Confessions of an Ex-Death-Eater

16.

I have two sets of scars on my torso, both of which I wear with pride because both tell their own stories.

The first set I received in my sixth year at a moment when I had given up. I was in a bathroom at Hogwarts, broken and hopeless. And, dear Reader, I wanted to end my life. I have never known despair like it. I remember being hunched over the sink in tears, utterly convinced I couldn't do what Voldemort was asking of me and at a loss of where to turn.

I was so alone. So alone.

I realised it would be very easy to end it all. End the turmoil and the misery, end the pain and the disgust, end the loneliness. I broke the mirror in front of me, committed to use a shard of glass to slit open my wrists and release the hurt and anguish and desolation I felt coursing through my soul. I just wanted it to end.

I had the piece of mirror in my shaking hand when Harry Potter walked in.

He was the last person I wanted to see, especially in this moment of utmost weakness. I just wanted him to leave me alone.

I just wanted him to come over and hold me and tell me everything was going to be alright. I just wanted him to save me. To save me from Voldemort, to save me from this madness, to save me from myself.

Of course, he was never to know that was what I was feeling, the onus was not on Harry. I had always been too stubborn to ask for help and, by that point, I was too lost. My world had folded in on me.

Instead, harsh words were thrown around. I needed him to leave, to let me carry through with what I was determined to do. It turned out he nearly did it for me. Our harsh words turned into spells. I half-heartedly threw a Cruciatus at him, I didn't mean it and therefore it was ineffectual. That was one thing Bellatrix taught me: to use an unforgiveable, you need to mean them, you need to really want to cause pain, to enjoy it. I have never really wanted to hurt Harry despite the awful warfare I initiated.

I found out afterwards that the spell Harry used was one my Godfather had invented 'for his enemies' while in his school days. Severus had written it in the margins of his old potions book and forgotten about it. Harry had ended up with his book and had obviously found the spell but not understood that it would slash my torso open from shoulder to hip and back again.

Although two silver lines still mark my pale skin after Severus healed the wound, I do not blame Harry for the scars I now carry.

I still inspect it often to make sure the lines have not faded. You see, it is part of my journey and it is a reminder to never give up. My life is considerably different now, even under house arrest, even surrounded by the constant reminders of Voldemort and his control over our lives. I have found peace. And if I ever feel like I am struggling or feel overwhelmed, I study those scars and remember nothing can be that bad again.

I received the second scars in March 1998. Snatchers had found three people in the Forest of Dean, not so far from our house and brought them back to the Manor. Two of whom were, without a doubt, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, known to be on the run with Harry, who was now declared 'Undesirable No 1' by Voldemort's lackeys at the Ministry and had a bounty on his head. The problem was the other male, which by all logic should have been Harry, didn't look like Harry. Apart from he did, in that he was wearing the same sort of clothes and had dark messy hair and Harry's glasses on. But his face was swollen and rounded and it cast an element of doubt. For all we knew, it might have been a ruse, a distraction while the real Harry was off doing something elsewhere.

I understand my father's motives, he thought that if this really was Harry, and if he was the one who handed Harry over to Voldemort, there was a chance that all glory would be restored upon the Malfoy name. He wanted me to confirm whether this was or was not Harry Potter.

The fate of the wizarding world lay in my identification of the man knelt before me in the hallway to Malfoy Manor.

It was Harry. There was no doubt. I leant close, stalling for time, peering into those vibrant green eyes that I had studied since the moment I could walk and talk. Granger had obviously hexed him, swelling half his face to disguise the scar. Which was still there, if not somewhat faint and distorted.

'I can't - I can't be sure,' I stumbled over my lie.

I couldn't do it. I could not hand him over to Voldemort. He'd survived for nearly seven months on the run, and time and time again he had survived Voldemort's attempts on his life. I was not going to be the one who was responsible for this. I was not going to hand him over to certain death. Besides, while he still lived there was still hope and I believed he could defeat Voldemort when the time was right.

After Harry escaped, Aunt Bellatrix rounded on me, declaring I knew all along, and subjecting me to yet another bout of Legilimency. My punishment: to have the words 'Blood Traitor' carved into my skin over my heart. And yet another round of the Cruciatus.

I have been told that I will live permanently with the nerve damage from the Cruciatus Curses she repeatedly cast upon me that day. I am left unable to hold a quill for any length of time and there are times when my bones ache to the core or I fall into a fit of intense fatigue as my senses run haywire. But that is a worthy penitence for the sins of my past.

And as for the scars over my heart, well, I wear those words with pride. I am happy to be called a blood traitor. I will not live by the precepts of that madness.

I am not my father.

One day, when my son is old enough to read and to understand what it says on my chest, I will explain it all to him with pride.

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