Dark Heritage

You've been a great help.
Also Im dedicating this chapter to Sally, who loves Draco *almost* as much as I do.


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Chapter one -That Summer

Harry awoke to the sound of screaming. His aunt Petunia's screaming to be precise. He sat up in his bed, and blinked groggily. Then he reached out with one hand and grabbed his glasses off the table beside him.

It was then he realized that Hedwig's cage was empty. For one heart stopping moment Harry froze and wondered what had happened to her. Then he actually listened to what Petunia was screaming. "Get it off! Get it off! Vernon! Heeeeelp me!!!!!!!!"

Faintly Harry could hear the sound of Hedwig hooting.

Hastily he threw back his bed sheets and raced down the stairs, following Petunia's screams. He paused as he entered the kitchen because he couldn't believe the sight before his eyes. Hedwig was sitting perched on Petunia's head, her large wings flapping wildly. Meanwhile Petunia, face bright red -the shade of a ripe tomato- rushed around in circles, shaking her head madly.

For a few seconds Harry stood in the doorway, struggling hard not to burst out laughing. Then once he was sure he'd got himself under control he walked over and carefully picked Hedwig out of her hair.

Hedwig struggled and Harry could have sworn she wanted to go back to what she had been doing. It was then he noticed the broomstick in Petunia's hands. His broomstick to be exact. His Firebolt. It came to him then, just what had been happening when he had been sleeping.

"You were going to throw my broomstick away!" he yelled angrily at his red-faced aunt. She stared back at him levelly, not denying his accusations at all. "And if Hedwig hadn't distracted you, you would have," Harry said, quieter now. He simply couldn't believe any one could be that cruel. The Firebolt was the first thing his Godfather had bought him, and he treasured it deeply.

Storming up to her he grabbed his broomstick and ran back up the stairs to his room. Quidditch was the one thing that kept him sane right now. Everything else so far had let him down.

Even his best friends Ron and Hermione weren't really there for him any more; they had been acting strangely around him since the Triwizard tournament, and Harry had the sinking suspicion they held him responsible for Cedric's death.

Cedric.

He had been dead for over a month now, yet Harry still saw his face in his dreams. Almost every night he woke up panting, eyes widened in terror as he relived Cedric's death over and over again.

Each and every waking moment Harry was racked by guilt. Deep in his heart he knew that he was indeed the cause of the older boys death. After all it had been his idea for them to grab the Cup together, it was his fault that Cedric had to have been there to witness Voldemort's revival.

Suddenly a loud voiced snapped Harry out of these thoughts. It was Uncle Vernon. His face was a vivid purple in color and Harry knew that his punishment -although he had done nothing- would be severe.

And it was.

For the rest of the morning Harry was forced to stand outside in the blistering sun and repaint the front porch -a horrible off-yellow color his aunt called "Summer dream" - it was uncomfortable to say the least.

Refusing to have the neighbors think that Harry was their son, they had forced him into some horrible oversized clothes and pretended he was a painter they had hired.

Painting was hard work, especially when standing in the full glare of the sun. Harry sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow. He would kill for a drink right now.

Noticing he had paused Aunt Petunia poked her head out the window and threw the very large metal frying pan she had been using to cook Dudley's second breakfast with.

Harry ducked just in time, and went back to painting. He sighed. This was a long summer,

and he could only wait for it to be over. . .

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For over twenty years the name Voldemort has struck fear into witches and wizards around the globe.

Voldemort -commonly known as he-who-must-not-be-named - made a habit of killing both Muggles and Wizards alike, just for the sake of it.

He and his followers (the self-named Death Eaters) plagued and plundered the country freely, getting rid of any Mudbloods and the people who stood in they're their way.

So the Dark Lord remained unstoppable, causing wizards everywhere to quiver in fear. Until one very unique little boy came along. This boy's name was Harry Potter.

Draco threw the book (Dark Wizards-A History ) across the room in disgust. It fell against one of Malfoy Manor's library tables, and clattered to the floor loudly.

He couldn't get away from Harry anywhere, Draco thought bitterly, not even in his own home.

He stood up from the large black chair he had been sitting in and dusted himself off, glancing at the clock on the wall opposite him as he did so.

It was nearly seven o' clock.

He walked out of the room quickly, calmly stepping over the fallen book on his way. He couldn't be bothered to put it away. That was the house-elves job.

Swiftly he climbed up the marble staircase to where his room lay, on the 3rd floor. Soon his father's guests would be arriving, and Draco needed to get changed.

Fifteen minutes later he met his father downstairs, where he was promptly ordered to mingle. He did so cringingly, as he tried to avoid the stares and whispers that followed behind his back.

"Oh look it's Lucius' son. . . there are great plans being made for him..."

Over half the people there were Death Eaters, and though he would never admit it, they made him uncomfortable. He had no idea what the big plans for him were yet -his father had never cared to inform him.

"Dearie me! If it isn't little Draco!" shrilled a high-pitched voice behind him. Draco froze, and tried not to scowl. He was not little.

He recognised that voice, and for a moment he contemplated running away. But a Malfoy never ran away from a guest, and being the perfect Malfoy he turned and gave the speaker a polite smile.

It was, of course, Edwina Killjoy. Edwina was a large woman, dressed entirely in a gown made of bright violet material. Draco had to force himself not to shudder; the dress was giving him a headache just by existing.

"Well!" she continued, smiling horribly. "Aren't you just the spitting image of your father!" Draco gave her another tiny smile; busily trying to think of ways he could possibly get away from her disgusting perfume.

It was true in a way. Both he and his father had the same white-blond coloured hair and grey eyes. But that was where the resemblance stopped.

Everything else about him he inherited from his mother.

Thankfully at that moment they were interrupted by Edwina's husband -a slightly waspish looking man called Steven- who came over and dragged her away before she got the chance to say anything else.

For the next hour and half Draco was forced to mingle with almost every one there. He had to fight to keep his eyes open and every five seconds he placed his hand over his mouth to prevent a yawn escaping.

This summer had been one of the worst yet. His father had hired a bunch of new tutors to teach him more about the dark arts, and almost every evening there was another stupid party to go to.

When at last he was sent to bed Draco was relieved. He was glad that school would be starting back up the following day -he couldn't stand another night of this.