Silver
It was supposed to be an exceptionally boring day.
For once in, perhaps, a lifetime, the Ministry was at its most productive. To have witnessed this degree of unitive competency was, frankly, unprecedented.
As if every wizard and witch under HR’s jurisdiction was put under the Imperius Curse and the spellcaster used it for good.
Hermione had just finished her shift exactly 33 minutes and 17 seconds earlier than usual.
To anyone else, Muggle or otherwise, this would be met with a scoff here and a laugh there. To the average worker, that would simply be their expected commute time instead of the reality of being stuck in the office half an hour, minimum, past the time they were supposed to be clocking out.
Working in the Department of Mysteries was like working in a SCIF or any other restricted facility that was windowless and where time could only be observed from the bottom right corner of government-issued computers.
Without windows or clocks, replaced instead with seemingly endless rooms cloaked in eternal darkness, time was nothing more than an illusion where Hermione’s work in the Time Room made it easy for any untrained passerby to experience a day blink by in the span of an hour.
Clocks abound, clocks too many, of varying shapes and sizes, dotted every inch of the unwalled expanse of pitch black, singing their ceaseless, fractal tune.
Desks, bookcases and other furniture appeared to be floating across water as the dancing, diamond-sparkling light that reflected from the surface of pristine glass made the voided floor ripple and recede.
Each individual hour, minute and second was consolidated to a single, monotonous ticking that was so perfectly synced as to leave no space for echos or repetitions.
Hermione’s footsteps were muted against the resounding force of its tenor as she approached the bell jar from which the brilliant light was sourced.
It was at least ten times the size of a regular mason jar, resting upon the sleek, metallic surface of an imposing Victorian-era table with curved legs that almost resembled a four-legged animal. A majestic steed, of some sort.
Behind it, stood an equally massive bookshelf made entirely of glass. Except, there were no books to be found. Rather, an arrant display of vacancy.
These shelves were supposed to be lined with varying assortments of Time-Turners.
The trinket-sized object hidden in her robes felt heavy with the weight of their absence.
How long had it been since the war?
How long since a name became no more than a distant memory over a fear to frame?
The last remnant seemed to be entrusted in her own possession, burning a lasting imprint into the palm of her hand as its golden surface glittered against the jar and its perennial cycle of life.
The hummingbird’s shadow glided along the hourglass in all its recurring changes.
With a sigh, she stored the Time-Turner back into her robes and walked past the towering shelves of abandonment, advancing towards the sheet of black nothingness that trailed behind them.
If it were anyone else, hands would have grasped the air as a person blindfolded or a child feeling around in the darkness for something solid.
Hermione didn’t need her eyes to adjust. She’d been working in this place long enough to know the depth of its mysteries.
It was a rainy Sunday during the coldest month of the year, but she knew there was a cup of hot cocoa waiting for her and a cosy bed fluffed and warmed by Crookshanks.
With a sphinx-like smile and a hand resting against the darkness, she pushes slightly against that specific spot of loose space.
Huh… still bright out , she muses as the darkness slots away to a spreading crescendo of white.
Squinting against the brightness and stumbling forward on missing ground, she exits the Department of Mysteries, unknowingly entering into a place that was yet to be found.
If the light wasn’t blinding, it was certainly the pain in her right arm that rendered her insensible to anything in her immediate surroundings.
Without a breath to catch or a word to speak, she was panting, cheeks digging into splinters as they groaned out plumes of dirt and dust.
Her arm was wrenched behind her back as the man above her pressed her deeper into the withering cracks of aged and mouldering wood.
Heavy breathing contrasted with the soft, nearly imperceptible breaths that fanned across her curls.
Still as a statue, he said nothing as she felt the grip of slender fingers and the bite of something sharp pressed lightly in warning against her drenched and tense stretch of skin.
He’d asked a question and she refused to answer.
Yet, it was more genuine ignorance rather than stubborn, outright refusal.
How could she know why she was here when she had zero clue as to how she came to be here? Let alone where here was?
She bit back a cry that threatened to escape as the sharp bite broke into flesh and the feel of sweat versus blood was indistinguishable by means of the adrenaline coursing through in deafening waves.
She’d be damned to find herself at the mercy of Lord Voldemort again. Even less for his fledgling, former self.
Faintly, she could make out the low, vibrational frequencies of laughter.
A few moments passed and she could breathe again.
Riddle gave her space for only a second’s grace before wrenching her backwards and flipping her world upright, but only by the skin of her teeth.
She was sat back in the chair, but her head was crushed against the table, pinned by the same slender fingers of which instructed her, by movement and verbal diction, to look at the cursed object that rested as a haunting centrepiece.
She could hardly breathe, could hardly swallow, as she forced her eyes to bear its solid weight, as if it had never been touched by the destructive brush of Fiendfyre.
From this position, the Time-Turner was puzzling perfectly into the dip of her collarbone, crushing her windpipe to the point of allowing only gasping sputters and spittle to leave her lips.
Taking in the meticulous crafting of silver and sapphire, she thought of every gold horcrux he currently possessed thus far.
The Gaunt Ring.
Hufflepuff’s Cup.
If her throat wasn’t currently indisposed, she probably would have choked out a bitter laugh.
Third time’s the charm.
Sweaty palms flexing across the surface did little to reflect her disposition.
No matter how unexpected the situation, she was certain she would have the solution.
Here, it presented through the transposition of time and its mercurial device.
Here, the seconds could be split and a few decades from home could still be only a few extra minutes redirecting from a wrong turn.
So, when she coughed out the whisper of affirmation and obedience he was waiting so impatiently to hear, it was simple for her to take a long, deep breath.
Simple for her composure to return to her as smooth as she rose upright to where it was hard wood pressing against her back instead of the deceptive warmth of something human.
Simple for her to grasp the chain around her neck and remove its binding. As if it wasn’t the only one of its kind left to be found.
Was gold not worth more than silver?
For a moment, she thinks she can feel the beat of his heart pulsing strong and hot when she brings her left hand to greet him.
The Time-Turner begins to spin when their hands connect. The firm tension of a handshake that seals the fate of a mutual exchange.
His grip tightens as he looks upon her, frozen in place, quickly realising that the surprise registered on his face was not from the bleeding tattoo of her birthright having been exposed.
She feels it before she sees it.
Disintegrating like the sands that became displaced.
Every atom and molecule that comprised her physical existence fading away like the billowing, glittering winds of the bell jar.
When only her hand remained visible, her lips quirked with yet another sphinx-like smile that was invisible to him.
She watched as the diadem began to fade away, as if crafted from mere fragments of dirt, dust and the sands of the deceased.
Watching as the Time-Turner started to splinter and fall to bits as her fingertips were close to vanishing.
This was the true cycle of life.
Not a display to be observed in a museum, but an exchange of mutual sacrifice.
Eventually, the Thief of Death would learn that living twice means being willing to die.