I'm sorry. I really really really am. I fully intended to finish this story, to weave a cunning little plot with hints of Voldemort's rising and Malfoy falling for Potter.

But then I read OotP and I can't bring myself to do it.

Maybe with some serious editing I could alter this to a sixth year fic, but in the meantime Malfoy is way too out of character, and to continue the story in this vein would be completely ignoring how much of a slimy git he is and how strongly he resembles his father.

I won't try to redeem him. There are dozens of authors who can do that better that I could hope to.

To all those people I promised a finish to - I'm really sorry. Below is the most recent chapter I've written that hasn't been posted. You can see from this where I would have taken the story. But after OotP I can't muster any fluffy sentiments where Malfoy and Potter are within hexing distance of each other.

Hogsmead

It's a peculiar feeling to know that there's no one to look after you. I've never really had any 'carers', but now that Father has no power over me I feel curiously adrift. As if I have no ties to anyone, and am an entity unto myself.

But of course I do have ties; obligations, friendships, and allegiances to Draco, to Harry, to Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape and the elves. And now I realise that these connections anchor me somehow, give me something to grasp when the tide pulls too hard.

But these connections are only in my thoughts, and are not legally binding.

I'm getting to know Dumbledore's office very well. Sitting awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, I listen as he explains the status quo.

"As far as the ministry is concerned, you're in need of parents."

"Foster parents?"

"Yes."

"But, I stay at school all the time."

"Not in summer I'm afraid. You'll need a wizard family to go home to for the three months, and guardians who would sign permission notes for you and other such irritating paperwork."

I fiddle with the cuff of my shirt. At his desk, the headmaster smiles over his glasses.

"How are they chosen?"

"A family will be chosen for you."

"By who?"

"I will have some part in it," his voice is sympathetic. "Don't worry about it Leila. For the moment Snape will sign your paperwork for you, including your Hogsmead pass."

"Hogsmead pass?"

"Your brother will explain, I'm sure. Here's the note, by the way."

Confused, I take the small parchment.

"I will tell you when a family has been chosen."

"Thankyou sir."

~~~~~

"I told you you'd love Hogsmead."

"Ah, but remember brother, we Malfoys trust no one."

"Not even ourselves?"

"Definitely not ourselves."

A rare smile graces him for an instant. Sun highlights his hair and eyes, and somehow makes his black cloak even darker in contrast.

"Look, there's the Three Broomsticks."

Hogsmead is all new to me. Muggle London was crowded and just a little bit gloomy, but this little village is bright. It's full of wide streets, buildings made at odd angles, horses drawing buggies with smart clips of hooves, and wizarding folk in robes getting on with their lives.

Draco is amused by my fascination with simple things, like shop windows with the specials written in paint that shimmers and changes colour. He leads me into the pub and orders two Butterbeers and water. He's learning.

"Check this out," he whispers, and pulls a small vial from his shirt pocket. Three clear drops of liquid in each glass, then he slips the potion away.

"What exactly is that?"

"Doesn't matter. Try it."

We lurk in the corner, and the owner isn't watching us like she was before. I glance around, double checking there's no one I know here.

"C'mon you Charlie, try it already."

I sip from the tankard. My first impression is of cream. But then there's a sharp bite of something stronger, and I feel alcohol burn the back of my throat.

"Like it?" he grins.

"Not bad. But if you drink the whole thing I'll have to carry you back to school."

"Nah, I'll be fine."

~~~~~

He's not drunk, or even tipsy, but his smile comes easier when we leave the Three Broomsticks.

"Leila," a voice I didn't want to hear today. The first member of the Holy Trinity.

"Harry."

Ron and Hermione hang back a little, frowning at my brother. Hermione won't even look at me.

"What are you up to?" Harry glances at Draco but speaks to me.

I shrug, "Not much. Just after a change of scene."

"Potter."

Uh oh.

"Morning Malfoy," Harry smiles just the littlest bit.

"Nice day isn't it?"

Hermione stiffens. Ron stares. Draco Malfoy being civil to Harry Potter? He must be drunk after all.

I look closely at my brother. He doesn't quite smile, but he's not sneering. His tone isn't friendly, but neither is it cold.

"Yes, it is."

And I remember what has passed between these boys. Harry helped me save Draco's life. Draco saw Harry broken down and crying. Little things such as these are bound to alter perspective.

"Harry," Ron comes up to take his friend's arm. "If we want to visit Zonko's we'd better go."

Draco inclines his head and steps away, perfectly composed.

"Bye Leila," the enemy hesitates, "Draco."

"Potter."

"Bye Harry, later Ron."

And we quickly move away from each other, as if not wanting to take such volatile risks as my twin and Harry talking about the weather.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Nothing. Just being 'civil' like you told me to."

"Oka-ay." I bury my hands in the pockets in the lining of my cloak. The sun may be out but it's not warm.

"You cold?"

"Just a little."

He takes my arm and changes direction.

"Where are we going now?"

"Shopping."

I give him a disbelieving look.

"If you imply for one moment that shopping imparts feminine attributes upon me I'll kill you." Draco pauses outside a clothes shop. Above us the sign declares "Don's Duds 'n' Dags" in loud red letters. He drags me in.

It seems the shop is unattended. My twin lets my arm go and begins to flick through a selection of cloaks on a rack.

"What are we doing here?"
"Getting you a decent cloak for a start."

"Draco - "

"Winter's coming on, and believe me the school ones aren't warm enough."

"I haven't any money."

"I do. And you're a Malfoy, so really it's your money too." I glare at him, and though his back is to me I know he's smiling. He turns, "Here, you like this one?"

It's a curious fabric, light but strong. Black, to the ground, with a hood and inner pockets for the hands. There's so much of it I have to take it from him and hold it up.

"Try it on."

"No - "

"Leila."

"Fine," I hand him my school cloak and sling the new one around my shoulders. It's light, but instantly warm. I check the tag; it's made of alpaca fleece. And it's very expensive.

"Don't argue about the price," he catches my expression. "That's why I chose it."

"Can I help you?"

I jump at the voice from the back of the shop. A man comes out, light brown hair curling over his shoulders. He smiles with businesslike charm.

"Looking for any cloak in particular?"

"This one," Draco smiles back. "And she'll need a skirt." I give up protesting.

"To match?"

"No, something dark green I think."

"You can look over here . . . "

~~~

Draco carries the boxes back to school. Thankfully I was able to convince him to stop at a cloak, skirt, scarf, and lined leather gloves. He's unaccountably cheerful as we walk through the Hogwart's gates.

"What's the matter with you?" I ask. I expect him to deny there's anything different but he falls silent. "Draco?"

"Later."

~~~

Distant sounds of laughter and voices filter through the stone of the castle. I curl up on my bed and my brother sits down beside me. I cannot help but notice his hands are trembling.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I feel tired and achy, but I don't know why."

"Father?"

A shrug. Then he changes the subject, "What was with Potter?"

"When?"

"The other night."

"That's not for me to tell you. You could ask him."

"Dragons may freeze. As if I'm going to just waltz up and ask 'Hey Potter, why were you bawling your eyes out in my sister's lap?'"

"The cynic act is getting old."

"You started it."

"Did not. But at any rate I can't tell you."

He humphs and twists around so he can flop on his stomach.

"Why did you buy all those things for me?" I ask.

"You're a Malfoy. I can't have my sister looking like a Weasely."

"But - "

"It's your money anyway. So don't complain."

He pillows his head on his arms, looking away from me. Shifting closer to him, I run a hand down his back. I can feel the bones of his spine and ribs. My twin sighs, relaxing a little.

"What's wrong with you Draco?"

No answer. I continue to stroke his back, liking the smooth material of his dark red shirt. Cotton, and an old one, softer through wear. All his other shirts are crisp and new. I wonder why this one's different.

"What happened at the Manor?"

Muscles tense. He doesn't move.

"What did Father do to you?"

"I thought you knew."

"It was more than just the curse. He's still hurting you even now."

The shirt even smells a little different. I didn't notice before because Draco had his jumper on.

"What do you mean?"

"I can tell. It's been weeks but you're still so . . . small. You seem smaller somehow."

He turns his head to face me, relaxing again into bonelessness.

"So what's your theory?" he murmurs.

I shrug, "You know more about curses and hexes than I do." He makes some sound, like a laugh and a breath.

"Whose shirt is this?"

"Potter's."

I continue to rub his back, pressing slightly into where muscles have knotted in his shoulders. It's a moment before he realises what he said. When he does he swears and turns his face to the bedspread.

"May I ask why you have it?"

"No."

"If you don't tell me I'll be forced to invent a rather incriminating story to explain you wearing Harry Potter's favourite red shirt."

When he speaks his voice is muffled. I bend closer to him.

"Pardon?"

"I stole it from the laundry last week and changed the label. I don't have any red shirts."

"Okay." I pointedly don't ask why he didn't simply buy a new one of his own. "Have you studied for the Transfiguration test tomorrow?"

"No."

"You want to help me?"

"Okay." When he sits up, I ignore the slight flush in his cheeks.

Again, I'm really really really sorry!!!!

~ regretfully, Blake Lupin