The Master Speed

The Master Speed

The sand funneled slowly through the neck, coming to land softly on the bottom half of the hour glass. It had always mesmerized her, the way the sand would shift and reform again to the shape of what it was being held in. She liked to claim that she was like sand; but only to herself.

I’d be sent to St. Mungos.

So it was only logical that she instantly put her hand up when Dumbledore asked for volunteers. At first he looked weary of it, but finally agreed that she could have the task as long as she treated it, and herself with care. She agreed readily.

I shouldn’t have.

But now, seemingly years later, she finds herself sitting in an old worn chair, swinging the time turner back and forth in front of her, watching the sand shift and reform. Her spindly hands grasped the small pinky-sized glass with a firm, but loose grip. She wouldn’t dare let it complete it’s circle.

I shouldn’t have done it.

But the lull of the sand had called to her, and she felt that she was the only one with the knowledge and experience. Oh, how naive she’d been.

Stupid really, caught up in the limelight of accepting my first challenge. My only challenge.

It was her only challenge, her only mission. Of course, if she’d listened at first to Dumbledore, and took care of herself and the time turner she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She’d be safely tucked into her bed, wondering what her next assignment will be. But she didn’t.

The glass caught the morning sunlight through a slit in the blinds, sending sparkles across the room like a rainbow.

Brilliant,

She smiled then, but her thin papery lips wouldn’t allow it long, before it ached from her dried muscles. Her skin felt like thin paper, ready to rip at the slightest pressure, and the wrinkles on her face felt foreign.

If someone spilt my blood, would it be sand? Would it be loose, grainy ground rock that flowed through my veins, making me so thin and wavery?

Hermione set the hour glass on the table, her bones creaking as she expanded her fingers and her wrist in the effort. The world bustled on around her, but she hardly noticed anymore. It was slow compared to her customed blur of motions as she sped through history, changing it again and again.

It was the thrill that kept me.

She had wondered briefly once, why no one offered to take her position. She looked around the meeting, looking into each tired, worn face and found they too were caught up in themselves.

But none aged quite like I did.

Remus Lupin looked at her once, with such pity and sorrow that she felt that perhaps he was looking at someone else, but over her shoulder there was no one. No one but the silent portrait that sat in the entrance hall. He smiled briefly, a tight smile that bespoke of his dilapidated energy.

But who’s laughing now? Huh, Remus? Who? Who?

But it wasn’t her that was laughing. If she had laughed she swore she’d hack up a lung, they were that fragile. If she’d known she’d have lived this long three months ago she would have given up the time turner as soon as it’s cooled glass touched her fingers and looped around her neck.

I wouldn’t have, I wanted to be needed.

But now, noting the way her shoulders creaked as she repositioned them, and the way that her knobbly knees stuck up from the thin blanket that covered her lap, that she had been needed but now she was just another wall accessory. Another life taken by the war.

And if my blood were sand, would I be forever trapped with my sins?

A steaming cup of tea was set in front of her, and Hermione looked up from the charming glass of the time turner, startled. Harry Potter’s young, but weary-lined face appeared in her poor vision.

“Here Hermione, I thought you looked rather cold,” he said quietly, smiling kindly but sadly at her. Hermione offered him a quick, strained smile in return.

“Thank you, Harry,” her voice was raspy with an age she shouldn’t feel, and her voice-box ached already. She really didn’t understand how her grandmother talked so much and so often, if it caused her this much pain.

Perhaps it’s because she hadn’t cheated her age.

“Ron is worried about you,” Harry said after a moment, looking at her from eyes hidden by sleep-deprived black bags under his eyes. Hermione lifted her tea carefully, holding it with both hands and took a sip before she glanced up at Harry.

He was watching her with sad eyes, an expectant look on his face as his fingers rubbed a piece of string between them.

“Whatever for?” Hermione answered indignantly. If anyone had a right to worry, it was her. Harry sighed and let the string fall to the ground. He reached over and tucked the blanket up around her hips.

“You’re so thin, Hermione.” he commented, his eyes looking at the faded lilac knit cover. “We’re all worried about you.”

“Harry, there’s nothing to worry about, I’ll be fine.” Hermione said, offering him a withering smile.

It’s obvious I’m not, Harry, so there’s no reason to tell me of your worry and make my head hurt even more.

“I promise,” she added after a moment, looking into the tea she had cradled in her hands. It was shaking slightly, and she suddenly and violently wished she were dead already.

The sand must be escaping, my blood is draining and I’m dying. I forgot to stand still.

Harry gave her a brief smile, and Hermione instantly knew it was fake. He turned and left quickly, his head bent and she wondered if he was going to cry.

Cry not, my child, for I forgive you. I just forgot to stand still.

The Master Speed
Robert Frost

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have speed far greater. You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will,
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still -
Off any still or moving things you say.
Two such as you with such a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar.