Chapter 2: Frostbitten

The Great Hall; December 1997; about 11 PM

The invisibility cloak- Harry smiled and pulled it up against his chest. While he hadn't risked showing it in front of Malfoy, he had been so frightened, terrified that the one thing he owned that had belonged to his father was stolen, forever. It was this passionate fear that overwhelmed the fury within him, made him more deeply bitten when he had tumbled away into some strange unknown.

Which reminded him-

"I should have given it back first. Being the good guy, and all."

Draco laughed- Harry could hear the wooden ring to it, a deadened sound without any true spirit thrown in, like a real laugh. "If you played knight in shining armor year round, you wouldn't be alive right now."

"I guess not. At least I try; more than I can say of you."

"Yes, you do try." He seemed to acknowledge yet ignore the statement. "It's all part of you, trying like that all the time. Keeps you sane as well."

"You're not sane, then?"

You're concerned? "It's impossible for a dead man to be sane."

"You're not dead yet, Malfoy." Harry sounded so firmly assured that Draco could almost imagine that it was true. But both he and Harry knew the truth.

Harry sat up, a corner of the cloak balled up between his hands like a childhood blanket. It was somehow endearing. Withdrawing a sachet from his pocket, his fingers found a knotted string. He untied it, and then tipped it open so that a galleon rolled onto the table. Draco stared at it piercingly, looking frozen in the doorway.

"Come in, Draco. I'm won't hurt you." He didn't sound pitying, like the phrase might imply; it was simply an offer. It was there, that damn coin that had been kept from him for so bloody long.

The galleon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Malfoy Manor; September 20, 1997; about 10 AM

"Here, Potter, catch." He smirked in the way that was patently Malfoy, so habitually that it seemed natural for that smugness to be there. He cocked his head a little bit, standing with his back to the low wall of Hagrid's hut, and tossed a galleon in a quick wrist movement. Harry snapped his hand up to catch it mechanically.

The coin fell neatly into his palm as if molded to sit in his grasp; Harry barely had enough time to think about it before he felt an unpleasantly familiar jolt behind his navel. Oh, for God's sakes, not again.

He seemed to have consistently bad luck with portkeys.

Falling to his knees, Harry quickly brushed the dirt off his trousers and stood up to survey the predicament he had found himself in. Damn this soil; black, and clinging on him like-

It wasn't soil.

Charred and unstable, wood beams speared into the air around him, some rocking with a wind that shook the hilltops. He could faintly make out a structure, a sort of order that was oddly geometrical. The land was covered in a dusting of charcoal, from the walls burnt away in what had to have been a bonfire. It was sickening, standing among the skeletal remains of what had been a grand house, and the lingering smell of smoke in the air made the reality all the more hideously genuine.

He wandered around a bit, and there was marble tile beneath his feet, intricately fitted together in a mosaic of earth tones. This was a wasteland, utterly, utterly desolate like hell itself. The charcoal stirred in restless circles, troubling Harry. He clutched his wand tightly, wondering and wondering but not truly wanting to know. In fact, he dreaded it.

What did Malfoy want from this place?

At the end of a long driveway paved with brick designs there stood a wrought-iron gate. It was neither elaborate nor beautiful, but a thing of stern principle and purpose; the long bars ended in pointed, spear-like heads. Welded to the middle was a plaque, also iron, and Harry could not see what it read from this angle. Forcing his fingertips through the opening, he pried the gates open. They heaved a long, shrill scream from disuse that sent a cold feeling down his neck, but he ignored it, pressed to read that sign.

In the end, it read nothing.

There had been letters there at some point, gold-plated judging by the shining outlines rubbed onto the iron. They must have been taken away or stolen, but either way the words were gone and the traces left behind unreadable. Harry swore. If he hadn't seen the expression of horror on Malfoy's face, Harry would have believed that this was all a hoax to make him feel some sort of sympathy.

"What are you hiding here, Malfoy?" he asked aloud angrily. "Why do you need my bloody cloak?" He said it as if he expected an answer, but ultimately only the wind answered in a breathy howl, like a ghost. He shuddered.

There was nothing left to see. Unsatisfied, Harry glanced at the coin, rolling it around in his palm and, sighing, tossed it upwards so that it twisted once and fell neatly back into his fingers. The portkey caught him as if hurrying him away from the ruins of a mansion and back into the safety of Hogwarts' shadow.

Back to get answers from Draco Malfoy.