An Unlikely Evening
Hermione arrived at the restaurant five minutes early, a habit she couldn’t quite shake even for a date. The dimly lit space was elegant, with floating candles and soft jazz playing in the background. A rich scent of warm bread, simmering sauces, and expensive wine lingered in the air. It was the kind of place that exuded quiet luxury—not flashy, but undeniably exclusive. She knew Blaise had chosen it deliberately. He had a particular taste for refinement, and while she usually preferred a cozy bookshop café over a posh dining experience, she was trying to be open-minded.
She smoothed her hands over the fabric of her dress for what had to be the hundredth time, acutely aware of how it hugged her figure just a little more than she was used to. Her fingers curled around the strap of her purse, an anchor against the nerves threatening to creep in. This is fine, she told herself. It’s just dinner.
And then he arrived.
The moment Blaise Zabini stepped through the entrance, it was as if the very air in the restaurant shifted. He walked with that easy, deliberate grace of his—every movement fluid, every glance calculated but never forced. His dark robes were immaculately tailored, fitting him like a second skin, and the collar was undone just enough to suggest effortless charm rather than carelessness. Even the maître d’ straightened at his arrival, inclining his head in recognition.
Blaise’s eyes found her almost instantly, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he crossed the room toward her.
“Hermione,” he greeted smoothly, his voice warm and rich as velvet. He took a measured moment to take her in, his gaze flickering over her in a way that sent a surprising heat up her spine. “You look…” He let the words hang, just long enough for her to feel them settle in the space between them. “…Absolutely stunning.”
Hermione cleared her throat, willing herself to maintain her composure. “Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin. “You look… well, predictably polished.”
His lips twitched, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He pulled out his chair with an effortless flick of his wrist, settling into the seat across from her with the kind of confidence that suggested he was entirely in his element. A moment of silence stretched between them—not awkward, but thick with something unspoken, something lingering just beneath the surface.
Hermione found herself gripping the napkin in her lap, forcing herself to relax. It was strange, sitting across from Blaise Zabini in this context. They had exchanged countless letters over the past few weeks, their conversations shifting from casual to something more charged, but now that they were face-to-face, the reality of the situation felt far more… intimate.
A waiter appeared beside them, breaking the moment as he presented the wine list. Blaise didn’t hesitate, scanning the options with the ease of a man who had been ordering fine wines since he was old enough to drink.
“The 1997 Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” he said smoothly. “A bold red, perfect for the evening.”
Hermione hesitated as the waiter turned to her expectantly. She wasn’t much of a wine drinker—she enjoyed the occasional glass, but she had never been one to analyze notes of oak or hints of blackberry.
“I’ll have the same,” she decided, lifting her chin slightly. It’s just wine. Be adventurous.
Blaise’s lips quirked, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “You don’t strike me as a wine drinker.”
She met his gaze with a small, defiant smirk. “I’m not, really,” she admitted. “But I figured I’d be adventurous.”
A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. “Careful, Granger. Next thing I know, you’ll be throwing caution to the wind and ordering dessert before the main course.”
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, but the edges of her lips betrayed her amusement.
The conversation started off a little stilted—predictably so. They were both careful, toeing the line between familiarity and uncertainty, navigating the strange reality of sharing a dinner table when, for years, they had existed in entirely separate spheres. Hermione found herself defaulting to safe topics—work, mutual acquaintances, recent books she’d read—anything that wouldn’t veer too personally into their pasts or the unspoken weight of what this evening actually meant.
Blaise, for all his usual effortless charm, seemed to be doing the same. He responded with polite interest, his tone smooth and measured, but there was a restraint in his posture, a carefulness in the way he chose his words. He wasn’t guarded, exactly—just… watching, waiting. As if testing the waters. As if he, too, wasn’t entirely sure how this would go.
But then, something shifted.
The formality loosened, unraveling thread by thread, replaced by something easier, something familiar. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the way Hermione finally allowed herself to relax, but soon enough, their conversation flowed with a rhythm that felt natural. The sharp edges of initial uncertainty dulled, and they began falling into something that resembled camaraderie.
They reminisced about Hogwarts, unearthing memories long buried beneath the weight of war, adulthood, and the years that had passed since they’d last walked the castle’s halls. Some recollections were expected—shared exasperation at Slughorn’s favoritism, the never-ending rivalry of House Quidditch, the absurdity of trying to complete essays under the watchful glare of Madam Pince. But other memories were surprising—smaller, forgotten moments Hermione hadn’t realized she’d stored away.
Blaise recounted a particularly disastrous Slug Club dinner he had attended, where he had been seated next to an overzealous Ravenclaw who had spent the entire evening discussing the theoretical applications of moonstone in potion enhancement.
“And then,” he said, swirling his wine in slow, deliberate circles, his voice rich with amusement, “she asked me if I’d ever considered writing my thesis on the cultural implications of wizarding fashion throughout history.”
Hermione, who had been mid-sip of her drink, nearly choked. Setting her glass down, she gave him an incredulous look. “And?” she prompted, tilting her head. “That actually sounds like something you’d enjoy.”
Blaise smirked, dark eyes gleaming as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, there’s a time and a place for academic discourse. That was neither.”
Hermione let out a laugh—light and unguarded, the sound escaping before she could temper it. “You poor thing,” she teased, eyes dancing with mischief. “Imagine being subjected to intelligent conversation at a Slug Club event.”
“Truly harrowing,” he said dryly, lips twitching. “Almost as bad as the time I was paired with Longbottom for a Potions assignment.”
Hermione huffed, her defence of Neville immediate and instinctive. “Neville was a wonderful Potioneer!”
Blaise arched an elegant brow, unimpressed. “He exploded three cauldrons in one afternoon.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, attempting—failing—to suppress the smile tugging at her mouth. She shrugged. “…Well. That’s just passion.”
Blaise exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You would say that.”
Somewhere between their banter, the wine, and the gentle hum of conversation around them, Hermione found herself settling into the evening in a way she hadn’t expected. By the time dessert arrived, she was startled to realize just how much she was enjoying herself.
It wasn’t perfect—there were moments of hesitation, moments where she caught herself overanalysing what she said, moments where she noticed Blaise doing the same. The awareness of their history, the realization that this was something new, something they hadn’t quite defined, lingered in the background. But despite that, there was something refreshing about the way they spoke, something intriguing in the way they fell into conversation so naturally.
She liked the way Blaise listened—not just with polite attentiveness, but with a quiet understanding that made her feel heard. She liked the way his lips twitched at the edges before he let out a chuckle, the way his amusement was subtle but sincere. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t overtake the conversation, didn’t fill silences with meaningless words. He let them exist, unhurried and comfortable, as if he enjoyed the quiet just as much as the dialogue.
And, perhaps most surprising of all—he made her laugh. Really laugh. Not the measured, polite laughter she gave during Ministry functions, nor the indulgent, affectionate laughter she reserved for Harry and Ron’s antics. This was different. This was unexpected, unfamiliar. New.
When they finally stepped out of the restaurant, the cool night air was a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The street was quiet, the gas lamps lining the cobbled road flickering faintly in the distance. Hermione tucked her hands into her coat pockets, savoring the crispness of the evening.
Blaise turned to her, his expression thoughtful. “I have to admit, Granger,” he said, slipping his hands into his own pockets, “I wasn’t sure how tonight would go.”
She tilted her head, intrigued. “And?”
A slow, almost reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He exhaled, a soft chuckle escaping as he looked at her—not just at her face, but at her, as if reassessing something he hadn’t quite expected. “I’m glad we did this.”
Hermione hesitated for only a second before smiling back, small but genuine. “Me too.”
They walked side by side, their pace unhurried, their conversation trailing into quieter territory as the evening stretched on. The city around them pulsed with its usual life—distant laughter from a nearby pub, the rhythmic clicking of a horse-drawn carriage over the stone roads—but none of it intruded upon the quiet bubble they had fallen into.
When they reached her flat, she turned to face him, the moment stretching between them. The golden glow of the streetlamp illuminated his features—the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the unreadable expression in his dark eyes. She felt the shift in the air, the unmistakable weight of expectation pressing between them.
Blaise took a step closer, his gaze dipping briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty—just slow, deliberate intent. Hermione barely had a moment to process it before his hand came up, fingers brushing against her jaw as he leaned in.
The kiss was unhurried, lingering. His lips were warm against hers, the pressure light at first, as if testing—waiting. And then, when she didn’t pull away, when her fingers curled ever so slightly into the fabric of his coat, he deepened it just enough to leave her breathless.
When he pulled back, his thumb ghosted over the corner of her mouth, his expression unreadable, though there was something unmistakably pleased about the way he regarded her.
Hermione’s heart was racing, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she arched a brow, doing her best to maintain an air of composure. “Confident, aren’t you?”
Blaise smirked. “Should I apologize?”
She pretended to consider it, lips curving slightly. “No.”
His smirk widened just a fraction before he stepped back, the cool night air rushing in between them. “Goodnight, Granger.”
Hermione lingered for a second longer, watching as he turned and disappeared into the night.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt the possibility of something new.