I was born into the great riches of a prestigious family and the heir to a modest thousand-acre estate with its own house elf hatchery. I bought myself a beautiful wife with hair nearly as lovely as my own, as well as half the Ministry. But my life had no purpose, no meaning beyond beating my breeding house elves, bossing around the Minister, bashing Weasleys, and staring at my shiny piles of gold.
Then I made a delightful business agreement with a very evil and well-renowned man. He needed money and protection, and I wanted his tutelage. For a very handsome sum, he let me be his right-no, left--hand man, and I've never been so privileged as to work with a finer gentleman than Lord Voldemort. He's of the purest blood, or so he says, and he must have some Malfoy in him to concoct such cunning, although occasionally misfortunate, plans.
He refined my methods of torture to pure pleasure and showed me my true superiority over all other wizards. He also trained me as his head tattoo artist. Sometimes I add butterflies in the skulls' eye sockets, to add something special. I believe the Master should modernize his logo for a fresh look, but I'd never... live... to question his taste.
The Dark Lord was a bit miffed when I reinvested most of my Death Eater funds in the Ministry after he'd gone on his... extended vacation, but once he'd seen what I'd done with Fudge, and the bit I'd used for redecorating the Riddle Manor, he was pleased. He adored the red velvet drapes that matched his eyes, and the snake pit in the renovated torture chamber was divine.
I used to have a bad temper, but joining the Death Eaters has improved my family relations. Now I only take my anger out on muggle virgins and that little rat Pettigrew so that my time with my family is truly of greater quality. I leave the house elves to my son and wife, but there's one that Narcissa just refuses to discipline. She calls him "cuddly and good company on long winter nights" when I'm out mudblood-hunting.
The Malfoys will serve the Dark Lord for centuries, maybe longer if we become immortal like the Master promises. Frankly, I fear the secret of immortality will alter my silky blond hair, and that's just not acceptable. Otherwise, my son will follow in my footsteps, even if he insists he wants to be an interior decorator or a thief. If the color scheme of his room is any indication, he'll fail miserably. Perhaps he could be a successful smuggler, however. I'll get him the Hand of Glory for his birthday if he promises not to bring it into the bathroom.
So join the Death Eaters and know the true meaning of power and receive your tattoo from me. Young muscular virgins especially welcome but no more blonds please. Red-heads preferred. Mudbloods will be exterminated.
