These Are Dark Times

A/N: Hello and welcome! As the description of this fanfic states, this story follows the canon events of the Harry Potter universe up to the end of "The Order Of The Phoenix" and the start of "The Half-Blood Prince" books/films. From there forth it is a great divergence from canon, while I have the luxury of writing after the later books have been published, and thus have details of objects such as Horcruxes. I will not be following the events of these books, and simply want to submit my own take on a "Post-OOTP" fic as a great fan of other works on this site such as "Taking Control" or "Hail Odysseus". I'll leave a longer authors note at the end of this chapter detailing what you can expect should you choose to stick around!

Fleeting and fearful looks could be seen strewn across the front page of these morning editions of the Daily Prophet. The skies full to the brim of swirling shadows and green tinted clouds, what could be made out the clearest of them all, however. Was the presence of the dark mark, it's ominous green glow a stark contrast to that of our typical English sky. There in the middle of London, the mark sat, towering just over what would be to a Muggle, "Charing Cross Road" or as it would be better known to our wizarding fellows, Diagon Alley. The papers front image quickly warped into a scene depicting that of the Ministry Atrium. Flashes of light were prevalent throughout the lobby, reporters scrambling for information like that of vultures circling a corpse, the image itself rolling onto that of a small podium on which the Minister For Magic himself stood.

The Prophet's byline, forever imposing and bold, clearly showed a most disturbing extract of knowledge, of what was once portrayed to be that of mere conjecture and slander by our previous Minister For Magic.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns!"

"Minister Scrimgeour Calls For Calm" "Fudge Sacked" "Is Anyone Safe?"

While most articles of The Daily Prophet in recent years could be compared to that of the likeness of Witch Weekly. This particular piece held a prison of facts rivalling that of Azkaban, the image of which, coincidentally, was prominently featured along several of the sidelines of the paper. While a mass-breakout of Azkaban would have almost seemed inevitable, Rufus had very little time to bolster the defences of the prison after the emergency Wizenagmont session shoving him into power with the graces of that of the aristocratic elite of our society. No, what Rufus Scrimgeour had to contend with now was the ire and wrath of the public after these damnable events throughout the magical community of Britain.

Scrimgeour dropped the paper onto his desk after a morning rivalling that of his most precarious and sensitive missions as an Auror. Leaning back in his chair he began to rub his temples to alleviate that ever-growing pain since his sudden election. Not only must he deal with the injury of Auror Dawlish whom he tasked with tailing Dumbledore on his excursions out of the country. But now, he must also attend to the pressing fires raging throughout the magical isles, reassure the public of their faith within the ministry and find a solution to the sudden lack of suitable inmate housing from He-who-must-not-be-named's dastardly breakout of his followers from Azkaban. Yes, it is indeed a fair assessment to say that the events of this morning and prior evening, makes his times as an Auror seem like a Utopian dream in comparison.

A crisp knock reverberated throughout the office not a few moments later, it seemed the relative solitude of his office in the Auror department was not to be carried over to his newfound position after all.

"Enter" Scrimgeour called out to whoever intruded on his few moments of solitude. Slightly irked at his own naivety for thinking he would gain a few moments peace.

As the door swung open, in cooly walked a man with a beige trenchcoat, stopping as he came to stand in front of The Minister's desk.

"You asked to see me, Minister ?" The man spoke, with a slight slur to his already noticeable quite accent.

"Ah, Dawlish. I sincerely hope that your memory has not been impaired by your encounter with Dumbledore?"

"No Minister?... I'm afraid I don't quite follow" Dawlish stammered in response.

"Well, I was hoping you could explain to me how it is, that when I asked you to follow Dumbledore discreetly, you managed to come back with a concussion and a broken leg? Along with no information as to the activities of the esteemed Headmaster?"

"Sir, I obeyed your orders to the letter, I followed the headmaster to Little Hangleton as you ordered. I disillusioned myself before even attempting to do so. But as I entered a house that he had taken an interest in, he simply turned to me from the doorway and stunned me. I then fell down a set of steps and remained there until Auror Kingsley came to check up on me Sir."

"I see, and you believed that a simple disillusionment charm would keep you from detection by Albus Dumbledore! Perhaps the most knowledgeable man to ever walk the walls of this ministry? Where was your Auror training, man? Blend in with the crowds, use chameleon charms to merge with the village environment for god's sake! Don't creep ominously behind him like that of a Niffler seeking gold!" Rufus exclaimed, his voice gaining a progressive amount of weight and distress as he spoke.

Rufus took a deep breath before continuing on, he had to keep a clear head for his upcoming meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister. His uncertainty for how to approach that negotiation bleeding through to his frustrations with Dawlish. Meanwhile, the man himself was shifting his weight idly from foot to foot, his face bright red with veins protruding out of his tomato-esque skin.

"Dawlish, You're to be set to work on cases for MLE, the quality of missing pets and the like for the foreseeable future until you've managed to ingratiate yourself to me or your supervisor, Is that clear?" Rufus spoke clearly and calmly, a far cry from his brief fit of rage mere moments ago.

While Dawlish may have been fuming on the inside of his now swollen face he responded with a simple "Yes Sir" and promptly exited the office. The door reverberating in the wake of his distress and now raging temper.

Meanwhile in the corner of the room, dotting the walls of this decaying and ancient office sat a simple grandfather clock. It's hands mere seconds away from signalling another sore point of Scrimgeour's imminent schedule. As the second hand glided onto the ten a simple chime found its way to the ears of the Minister. Rufus then promptly stood, and with a wave of his wand, the fireplace next to the ancient clock sprang to life. The Minister then promptly stepped into the fireplace and intoned clearly and briskly "Number Ten Downing Street" and was whisked away by the flames. Clouds of soot and ash flowing out of the fireplace and defacing the office walls and floor, just as so many ministers had done before him. Although few with this sense of extreme urgency.

Meanwhile in a more remote corner, but no less important section of Britain one could find a seemingly normal neighbourhood. At least that's the way it might appear to an outsider looking in upon the edges and rim of this odd little community. To a resident, what you might find, if you were to look close enough, are a series of strange happenings. All of which started many years ago stretching from but one place in particular, somewhere seemingly unimportant to most but holding that of the most paramount value to others.

Number Four Privet Drive

In Fact if one were to look through the fringes of the frosted glass, you would be forgiven for falling upon the same illusion that has been apt for so many others. For what you would see, if you took the time to observe, Is a young man sleeping in his oh so small slice of normalcy, a stick of holly by his bedside table and a wintery companion keeping watch over his restless form as he tossed and turned throughout the night.

You might inquire as to why one would even have an owl as a pet, or perhaps why that simple stick of holly is the only thing of significance in the barren and tiny room. Or perhaps why there is no one to comfort the obviously distressed young man as he rages in his slumber. The sad truth in fact being that is no ordinary boy even for that of the wizarding world, orphaned at a young age with a strange scar adorning his forehead. Surrounding him, the notes of fate in the form of a strange prophecy. The contents of which, divulged to him not but a few days ago.

Harry Potter slept on, if you could even call his current state a form of rest and recuperation at least. The wand beside, him rattling across the table, spewing out tiny red sparks in great awareness of it's masters state. These sparks were the only source of light in the room, rebounding across the bare and bleak walls and out through the open window, where cold and callous steel bars stood not a few summers before. There below sat a lonely centurion as a guard, watching over the house as Harry potter slept inside. Keeping him supposedly safe from harm, although this measure only accounted for dangers outside of the safety of the damnable blood wards. There, outside the boy's window wrapped in his very own invisibility cloak, loaned to him by the order sat Remus Lupin. His clothes as scratchy and patchwork as ever, a testament to his very own poor treatment and losses in these past few years.

As Remus saw the red embers burn like a signal in the night, his lycanthropic senses began to quicken, becoming more alert and coherent as he felt the heat amongst the half moon's glow. His own green eyes widening at the potential implications of what he was seeing in the night sky.

A/N: So onto what you can expect in this fic, for starters I will be sticking to any canon ships that are out there. Not that this will be the focus of the story, although it may play a decent role, I frankly just haven't decided. This story will not contain heavy Dumbledore bashing (If it's there it's probably going to be light and relevant to the plot) so if you're looking for that you might as well stop here. As I've said in the summary this story will focus on Harry's journey and how he evolves as a character Post-OOTP. Yes he will be powerful, yes he will be independant, no he will not become a god instantly or ever (Not a massive fan of those type of fics). Anyway this is my first fanfic and I'd appreciate constructive critiscim, I know how this site can be with raging fanboys of one thing or another with beliefs that writers should change their fics to accomodate them, you aren't welcome here mate. But anyway thank you if you took the time to read this first prelude and I expect to be carrying this one on for a long time.