A/N: The other day, I tried my first cigarette. And it got me wondering whether or not wizards have their cigarette equivalent. After a night of deliberation, I decided any wizard wanting to fly on the wings of nicotine would have to do it the good-old muggle way, which intrigued me somewhat, to say the least….
Disc;aimer: if I owned Harry Potter, I'd be richer, older and probably saner.
Draco may have been thoroughly anti-muggle, but that had never stopped him appreciating the finer points of muggle life. It was the easiest way to enrage his father, and probably the most enjoyable too. May it never be said Draco Malfoy was an obedient goody-goody!
Tobacco, for a start, had always fascinated him. So he hadn't surprised himself in the slightest when he stole that packet from Potter's jacket pocket, tossed carelessly on the floor of the quidditch changing rooms. Honestly, it was a stupid place to hide them anyhow, and really he was doing Potter a favour by taking them. After all, you couldn't have the Golden Boy tainted with black tar and stale smoke.
So he'd taken them, and it was all for the best really that it was Draco Malfoy, bad-boy and general bastard, hiding down by the forbidden forest having a quick fag before lunch. He was, infact, making the world a better place, making sure these damn cigarettes didn't fall into the wrong hands i.e Potter's.
So Draco had made it his mission, his purpose in life if you will, to keep that Gryffindor Idiot smoke-free. And it was amazingly easy really, especially with black clothes and a sense of Drama, to keep an eye on Potter and, most importantly, keep the world in Balance. For all world-domination and nefarious plots to unhinge the very existence of wizard-kind was an essential part of growing up, teenage-rebel Potter would be taking it too far.
He marked his territory, the tall grey tree by the lake, with discarded ash and stubs and guarded it with angry glares and wreaths of smoke, and soon he forgot his plan of greater-good and focused instead of the foulsweethotdirtyaddictive taste of the crap he was sucking into his lungs, keeping him up like white and brown wings. And he knew every breath he took was killing him, but as long as Potter had cigarettes in his pocket or bag or cauldron or... It didn't matter.
*
It was a Wednesday twilight. It was a raining Wednesday twilight, and the old grey tree didn't so much shelter Draco as concentrate the rain into more interesting and large droplets. But he didn't care. He sighed and leaned against the rough damp bark, eyes closed with relief at the end of the school day. The first drag was always the best, and he revelled in the hot taste as the cigarette was lit and firmly in his mouth. He could breathe again and fly again, and at last his hands knew what to do with themselves as one cradled the cigarette and the other clenched his latest find- a blue lighter, found lodged in one of Potter's shoes. He was safe now, and despite the cold and rain his insides were full of stuffy warm smoke.
"Enjoying it?" enquired a voice by his ear, and Draco had the self-control not to jump. He froze, and then slowly turned to stare with wide and angry eyes at the intruder- Potter.
"Yeah," Potter grinned slightly, wiping dripping hair out of his eyes with almost-blue hands. "I do look a bit... crap, don't I. But so do you. Drowned rats, the both of us."
Draco inhaled, then exhaled, slowly wreathing the still grinning Potter with wings of blue-ish grey smoke. Potter sighed in appreciation, and closed his eyes, and for a moment he was no longer the Golden Boy, just another person. Just another person to've fallen for the foulsweethotdirtyaddictive smoke, just another person like Draco.
Then the moment passed and the rain kept on falling, and Draco glared.
"Fuck off, Potter" he snarled, and his grey eyes shone with a concentrated anger that made most people take a step back in alarm. But Potter merely grinned, like Draco was a little kid.
"Enjoying it?" repeated Potter, taking a step closer. "Enjoying that goddamn foul dirt that's so fucking addictive? Are you savouring it, Malfoy?"
"I'm not in the mood for your little games, Potter. Fuck off and leave me alone," Draco spat, stepping out from under the frail shelter into the free-falling torrent.
"Oh of course, of course," laughed Potter, following Draco and paying to apparent attention to the rain. "I just though you might like to know-"
"What? What, for God's sake?" exclaimed Draco, spinning to glare at the Golden Boy. "And it'd better be damn important."
"I've quit," replied Potter, and his grin widened as he took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and extended his hand to Draco.
Draco stared, and dropped the almost-spent cigarette.
"Take it," whispered Potter, and his eyes bore into Draco's. "Take it, I don't need it. I don't need these wings to fly."
Draco's hands reached out of their own accord, and then the familiar packet was safe in his hands. Seemingly satisfied, Potter turned and walked back up to the castle with a spring in his step, still ignoring the rain. Draco stared after the departing figure, willing him to look back. He didn't.
Then Draco stared up at the grey clouds, or into the grey trees, or into the grey water of the lake- anywhere but his traitorous hands. But his eyes betrayed him, and he stared at the packet too and began to think he rather hated it.
Potter, curse him, didn't need these wings to fly. So why did Draco?
"I don't need wings," Draco exclaimed furiously, glaring at the world in general. "Potter thinks he's so great, but I don't need wings. I don't, I don't, I don't."
And he didn't regret it, as the packet of cigarettes sank to the bottom of the grey lake. He didn't regret it, and he walked back up to the castle with a spring in his step.