Break
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If he is honest, there are not many points in his life that stand out as if his mind has marked them with a neon sign. He can count them all on one hand really. But of all the points in his life, none stick out more than the summer before his sixth year.
That was the summer Harry started smoking.
Looking back he honestly can't remember why he picked up the first cigarette. The stress of losing Sirius was too much, he supposes, but he honestly isn't sure that it was the stress that urged him to start. But perhaps the why is of little concern in the long run.
He didn't like the smell. Or the taste. He didn't get some weird nicotine buzz, or find himself calming down as he inhaled the cancerous stick. Sadly there was no reason for him to continue after that first disaster, but for some reason he decided to steal the rest of the crumpled pack from Dudley's bedroom and carry on anyways. And then he couldn't stop without becoming impossibly irritated.
He spent his entire summer doing chores, paying for a small amount of silence and peace away from his relatives. Aunt Petunia's garden had never looked better, the house was freshly painted, inside and out, every window sparkled, and every surface that could be wiped clean produced a near mirror image. But the aches and pains of his summer labors were almost enough to make him wish for the summer to end.
He'd gotten into a rather nasty fight with his friends at the end of last school year. He couldn't remember what the fight was about for the life of him, but he knows that he crushed their long friendship under his shoe, and then threw what little hope he could have had of fixing it into a proverbial blender and hit the puree button. Neither had contacted him, and he had decided to do the most childish thing possible. He decided that, under no circumstances, would he approach them first. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure his stubbornness is what destroyed his relationship with the two.
Two days before his sixteenth birthday found Harry moping around a café in Diagon Alley, an open book propped open in his lap, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He ran away from the Dursley's sometime at the very end of June because he'd lost his temper and almost murdered his relatives in a fit of rage and adrenaline. That day he decided to spend the rest of summer in the Alley, which is how he ended up sitting at the table actually attempting to relearn everything since he no longer had Hermione to rely on.
The bitterness of loneliness was eating away at his mind, and eventually he'd gotten rather cross and decided he needed to find a way to best both of his best friends in everything. He'd always held back, to afraid to best them in anything. Afraid they'd leave him if he showed any skill. Ron was too jealous, and Hermione was more likely to accuse him off cheating than actually believe anyone could beat her.
By that Monday before his birthday, Harry was confidant that he managed to learn more than Hermione had in all her years at Hogwarts. He'd read and reread every book he'd ever bought or been gifted. He'd practiced his potions and magic with a fiery passion, glad for a spell he'd learned to remove his trace, and even found himself devouring every book in the magical libraries in both Diagon and Knocturne Alleys. He started craving the knowledge. It was an addiction. Like the cigarettes.
That Monday could probably be considered another neon sign moment. Because that was the day he made a decision that changed everything. He'd been sitting in that uncomfortable chair, the fourth cigarette in a row already half finished, trying to concentrate on his summer essay for Snape's class, when he'd caught sight of something shiny from the corner of his eye.
It turned out to be one of the silver clasps adorning Draco Malfoy's robes. He knows it's horribly cliché, but their eyes met for the briefest moment. He's not even sure if the silver eyed Slytherin noticed, but Harry certainly did. He felt as if everything suddenly was slow motion, and those sad grey orbs saw through him like a piece of glass. It seemed their eyes locked for thousands of centuries. He watched as Draco turned down a dark alley, and he found himself quickly shoving everything into his bag and chasing after the blonde.
That was the moment he decided to do something that was both incredibly stupid, and incredibly smart at the same time. He'd just caught up with his long time nemesis, ready to let out his anger on the only outlet he could. He pushed the taller boy against the dirty brick of the back of some random shop, and the insults died on his lips as their eyes met once more.
"Potter wha-" Draco started only to be cut off by the feeling of Harry pressing their mouths together in a searing kiss.
He didn't know why he decided to kiss Draco. He knew he'd always liked him. He hated it when the blonde showed anyone else attention. He'd always wanted the blonde as a friend and lover, but he hadn't been able to with his friends. He wishes he could say that first kiss was only because of those innocent reasons, but he knew that it was also because he knew that dating Draco would be the biggest betrayal. He'd noticed the dark mark branded into the pale flesh of his left arm as he slammed him against the wall, and it angered him that he'd been marked by anyone other than him. He wanted to claim him. He wanted the blonde to know that he belonged to Harry and no one else.
The kiss wasn't some soft magical tentative thing like in the movies or stories. It was raw, hungry, and possessive. Too much tongue, teeth, and lust to be considered sweet. And then he'd pulled away, locking their eyes once more, and punched the blonde in the face. He left him in the alley with a cold glare, and promptly locked himself in his room in the leaky cauldron.
It wasn't until he'd been laying in the bed, curled in a ball of misery, for nearly three hours that he realized that Draco had kissed him back.