Gone Without a Word
The morning after the party, Hermione woke to an unsettling stillness in the air, the kind that crept in when something was missing, though she couldn't quite place it at first. The soft, golden light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting faint shadows across the room and illuminating the quietness that hung in the atmosphere. For a moment, everything seemed perfectly normal: the cool air against her skin, the peaceful hum of the world outside, and the distant sounds of the city beginning to wake. But something was off, a subtle shift that tugged at the edges of her awareness.
She blinked, trying to shake the remnants of sleep from her eyes, and her mind began to sift through the hazy memories of the previous evening. The party, the laughter, the flirtation—Blaise, with his confident presence and dark eyes, pulling her into a dance that felt too close, the brush of his lips against hers, the sudden weight of his words, and the way they had left her breathless. Those moments had felt so real, yet now they felt suspended in a fog, as if the night had been a dream. The mix of alcohol and emotions, however, wasn’t enough to dull the sting of the confusion in her chest.
She groaned softly, dragging her hands through her dishevelled hair, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air from the floor seemed to cut through the warmth of her blankets, grounding her in the moment, but as she moved, her eyes instinctively darted to the other side of the bed.
And then, she felt it.
The absence.
Blaise wasn’t there.
The pillow lay untouched, still fluffed and inviting, as if no one had occupied that space at all. The sheets were neatly arranged, the indentation where he had been no longer present. A tightness spread across her chest, a flicker of panic that bloomed as she stared at the empty space, trying to make sense of it. The warmth of his presence, the heat of his touch—gone.
Her breath caught for a second, a wave of confusion settling over her as she stood up, feeling a strange weight in her chest. Her mind, still foggy, immediately jumped to conclusions, but she swiftly dismissed them. He wouldn’t just disappear, would he? Not after last night. Not after everything they had shared, however fleeting.
She stood motionless for a moment, her thoughts spinning, but then pushed herself into action. The house, usually alive with the bustle of her children, was eerily silent. She glanced toward the sitting room, the kitchen, the hallway—all empty. She expected to hear Rose’s soft chatter or Hugo’s thumping footsteps on the stairs, but there was nothing. Just quiet.
Maybe he’s in the bathroom, she thought, a glimmer of hope spurring her forward. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of the small room beyond. She pushed it open carefully, half-expecting to see Blaise standing there, perhaps shaking off the effects of too much alcohol, or perhaps running his hands through his hair in quiet contemplation. But when she stepped inside, there was nothing. The bathroom was empty, save for the faint scent of lavender soap in the air.
Her heart sank. Not even a trace of him. No discarded clothes or signs of him having washed up. No empty bottle of water or lingering sign that he’d been there at all. The sink was clean, the towels neatly hung, and everything in the small room was exactly where it should be.
A sense of unease began creeping up her spine, slow and insidious, tightening the pit of her stomach. She walked back into the hall, her footsteps growing faster now as her mind started to spin with the possibilities, none of them good. She pushed the door to the kitchen open, a part of her hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d left something behind. A note, a half-drunk cup of coffee, a stray piece of clothing. Anything.
But again, nothing.
The kitchen was exactly as it had been before. The counters were clear, the table still set with the faint remnants of the party—empty plates and glasses—but no sign of Blaise. No scraps of his presence, no lingering trace of him. She felt a strange chill settle in her chest, more than just physical coldness. It was the absence of him. The complete lack of evidence that he had ever stayed, or even left in the morning.
Her mind spun. He was always unpredictable, yes. But Blaise wasn’t the type to simply vanish without saying a word, especially not after such an intimate night. They had shared a moment—hell, they had shared many moments—and now, it felt as if he had slipped through her fingers, leaving her with only echoes and questions.
As she turned away from the kitchen, her eyes wandered back toward the bedroom, her pulse quickening. She approached the small desk in the corner where she’d tossed her paperwork earlier in the evening. Maybe he had left something there, a note, an explanation—something. But when she reached it, her fingers brushed the surface, only to find it bare. No crumpled parchment, no hastily scribbled words.
And then, as she stood there, her mind unable to make sense of the silence, a strange scent wafted through the air. Faint but distinct. It was him. His cologne, a hint of spice mixed with something fresh and subtly earthy, lingered like a ghost around the room. It was all that was left of him. It was almost as if the scent had seeped into the very walls of her home, a reminder that he had been here—but was now gone.
She closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingers to her temples, trying to steady the rising tide of confusion and frustration. She had to admit it to herself. He had left—and not just quietly, but deliberately. He had made his exit with no word, no sign, and no reason. Nothing to tell her why. Not even a note.
Her heart ached, the sting of betrayal sharp but unfamiliar, like a wound she hadn't expected. She had let herself believe—maybe for just one night—that this could be different. But now, she was left with nothing but questions and the emptiness of her home, still too quiet, too cold, too full of unanswered possibilities.
Hermione’s fingers clenched into fists, frustration bubbling over. How could he do this?
For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the sting of it—the sudden realization that Blaise had left without a word, without a trace. They’d shared so much; it had felt so real. But now? Now, it all felt like some sort of dream, as if she had been caught in a fleeting moment that had evaporated before she could hold onto it. It wasn’t just the confusion of his absence that upset her—it was the lack of closure. The unanswered questions. The unanswered anything.