He's sitting at the train station, which is dusty and decrepit, a faded reminder of past glories. It no longer takes children to Hogwarts; they floo there instead. It rarely makes runs, but a few dedicated people provide the funds to keep it up to speed, and if he listens hard, he imagines he can hear children on their first day to a new life.
He's thirty-one now. It's been twenty long years since he boarded a scarlet train into a new lifestyle, away from the flirtations and gilded furniture that he was raised with.
Now he's sitting there, ruminating. It's strange, because it's the future now, he's all grown up, but he's sitting in the memory of one past life, and waiting impatiently for the return of another. It's strange how things overlap.
No-one uses the old train station anymore, because there are still blood stains engraving the concrete. He traces a path with his eyes, and it occurs to him, vaguely, that some are laid out like the designs on his mother's favourite armchair. As he leans back on the bench, resting his arm on the black, steel lace Victorian designs that the designer loved so much, he stole them from the Muggles, he taps his foot in rhthym with the rain that's falling on the roof overhead.
Where is she?
It's been ten long years since she left him at this very spot. It wasn't supposed to be for so long, but then, her friends weren't supposed to die. His best mate wasn't supposed to die trying to protect her. Her best friend wasn't supposed to go out protecting Blaise, either, but apparently, that's how everything worked out. There were too many painful memories, and she left.
He's never blamed her.
She fled to Italy, officially working as a go-between for the Muggle Italian Senate and their Ministry of Magic. The fact that she didn't speak Italian when she got the job failed to deter her; now she's fluent in Italian, French, and Spanish.
He only speaks English, but that's okay. He doesn't think they're going to say a lot when she gets back, anyways. At least not at first. He had cast his lot with the side of the light, assuming they'd win, but also because the insufferable, obnoxious, bossy Gryffindor had intrigued him, and he knew that befriending her could benefit him.
He just never imagined how much.
He's holding her letter in his hands. It's not much of a letter; long-distance note might be more accurate. Blaise. I'm coming back. Back there. Hr.
She didn't even fully write out her name, but he knew who it was. That tiny, cramped, but neat penmanship would have marked it as hers from a thousand others.
He's not sure if he's happy, scared, or nervous. It's been ten years since he's touched her, laced his long fingers through her frizzy curls, kissed her thin lips. Ten years is a long time, and he's not sure how much he remembers.
There have been lovers, and dreams, and plans that were made, but nothing will come of those particular ashes.
He's been with many women since she was away, and somehow, Blaise thinks she knows about every single one of them. She probably knows how many he took with him, who he slept with.
He wonders if she knows that not one of them has had a cup of her favourite tea. He keeps a box in his cabinets until they're well past the expiration date, just in case she decides to come back. And now she is.
He remembers their first meeting, halfway through the last term of their sixth years. He was arrogant (still is, to be honest), tall, rich, well-educated, and to his mother's delight, extremely good looking. Girls wanted him, from every house and every strata of society. He flirted as his mother taught him to, hinting at everything, offering nothing, able to satisfy them with a self-assured smile and a confident pose that invited conferences.
She, of course, was a completely different matter. The daughter of two well-to-do dentists, intelligent, clever, logical, Blaise had absolutely nothing he could offer her. He liked to charm girls for the sheer hell of it, but six years of being best friends with the most famous boy in their world had left her enthusiasm towards popular boys at an all-time low. Okay, so he was tall, exotically dark, handsome, and rich? She'd defied death, faced off with Death Eaters and bratty Slytherins, taken on the forces of evil, bagged an International Quidditch Star, and still got top marks again. Just who are you, Zabini?
Perhaps that's what attracted him to her. Not that she has ever been a devil-may-care type of girl- far from it- but because she was calm and capable. Independent enough to make her own way in life, self-assured enough that having a romantic partner wasn't a problem for her.
Perhaps that's why he's sitting here, drumming his fingers, looking for a plume of smoke, unheeding of the memories left behind.
The train has no schedule, so she's neither early nor late, but she'll be the only passenger. The only person on the train. It only goes to Hogsmeade and back, but she had business there first, before she can return back to London. Back home. Back to him as well, he supposes.
He wonders why she's taking so long. Perhaps she knows that he won't be leaving until she's with him.
He relaxes slightly, picking invisible lint off his freshly-pressed trousers. He counts the cracks in the ceiling, the scuff marks on his shoes, the pigeons that are gathering on the edge of the railway, until there's nothing left to count. Except the minutes from here until eternity.
He hears it.
A whistle, high, piercing, floating, coming from the east. He looks.
A small, scarlet dot seems to waver somewhere near the horizon.
Panic sets in. What should he say? Should he offer to help her with her bag? Talk about the weather, politics, her hair? Something distracting? Something pertinent? It's been a long time, have you gotten over Harry's death? I still have nightmares about Theodore's. Do you miss him? Because I miss him. A lot. All the time. I missed you too. Ron still asks about you, even though I know you write him. Do you know I have lunch with him? He's actually quite funny when he's not losing his temper. His hair is still as red as ever. Your hair looks... fluffy. Do you like my shoes? They're new, I bought them 'cos I knew you were com-
The train is getting closer, and he tries not to moan in fear. The hundreds of suave, humourous things he could say have flown out of his ears and are flying to the sky, leaving him with a general buzz of panic.
He thinks that what's really scaring him is the fact that he doesn't know what's going to happen. They've never spoken of what passed between them. Kisses stolen from behind the backs of protective friends, holding hands in a crowded bus, a swift hand on the small of her back and a quick squeeze of his fingers before a big speech. Small, quiet moments that lie across a giant gap of time. Will the conversation still be easy? Will there still be that understanding?
The train is almost here, and he's still sitting. He stuffs his hands in his over-priced leather jacket, hands placed over his stomach, head hanging low. Worry, worry, bother and bugger. What is he going to say? Hello, I know I've shagged more women than Zeus since you've been away, but I really missed you. You know that, right?
Now was just as good a time to worry over his sexual adventures. There's no way to say how a woman will react, especially when that woman is a war hero with a knack for nasty jinxes.
The train is here, slowly grinding to a halt.
Blaise finds he can't leave his seat, for fear that he'll get up and run away. Self-preservation includes his ego.
The train is completely stopped now, and through the darkened windows, he can see her getting up, not looking at him, picking up bags, calmly walking to an open door and now she's here.
It's Hermione.
Her hair is still that glorious mass, she still has three freckles on the side of her nose, but she walks a little slower now, age twisting itself around all war wounds and not letting go. Her eyes are still clear, though, as she walks down the three steps of the train's door.
She's really here.
She walks up to him, looking around the deserted station. He looks at his knees, stomach going mad, his mind whirling crazily with what he should say right now. What is the perfect thing to say to the woman who left with your heart a decade ago, who has held it ever since and just suddenly disappeared?
She's never told you how she still feels. Friend? Lover? Companion? Ally?
He realises that she's never even told him where she's staying, or for how long.
She stops in front of him, looking at him with her head tilted to the side. He drags his eyes up to meet her, hazel meeting mahogany as they consider one another for a long moment.
'Sorry I took so long,' she says casually, and his heart drops. No kisses, no declarations of love, no nothing.
'It was just so nice,' she continues, putting her bags down. She sits next to him, not looking at him anymore, but she stretches out her legs and puts her hands on her hips.
'I didn't realise how much time would pass,' she apologies, smiling slightly. He looks at her from the corner of his eyes.
'I just like taking the long way home,' she says.
Suddenly, he realises she's here to stay, and he doesn't have to say a word. They sit there for a while, not talking, watching the pigeons.
'Come on then,' he says after a while. She looks at him. 'I'll make you some tea at the flat,' he continues. 'Give you the grand tour.'
'I hope you remembered the honey for the tea,' she says, and he gives her a look, because of course he has. He thinks. He'll just borrow some from the neighbour.
Hermione picks up her bags, letting Blaise take a few pieces. They set off, holding hands, both glad she's finally come home.