Draco, 8th year?? He needed to shake the war, and shake himself a bit. He decided to go into muggle London, because why not, everything else in his world was on its head. Then he saw it: the leather jacket. And well, wouldn’t that just piss off his dad, and everyone, and he needed to change. So he bought it. The smoking came along after. First it was after one too many drinks with Zabini. Then it became something that helped to fill the holes in his soul. But no matter how many drags he took, the smoke would always escape.
Until he went back to school. And shit, Harry must have done a double, triple, quadruple take seeing Draco sitting in an archway smoking, in a leather jacket with his hair hanging loosely around his face.
And maybe one day Harry took his Gryffindor courage and sat across from Draco. And Draco would sneer and tell The Chosen One that this wasn’t his Golden Throne, for Merlin sake could Draco just be in peace for once. But Harry wouldn’t leave because Draco’s voice lacked the usual venom. So they sat for a while. Day after day, which soon turned to weeks, and greetings turned to conversations, and insults turned to jokes.
The smoke still couldn’t fill the holes left in his soul, but maybe, just maybe, the small, warm seed of something else growing in his heart could.
And Harry would smile, because he felt it too.