Draco Malfoy knows he isn't a good person, by any means whatsoever. He has known for a while now, if not always then at least for as long as he can remember. He isn't kind, or loving, or considerate. He doesn't associate himself with just anyone. He never extends his hand to someone with nothing to offer in return, and never expects so from others.

His father always tells him, despite how circular this world seems, it isn't really. It's an illusion. It's just a front. It's a way to make this world seem more fair than it actually is, for the less fortunate to pretend they matter more than they really do.

In reality, the world is more of a pyramid, unevenly distributed and unfair to the majority. At the top is a select few with wealth, power, and reputation; people with something to show for themselves, and something to offer. They're family you meet at dinner parties in manors, friends you invite over for brunch, and partners you take home to your parents. Just below them are colleagues and neighbours – nothing more than acquaintances at most – and they might be useful one day, sure, but they'll never be your equals.

Then, at the bottom, is everyone else. Families with not as much as a sickle to their name, people cast out for tainting their bloodline in any way imaginable, and not to mention the mudbloods, who never had any chance of a seat higher up to begin with.

And, the way in which this whole system is set up, benefits Draco Malfoy. Far up at the top of the pyramid of the wizarding world, sits he and his family. Alongside them are his friends, and all his options for future partners, and their families with their manors and money. They sit in their expensive sofas in their expansive homes overlooking the majority below, sipping their wine and discussing the importance of blood purity in their children's future marriages.

Draco had been content with all of this, because this was what his life was supposed to be. He was meant to sit in his manor, with his pureblood family approved by his parents, sipping wine and discussing the course of his own children's lives.

Then, Harry Potter had to come and ruin it. He had to show up and knock this pyramid shaped world on its head, and force it into some sort of circular shape. He had to come and make Draco Malfoy feel bad for reaping its benefits.

Harry Potter somehow stares down at him from below and makes him feel so small.

So guilty.

"Should we head down for dinner?"

The voice echoes off the stone walls, pulling Draco out of the back of his mind rather abruptly, and he hadn't realised just how distracted he had been. He's halfway up the stairs leading to the Hospital Wing now, far from the Slytherin common room, and he's not quite sure how much time has passed since he left his… "friends", if they truly deserve to be called that.

A small group of girls rounds the corner just before he reaches the top, talking and laughing amongst themselves. They're third years at most, their ties a mixture of red, blue and yellow, and they block nearly the entire width of the stairs. Draco's first instinct is to break the group in half and walk through, despite not being in any hurry, but then they notice him, and he stops in his tracks.

They stare down at him for a moment, presumably waiting for him to step aside, but then it seems to register. The green tie around his neck, the white blond hair and the pale skin.

Draco Malfoy.

A wide array of emotions – and none of them positive – spread across their faces. One of the girls links arms with another, who seems to be wearing an arm sling, promptly turns them around and walks off in a hurry. The rest of the group wordlessly follows right after. He sees them casting concerned glances over their shoulders, until they disappear around the corner.

And, normally Draco Malfoy wouldn't have cared. So what if some third years avoid him in the corridors, practically running away at the sight of him. So what if Neville Longbottom thinks he's going to harm his stupid toad. So what if some Hufflepuff girl taking time out of her night to help him, only does so out of fear of what he might do if she doesn't. They don't matter.

Then, if so, why does Draco all of the sudden care now?

When he slips through the doors into the Great Hall, Pansy, Blaise and the others are nowhere to be seen. The four tables are all nearly empty, in fact. Whether that is because he's late and they've already eaten dinner, or they haven't arrived yet, he's not sure. Either way, he wastes no time as he quickly makes his way over to the Slytherin table to eat something. After dinner, he supposes he can wander about for a little longer, until curfew even, and he has to go back there and answer whatever questions they have waiting for him.

He's only halfway through his dinner, however, when his plans are ruined – or at least altered.

The doors of the Great Hall open and shut, and he doesn't pay it any mind, too caught up in his thoughts to notice. Since he has gotten here, several people have come and gone, and he might have nearly jumped at the sound at first, but by now it's nothing but faint background noise. His friends are clearly not coming.

Someone sits down at the other side of the table just then, directly opposite of him. He pauses and looks up from his plate, wondering who could possibly be interrupting him, and he nearly drops his cutlery in shock.

Harry Potter.

For a moment he forgets how to speak, and his lips merely part and shut as nothing in his mind seems to make any sort of sense. Potter sits in front of him, an unreadable look in his ridiculously green eyes and hands folded casually on the table. A plate appears beside him, along with a glass and cutlery, but he doesn't touch it.

Draco's gaze slips down to the collar of his shirt, to the undone top button and the loose tie exposing the skin underneath, but he quickly looks away. He places his knife and fork down and straightens in his seat, clearing his throat. "Potter," he says, forces the expression on his face into one of indifference and dares make eye contact again, "what do you want?"

"Neville told me what happened."

At once Draco is reminded of the conversation with the others back at the common room, of the grins on all of their faces, and he opens his mouth to defend himself. He hadn't had anything to do with it. He would never do that to an animal, or anyone for that matter – he's almost certain. He had apologised for what he had said to him, practically right away. He isn't like his friends… right?

Potter interrupts him before he can, however. "Is this just to get into my pants? Is that it?"

"What?" Draco's brows furrow. Then, when his words register in his mind and he realises what he's saying, he can't help but scoff. He stares at Potter as if he has just told him something absolutely absurd, because he has. He thinks he – Draco Malfoy – apologised to Longbottom and his toad for, what, the mere chance of a night in the Gryffindor dormitories with the Boy Who Lived? "No, of course not."

Draco has to look away, because the expression on his face tells him he really does believe that, and that annoys him. It infuriates him. He has not spent the last few days wallowing in this newfound feeling of guilt, feeling like a completely different person in a completely different world, and eventually coming to some sort of terms with his feelings, only for Potter to think he's looking for a shag.

"Then, what is it you want?" Potter asks. When their eyes meet briefly, there is a mixture of curiosity and suspicion in those impossibly green eyes of his. A familiar warmth wells up in his chest, and Draco tears his gaze away to stare down at the rest of his dinner instead.

"I–" he begins, but pauses when a pair of first years pass by. Suddenly he's reminded of where they are, and how anyone nearby could hear them if they wanted to. He lowers his voice, enough for Potter alone to hear him.

"I just want you to not hate me, Harry."

He can feel Potter's eyes on him, but he doesn't dare look. Potter has the tendency to distract him and make him forget his words when their eyes meet.

"That day at the start of our first year, I offered you my hand," he says, and he remembers it all as if it were yesterday, "because you were Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who I had heard so much about, and when I heard you were here I– I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to get to you before anyone else could."

Potter doesn't say anything.

"But, you rejected me." Draco's brows furrow at the memory, disappointment just as evident in his demeanour as it had been back then. "You rejected me, for them." When he lifts his gaze just ever so slightly, he can see the two people in question sitting at the Gryffindor table. All the way over there, they aren't able to hear them no matter how hard they try, but that doesn't stop them from casting occasional glances their way. "I didn't understand. What could they possibly offer someone like you, that I couldn't?"

Draco pushes his plate to the side with a quiet chuckle, amused at the delusion of his younger self. Someone like Harry Potter would obviously never want to be associated with someone like Draco Malfoy. Sure, he has money, influential parents, and lives in a manor, but strip away all of that and what does he have left? What is he without his last name and everything it grants him?

Who is Draco, just Draco?

"I admired you," he says, "still do, and I understand now why you chose them over me, and why I went on to treat you the way I did, but I–"

"Your jealousy isn't an excuse for what you have done," Potter interjects, and only then does Draco look up again. The moment their eyes meet, the familiar feeling of guilt materialises in the pit of his stomach, because Potter looks at him with disappointment. "You have hurt my friends, and I don't want to cast their feelings to the side for whatever it is you want us to be. They don't deserve that."

Draco's gaze drops to the table, and his dinner has never looked less appealing. Neither of them say anything for a while, not until Potter begins moving to leave him.

"Wait," he exclaims, and reaches a hand out to grab his arm before he can stand up. "Please."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Draco mutters, voice suddenly much quieter again, and he struggles to maintain eye contact. When he's not interrupted, he continues, letting go of his arm. "I'm sorry for what I have done, for what I have said, to you and your friends." For a moment he hesitates. "I want to make things right."

Potter's expression is unreadable, and he doesn't move. "Do you really mean that?"

He nods. "Of course."

"Then…" He casts a glance over his shoulder at the Gryffindor table on the other side of the room. Granger and Weasley are busy eating their dinner just then, and neither of them seem to notice the eyes on them.

"You can start by apologising to them."

Hermione Granger is the first one to notice him approaching. She looks up from her plate before he even reaches the table, and she looks over his shoulder at Potter with a curious look on her face. Despite the lack of hostility, he highly doubts she's very happy to see him, if the staring contest she has with Potter is anything to go by.

Weasley, however, is too busy stuffing his face to notice him, not until Granger nudges him and mutters something into his ear. When he looks up, his face immediately scrunches up in repulsion. Were Draco not here to apologise to him in an attempt to better himself, he would have commented on the gravy smeared on his cheek.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" he spits, and Draco presses his lips into a thin line to keep quiet. It is taking every bit of willpower in his body not to respond with an equal amount of venom, because Weasley does always make it hard to stay civilised. He has to admit he still doesn't quite understand what Potter sees in him.

There is a hand on his arm, guiding him to sit, and Weasley's eyes narrow. Granger doesn't look pleased either, but unlike her more feral half, she doesn't voice her thoughts. Not yet, anyhow.

When Potter sits down beside him, Weasley's eyes leave him. "What'd you bring him here for?" he says, or rather whispers, as if Draco isn't sitting directly opposite him and happens to have two functioning ears. He has to suppress an eye roll, and remind himself why he's here. "You said you were only going to talk to him."

"He wants to say something."

Weasley looks anything but pleased at his reply. "Does he have to?" He glances at Draco, reminded of his presence, yet he continues as if he's not here. "Couldn't he have sent an owl?"

At that Draco scoffs – can't help it when his patience is not reciprocated – and he glares at the ginger weasel. "You–"

"Just let him say it, Ron," Granger says before this situation escalates, "if Harry wanted to bring him here, it's probably worth hearing. Let's just hear him out."

Weasley's eyes narrow, and he nods reluctantly. "Go on, then."

All three of them are looking at him now, waiting for him to speak. In his peripheral vision he can see Potter staring expectantly, and he can practically feel his anticipation.

Despite Weasley – Granger, perhaps not as much – he wants to do this, and he wants to do it properly. He wants to show Potter that, even after all he has said and done, he desires to change for the better. He wants Potter to accept his hand this time, not because of what materialistic things his name can offer, but because he wants to.

He just wants Harry to like him, and not have to feel guilty about it.

"I'm sorry," Draco says, and those words still sound so odd uttered by him. He supposes apologies only feel this way if they haven't been said as often as they should have.

"These last five years I have said and done so many horrible things," he continues, the two on the other side of the table too stunned to interrupt just yet, "and I have treated you like this because I thought that, if you don't have the right parents, or enough money, or a high enough status, you're not–" He pauses to take a breath when his lungs begin protesting, and out of the corner of his eye, Potter stares at him with a curious expression on his face.

"I thought you weren't good enough for me, alright, and I'm– I'm sorry."

The silence that follows stretches for what feels like ages, and Draco would break it if he knew what else to say. Potter is looking at his two friends now, one of which seems to be studying him like an unsolved equation, whilst the other stares at him as if he has lost the plot completely.

Draco looks to Potter for help, for a reaction, for anything. He has done what he has asked for, hasn't he? He admitted his mistakes and explained himself, and he apologised.

"Sorry?" Weasley says, as if it's the most absurd thing he has ever heard in his life. Then again, he supposes there aren't many things more absurd than a Malfoy apologising to a Weasley, if any at all. "You're sorry?"

Granger looks over at Potter with concern written all over her. She leans a little closer, but he can hear her just as well. "Harry, he hasn't given anything to you, has he?"

"Yeah," Weasley chimes in, once again as if Draco isn't sitting right there, "he probably stole a phial of that love potion earlier this week, to slip into your pumpkin juice." His gaze moves back to Draco, and his eyes narrow. "He's been staring at you all week, and he wouldn't miss a chance to embarrass you in front of everyone." His expression morphs into one of disgust. "Make everyone think you're in love with him or something."

"It's an embarrassment enough for me to apologise to the likes of you, Weasley."

The words slip out before he can stop them, and he regrets them immediately. Granger, who hadn't been as open with her displeasure of him as the other one, is glaring at him as well now, and he supposes whatever vindication she'd had earlier to want to hear him out is gone. It's safe to assume, his apology might as well not have happened.

And normally – well, more so "in different circumstances", as this is far from normal – he wouldn't have cared as much as he does. The intense glaring and the anger in their tone has never bothered him before, because when has he ever cared about what some mudblood and a Weasley think about him? Draco is a Malfoy. Draco sits at the top of the pyramid shaped Wizarding World, in his manor with all of his equally important friends, whilst those two stand all the way at the bottom with nothing but dust to their name. Draco doesn't care for people with nothing to offer.

"I'm going back to the common room," Granger announces. She folds her robe over her arm, stands up and looks around at her friends. "Are you two coming?"

"Yeah." Weasley moves to stand as well, though only after shoving the last few bites of his dinner into his mouth and finishing his drink. "Come on, Harry."

For a moment, Potter doesn't move, and Draco can feel his eyes on him. They dig into the side of his head as he stares ahead, at where Granger and Weasley had been sitting, and he can feel the familiar, heavy feeling in stomach again. He doesn't need to look at him to know his eyes are filled with disappointment.

When he does begin moving, Draco has to fight the urge to grab him by the arm and stop him. Please, stay, lingers somewhere between his mind and lips. He hears him get up and walk past him, and sees in the corner of his eyes his two friends hurrying after him. The weasel doesn't bother waiting until they're out of earshot to slag him off, and normally he would have said something, but he lets it be this time.

Perhaps he deserves it.