Time Machine
The music swirled around them, a soft and elegant waltz that filled the air with a gentle, steady rhythm. The ballroom itself was a vision of refined beauty, bathed in the golden glow of floating lanterns that cast delicate shadows across the polished marble floor. The flickering lights seemed to dance in time with the guests as they twirled gracefully, their laughter mingling with the soothing notes of the orchestra. Every movement, every soft rustle of fabric, felt almost suspended in time, as if the world outside this moment had ceased to exist. Hermione’s pulse slowed to match the music’s gentle cadence, her body moving in sync with Blaise’s, and for a fleeting second, she felt as though she and Blaise were the only two people in the room. The rest of the world faded into a blur of colours and voices, leaving only the soft pressure of his hand on her waist, the warmth of his body close to hers, and the rhythm of their movements.
Blaise, with his signature air of effortless charm, guided her across the floor. His tall frame seemed to cut through the crowd, fluid and graceful, the epitome of someone who belonged in moments like this. His fingers were steady on her waist, coaxing her into a seamless flow with him. Hermione found herself drawn into his steady rhythm, a small smile tugging at her lips as she noticed how naturally he moved, how confident he was even in the most intimate of dances. His dark eyes locked with hers, and for that brief moment, it felt as though time itself had stilled. There was only the music and the beat of their steps, their bodies in sync as they glided effortlessly across the floor. Nothing else seemed to matter—no work, no obligations, no expectations.
Hermione felt a gentle warmth spreading through her, but it wasn’t just the close proximity of their bodies or the gentle rhythm of the waltz—it was something more subtle, something that grew as Blaise’s breath brushed the edge of her ear. His voice was low and a little more relaxed than usual, the effect of the alcohol he’d consumed earlier now apparent in the slight slur of his words. His teasing tone was familiar, but tonight, there was an undertone of something deeper, something more vulnerable beneath the playful edge.
"You know," he began, his voice rolling out smoothly like a secret, "if I could, I’d go back in time, make it all different... You and I... Your kids... they’d be ours."
The words slipped into the air, casual and offhand, like a passing thought meant to be brushed away. But as soon as they left his lips, Hermione felt the world around them shift—just slightly, but enough for the words to settle into the silence that followed. Blaise’s tone was carefree, almost as though he was speaking in jest, but Hermione could feel the weight of what he had said, the implications of it crashing against her mind. He wasn’t serious, surely. This was Blaise Zabini, the man who had a habit of making bold, unpredictable statements, never fully revealing whether there was a grain of truth in them or if they were simply provocations, designed to amuse himself and others. Still, as she moved in rhythm with him, her body momentarily frozen in place, the words lingered, hanging in the air like an unspoken invitation. Your kids... they’d be ours...
She blinked, unable to fully process what she was hearing. She wanted to laugh it off, wanted to dismiss it as just another one of his provocations, but for some reason, it felt different this time. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, the gentleness with which he guided her, or the strange flutter in her chest that rose against her will. She wasn’t sure. She was caught between a fleeting sense of disbelief and something more unsettling—a quiet ache that tugged at her thoughts.
Blaise, blissfully unaware of the turmoil brewing in her mind, continued to lead her effortlessly across the floor. She felt his fingers gently press into the small of her back as he guided her into a smooth turn, their bodies moving with practiced ease, each step fluid and synchronized. He didn’t wait for a response, his smirk softening, his focus on the dance rather than on the conversation. The music picked up speed, the tempo quickening ever so slightly, and Hermione allowed herself to be swept away by the movement. The rest of the world seemed to melt into the background, the words he had spoken now almost a distant echo beneath the rising crescendo of strings and woodwinds. She focused on the elegance of the dance, the smooth sway of her body against his, hoping to push the lingering weight of his words away.
But then, just as quickly as the music seemed to grow louder, it softened, the orchestra transitioning into a quieter, more intimate passage. In the stillness of the moment, Blaise spun her out in a graceful twirl, his fingers brushing lightly against the small of her back as he guided her with a fluid precision that left her breathless. She was pulled back into his arms in one smooth motion, the tension in her chest slowly giving way as she felt the warmth of his body against hers again. It was then, with the orchestra playing a delicate melody that seemed to echo through the room, that Blaise—without warning—leaned in and kissed her.
The kiss was slow, deliberate, and confident. His lips pressed against hers with an ease that betrayed the intimacy of the gesture, as if he had kissed her a thousand times in a thousand different settings. She didn’t resist. In fact, for a brief moment, Hermione lost herself in the kiss, in the press of his lips, in the gentle curve of his hand at her back. The world continued to spin around them, the orchestra carrying on as though nothing had changed. But Hermione felt like she was suspended in time, her heart pounding as she sank into the kiss, her mind racing with everything Blaise had said just moments before.
When Blaise finally pulled away, his lips curling into a teasing smile that seemed to hold a quiet satisfaction, he gave her a playful wink. The kind of wink that seemed to say he’d won a small victory, though neither of them had truly been in a contest. "See? Told you it wasn’t so bad," he murmured, his voice light, as though the moment they’d just shared was as simple and inconsequential as any other part of the night.
Hermione watched him, her breath still catching in her chest, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment had changed everything between them, even if it had seemed so fleeting. The kiss had been unexpected, bold—but it was his words before, that casual remark that lingered in her mind like a stubborn echo. Your kids... they’d be ours. The weight of those words pressed into her thoughts now, a seed planted in the fertile soil of her emotions, one that was starting to sprout into doubt, curiosity, and a quiet longing she hadn’t anticipated.
She forced a smile, the expression coming far too easily even though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I never said it was," she replied, her voice a little quieter than she intended, betraying a slight uncertainty beneath the surface. She wished she could dismiss it all as just Blaise being Blaise—careless, charismatic, and always playing some sort of game. But the truth was, the words he had spoken felt different somehow. There was an undercurrent to them, a depth that made her pause, that made her question the trajectory of her own life, her choices, her future.
As Blaise led her through the dance, his hand steady at the small of her back, Hermione found herself struggling to focus on the present, on the dance itself. The fluid motion of their bodies, the grace of the waltz, the elegance with which Blaise guided her—it all seemed so natural, so easy. But inside, her mind was no longer in the moment. The dance had become secondary to the thoughts that were swirling in her head. What if?
What if things had been different? What if she had met Blaise sooner, before the weight of responsibility had taken over her life? What if the past hadn’t been so tangled with loss and war, with rebuilding and healing? Would things have turned out differently? Would she have been able to let go of the ghosts of her past long enough to build something new with someone like him? And the biggest question of all: Could she let herself imagine a future with him?
For a brief moment, the room around them seemed to fade, the orchestra’s gentle swell of music becoming distant, almost muted. Her thoughts were no longer just echoes of the past—they were filled with the possibility of the future, a future she had never allowed herself to truly consider. Her life had always been about the present—about the now, about the duty she carried, the work she had to do. The future had always seemed too uncertain, too full of potential pain, of loss. She had built a life around what she could control, around responsibility and duty.
But Blaise’s words, his soft suggestion of what could have been—of what could be—had stirred something inside her. She had spent so much of her life looking back, evaluating every choice, every twist of fate, wondering what might have happened if she had done things differently. But had she ever stopped to wonder what might come next? Could she be brave enough to stop looking over her shoulder at the past, and instead look ahead to the future, to a future she hadn’t even considered?
No, she told herself. This was just Blaise being Blaise. He was slightly drunk, making a playful remark that didn’t mean anything. He was trying to provoke her, to get a rise out of her, just as he always did. He was charismatic, charming, and unpredictable—nothing more. She could dismiss it. She should dismiss it. This wasn’t something she needed to be thinking about. There were too many complications, too many layers of her life that simply couldn’t accommodate something like this.
As the dance reached its graceful conclusion, Blaise spun her out one final time, the movement smooth and effortless, like they had been dancing together for years. He brought her back into his arms, his fingers lingering on the small of her back, his eyes never leaving hers. When they came to a slow stop, he gave her a playful bow, his expression still full of mischievous delight. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked, his voice light and full of that casual charm she had long since come to expect from him.
Hermione nodded, managing a smile that felt a little too tight, a little too strained. "I am," she said, her voice steady, but inside, she could feel the uncertainty still simmering beneath the surface. There was a conflict in her that she couldn’t quite articulate—a quiet doubt, a longing to question what could be, and yet a simultaneous desire to ignore it altogether.
Blaise, seemingly oblivious to the storm swirling inside her, flashed a grin and moved to join some of the other guests, leaving her standing in the centre of the floor, watching him go. She watched him blend effortlessly into the crowd, his easy confidence drawing people to him without effort. And yet, as he walked away, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a tug at her heart. It wasn’t just the kiss, or the dance—it was everything about the possibility he had presented, about the words he had thrown into the air without a second thought. Your kids... they’d be ours.
For the first time in a long time, Hermione allowed herself to think about the future, to think about the what ifs. Could she allow herself to entertain the idea of something with Blaise? Something more than just the playful banter they had shared for so long? Could she open herself up to something new, something uncertain?
Her thoughts lingered on the question, the doubt that had planted itself firmly in her mind, growing with every passing second. She tried to push it away—just a passing comment, she reminded herself—but deep down, she couldn’t ignore the flicker of curiosity, the quiet desire to wonder what life might look like if things had been different.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione wondered, What if?