He saw it, and he had to have it. Shiny, red, plump with wonderful voluptuous curves. An apple. It disgusted him that this thing of absoloute perfection had lain on the Gryffindor breakfast table. It killed him inside that now it lay in the hands of the bushy-haired mudblood, Granger. She wasn't even eating it, just rolling it in her filthy muggle-born hands. He had to get it, in any way possible. He strutted towards her, his ever-present smirk still lingering on his face.
"Oi Granger, you know that they make the house-elves polish these before they put them on the table?" A look of horror flashed across her face, before she dropped the plump, juicy apple onto the stone floor. He scooped it up with a careful hand, and swaggered away. After all, he was Draco Malfoy. And he always got what he wanted, in the end.