Image of a Fallen Statue

I am Draco Malfoy. You, like most, scorn me immediately, and hate me. You don’t see the shame, don’t see past the mask. Few ever have.

Do you think I like being evil? I suppose you must. After all, have I ever shown an inclination that I would act other than the manner in which I have? Of course not. I’ve made certain never to show anyone what I truly feel. I never would have lasted this long if it had been known that - but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I swore to be honest, and whatever you may think, my word of honor does mean something — to me, at least. You say you want to hear my story, all of it, though it is neither pretty nor clean. The truth seldom is.

I am surprised, you see, because few ever have asked why I do what I do. It is simply assumed that I am evil, and enjoy being so. I believe that assumption makes it easier for people to condemn me, and it is also that assumption which has protected me.

But you look at me, expectation in your faces, and so I will tell you how I came to be here, chained hand and foot before you, accused of murder, and other atrocious crimes. I will give you the truth.

I suppose it really began ten years ago, almost to the day — when I turned eleven. It was a late spring afternoon, cool with the last dregs of winter still passing through. I spent most of the day outside, flying, and when I came into the manor I found my mother waiting for me.

That in itself was unusual — my parents left me to raise myself, more consumed in their own interests than the duties of rearing a child. But let that be.

She was uneasy, and I remember our conversation that day perfectly.

"Hello, son."

"Mother."

"I must speak with you." She led me to the parlor, where she gestured for me to be seated. I did as she bade me, folding my hands on my lap. I waited.

"Draco, do you know what a hero is?"

"Yes, Mother." She looked at me, waiting for me to continue, and I said hurriedly, "A hero is someone who fights against evil for the side of good."

My mother sagged, startling me. She usually maintained her formal, unyielding posture to such a degree that I had cause to doubt my own conception. "Yes, son, that is what a hero is," she replied. "But how does a hero come to be?"

Confused, I said nothing. My mother sighed, and said softly, "Unless a person has an enemy to struggle against, constantly, he or she can never be a true hero. Without darkness, there would be no such thing as light. Without evil, good could not exist. Do you understand me, son?"

I nodded, but was unprepared for her next statement. "A hero must arise who can defeat Voldemort. Your father pays tribute to this evil creature, to further his own causes."

Shocked, I sat numbly in my chair. This knowledge violated everything I had taught myself to believe — that Malfoys served no one, that evil existed to be vanquished. A small thought crept into my mind — a vain, selfish, hope-giving thought. Perhaps my mother meant to train me to be the one to defeat Voldemort. All the love I had assumed that I had not yet deserved, perhaps she had saved this emotion for the appropriate time, when she intended to hand me my destiny, which would be to destroy the evil creature before whom my father groveled.

It was vain imagining, and I am thankful that my mother was at least merciful enough to crush all my dreams at the offset. I believe that was the last time I truly felt hope. It was a valuable lesson — to hope is to die. But I am getting off track.

She told me then, that I was to be the darkness against which a hero would struggle as he grew, readying for the final combat. It was my duty to the world to be evil, so that something good might arise, something good that would one day be strong enough to defeat Voldemort.

It came as a shock to me, though it shouldn’t have. My fate was, not to be a hero, but to forge one. And I knew my destiny before I first stepped through the doors of Hogwarts, which few can say.

Even so, I was disappointed. I am old enough, now, to admit that I cried. I was still a child, by the reckoning of some — eleven, and now the hand of fate weighed me down. I soon understood that if I did not comply, I would be killed.

Somewhere in this process, my heart hardened. I felt its transformation from that which had previously carried all my dreams and wishes, emotions and desires, to simply an organ - pulsing, and keeping me alive.

Many people believe it is harder to be good than to be evil. They are right, in their way. But it is also hard to be evil when everything in you screams out against what you are doing. I have become the world’s best actor. Everything I have done, and I have only cried once since I was eleven. None can see what I really think and feel unless I open myself to scrutiny, and become vulnerable. This, I have never done — can never do. I have been acting for so long that I don’t know who the real Draco Malfoy is, but I know that self-preservation has been ingrained in me since birth. I know that all my instincts will not save me, that my acting will only condemn me. So now, I will try, hard as it is, to find and be myself — perhaps that will be enough. God help me.

And so you want to know how I came to be here. Let me enlighten you as to why I have blood on my hands and conscience.

I played the part of the youth devoted to the Dark Arts, all through my years at Hogwarts. I became initiated into the subterfuge that has consumed my life, the artifice that is so much a part of who I am that I don’t even need to think about it anymore. I cannot say that I learned nothing, for although I abhorred my actions, my mind was as keen for knowledge as that of any other child. So I absorbed all information that was thrust in my direction. I would rather that most of it had been less dark, but I learned it just the same. Most of it has saved my life at one point or another.

For seven years I was the mortal enemy of Harry Potter. We dueled against one another, ever since that day I openly offered him my friendship in front of all my year-mates. I expected him to deny it — in truth I don’t know what I would have done had he accepted my offer. However, I wanted, that day, to refuse what I was becoming. And it hurt, to be so openly shunned.

Those seven years were hard for me, as I slowly became accustomed to who I had to become. I was ashamed of the Draco Malfoy I became — but he saved me. I was terrified when even my father believed my act, and introduced me to Voldemort after my fifth year. I thought that, surely, this Dark creature, with all his powers, would see through me, would have me killed on the spot.

To my shock, and continued terror, I fooled even him. And I was able to do so even after I received his tattoo, the mark of the Death Eaters and the tool Voldemort used to call us to him. I sent information to Dumbledore, and after his death last year, to Harry Potter, even when Voldemort knew there was a spy in his inner circle.

He would use the Cruciatus on us, to get us to reveal the truth, but he could not properly brew veritaserum— despite his talents, Voldemort has never had the flare for potion making. Since the disappearance of Severus Snape, no other in his circle had the talent or ability to even attempt such a potion.