It all began on July 31st, 1980, when I was just one year old. My father had taken me to my real mother's house. He'd accidentally gotten her pregnant after loosing a card game loser sleeps with the "ugly duckling" so to speak. And she gave birth to me, 'though she disowned me. I wasn't good enough for her. I wasn't her REAL blood. I wasn't her husband's child. But she did do pretty well to lie about me. She just told him she had developed a fetish for doughnuts, so she was getting a little podgy. After she gave birth to me, she disowned me. Threw me at my father. Told him to get out of her life. That she wanted her own son.
And so it was. Nine months later she gave birth again. To my half brother ('though he was not to know it). You may have heard of him. Harry Potter.
So, on the 31st of July, 1980, Harry's first birthday, my father took me to their house. To try and get the mother of his son to accept me for who I was: the spawn of a Slytherin. But she wouldn't.
'NEVER!' she screamed. 'I'd rather die than accept that he is my son!'
'That can be arranged…' said my father, snidely.
Later that evening, Lily and James Potter were killed by the ultimate killing curse, saving little Harry Potter with their love. Lucius Malfoy swore himself a Death Eater. So Voldemort came to me. He pointed his wand at my face and said:
'Avada Kadavra!'
And nothing happened.
When I got on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, I saw Harry. My long lost brother. He didn't see me and I didn't talk to him. But I saw him again on the stairs of the castle. There he was. I spoke! Tried to make friends. But he hated me. And he has done ever since.