Summary: Can Harry Potter master the Dark Arts without damaging his own soul, even when there is nothing left to hold him on the side of good?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, no money being made, no copyright infringement intended.

Rating: M.

A/N: It feels so good to be back! I meant to start writing this ages ago, but you know real life, it loves to get in your way. This story ignores HBP and DH in an epic way. They do not exist to this story. I stole the title from Doctor Who. I hope you like it.

I have tremor cordis on me. My heart dances. But not for joy... not joy.

-The Winters Tale.

Prologue

The summer before Harry Potter started his seventh and final year at Hogwarts had been one of the worst in living memory. Wizards up and down the country, wizards who had lived for over a hundred years, spoke of the return of an ancient fear that had gripped their society way back, when the dark lord Grindelwald was at the height of his reign. They huddled in gloomy country pubs lit only by guttering candlelight and spoke of those days, when terror was forever waiting around the next corner, when it was never-ending, when it sat in your heart and became a part of you, as constant as hunger and thirst and fatigue.

Those days were returning now.

It felt the same as before. The air was tense, heavy and silent. Waiting. Fear trickled up their spines and took the same slow, constricting hold around them, around everyone. The next dark lord, the Dark Lord, more terrible than Grindelwald himself, was gaining power. The Death Eaters, it was said, were rallying for an attack. The most terrible attack. Lord Voldemort had witches and wizards at his side whose cruelty matched his own, even if their power did not. He commanded armies of trolls, of giants, Dementors, werewolves, goblins. No-one knew where he would strike, or when.

Albus Dumbledore had given them hope. Albus Dumbledore had saved them all, way back - the battle against Grindelwald had raged for many hours and as the white wizard stood victorious, the country had felt the noose of fear loosen from their throats at last.

But Dumbledore was dead, murdered at the Dark Lord's hand and the only hope now, people said, was a boy. A boy at Hogwarts, a boy the younger people said could save them all.

But the ancient wizards, the ones who had heard stories of or even witnessed the day when Professor Dumbledore had conquered the evil Grindelwald at the very height of his reign of terror - the ancient ones did not believe that hope could be placed in a boy called Harry Potter. What power did he have that could rival the Dark Lord? What knowledge did he possess that could topple the most evil wizard to exist for centuries? What they needed was a man like Dumbledore - and such a man did not exist any more. Dumbledore had taken their hope into his tomb and shut it up in darkness forever. They did not believe in Harry Potter.

Lord Voldemort was malevolence made flesh, his skills unparalleled, his battalions vast. And Harry Potter was just a boy - just a child, still at school. What could a boy do?

If there had ever been hope, they said, hidden in their countryside dens away from the horrors of the cities, if there had ever been hope - if there had ever been a chance for salvation… it had long since passed on. There was nothing they could do now but wait. Watch and wait and hide, and pray the hand of evil did not stretch to their sleepy corners of Great Britain.

So they hid. And waited, and watched. The old fear returned. The old hope did not.

And corner to corner, shore to shore, over fields and cities and mountains, never stopping never pausing never merciful, a great shadow drew over the land.

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A/N: Reviews are love.