Confessions of an Ex-Death-Eater

6.

There are some moments of my life that I write about, dear Reader, which are mortifying, or awkward, or uncomfortable, or shameful. There are aspects which need explaining or apologising for. There are accounts which are emotionally draining and certain events which, although I would desire that they remain buried, must resurface. But there are two incidents which I must write about now which I would prefer not to, purely because I got it so embarrassingly wrong, and they are my first two meetings with the famous Harry James Potter.

Before I had even met him, the one fact I did know about Harry was that only 55 days separated us in age and that he would be joining Hogwarts the same year as me.

Just before going to Hogwarts, things took a surprising and confusing turn for me: after years of being taught to hate his very name, my father instructed me to make friends with the boy. I realise now that he wanted to get close, I suppose either to draw Harry into a trap so that revenge could be enacted or to hedge his bets and get close to the Chosen One should Voldemort fail to resurface successfully. At the time, I was simply conflicted.

Little did I know that I would actually meet him before we had even got on the Hogwarts Express.

The first time we met was in Madame Malkins. I was having the second fitting of my school robes. Yes, that is right, a second fitting. That is the Malfoys for you. Every other normal school child went in, got some robes thrown over their heads, had the length adjusted if necessary, walked out. Me. No! I was the Malfoy heir and my robes were fitted, even if I was only going to grow out of them in the next two months.

I was standing on a stool as Madame Malkin's assistant was busy pinning and adjusting and doing Merlin-knows-what to an eleven-year-old's school robes when this scrawny-looking black-haired boy in broken glasses and clothing that swamped him entered the shop and was ushered onto the stool next to me. I should have known by the hair alone and that was before I had even got onto his vibrant green eyes. But the forelock of hair hid the scar, otherwise I should have known immediately whom I was standing next to.

As it was, I was not properly paying attention for the truth was I was nervous as I was getting my uniform fitted. A reality was hitting home: I was leaving my parents for the first time in less than a month.

The boy was quite curt with me, giving one-word answers to my questions and the only thing I learnt was that he was also going to Hogwarts too. He appeared confident because of his surly attitude. I believe now that it was probably nerves too, but at the time, he reminded me somewhat of Art in what I took to be cocksureness because he did not bow down before my position of privilege. It was an unusual experience because when every other child my age was introduced to me, and many adults too, they usually deferred to my name.

I wanted more of him.

As with Art, I was attracted to his apparent power.

It was not until we were on the train itself when I discovered the true identity of that boy.

As Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were the only two boys that I knew before joining Hogwarts, mainly because their fathers were Death-eaters too and I was expected to be friends with them, I made them come with me as I searched the train for the famous Harry Potter. At last we spotted him. And it was with a mixed feeling of trepidation and elation when I recognised him as the boy in Madame Malkins. Although surprisingly scruffy and seemingly underwhelming in appearance, his scar was noticeable this time and there were no doubts that this was he. I was determined to impress, already aware that I had potentially insulted him during out first meeting when I referred to Hagrid (using my father's words) as a servant and savage before realising that the boy and school's gamekeeper were connected in some way.

After eleven years of believing that I should hate the boy, I had a habit of drawling his name, I mimicked my father and his name would emerge as 'Pottah' from my sneering mouth. I clearly remember pulling open the compartment door and saying as coolly as I could, 'Is it true? They're saying all down the train that Harry Pottah's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?'

It was remarkable. He looked decidedly nonplussed by my attitude, less so when I introduced Crabbe and Goyle and told him my name. It was then that I noticed his companion who could only be a Weasley, well, my father had always been so vocally derisive of the family. Ron had, unsurprisingly, sniggered at my self-important swagger. But that riled me, people didn't laugh at Malfoys and I reacted. I proceeded to insult him and his family before turning to Harry and telling him (and I really cringe at my words as I write them): 'You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Pottah. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.'

I so wanted to impress him. I was so far from the mark it is impossible to know what I was thinking. Unsurprisingly, he refused my handshake, quick enough to infer that I was clearly the 'wrong sort', thank you very much.

I had never experienced rejection before. I was mortified. And I was bitter. And I was angry. I admit I behaved terribly, but then again, I was an eleven-year-old spoilt brat who had only been taught that he was the top of the pile. And then, all of a sudden, I was not...

So, I stuck my pointy little nose in the air, warned Potter that if he wasn't careful and if he didn't learn to be a bit politer, he'd go the same way as his parents, especially if he hung around with riff-raff like Hagrid and the Weasleys, then stomped off to sulk. And to internally berate myself for getting it all very, very wrong. I was, I admit, heartbroken as my dreams about the Boy who Lived were dashed.

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