Confessions of an Ex-Death-Eater

4.

The first time I remember doubting my father about whether blood purity truly made any difference was when I was seven but I was too young to take it any further than the brief flicker of the question 'why does it matter?' that ran through my head.

I remember that I used to play in the orchards, climb the apple trees, and lose myself in an imaginary world where it was not just me in that huge house with those huge gardens. I would be a boy, doing boyish things. And it would drive my father mad, to the point of fury. After I had been found, he would rant and rave about how he had hunted everywhere for me, how I was a disobedient little boy, how I was a disgrace to the Malfoy name because I had muddied my trousers or scrapped my knees or because I had not presented myself when some minister or another that had come by. I do not understand why he would never come straight to the orchards first because that was where I invariably was playing. Just playing. Or why did he not send a house-elf, Dobby would have found me in a flash.

One autumn, some muggle boys had sneaked into the Malfoy Manor grounds. They were apple-scrumping and had made it all the way to the orchards. I found them. Or rather, they found me.

I was in my favourite apple tree. It was easy to climb and I could get quite high up. High enough that I could see the entrance to the orchards for when my father approached. High enough that I was out of reach from his grip and the threat of his cane.

The boys worked in hushed formation, fanning out, collecting the best fallen fruit and stuffing as much as possible into their rucksacks. I debated mischief, using magic to scare them but I knew well enough that it was forbidden for me to try magic unless an adult was around and it was certainly forbidden in the presence of muggles. In the end, I just sat in my tree, watching, fascinated, but also longing. There was a definite leader amongst them and I could not help being attracted towards him, perhaps I felt the pull of power, even at such an early age. The boy was a bit of bully, he scared one of the younger kids into climbing the tree I was in. None of them had thought to look up first. The boy froze when he was high enough to suddenly realise he was not the only occupant of the tree.

'Art...' he hissed, his scared eyes holding contact with mine. 'Art, we're not alone.'

The leader, the boy who went by the name of Art, looked up at me and swaggered. 'Hiya!' he said nonchalantly, as if he had every right to be in our orchard.

I replied with a confident 'hello' and then launched myself off that high branch and landed on my feet facing him.

'Cool!' he said.

And I grinned.

We became thick as thieves. To be honest, I think I was a little in love with him. I certainly worshiped the ground he walked on. He did not care about class or airs and graces, he did not care for rules, he was the epitome of the Artful Dodger. I am not saying he was a Dickensian street urchin from the pages of Oliver Twist, no, he just had an appealing cheek to him. We vied for leadership, I had the inbuilt superiority but he was more streetwise, plus the other boys trusted him. I learnt a lot from Art though, how to be a dynamic leader of people. The only thing was, when my time came, I threw my father's ways into the mix. Perhaps I did not learn enough from Art. Perhaps if I had had more time with him, I would have learnt that arrogance and superiority do not necessarily constitute good leadership skills.

My father found out I had befriended these muggle boys, perhaps because I developed something of a swagger myself, and a cheek that did not come naturally. Either way, he found out. And he found us. The boys scarpered pretty quickly at his sneering appearance but not before Lucius had lifted his cane against Art. I remember pushing myself between my friend and my father, trying to save Art. It was the first time the threat of the ebony cane transferred into reality.

Afterwards, my father never apologised or showed regret for raising his cane against me. He simply said I must learn what is and is not appropriate. I believed him. And despite the cracked ribs and the bruises which my mother quietly healed with a sad look in her eyes and pursed lips, I believed this was the way I must be taught. I was only seven.

I was forbidden from associating with the boys again and I did not understand why. I found out afterwards that Art's father was transferred to another branch of his work shortly after and the family moved away from Wiltshire, I am still fairly certain, to this day, that my father was involved.

After the incident with Art, I had learnt very quickly not to question the way of the Malfoys or my father's beliefs, however, it turns out that an ebony cane with a silver snake-head handle is not quite an efficient enough tool when it comes to learning not to question my father.

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