A Time for Tomorrow

The shift in their lives happened gradually, like the slow warmth of summer creeping in through open windows, filling the spaces between them with something new, something fragile yet persistent. At first, Hermione wasn’t sure how—or even if—Blaise would fit into the delicate balance she had built with her children. Dating as a single mother was uncharted territory for her, a landscape she navigated with caution, every step weighed and measured. She had worked so hard to create stability for Hugo and Rose after the war, and the last thing she wanted was to disrupt their world for something fleeting, something uncertain.

But Blaise was steady. He never pushed, never demanded. He understood—without her ever needing to say it—that her children were her first priority, that they came before anything else. And he never once made her feel like he resented that. Instead, he made space for it, for them, without expectation or pressure.

It started small, subtle things that slipped into her life before she even realized they had become part of her routine. His name appearing more frequently in passing, spoken casually over dinner when Hugo asked why she was smiling at a letter. The way Rose’s sharp gaze would flick toward her whenever she mentioned an evening spent with him, not with judgment, but with quiet, observant curiosity. The nights when Blaise would walk her home after dinner but never ask to come inside, always leaving her at the door with a lingering look, a soft goodnight, as if he understood that she needed time to figure out how to bridge the gap between the two halves of her life.

And then, Hugo met him.

It wasn’t planned. In fact, Hermione had gone to great lengths to avoid any direct introductions just yet, afraid of rushing into something neither she nor her children were ready for. But life, as always, had other plans.

It was a Thursday evening, and everything had gone wrong at once. An emergency at the Ministry had left her running late, and when she glanced at the time, her stomach plummeted. Hugo’s Quidditch camp was ending in fifteen minutes, and she was at least twenty minutes away.

Panic clawed at her chest. She couldn’t ask Harry—he was in a meeting with the Auror Department. Ginny had taken the kids for the weekend, and there was no one else close enough she could ask for help. She had no one.

Except…

Blaise.

Her fingers hovered over the parchment for a fraction of a second before she gave in and scribbled the message.

Are you anywhere near the Quidditch pitch?

His reply came almost instantly.

I can be. Everything alright?

Hermione exhaled, relief washing over her even as guilt prickled at the edges.

I need a favour. Hugo’s camp ends in fifteen minutes. I’m stuck at the Ministry.

Consider it done.

And just like that, he handled it. No hesitation. No questions. Just quiet, dependable action.

When Hermione finally made it home, breathless from Apparating straight into the living room, she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. She had been so frazzled at work that morning, and her mind hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than the crisis at the Ministry. But now, as she crossed the threshold of her front door, a rush of relief coursed through her at the thought of being home.

Still, she couldn’t shake the nagging worry in the back of her mind. Had Hugo been alright with Blaise picking him up? Had their first real interaction been awkward? Had she jumped into things too quickly?

But when she stepped into the room, her questions evaporated in the face of what she found.

There, sitting cross-legged on the floor, were Hugo and Blaise, completely at ease with one another. They were surrounded by scattered sheets of parchment—likely some sort of half-hearted attempt at doing homework—and a half-empty plate of biscuits lay between them, crumbs still dotting the edges. The soft glow of the evening sun filtered in through the windows, casting a warm light over the scene. And the two of them? They were deep in animated discussion about the Chudley Cannons’ disastrous season.

“And I’m just saying,” Hugo was arguing passionately, gesturing with a biscuit in hand, “if they don’t do something about their defence next year, they’re going to lose every match. It’s embarrassing.” His voice was louder than usual, the kind of excited energy Hermione only heard when he was genuinely invested in something.

Blaise, in contrast, was the picture of calm. He sat with a long, lazy sort of grace, his fingers delicately swirling his glass of water as he spoke with deliberation, as if every word had been carefully chosen. “That’s assuming they even have a next year. Given their current form, they might just retire out of shame.”

Hugo’s eyes widened in disbelief. He clutched his biscuit with both hands as if it were some sort of sacred artifact. “You take that back,” he demanded, his tone turning mock-serious.

Blaise’s lips quirked into an amused smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “I will not,” he replied smoothly, his voice carrying a playful edge. “Because it’s true. The Cannons are a lost cause, my friend.”

Hermione stood in the doorway for a moment, her hand still resting on the doorknob, a mix of surprise and amusement blooming in her chest. She had expected a bit of an awkward silence, maybe some polite small talk about the weather or school. But this? This was not what she had anticipated at all.

There was no tension, no awkwardness, just a seamless connection between her son and Blaise. Hugo was utterly enthralled, hanging on to every word Blaise said. The sight was both heartwarming and a little surreal. She hadn’t expected this kind of rapport to develop so quickly, if at all. She had feared that Hugo might feel uncomfortable or distant around Blaise, someone he had only recently learned about. Yet here he was, comfortably settled into the kind of animated debate that Hermione had often seen him engage in with his friends.

As the realization sank in, Hermione couldn’t help but smile, though she was careful not to interrupt their flow. Blaise, however, must have sensed her presence, for he looked up at the exact moment she took a step further into the room. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the same smile she had come to recognize—the one that seemed to acknowledge a shared understanding between them, an unspoken connection.

“Welcome home,” Blaise said smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be sitting in her living room, engaging in a full-on debate about Quidditch with her son. His tone was effortless, and Hermione couldn’t help but appreciate the calmness in his voice.

Hugo, seeing his mother in the doorway, immediately broke into a wide grin. “Mum, did you know Blaise actually knows some of the Cannons’ players? He talks to them! Like, in person!”

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown by the sheer enthusiasm in Hugo’s voice. “Er… yes?” she replied, unsure of what to say. She had no idea where this conversation was going, but she could feel her eyebrows rise in mild surprise.

Blaise, sensing her hesitation, chuckled and set his glass down on the table with a soft clink. His smile softened, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “I might have exaggerated my familiarity just a bit,” he confessed, leaning back slightly as if he were still unsure of how far Hugo’s enthusiasm had taken him.

“You said you went to two of their private training sessions!” Hugo accused, eyes wide with wonder, as though the mere thought of Blaise attending something so exclusive was the most exciting revelation he’d ever heard.

Blaise gave an elegant shrug, his posture relaxed but the humour evident in his expression. “Once. I attended one training session. The other time, I happened to be in the same establishment as a few players. That hardly counts as knowing them.” He raised an eyebrow, as though daring Hugo to argue further.

Hugo, not one to back down easily, turned to Hermione with an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Mum, tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Hermione, suppressing a laugh, stepped further into the room and placed her bag on the side table. “I see you two have… bonded,” she said, her voice playful but laced with a hint of disbelief.

From that moment on, Blaise had a shadow whenever he was around. Hugo asked about him constantly, peppering Hermione with questions she barely had answers to. Does he like chocolate frogs? Is he really best mates with Uncle Draco? Can he show me that levitation trick again?

Hermione watched, both amused and wary, as her son attached himself to Blaise with an ease that was both heartwarming and terrifying. It wasn’t just admiration—Hugo liked him, trusted him in a way Hermione hadn’t anticipated. It was impossible to ignore the way Blaise softened around Hugo, the way his usually refined demeanour shifted into something more playful, more patient. He never treated Hugo like a child to be humoured, but like someone worth listening to, worth engaging with.

It was different with Rose.

Where Hugo had flung himself into Blaise’s orbit without hesitation, practically welcoming him into their lives with open arms, Rose remained at a careful distance. Her gaze was often watchful, perceptive in a way that made Hermione’s chest tighten with a mix of concern and understanding. At twelve years old, Rose was already far too aware of the intricacies of their family dynamics.

But what she had learned—what Rose had learned—was caution. She understood that the world was unpredictable, that people could disappear or change when least expected. She understood, perhaps better than anyone else, that life could flip upside down without warning. And she knew, deep down, that letting anyone new into their small family—especially someone like Blaise—came with risks.

Blaise wasn’t Ron. There was no question about that. Where Ron had been warm, boisterous, and incredibly earnest, Blaise was measured, composed, and wrapped in an enigmatic charm that was worlds apart from the familiar, goofy affection that had once defined their home. Hermione understood Rose’s hesitation. Ron’s absence was still a raw wound for her, one that hadn’t fully healed, even if Hermione had managed to put on a brave face for everyone. The idea of anyone stepping into Ron’s place—or even close to it—wasn’t something Rose was ready for, not yet.

She didn’t trust easily, and she certainly didn’t trust him.

At dinner, Blaise would sit across from Rose, always respectful, always trying to engage, but Rose’s responses were polite but cold. She’d eat her food, occasionally glancing up at him with those sharp, grey eyes, but she never seemed to reach for the conversation the way Hugo did. She would give short answers when Blaise asked her questions—nothing too rude, but nothing warm either. She wouldn’t smile, wouldn’t offer up her own thoughts. It was as if she had built an invisible wall around herself, one that even Blaise’s calm charm couldn’t breach.

Hermione noticed the way Rose seemed to shrink into herself when Blaise was around, retreating into her own world rather than participating. It wasn’t out of malice, but more like self-preservation. She would observe everything without engaging, as if silently measuring the situation, weighing it against her own understanding of what had happened in their family. Hermione’s heart ached when she saw it, when she realized how deeply her daughter had internalized the loss of her father and how much she feared the consequences of letting anyone new into their lives.

One night, after Blaise had left, Hermione tucked Rose into bed as she did every evening. She made sure the blankets were pulled tight, kissed the top of her head, and brushed a few errant curls from her forehead. The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of Rose’s breathing. For a long time, Rose didn’t say anything, and Hermione thought perhaps they would just go to sleep in the familiar silence they had shared for months.

But then, in a voice so small it barely registered above a whisper, Rose spoke.

“He’s not Daddy.”

Hermione froze, her heart skipping a beat at the weight of the words. She hadn’t expected them. Ron was still a presence in their home in so many ways—the stories, the memories, the oddities that lingered in the corners. Rose hadn’t said his name in a long time. They hadn’t discussed him much recently, but Rose’s words weren’t angry. They weren’t accusatory, nor were they filled with resentment. They were simply a statement of fact, as if Rose was acknowledging something she had known all along but had never said out loud.

Hermione swallowed thickly, blinking against the sudden burn behind her eyes. She brushed Rose’s hair back gently, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “No,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s not.”

Rose looked up at her then, her eyes filled with something Hermione couldn’t quite name—something both weary and uncertain. “But you like him,” she said, as if testing the waters, as if trying to understand the place Blaise had come to occupy in their lives.

Hermione smiled softly, though it didn’t reach her eyes entirely. “I do,” she answered, her voice steady despite the knot in her throat.

Rose lay there, silent for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing a pattern on the edge of her blanket. She stared up at the ceiling, as if weighing Hermione’s words against the pieces of the world she had yet to understand. Finally, she turned her head toward Hermione, a small frown tugging at her lips. “Hugo already acts like he’s part of the family.”

The words stung, but Hermione didn’t show it. She simply nodded, her throat tight as she swallowed the lump that had lodged there. “And how do you feel about that?” she asked gently, keeping her voice calm, open. She didn’t want to push Rose, but she needed to know where her daughter stood.

Rose didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked down at her hands, the quiet of the room pressing in on them both. After a beat, Rose gave a small, indifferent shrug. “I don’t know yet,” she mumbled.

And that, Hermione realized, was more than enough. It was okay. It was okay for Rose not to have an answer right away. It was okay for her to take her time to process the changes. She wasn’t ready to accept Blaise into her life just yet, and Hermione couldn’t rush her. Not when she still carried so much of Ron’s memory with her, not when the wound of losing him had never truly healed.

Hermione kissed her daughter’s forehead, smoothing the curls back again. “You don’t have to know yet,” she murmured. “Take your time, sweetheart. You don’t have to like him, or even talk to him, if you’re not ready.”

Rose nodded slightly, her eyes heavy with sleep. “Okay.”

And that was it. It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough for Hermione. She would give Rose the space she needed to figure things out on her own terms. She would let her decide how to feel, when to trust.

Blaise never pushed. He never forced himself into their lives or tried to win Rose over with empty gestures. He didn’t shower her with gifts or try to take the place of Ron in her heart. Instead, he did something far more important—he waited.

He respected the walls Rose had built, never attempting to tear them down, never attempting to rush her into anything. And in time, Hermione began to notice small shifts. Rose would ask Blaise a question here or there—about something trivial, like the latest Quidditch scores or his thoughts on a book they had both read. She would acknowledge his presence at dinner, offering him a small, polite smile now and then, but she still maintained that distance.