Smoking, Draco sat on the lake edge and rotated his wand in the cool water. Bubbles issued from the tip of the wand, delighting the small fish.
He loved to smoke; his father smoked and Draco loved his father. As a child, he watched the curls of smoke dancing upward to a better place then a bit of leaf in a paper as his father read the evening paper.
This summer, he swiped a long, thin cigarette from his father's cigarette box and had a go while on his broom. It was a wonderful
feeling, not being alone in the sky. The cigarette comforted him, gave him a friend. Draco now understood his father's need for a smoke—he was lonely; and Narcissa, Draco's mother, was not one for the serious talks of men. Draco took a deep drag, exhaled, and took another, shorter drag. It was November, and the cold was setting in quite comfortably on trees and in the castle; an epidemic of flu had broken out, keeping Madam Pomfrey busy.
The last of his cigarette burned out and Draco cast it into the lake. He had Quidditch practice.
In the changing rooms, Draco pulled on his green robes and thick dragonhide mittens to protect him from the snitch; he had received some
nasty cuts several inches long from the snitch's wings. Outside, Draco found his team members horsing around fifteen feet off the ground; he kicked
and sped toward them on his broom. He whistled.
"Right then, we'll start with Chasers and Beaters—Beaters, throw the Quaffle from all angles and the Chasers do what you do best," shouted
Draco. He paused. He knew he had forgotten something…
"NO BATS!" he shouted as the beaters began speeding upward toward the Chasers. Personally, the bats were great but irrelevant practice;
Draco wanted to beat Gryffindor and Scarhead best he can—evil can win righteously. Dirty work and sleuthing is for the criminal.
As the rest of the team practiced, Draco drew defense tactics and ways to best outmaneuver Gryffindor. Deep into planning which side
Slytherin should start on (in coordination with the wind), Draco barely felt the tap on his shoulder. The fingers tapped more urgently. Draco turned to
see Crabbe holding his broom and gazing blankly at the arrows and dots Draco had drawn on the parchment.
"Goyle's taken a Quaffle to the stomach. He needs Madam Pomfrey," said Crabbe. He pointed to a lame Goyle supported by two Chasers.
Draco cursed inside. How in Merlin did he get hit in the stomach? He's a damn Beater! Doesn't he block things? He met the trio a little ways from the
door.
"Mobilicorpus," said Draco, waving Goyle out of the pitch. The Chasers and Crabbe followed. Draco strode back to the trunk, retrieved the
Quaffle and bats and flew back to the school. On his way back, Draco spotted the Ravenclaw team walking down to the pitch and stopped in midair—
they were playing Ravenclaw Saturday and he'd prepared for Gryffindor. Blast!
Cursing, he shot back to the castle in a streak of silver.
Author's Notes: Rather short, ne? Yes, Draco is a smoker. My father said he used to smoke because he was lonely, and the cigarette gave him warmth…I think it's that way with Draco and Lucius. I might take a break after this chapter to sort out the storyline. Criticism is appreciated—it's my first year of high school and it's quite stressful, so my writing's not so great.