"Look," Draco says rather reasonably, "I am merely preserving my options."
"By getting hold of an illegal timeturner!" Potter all but shouts.
Draco replies stiffly, "Look, Potter, I don't expect you with all your nice Gryffindor sensibilities to understand, but—"
"I understand plenty!" Potter retorts angrily. "I understand what it's like to want to change something like that, but you can't, and guess what, Malfoy? There's usually a reason that you can't. And you don't get to play God. You don't get to decide who lives and who dies. That's not how it works."
Draco sneers. "You know, it's funny, Potter, but I thought for a moment we were talking about me. But no, apparently we were talking about you, and if you think I'm going to let you take your frustrated martyr complex out on me, you have another think coming. Life happens, Potter, and sometimes people die. Your parents died. Cedric Diggory died. Hagrid died, and Longbottom died, and everyone else—I know that, Potter, but I don't. Bloody. Care. You may not have the guts to do anything about it, but I do."
There is a long silence. Potter is staring at him, a vein jumping in his forehead, and Draco knows his own hands are gripping into the desk too tightly, but he can't feel them at all.
Potter's eyes lose a bit of their maniacal gleam, and now they just look soft. Defeated. Shuttered. Draco sighs. Having something resembling a conscience really, really sucks.