Though Time Fails

A/N – This was written almost a decade ago. I'm revamping and finishing it now. I'm sorry it took this long but I needed to grow up quite a bit in the last decade. This will be my apology to the world.


Chapter 1 – The Shit That Recurs

Fuck. Of the times that he had lost control, this word particular had been his mantra. It wasn't crass to say that everything now had been thoroughly fucked up. Ergo, the fact that his mantra was being repeated a hellfold over, just meant that things had gone fucking awry.

Shadows kept dancing upon the stone wall as a small light flickered in the corner of the room. The telltale smell of what could only be described as wet iron and damp shit hung limply in the air – not quite suffocating but not the list bit comfortable. Smoke was everywhere, thinly veiling the atrocity in the room. A mute clunking sound can be heard as it echoed in the stone walls of the dungeon. A very shameful and angry clunking sound.

The sound was made by a boy no taller than 5' 8.

'Fucking bloody fuck!' he thought over and over although he did not realize that he kept on muttering it under his breath. This goes with just how much he notices everything else in the periphery. He didn't actually notice his muttering as much as he didn't notice his current state of being.

His fume-soaked robes hung limply across his frame like damp cloth would upon a clothesline. His shoes just barely hung on for dear life as they seemed a few inches longer than they ought to be. On his face was plastered an expression which crossed between a scowl and a grimace.

Just who could this boy be?

The boy was of medium height and of slim build. A hooked nose, albeit not so prominent on his adolescent face, graced his openly annoyed visage. On the top of his head was a very greasy looking mat of shoulder-length hair. Said hair was already pressed to the back of his head as he kept running his hand through it. By this description, who else could he be? Whoever he was, he was definitely pissed.

'Where was the wrong in this?' he thought wildly. He was careful in mixing the potion. He followed every safety precaution ever mentioned to wizardkind. He even stirred it clockwise four and a third counts a minute for a bloody fucking hour! Dammit! Why did this happen?

Let's have a look at what happened ten minutes ago shall we?

He stood there over a platinum cauldron holding a stirring rod at one hand and a wand in the other. He was stirring a peculiar potion that was sure to be crucial in the next few years of his miserly existence. He added virgin's blood that was to neutralize the effect of the reduction of doxy wing and basilisk scale in order to make them into a bonded compound. He stirred. He cast a charm every 42 seconds as was required. He stirred again, religiously now. He then added the last ingredient that was the most crucial of all.

The sap of Ymir.

He almost winced when he touched the precious substance. He touched it as if that would be the death of him. As the amorphous substance fell into the cauldron, a small hissing could be heard. That was expected, he grinned to himself. What he didn't count on was the attending bout of violent bubbling and a bright flash of light. The cauldron and its contents went flying in all directions and to the Potions Master himself.

As one thing leads to another, we therefore find ourselves ten minutes in the future we stumbled upon.

He kept on pacing and cursing and pacing and cursing. The process became neither tireless nor temporary.

However, as comfortable as he was in his pacing and contemplative cursing, a turn in the proverbial wheel of fate seemed all too necessary.

"Sev – " Hermoine Granger came into the room and into an accident that still managed to surprise her. In the middle of the dimly lit room stood her brooding husband to be. Rather, in the middle of the room stood a teen aged replica of her husband to be.

There, in the middle of mischief and mismanagement is where we start a story that begins at the end.