Harry Potter and the Son of the Dragon:

I do not own Harry Potter. He and the world in which he lives are the property of J.K Rowling.

Neither do I claim to own all of my ideas concerning magical creatures and powers in this story. They have been drawn from a number of sources. But I like to think I have merged them in my own way.

It was a miserable night. Lightening shattered the sky. Slicing through the darkness to the earth. The wind howled through the streets and past the identical square houses of Privet drive with a sound like a soul in hell. Most of the residents of the street were fast asleep and the noise bothered them not at all.

The only one still awake, a fifteen year old boy found it entirely appropriate for his mood.

Harry Potter sat at his desk in his room. A parchment and quill in his hands. The desk at which he sat was cluttered with textbooks. Ever since the end of his fifth year Harry had been studying furiously. The Dursley's, the warning provided by Mad Eye Moody and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix still fresh in their minds, had completely ignored his 'unnatural activities' as long as he kept them confined to his room. This Harry had been more than willing to do. In fact he had rarely left his room all summer.

In one way this summer had been better than his last. The utter indifference of his relatives was much better than the active dislike he was used to, and his interaction with them was kept to minimum. Normally he only saw them at meal times where he kept his attention firmly focused on his food and said barely a muffled "excuse me" before leaving the table. Best of all he had been able to keep in almost constant contact with his friends. He and Hermione talked on the phone almost every day. Ron and he Weasley's regularly sent him letters and parcels by owl. And members of the Order of the Phoenix visited him every few days to make sure he was alright, and to keep the few of wizards in the Dursley's. Yet despite all of that, in another way this summer was far far worse then his last.

Last summer he had lived in constant anticipation of news of Voldemort's return. Waiting for word of new death eater attacks or mysterious deaths on the muggle news. This summer he no longer had to wait.

Every day the Daily Prophet seemed to contain more news of Voldemort's second rise. The Dark Lord was through with waiting in the shadows. The second war had begun with a vengeance.

The paper was filled with stories of DeathEater attacks on Wizarding families, ministry officials and muggles. Voldemort was letting the Wizarding world know that he was back in no uncertain terms. And it wasn't just Death Eaters serving him anymore. Harry shivered as he remembered an image from the Prophet. The picture had showed a Trio of giants led by a group of death eaters demolishing a village in Northern England. He remembered the chill he had felt when he saw the wreck of the village on the news the next day. The news reports were full of "unexplained natural disasters" these days. Even the Dursley's had noticed. But if they suspected the Wizarding world they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Harry sighed as he stretched and rubbed his eyes blearily. One unfortunate result of this was that he was stuck at the Dursley's at least until the end of summer. He still remembered the letter Dumbledore had sent him. With the increased attacks and level of Death Eater activity Dumbledore felt that it simply wasn't safe for him to leave privet drive for any reason until the end of the summer.

The letter had explained much more than that. Indeed it had gone into detail about the level of raids, how thinly stretched the Auror's and the Order of the Phoenix were and the risk not only to Harry but to his friends. In one way this had made Harry feel better. Dumbledore seemed to be trying to make up for his silence in the past year with providing him a great deal of detail about his reasons. But the end result still left Harry alone at the Dursley's.

So with little contact with the outside world and nothing else to do Harry had thrown himself into his studies with a vengeance. He had read and reread all of his textbooks from the previous years. Living with the Dursley's and being still legally underage he was unable to perform magic. But that didn't prevent him practising words and wand movements until he felt he could do them in his sleep. He had studied so hard he had actually run out of work to review and revise and had had to write a letter to Dumbledore begging for more.

This had arrived a few days later in a massive package that had required three postal barn owls to carry. Harry had originally been surprised by the books. They were all in plain but battered leather covers with no titles. It was only when he opened them that he realised what they were. Contained within were line after line of meticulous notes on spells, potions, charms and wards. Spell books written in Dumbledore's own hand. Blinking in awe Harry had immediately settled down to read.

Now late at night almost a week later Harry wearily closed the spell book he had been reading. The spells here were much more advanced than any he had dealt with at Hogwarts. Many of them required a perfect combination of mental discipline, precise incantations and complicated wand movements to make them work. It didn't help that with the restriction on underage magic in place he was still unable to practise them properly. But little by little he was getting the hang of them. He knew that he should feel proud of himself, being able to learn magic at this level. But somehow he just felt weary. No matter how much he learned, no matter how good he became he knew that it was not enough. Voldemort was out there. The Master of the Death Eaters, knew far more than he did and had had a lifetime of experience to master that power. Everyone talked about him as one of the most powerful dark lords that had ever lived. Yet somehow he was expected to defeat him. All because of that damn prophesy.

Harry blew out his breath and rubbed his eyes. Six times so far he had faced Voldemort or his minions. Each time he had survived, but he knew that he owed that more to luck than to skill. He had to find a way to get stronger. Strong enough that he could challenge Voldemort in an equal fight. He had no idea how. But he couldn't give up. The lives of too many, and the memories of too many others would not let him.

Signing Harry took off his glasses turned out his light and crept into his bed. He already knew that he would not sleep well. He hadn't had good nights sleep since Sirius died. But he would continue to try. SO with a final sign, Harry Potter they boy who lived, turned over to face the nightmares which haunted his sleep.

Outside in the storm a figure noticed the light go out in the house on Privet Drive. The figure had been staring at the boy for a long time. Observing him. Watching him. Now satisfied the boy had gone to sleep the figure went back to watching the house. To normal eyes the house appeared no different to dozens of others along the street. But the watchers eyes were not normal and had not been for a long time. Where others saw nothing the watcher saw the lines of power that surrounded the house. The wards that blazed like the sun to his eyes and appeared just as powerful. He knew the power of those wards and recognised the magic behind them, though few others would.

He knew that as long as those wards were there he would be unable to get close to the boy. But that was alright. A good hunter does not chase after his prey. He waits for it to come to him and the watcher was an exceptional hunter among other things.

He had been watching this house and the boy within it for weeks. But he was patient and he could wait for weeks more. Eventually he knew the boy would have to come out and then he knew that his prey would come to him.

Suddenly a car drove along the street the lights briefly illuminating the space where the figure stood. With the ease born of long practise the figure moved out of the way concealing himself from the light. But had anyone been there to see they would have seen a pair of eyes briefly illuminated by the lights. Eyes that shone as red as freshly spilled blood.