I am Lucius.

Lucius Diablo Malfoy.

My parents were big into the devilish names and people hated me for it, but I've always loved my first name. I've loved it, and I've hated it. "Lucius", based off of "Lucifer", means "Light Carrier". I know that's not me, but I know that's what my name means. My mother said she could always see that light in me before she died. It was always there, always burning bright in a quicksilver smile.

Then I turned eight.

I stayed at that rotten wooden pier as they laid her body to rest, too scared to come close and clinging desperately to the dark parts. Tears, silent and miserable, ran down my face as I saw the men start to shovel loads of dirt over her coffin. My father stood alone, staring down as the men covered my precious mother, his face unmoving. I knew that he would be at Shrody's bar in twenty minutes, and the injustice hit me like a hard punch in the stomach. But I didn't move, clinging to the shadowy wood of that pier on the cold, grey day, dressed in my best suit, which was drenched and dripping smelly water.

I wanted to let go, to fall into the freezing, swirling water, and just drown and disappear from the face of the earth.

That wish repeated itself over the next three years, over and over. I slowly grew afraid of everything, stopped talking altogether. Bullies would beat me up and then I would come home. Come home to a smelling and messy hovel in the back streets, to my father's blasting music, to a father with whisky on his breath and a dangerous punch waiting for me. The bruises never stopped coming. The old ones would yellow up just in time for a fresh new coat.

I was scared.

I am Lucius.

I was scared.

The light slowly faded and became covered up by shadows of fear. I was short and scrawny, easily pushed around and pushed around often. The dark bags under my eyes became permanent features on my face. Teachers often called to remark that I wasn't showing any effort in school. I didn't care. A strange apathy had placed itself between school and I, and I wasn't the only one suffering.

It was a simple letter that changed that strange apathy completely. I'd come home late due to bullies in front of the candy shop, so my father was feeling particularly murderous.

"Lucius." I heard his voice the instant my shaking hand pushed the door open. "Lucius Diablo Malfoy. Where have you been?"

It was too late to turn back. Dread flushing through my system, I pushed one foot into the house, followed slowly by another leaden foot. Cautiously, I swung my torso around to face my father, ignoring the low lighting from the flickering lamp. The TV was on, blaring some kind of football (A/N: Not soccer) game or the like, and there was a beer in my father's hands. His silvery blond hair was greasy and his skin was equally much so, making him look disgusting. I resisted the urge to run.

"Bullies," was all I said.

"Bullies, eh?" he asked. "I suppose they just jumped out of a dark alley and attacked you, eh? Is that it? Or are you lying to me, boy? Are you?"

I wanted to say that his story was correct, but I held my tongue and shook my head.

"You are lying, boy, I see it in your eyes," he sneered. "You're a liar! I did not raise a boy who lies!"

I wanted to scream at him that he was blind. I wanted to grab him by the neck and scream. But I didn't. I held my tongue.

I was afraid.

My father called me all the names under the sun that night. I stood there, the coward that I was, and let the verbal and physical punches settle on me, each hurting the like the sharp stab of a million daggers. When he was done venting, down to kicking couches and chairs, I picked myself up off of the ground, where I had lain limply when he had starting beating me, and slipped in my closet of a room. We were going to loose the house soon, if my father didn't get a job.

I had three things in my room. My bed, my desk, and my writing equipment. My father absolutely detested, so I kept my papers and pens hidden in a small dusty cardboard box. If my father were to discover that box, I was dead. I crept to the box and pulled out my latest scribbles of stories and sketches. Several papers fluttered out of my hands, flapping like beautiful white doves to land on the floor. And then I saw it.

It was tucked into the very bottom of the box, looking like somebody had shoved it in there. An envelope of thick yellow, scratchy paper with emerald green ink that just read my name. L. Malfoy. My father's name was Jack, so it had to be for me. I was pondering how it got there. There was a seal on the back that had an H on it. I ripped through it and pulled out two sheets of parchment.

"Mr. Malfoy…"

Yes, it was the fateful letter from Hogwarts. I didn't know it at the time, but that letter would change my life. I spent that summer in a mist of confusion and was shocked to find myself at King's Cross Station on September 1st. Luckily, somebody with an owl showed me through the barrier. I had my robes -- my mother had been a witch, so I had some of her wizard gold on me. The Leaky Cauldron hadn't been hard to find from the instructions in the letter.

I looked around and realized that I knew nobody. And then, standing there, all alone, I realized it. None of these people knew about me. They didn't know my past, they didn't know my father. I was free.

And I could make up my own past.

My freedom didn't last long. The glamour of Hogwarts surprised me, and so did that Sorting Hat. They sorted me in Slytherin with a bunch of burly, evil looking guys. I wondered why they'd put me in there instead of Hufflepuff, where I thought I would end up, but I didn't say anything.

"You're a pureblood?" a voice sneered to my right. "I've never heard the name Malfoy before."

"Uhhh, my father likes to keep it quiet, you know, just so that the ministry won't discover…stuff," I said quickly, trying to sound tough. The boy, Harold Crabbe, nodded.

And so it began. The legacy of Malfoys. The Malfoys were an old wizarding family, no squibs -- ever. I was rich -- I spent my summers in the States. I spun these tales to protect myself. I hid behind these wild stories. And people actually believed them.

Well, most everybody believed them. There was one person that didn't.

Arthur Weasely.

He was a Gryffindor and in the same year, and we, like every Gryffindor and Slytherin, hated each other. He saw right through my wild tales that everybody so gullibly followed. And he knew that I knew that he knew, so he used every opportunity to confront me. My sneering comments about how poor he was infuriated him, because he knew that I wasn't any better off. School flew by as my tales grew to be believed by me. Summers were hell, school years were wonderful.

But school was bound to end and it did. So far, I have managed to avoid Lord Voldemort's mention. But now I must begin.

I first heard about the Death Eaters when I started hanging out at pubs after my small job. I wasn't an alcoholic my father was, but I occasionally stopped in for a small drink to cure my long day's tenseness. The pub was pretty crowded near weekends and there were always tales of the murders and the "You-Know-Who" subject. They were all whispered in fear, but I heard.

My job was cut as the company I worked for downsized. I spent three weeks jobless and going further and further into becoming homeless. Finally, somebody picked me up off of the bench I had fallen asleep on, bottle clutched in my hand, and offered me a job.

We sat in a dark booth in the pub, holding cups of simple muggle coffee. The man across from me was hardened from age. His hair was black and his eyes were a chipped sort of blue-green. There was a frown in the line of his lips. "Nott," he finally said.

"What?" I asked, slightly dizzy.

"Nott. Call me Nott. My master wanted me to come get you. He says you show promise."

"Who…what?" I was confused and drowsy. Hot coffee sloshed onto my fingers, burning them in sharp pricks of pain that brought me back into the conversation.

"Have you heard of…You-know-who?" Nott asked, leaning forward and dropping his voice. He plucked at the cuff of his black jacket.

"Yes, I have." I mimicked his position and attempted to make my voice softer.

"I work for him. He wants you to join us."

"Why me?" I asked, my words slightly slurred. I thought briefly of the shield of lies I had created for myself.

"Think, man, think. You're a solidly taught wizard. You're out of the job. He's said you show promise," Nott said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's Easy Street, man. You obey his every word, you get your every wish."

I looked at him skeptically.

"Look, we all know that your father is just a drunken Muggle. The rest of the world doesn't have to…"

"You could do that for me?" I asked, suddenly interested.

"Yes. You get your own mansion, money to spare, a well-bred history…" Nott ticked off a list of novelties on his fingers. "All for doing one man's bidding."

There's gotta be a catch! There's gotta be a catch! My mind nagged me.

"Deal."

For years I have regretted that word. I have hated that word with every fiber of life inside of me. It was the stupidest mistake I'd ever made.

Those next two years slid by in a world of inky black. I slipped so deeply into the evil of Lord Voldemort that I did not know myself. That I did not want to know myself. I cannot tell you how deep I fell. And, word, I don't want to. For those horrid two years, my worst nightmares at Hogwarts and home were just very happy dreams. My hands would never be clean of those murders, hearing those people scream in terror and pain. My heart was a festering black hole inside of my chest. I wanted to burn my eyes of all the sights that I had seen.

And then I met her.

Narcissa.

I'm not sure I ever really loved her. No, there was always this attraction, but it was never love. I was so desperate after my days of being a Death Eater that I would take anything I could get. And Narcissa was what I got. We dated for nearly eight months and then eloped. I had to go back to Lord Voldemort though. And I did.

I went on a three-month mission to Romania to deal with some Muggles and returned to find Narcissa pregnant. She was not too pleased, being only 19. And she hassled me about it through six months of morning sickness, sixteen hours of labor, and two hours of pushing. But he was born.

My son, my very own breathing, crying, living son was born. I held him in my arms, staring down in shock at the tiny pink face. This was my very own son. He would grow up and be whoever he wanted to be. He wouldn't have to live with my fear. He was a clean slate all over again. And I loved him.

I named him Draco Adam Malfoy. Adam for the fact that he was the beginning that I would never have. Draco because I wished him all the strength that I had. I wished upon him to be freed of my shield of lies. And I prayed, yes I prayed with every cell of my form, that Voldemort would never touch my son.

And he never did, either.

The next night, Voldemort disappeared from all contact. He disappeared out of my life forever. I was paroled, set free from being a Death Eater. That lie was over with. And Draco grew, like a dream out of a fairy book.

And the lies returned.

I could not admit to my own son that I was a fake. I couldn't do it. Narcissa had no idea either and didn't care. But it tore me apart inside to see Draco walking off, with such longing to follow Voldemort like I did. I pray that he will not follow in my footsteps. My lies cannot stop. They cling to me, and they train my son. They teach him wrong.

I am Lucius.

Draco, please don't follow me. Don't fall like I did.

Don't.

Son, I wish I could tell you…the lies are too strong.

Draco, don't fall, don't fall…

Don't become me.

I am Lucius.