DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter.

The sun crept over the horizon. The dew sparkled on the grass; birds sang to one another from the trees. It was a lovely morning.

The old man sitting by the window of the little wooden house, however, did not know it. The sun bathed his white head in warmth, but he hardly noticed; the breeze brushed his wrinkled cheeks, but he hardly felt it.

"Please forgive me," he whispered.

He reflected on his youth sometimes. All he'd wanted then was power; if people were not willing to be his friends, then they must fear him. But then he'd grown older, and his wealth had vanished, due to his father dying while in debt. And all of his friends had vanished with his wealth; and he had realized that having people hate and fear him made for a very lonely life.

He had gone into the world to try and make friends, but he learned the hard way that people didn't want to make friends with someone they hated. They didn't want to give him a second chance, or admit that he had changed; they wanted only to hate him.

So he had retreated into the little wooden house that he had bought after he'd had to sell the Manor, with only a house elf for company. And he became bitter at the harshness of the world.

He was alone now, alone in the house and alone in the world. He no longer had a house elf; they'd been emancipated. When he needed food, he went to a Muggle town to buy it.

His bitterness faded into sorrow over the years; he'd grown tired of being angry, of hating the people that hated him. He simply wanted their forgiveness.

Oh, how he wanted their forgiveness!

He sometimes created long conversations in his head, explaining how he had changed, how he no longer regarded muggles as beneath him, how he had let go of the prejudice that had plagued him as a young man. In these conversations, the imaginary person on the other end always listened to him, and forgave him.

But the one time he built enough resolve to go back to the Three Broomsticks to try to explain himself to someone, to anyone who would listen, he was fiercely rejected. The owner spat in his face once he learned that he was speaking to Draco Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy and the accomplice to the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Draco sat in his chair, an old, old man, and whispered - to himself, to anyone, to everyone.

"Please forgive me."

The sun rose the next morning, and the birds sang and the dew sparkled just as usual; but the man in the chair did not see or hear or feel at all. His eyes were closed; his heart had ceased to beat. He was nothing more than a cold, empty pile of skin and bones, the remnant of a man who had died alone, wretched...and unforgiven.

Final word count: 498

Prompt: Write me a drabble (500 words or less) in which a character wants something very much. It's your decision whether the character gets what they want.