall we? I could ask you something predictable, like your favourite book (which I assume is impossible for you to narrow down to just one). But I’d rather ask something interesting.

What’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done?

And don’t say breaking school rules—I want something really unexpected. Impress me, Granger.

—B.

Hermione read the letter once. Then twice.

The words lingered in her mind long after she’d finished, teasing at the edges of her thoughts like an unsolved puzzle.

Blaise Zabini was playing a game.

And he was good at it.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she traced a finger absently along the edges of the parchment. His handwriting was smooth, effortlessly elegant, with just enough of a flourish to suggest a certain level of self-assurance—or arrogance, she thought dryly. The words themselves, though, carried something else. A challenge wrapped in flirtation.

So that’s how he wants to play this?

She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she unfolded the letter, but it hadn’t been that. He had posed a question—one that was deceptively simple, yet tinged with curiosity.

"What’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done?"

She knew what he was doing. Testing the waters. Seeing if she’d engage.

And Merlin help her, she wanted to.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the parchment as she considered how best to respond. But before she could dwell on it for too long, a sharp knock at her bedroom door made her jump.

“Mum?” Rose’s voice filtered through the wood, slightly impatient.

Hermione startled, hastily setting the letter down as if she’d been caught doing something illicit. “Yes?” she called back, schooling her voice into something neutral.

“Breakfast,” Rose replied. “And Hugo’s eaten half the bread already, so if you want toast, you’d better hurry.”

Hermione exhaled, shaking her head in fond exasperation.

Of course he had.

She cast one last glance at the letter before pushing away from her desk. As she made her way downstairs, she forced herself to leave thoughts of Blaise behind. There were far more pressing matters at hand—like ensuring her son didn’t consume an entire loaf of bread before she had the chance to steal a piece for herself.

By the time she reached the kitchen, the scent of coffee and slightly burnt toast filled the air. Rose was seated at the table, flipping absentmindedly through the Daily Prophet, while Hugo was already on his second helping of breakfast, swinging his legs under the chair as he chewed with the enthusiasm of someone who had no regrets.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

“Hugo.”

Her son looked up, face the very picture of innocence—if innocence included a smudge of jam on his chin. “Yes?”

She eyed the remaining slices of toast with suspicion. “How much of the bread have you actually eaten?”

Hugo grinned. “Enough.”

Hermione sighed, but a small smile tugged at her lips as she grabbed what was left before he could get his hands on it. The morning passed in a blur of casual conversation and minor sibling squabbles, and for a while, she let herself sink into the warmth of home, pushing thoughts of work—and the letter—aside.

It wasn’t until later—after she’d managed to wrestle the last piece of toast from Hugo, handled a minor Floo-call from the Ministry, and forced herself through a tedious stack of paperwork—that she finally sat down at her desk, quill poised over fresh parchment.

She turned the question over in her mind for longer than she cared to admit.

What was the most reckless thing I’ve ever done?

It was almost laughable. By most people’s standards, her entire adolescence had been reckless. Breaking into the Department of Mysteries at fifteen? Fighting Death Eaters? Aiding Harry in hunting Horcruxes while the rest of the world fell apart?

Reckless didn’t even begin to cover it.

But she knew that wasn’t what Blaise was asking. He wasn’t looking for a history lesson. He wanted something different. Something surprising.

And that was the part that gave her pause.

Hermione wasn’t used to thinking of herself that way. Recklessness, in her mind, had always been associated with necessity. She had taken risks because she had to. Because there was no other choice.

But had there ever been a time when she had done something purely because she wanted to? Because she hadn’t thought it through?

A memory flickered at the edge of her mind. A small, almost ridiculous moment in the grand scheme of her life, but one that still made her pulse quicken just thinking about it.

Smiling to herself, she dipped her quill in ink, pressing the tip to parchment.

And then, without overthinking it for once in her life, she began to write.

Zabini,

I appreciate your dedication to prioritizing my amusement over productivity. A bold choice.

You’re right—I could give you a predictable answer. But where’s the fun in that?

The most reckless thing I’ve ever done?

Let’s see… there was that time I stole ingredients from Snape’s private stores and brewed Polyjuice Potion in a girl’s lavatory at twelve years old. (For educational purposes, of course.) Then again, there was also the time I stunned a Snatcher in the middle of a forest and stole his wand while on the run from the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time.

But if we’re talking reckless in a different way—

Once, I let myself believe that if I planned everything just right, I could control how life turned out. That I could protect the people I loved from every risk. That if I worked hard enough, sacrificed enough, I wouldn’t lose anyone.

That might have been my most reckless mistake.

—H.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring at the ink drying on the parchment before her.

Her fingers hovered over the edges of the letter as if she could somehow snatch the words back. She hadn’t intended to get personal. Hadn’t meant to let that much slip.

And yet, there it was—clear, bold, and unmistakably honest.

A sigh escaped her lips as she ran a hand through her hair. What had she been thinking? This was Blaise Zabini, someone she barely knew beyond school, beyond whispered rumours and passing glances across the Great Hall. And now she was telling him things that felt... close. Too close.

Her quill sat beside the parchment, its tip still damp with ink, as if waiting for her to reconsider. To scratch out her words, to start again, to be less Hermione—less raw.

But wasn’t that the whole point?

Something about the way Blaise had framed his question had challenged her. Had made her want to answer properly, instead of giving a polished, distant response. And though she wasn’t entirely sure what game he was playing, she had a feeling she didn’t want to be the first to break eye contact.

With a decisive shake of her head, she folded the parchment quickly—before she could overthink it any further—and sealed it with a flick of her wand.

For a moment, she only sat there, her fingertips pressing together as she inhaled slowly.

Then, as if on cue, a flutter of wings brushed against the dusky evening air outside. A tawny owl swooped in through the open window, landing gracefully on her desk with an air of practiced patience.

"You're convenient," Hermione murmured, her voice laced with amusement. The owl tilted its head at her, unbothered.

With deft fingers, she reached for the letter, hesitating only for the briefest of seconds before tying it securely to the owl’s outstretched leg. The parchment felt oddly warm between her hands, as if her lingering hesitation had left an imprint on it.

Before letting go, she brushed her fingers gently over the owl’s soft feathers, taking comfort in the familiar sensation.

"Off you go, then," she whispered.

The owl blinked once before taking flight, wings cutting smoothly through the air as it disappeared into the early evening sky. Hermione watched it go, exhaling slowly as the last traces of daylight cast long shadows across her desk.

And then came the waiting.

Hermione had never considered herself impatient, but now, she found herself drumming her fingers lightly against the wood, glancing toward the window as if expecting the owl to immediately return with a reply.

She scoffed at herself. Honestly, Hermione.

She had spent years exchanging countless letters, waiting for responses that held far more importance than this one. There was no reason to feel so—so invested.

And yet, when a soft rustle of wings broke through the quiet less than an hour later, her heart gave an unmistakable jolt.

She hadn’t expected him to reply so soon.

But there, perched once more on her windowsill, was a sleek, dark-feathered owl. Blaise’s.

She swallowed, reaching out carefully to untie the parchment from its leg. The owl gave her a brief, almost knowing look before taking off again, vanishing into the night.

Granger,

You were twelve when you brewed Polyjuice Potion? You do realize most people were still struggling with levitation charms at that age, right?

As for the rest…

I get it. More than you probably think.

But let’s not turn this into a competition of regrets, shall we? I prefer to win my debates.

Tell me something else—what’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but never let yourself?

And don’t say “take a day off work.”

—B.

Hermione snorted softly, shaking her head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. He was insufferable. Truly. And yet—her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment—she found herself rereading his words, lingering on that quiet acknowledgment that had caught her off guard.

"I get it. More than you probably think."

She hadn’t expected that.

The teasing, the flirtation—that, she had anticipated. Zabini had always been a bit too smooth, a bit too confident for his own good, and she had no doubt he enjoyed throwing her off balance just for the fun of it. But this? This was something else. Something unspoken woven between the lines, something that felt realer than she had prepared herself for.

A small furrow formed between her brows as she traced the edge of the parchment with her thumb, feeling the slight texture beneath her fingertips. Blaise Zabini had always been an enigma—charming, undeniably intelligent, but deliberately distant in a way that made it impossible to see beyond the carefully curated surface he projected to the world. He had always given the impression that he was above the trivialities of emotional entanglement, that he was perpetually entertained but never invested. And because of that, she had never really given much thought to what lay beneath all that polish, all that effortless nonchalance.

But maybe she should.

The candle on her desk flickered, casting shifting shadows along the walls of her bedroom. The house was wrapped in silence now—both Rose and Hugo had gone to bed hours ago, their soft, even breaths filling the space with the kind of peace she had learned to cherish. And yet, inside her mind, thoughts whirred restlessly, refusing to settle, refusing to be neatly tucked away like everything else in her life.

She had expected this to be nothing more than a light-hearted distraction. A few exchanged letters, a playful challenge between two people who had never really had the chance—or the reason—to speak beyond the bare minimum required by circumstance. But there was something about the way he wrote, the way he responded, that made it impossible to dismiss this as just idle entertainment.

It was… engagement.

Curiosity.

And maybe, just maybe, understanding.

Hermione exhaled slowly, setting the parchment down with deliberate care, as if doing so would stop her mind from spinning in too many directions at once. She rubbed her temples absently, considering his question, turning it over in her mind like a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve.

"What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?"

At first, the answers came easily. The simple, inconsequential things—learning to bake something without burning it, finally organizing her books in a way that made sense outside of necessity, reading a novel simply for pleasure instead of for research.

Then came the bigger ones. The ones that lingered just beneath the surface—rewriting entire sections of outdated Ministry law, creating policies that actually mattered, cataloguing undiscovered magical creatures, stepping beyond the rigid confines of duty and responsibility to see the world in a way she never had the chance to before.

And then there were the ones she never allowed herself to say out loud.

The ones she barely acknowledged even to herself.

The ones that made her hesitate now, quill poised above the parchment, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.

There had been things she had wanted, once. Before life had swept her up in its relentless tide, before work and motherhood and expectations had carved out a version of herself that she wasn’t sure she had chosen so much as simply become. Things that had once set her heart racing with excitement, things that had belonged to her and her alone. Not obligations. Not responsibilities. Not things she did because she had to.

But things she had dreamed of.

The weight of those unspoken desires settled heavily in her chest, making her swallow past the unexpected tightness in her throat.

She could lie. She could make it easy, give him something light-hearted and playful, keep the conversation skimming along the surface instead of letting it sink into deeper, more complicated waters.

Or she could answer honestly.

Slowly, deliberately, she dipped her quill into the inkpot, watching as the dark liquid coated the tip, waiting for her to commit to the words forming in her mind.

Zabini,

Fine. No talk of regrets.

Something I’ve always wanted to do?

There’s a small bookshop in Paris—hidden down an alleyway, only open at odd hours. I found it once, years ago, but never let myself stay as long as I wanted.

I’ve always wanted to go back. Spend an entire afternoon there. No schedule, no obligations. Just books, quiet, and a city that doesn’t need me to save it.

—H.

She read it over once, then twice, chewing the inside of her cheek as she debated whether it was too much. Too personal. Too honest.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to rewrite it.

With a decisive exhale, Hermione reached for the nearest scrap of ribbon, tying the parchment carefully before fastening it to the waiting owl’s leg. The bird ruffled its feathers, giving her a sharp, knowing look, as if it could sense her hesitation.

“Go on, then,” she muttered, giving it a gentle nudge toward the open window.

With a quiet whoosh of wings, the owl disappeared into the night, leaving Hermione staring after it for longer than she cared to admit.

She had expected to feel relief the moment it was out of her hands, but instead, there was an odd sort of weight in her chest. She had sent him something real. Not just flirtation, not just banter, but a glimpse—however small—into something she wanted.

And now, she had to wait.

Hermione forced herself to turn away, to focus on something—anything—else. She stacked the loose papers on her desk, ran her fingers over the spines of the books lined up neatly against the shelves, even reached for a Ministry report she had been avoiding. But the words on the page blurred together, her mind refusing to engage with anything that wasn’t the letter she had just sent.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, staring absently at the flickering candle on her desk, before a familiar tap, tap, tap at the window jolted her back to the present.

Her stomach twisted, anticipation and nerves tangling into something she couldn’t quite name.

That was fast.

Too fast for a measured, polite response.

Which meant—

With careful hands, she untied the letter from the owl’s leg, fingers brushing against the parchment, still warm from travel. Her name was scrawled across the front in bold, confident strokes—H. Granger—no embellishments, no unnecessary flourishes.

Just him.

Granger,

Paris, hmm? Interesting choice. Let me guess—you walked away because you had something more important to do.

Tell me, would you ever go back?

—B.