Tempus Fugit DRARRY

Chapter 1: Recipe For Disaster

I think that God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.
~*~

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake.

Macbeth - Shakespeare

The Potions Classroom of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was unique in several ways. The most unusual of these was a peculiar anomaly in the fabric of space itself that caused a small, localised atmospheric shift and seemed to grind the passage of time to a halt.

Harry was watching the ornate clock that hung over Professor Snape's desk; each of its intricate hands were moving at a leisurely rate, the ticks and chimes coming achingly slowly. He was not the only one whose eyes sporadically returned to the clock before sighing in disappointment to find that mere seconds had passed. Minutes spent in the dungeon seemed to pass like hours, and even his fellow students appeared languorous and torpid.

Snape was speaking to them in his usual acerbic manner, lacing his words with snipes at the Gryffindors' expense. They were berated for setting up their cauldrons too loudly, for talking in class, for dropping their quills on purpose and for all manner of imagined crimes. After Gryffindor had lost its thirtieth house point within ten minutes, Ron protested.

"But sir!" he cried, "that deduction of points isn't fair- I wasn't talking!" Snape, who seemed to be in a particularly foul mood, turned to face Ron with a deliberate slowness that made his whole demeanour more icy.

"Detention, Weasley," he growled, "for disrupting the class and daring to contest my method of teaching. I clearly heard you talking to Potter, and am obliged, therefore, to separate you. Weasley, next to Bulstrode. Potter, you can go..." Harry thought he could detect a note of glee in Snape's eyes as he picked a seat for Harry. Ron, grumbling, picked himself up and plonked down next to Millicent Bulstrode, an enormous Slytherin girl that bore a striking resemblance to a moose.

"...next to Malfoy." Snape finished, his eyes glinting maliciously. Harry's stomach dropped about three floors.

"But sir-" he began.

"Now!" Snape roared and Hermione cast him a sympathetic look before Harry gathered his things and set them down next to Malfoy's. The Slytherin looked at him as though he were a piece of dragon dung, as clearly irritated by this particular seating arrangement as Harry was.

"Just try not to fuck up the potion as usual, Potter," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. Snape noticed but said nothing and once more Harry was struck by the distinct unfairness with which he was treated in comparison to snide gits like Malfoy whom Snape seemed to like. Normally Malfoy was partnered by the ever hulking and intellectually challenged Crabbe or Goyle, but both boys were currently holed up in the Hospital Wing, after having eaten sixteen cakes each and suffering acute indigestion.

Ron was looking patently chagrined by being forced to partner Millicent, who had the size and body mass of a young rhinoceros.

Snape, smirking to himself at the improved seating arrangements, turned back to the board and tapped it with his wand. Curly white writing scrawled over it, detailing the ingredients list and method for a new potion.

"Now that we have finished the series of lessons on the Dream Potions, we are going to start your next topic," he said. Predictably there was no rustle of excitement, and Snape looked rather put out. "Today I am going to have the misfortune to teach you the immensely complex Pertho Draught. I wonder, can anyone tell me the origin of the name?" Hermione's hand shot into the air as usual and Snape rolled his hooded eyes, "Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked jadedly.