When: Evening. Around 8. (June 5th, of course)
Where: Sitting room
Draco sat in his favourite spot in the hideout's living room, cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth.
It was his birthday today. He was 23 now.
When Draco was younger, much, much younger, he dreamt about his 17th birthday. He'd have a ball, most likely, and he'd invite all of his closest friends. There would be foods from all over the world, giving his guests a taste of everything. They'd dance the night away until he'd retire up to his room with Blaise, Pansy and Daphne. They'd sit around and drink wine, not firewhiskey, until they couldn't see straight. Then they'd pass out and wake up the next morning curled up next to each other on Draco's bed.
He never had that extravagent ball. Instead he was here, with people who didn't like him. With people who only remembered his birthday after Blaise mentioned it. With people who would much rather throw him out of a window then to give him the ball he's always wanted.
Draco sighed and leaned back into the couch, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
If he was lucky, maybe he could smoke his life away. Smoke until he too turned into nothing but dirty ashes.