May 2nd, 1998

I was four years old when I first did accidental magic. We were eating supper after my dad got home from work one night— I was pitching a fit because I didn't like the food, and I made the food on my plate catch on fire. When my dad saw, he was confused and angry. That was the first time he hit me and spanked me with his belt harder than just a normal whooping. My mum tried to make him stop, but he hit her as well because she gave me the magic, as if it was a disease. The next day, my mum stopped letting me hang out with my muggle friends as much because, "People without the magic are scared of people like us, and they'll hurt you just like daddy did if they ever find out." She told me that if anybody asked about the bruise now blossoming on my cheek, I were to tell them that I fell down the stairs, and that I am very clumsy.

At six, I was angry that my dad told me to put away my toys and go to bed, and accidentally made my his beer bottle crack in his hand. This time, he hit me on my back, and made me take my shirt off before whooping me. The next day, he got me a St. Michael pendant to, "ward off the devil inside you." At church that Sunday, I told more lies than I had ever told in my life. My dad started coming home later, always smelling like the beer from the bottle I broke earlier that year, but in general, he was still alright.

When I was seven, my dad was one of the first people to get laid off from the mill before it closed. That night he came home very late from the bar. He screamed at me that it was my fault while he beat me for the first time. When my mum tried to intervene, he slapped her across the face and pushed her away. We stopped going to church altogether after my dad tore the St. Michael pendant off my neck. The beatings became more frequent. Soon, there was less food in the cupboards. We all started losing weight. I stopped growing. Afraid the teachers would say something, my mum took me out of school at the end of the school year. She said she would homeschool me, but she never did.

My eighth birthday was spent in St. Mungo's, recovering from my first concussion, a broken arm, a cracked rib, and a fractured jaw. Healer Smithwick held my hand as I gagged on the concussion potion. In time, I learned to take it like my dad took shots of whiskey. When I got out of the hospital, my dad took me to McDonald's. He said he was done drinking, and that he promised that was the last time he was ever going to beat me. That was the first time he promised he was done drinking. The second time was later that year when I went to the hospital with a broken nose, cracked collarbone, and a lung infection so bad I could barely breathe.

At nine, Lily was the star that shone through the darkness of my life. Finally, here was a friend with whom I could be myself and not have to worry about having to hide my magic away. We would spend hours talking about what Hogwarts would be like. We played ghosts and students, and made pasta potions at her house. We pretended her pitbull, Lady, was a dementor. We would throw her tennis ball and act as though it was a patronus. When she would come running back with the ball, we would run away laughing while she chased us happily. When we went out in public together, we would say we were siblings. I was always welcome at the Evans'. Mr. Evans always helped me with my writing and math, no matter how tired he was from his teaching job. If it wasn't for him, I probably never would have learned how to read and write properly. Mrs. Evans always cooked the best food. She always made sure that I didn't eat too fast, and later on when I started using my weight as leverage for attention, she always made sure I ate enough, and never negotiated with me about it.

When I was 11, I met the first wizard to ever treat me like I was special– like I was loved. Lucius gave me sweets, and told me I was smart. He said he was proud of me when I made potions above my grade level, and he helped me with my homework. He hugged me, and carried me to bed when I fell asleep by the fire like I was his prized show-dog. He gave me presents, and let me stay at his manor. So what if he wanted to control how I spoke, and what I wore, and how I styled my hair, and who I was friends with, and what I ate, and when and where I did my homework, and what I did in my free time? I was finally getting the attention from a father figure that I so desperately craved.

At 15, I was used. I earned gifts and praise by being obedient to Lucius and the men who got off on running their hands all over the body of the emaciated, poor, timid, powerless little half-blood that Lucius so graciously shared with them. My eating habits spiraled. Where before food was something I had no control over, it had slowly become the one thing I had any control over. My desire to be loved outweighed my desire to grow and to be healthy, and even though Lucius would say I needed to eat more, I knew he liked me best when I was little and easy to control. With Lucius' encouragement, I delved deeper into the world of poisons and the dark arts, and I killed my parents. Lily became even more distant with me because of how secretive I had become, and before the end of the school year, I lost my first real friend.

At 17, I was loved. I was precious. Evan told me I was amazing, beautiful, handsome, perfect, and incredible. I even began to believe him. His death was the first that made me start to question everything Lucius had ever taught me to believe about war and the Dark Lord. What was the point in swearing allegiance to somebody who treated us as if we were disposable, all in the name of a cause I never really believed in? When he targeted Lily, I finally realized how brave I could be.

At 38, I am tired. I am a puppet. I am everything my father ever told me I was. I am stupid, a failure, and the reason everything is wrong. My life flashes before my eyes, and I leave my memories in a puddle on the floor for Harry Potter to take, so that he can learn the truth, and hopefully end this war. As the room goes dark around me, all I see is Lily's eyes looking into mine, and I can believe that it was all just a bad dream.