My name is Lucius Malfoy. I am in my late fifties - my exact age escapes me - and balding, over six feet tall and formerly considered 'coldly handsome' by my colleagues. My skin, as is the heritage of the Malfoy line, is naturally pale, smooth as alabaster stone. It does not tan. It burns.
I was a willing and eager participant in the events of the First and Second Wizarding Wars. I wielded my wand with deadly and vicious force in the service of the Dark Lord, Voldemort, prior to his death. I was among the highest-praised of his elite, the Death Eater closest to the Dark Lord himself. My Lord was beautiful, ghostly white even before his rebirth, as pale as myself. I imagined he would burn as I did, never darkening. I take it a pity that I never found out.
After the death of the Dark Lord I was taken before a special council of the Wizengamot, my fate to be decided on a personal basis as one of the most dangerous of Voldemort's supporters. I 'confessed' willingly to my part in the Wars, my role in the killing of hundreds of Muggles and Mudbloods, seeing no reason to hide so simple an action as tidying up around a proverbial house. I told of my repeated and willful use of the Unforgivable Curses, swearing under Veritaserum that at no point during my servitude was I under duress of any kind, that I would be perfectly willing to kill my son for his incompetence, and that only my Lord's wand had bound me long enough that Draco managed to escape. I revealed all my works, willingly, without restraint, and I saw the fear and hatred in their eyes, covering up a lurking envy at how easily and freely I conversed. My trial was long, but not because of reticience. I simply had too many crimes to list in a single court session. And so, after five weeks of near-constant questions, my sentence was handed down from on high.
I did not fear the Kiss, the killing mouth or monster or wand, nor did I fear torture or pain. I had schooled myself years before to pay it no mind had I not the inclination to do so.
My skin was perfect as polished marble, the legacy of my perfect genetics and heritage, white and smooth to the touch. I screamed this as they dragged me to the chamber where I would be Cursed to my fate, the one sentence they discovered I could not endure, could not fathom being subjected to, believing that despite my confessions, my crimes, the Wizengamot would retain enough compassion to kill me quickly, without forcing me to endure such torture. I was Cursed with a spell that forced me to seek out sun, heat, dry air, and solitude. Deserts were perfect, the American Death Valley, moreso. I went as fast as my legs could carry me, hating every second of my travel as the burning sensation in my stomach and bones slowly abated the hotter it became. I walked the desert for twenty-seven days. I wore no clothes, drank no water, ate no food, used no protection to shield my perfect skin from the harsh, cruel rays of the sun. It did not tan. It burned. It peeled and blackened and curled until the perfect marble was cracked, pitted, ruined as if by acid and flame.
The same Curse that compelled me to inhabit the desert kept me alive. I did not waste away, or even atrophy, as I went a week, two weeks, three weeks without any sustenance. Only my endless desire, perverted though it was, to bask in the unearthly rays of the sun in this most forsaken of climes.
I was thirty-seven when I was sentenced to walk the desert. My exact age escapes me. I am in my late fifties. My name is Lucius Malfoy. My sentence has surely passed. If it suits your purposes as well as it does mine, take me into your care. I have burned.