Ghosted
At first, Hermione told herself it wasn’t a big deal.
Blaise had always been unpredictable, sharp and elusive in a way that both frustrated and fascinated her. He had a way of slipping into her life without warning, seamlessly weaving himself into her days, only to disappear just as effortlessly. He would send a teasing owl out of nowhere, show up at her door with a bottle of wine and a smirk, make himself comfortable on her sofa as if he belonged there. And then, just as suddenly, he would vanish for days, sometimes weeks, before reappearing with nothing more than a careless remark and a knowing look.
She had learned not to expect consistency from him. She had learned to take him as he was—unpredictable, fleeting, like a storm that rolled in out of nowhere, turning everything upside down before leaving again.
But this—this was different.
This wasn’t just Blaise being Blaise.
This was silence.
Deliberate. Deafening.
The first morning, she had spent far too long staring at the empty space where he should have been. The spot beside her in bed was undisturbed, the sheets cool to the touch, as if he had never been there at all. The house was eerily still, save for the occasional sounds of Hugo stirring in the next room, the slow drip of coffee into the pot, the rustling of morning traffic outside her window.
She tried to be rational. Maybe he had an emergency. Maybe he had left early, intending to send word later. Maybe he needed space.
Fine.
She could be patient. She wouldn’t overthink it.
But by the second day, patience began to feel like a fool’s hope.
She checked for an owl more often than she wanted to admit. She kept expecting a tap at the window, a letter scrawled in his elegant handwriting with some careless excuse—Had to leave. See you soon.Don’t miss me too much, Granger.
The first time, she had sent a simple letter, direct and to the point.
Dear Blaise,
I assume something urgent came up, though I can’t pretend to understand why you left without a word. If you had to leave in a hurry, fine. If you regret what happened—fine. Just say something.
You don’t owe me anything, but after everything, I thought you at least owed me that.
—Hermione
She sent it immediately, choosing a reliable owl from the Ministry’s postal service.
It came back the next morning. Unopened.
She stared at the envelope for a long time, the untouched seal taunting her, mocking her hope. The owl sat on her windowsill, ruffling its feathers as if waiting for further instruction. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and ran her fingers over the parchment, as if she could will it to give her an answer.
Nothing.
She tried again.
The second letter was more formal, less personal, carefully worded to avoid sounding desperate.
Blaise,
I need to know you’re all right. Just send a word back.
—H
Days blurred together. Hermione kept herself busy. She had to.
She woke early each morning, slipping into the familiar rhythm of routine before her thoughts had a chance to wander. She made breakfast while Hugo sat at the kitchen table, sleepily rubbing his eyes, barely awake enough to spoon cereal into his mouth. She nagged him about his schoolwork, his uniform, his ever-disappearing socks. Hugo, your bag. Hugo, your books. Hugo, it’s cold outside, for Merlin’s sake, wear your jumper.
He groaned dramatically but obeyed, rolling his eyes the way only a ten-year-old could.
She wrote letters to Rose at Hogwarts, asking about her classes, her friends, her studies. She reminded her to eat properly, to rest, to make time for things outside of schoolwork. Don’t overdo it, love. And don’t let Scorpius talk you into anything ridiculous. (That last part was mostly in jest, but she knew how easily Rose could be goaded into things.)
Rose’s replies were always cheerful, full of Quidditch matches and study groups, of library corners and late-night adventures. Hermione smiled at her daughter’s words, at her independence, at the way she was thriving.
And yet, every time she folded one of Rose’s letters away, there was a lingering ache.
Work at the Ministry was relentless, stacks of files demanding her attention, policies that needed reviewing, problems that needed solving. She met with officials, held discussions with law-wizards, presented cases with the confidence of someone who had spent years fighting battles in courtrooms instead of battlefields. It was fulfilling, in its own way. Necessary. And it kept her mind occupied.
That was the most important thing.
Lunch with Harry and Ginny had become one of the few constants in Hermione’s life, though their schedules didn’t always align as easily as they used to. They were all busy now—Harry with the Auror Department, Ginny with her sports journalism, Hermione with her endless pile of Ministry work—but they still made time for each other when they could.
This particular afternoon, they had managed to snag a small table at The Leaky Cauldron, tucked away in a quieter corner where they could talk without interruption. The scent of roasted meat and warm butterbeer filled the air, the low murmur of patrons creating a familiar sort of background noise that Hermione found oddly comforting.
Harry leaned back in his chair, his green eyes sharp as he watched her, always observant, always knowing. He didn’t say anything outright, but Hermione could feel the weight of his gaze, as if he was waiting for her to offer something up.
She didn’t.
Instead, she took a slow sip of her tea, pretending not to notice the way Harry’s fingers drummed lightly against the wooden table, a subtle indication of his impatience.
Ginny, completely oblivious—or perhaps simply choosing to ignore it—was in the middle of an animated story about James and his latest Quidditch disaster.
“…and then he actually tried to pull off a Wronski Feint. At practice. The idiot nearly broke his neck.” She rolled her eyes, but there was unmistakable fondness in her voice. “Harry, you need to have a word with him before he kills himself.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “He’s your son, too.”
“Yes, but he listens to you.” Ginny shot him a pointed look before turning her attention back to Hermione. “And what about Rose? How’s she doing?”
Hermione smiled, though it felt a little forced. “She’s doing well. Her latest letter was all about how she’s determined to beat Scorpius Malfoy in every subject this year.”
Ginny snorted. “Poor boy doesn’t stand a chance.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Hermione agreed, warmth flickering in her chest at the thought of Rose’s relentless determination.
For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the conversation, to let their laughter and easy banter fill the space where her thoughts of Blaise threatened to creep in.
But then Harry shot her that look again—the one that said I know you’re not saying something.
She met his gaze evenly, silently daring him to bring it up.
He didn’t.
And for that, she was grateful.
A few days later, Hermione found herself in a cozy café in Diagon Alley, stirring a spoon idly through her coffee as Lavender Brown leaned across the table with the kind of confidence that only came from years of knowing someone’s weaknesses.
Lavender had changed a great deal since their school days. The war had done that to all of them. There was still that air of effortless charm about her, still that sparkle of vanity in the way she tucked a golden curl behind her ear, but she was different now—more measured, more thoughtful. Their friendship had taken years to rebuild, but it had been worth it.
There were still things they didn’t talk about. There were still wounds neither of them dared to prod too deeply. But they had learned to exist in the space between their past and present, and that was enough.
Lavender, of course, was entirely unaware of the storm brewing in Hermione’s mind. She was too busy lamenting about the utter lack of romance in her life.
“…and honestly, Hermione, if one more wizard tells me I have ‘intimidating energy,’ I’m hexing them on principle.” She sighed dramatically, resting her chin on her palm. “Do I seem intimidating to you?”
Hermione gave her a dry look. “You once made a Hit Wizard cry because he tried to mansplain duelling to you.”
Lavender waved a hand dismissively. “That was different. He deserved it.” Then, narrowing her eyes playfully, she pointed her spoon at Hermione.
Lavender sighed, propping her elbow on the table. “You know, some of us actually make time for fun, Hermione. You should try it.”
“I do have fun.”
Lavender arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Your idea of fun is reorganizing bookshelves.”
“Not just bookshelves.”
Lavender rolled her eyes. “Right. How thrilling.”
Hermione smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She spent weekends at her parents' house with Hugo, falling into the familiar rhythm of home. It was comfortable, predictable—an unchanging fixture in a life that, lately, felt like it was shifting beneath her feet.
Her father had taken up gardening. He spent hours tending to his plants, speaking at length about soil quality, the proper way to prune a rosebush, and the unexpected satisfaction of seeing something thrive under his care. Hermione would sit with him on the back porch, watching as he carefully plucked dead leaves from his tomato plants, his hands steady with a patience she had always admired but never quite mastered herself.
“You know, Hermione,” he said one afternoon, glancing up from where he was kneeling in the dirt. “You should grow something. A garden, maybe. It’s good for the mind.”
Hermione hummed noncommittally, wrapping her hands around her cup of tea. “I don’t exactly have time for gardening, Dad.”
Her father smiled knowingly. “That’s what you always say.”
She answered their gentle questions with half-truths and careful smiles.
She told no one about Blaise.
Not because she was ashamed. But because admitting it out loud would make it real.
Because then she’d have to answer their questions.
What happened? Why did he leave?
And the truth was—she didn’t know.
She had replayed that night in her head more times than she cared to admit. The dance. The kiss. The words he had whispered, careless and half-drunk but still lingering in her mind like an unfinished thought.
"Your kids… they’d be ours."
Had that been a mistake? Had he regretted saying it? Had it scared him?
Or had something else happened? Something she wasn’t seeing?
She didn’t want to entertain the possibility that he had simply chosen to leave. Not without a word. Not him.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. That if he wanted to talk, he would. That she was too old to be sitting by the window waiting for an owl like some love-struck teenager.
But on the third day, when she found herself staring at the blank parchment on her desk, fingers tightening around her quill, she gave in.
She wrote another letter.
Blaise,
I don’t know if you’re avoiding me or if something has happened. But this silence—it’s unlike you.
If this was a mistake, if you regret it, just say so. I’d rather know the truth than keep wondering.
If I shouldn’t write to you again, tell me.
Otherwise, please—just say something.
—H
She sealed the letter before she could change her mind and sent it with a strong, reliable owl—one that had never failed her before.
The next morning, it was returned.
Unopened.
She stared at the envelope for a long time.
The parchment was pristine, the seal unbroken, as if it had never even left her hands. As if it had simply refused to reach him.
A hollow sort of feeling settled in her chest.
She told herself she wouldn’t write again.
More time passed, and she tried to let go. She tried.
She threw herself into work. Buried herself in cases and long hours at the Ministry. She let Hugo drag her to a Muggle bookshop to pick out new stories, let herself relax in the small, ordinary moments of motherhood.
But at night, when the house was quiet and still, the thoughts crept back in.
Three days later, she wrote again.
Blaise,
I don’t know what to think anymore. If you don’t want to talk, I understand. But at least let me know you’re safe.
Just send a word.
Please.
—Hermione
She sent that one, too.
Still nothing.
Slowly, the ache dulled. The letters stopped.
She still thought of him, but in quieter moments, in the spaces between one breath and the next. She no longer looked for his handwriting in the post. No longer felt that small, foolish flicker of hope when an unfamiliar owl arrived.
She told herself she was fine. That she was moving on.
And mostly, she believed it.
But some nights were worse than others.
During the day, she kept herself busy—too busy to think, too busy to feel the sharp edges of the silence Blaise had left behind. But at night, when the house was still and the weight of exhaustion settled deep in her bones, there was nothing to distract her. On those nights, she would lie in bed, staring at the empty space beside her, fingers curled into the sheets as if that could somehow ground her.
Ron stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his red hair messy as ever, a half-smile playing at his lips. He looked like he always had—tall and solid, his presence filling the room like he had never left at all.
“Still thinking about him?” he asked, his voice low, teasing in that way only he could manage.
Hermione swallowed, turning onto her side to face him. “Of course not,” she said automatically. Then, after a beat, she let out a breath and admitted, “I don’t know.”
Ron stepped closer, settling onto the edge of the bed like he used to when she’d wake up from nightmares during the war. “That’s a yes, then.”
She huffed, but it wasn’t annoyed. It was fond, familiar. “You don’t know everything, Ronald.”
He smirked, tilting his head. “Nah, just about you.”
Silence stretched between them, comfortable in a way that nothing else had been in weeks.
She turned onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “I just don’t understand,” she murmured. “He was here, Ron. And then he wasn’t. No explanation. No goodbye. Just… gone.”
Ron sighed, and she felt the mattress dip slightly, as if he was leaning back against it. “Some people leave, Hermione.” His voice was quieter now, softer. “Doesn’t mean it’s about you.”
She turned her head toward him, her chest tight. “But what if it is?”
Ron gave her a long look, and for a moment, she thought he might actually reach out, might push the hair back from her face like he used to. But he didn’t. He just smiled, gentle and knowing. “Then he’s a twat.”
A lump formed in her throat.
Ron stretched, standing again, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “You’ve always been stronger than you think, you know.”
Hermione blinked, and just like that, he was gone.
The room was empty again.
But somehow, just for a little while, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.