I don’t really know why I do it, why I listen to songs like these after days like this. It’s almost masochistic, the way that I immerse myself in lyrics which do the emotional equivalent of ripping off a scab. It doesn’t make me feel any better, the opposite in fact: the wound stings and bleeds worse for being disturbed. Especially when I remember who bought me most of these old LPs. Lily adored music. Particularly love songs and, unfortunately, Lily had an incredibly discerning taste. There’s nothing worse than a bloody brilliant love song; if one cannot find anything to deride, there is nothing left to do but cry. And, if one cannot cry...

Well, as I am going to do this anyway, I might as well start. I’ll set it to random, though. I have an irritating habit of listening to the same tune repeatedly, a habit learnt from Lily, with whom I used to sit listening to songs, dissecting their lyrics and discussing themes. Sometimes I wish we’d never received our Hogwarts letters.

“Someone I know is treating you bad”

Oh damn

“Someone who ought to know better than that
I thought I knew him well
But you can never tell
We don't get on so well
After all.”

If there is no such thing as karma, the universe has a very dark sense of humour. The reason I’m down here tonight, nursing another wretched headache is that today’s mandatory ‘Potter bating’ turned into a fully-fledged row. I wish I could still loath him, I really do; it was so much easier when he was a tiny, carbon copy of his father, all bravado, impertinence and messy, ‘windswept’ haircut. The anger used to come so easily, when I saw Lily’s beautiful, angelic eyes filled with the demonic spirit of her worthless husband.

And then, one fateful day, Albus told me to collect Potter from the Dursleys and, naturally, I simply had to disillusion myself and eavesdrop, which, as the proverb suggests, led to considerable disillusionment. I saw a broken child, whose dull eyes held no hope, no curiosity, no spark. I would rather see Lily’s eyes burning with hatred than so empty and lifeless. Dead eyes in a dead face is chilling enough but dead eyes in a living face is nothing short of monstrous.

I heard Lily’s child spoken about with such careless scorn, as if he was an unthinking, unfeeling thing who would be as lief derided as he would be praised. A ragged child who slaved in the background whilst an overfed, expensively dressed troglodyte stuffed his fat face with cakes, ignoring the child whose face was pinched with starvation, whose stomach rumbled with hunger. The scene was reminiscent of the time when Lily and I accompanied her parents and sister into town; there was this tramp, a sad-eyed, hopeless fellow and, while Lily and I were embarrassed, pitying, wishing to help but not knowing how, Petunia acted as if the poor man didn’t exist. And now her son was treating his own cousin as if the poor waif had no more of a mind or soul than the washing machine.

However, it was the casual, thoughtless slap that he gave Potter as he ambled out which burnt to the end of my tether. I am not, naturally, a cruel man, I hope. Petty, yes, spiteful, definitely, foul-tempered and resentful I would have to agree but, unless I feel myself wronged, I gain no pleasure from causing pain to others.

When Harry was hit with less scruples than anyone decent would feel in swatting a fly, I heard myself curse the pig, listened to his screams as my brain buzzed with white-hot fury. So hot that it felt as if my mind had turned to ice.

I obliviated the whale and, I am loath to admit, Potter as well. I disapperated, took a walk, sat on the swing in the near-derelict playground where I first met little Lily Evans. When I was young and had an only mildly-bruised heart and slightly grubby soul.

And through my mind, like a spear-wheeled chariot, ripped Milton’s line ‘Farewell hope and with hope fairwell fear; fairwell remorse. All good to me is lost.

Potter was not arrogant; his self-esteem was so low that he genuinely believed that nothing he could lower our opinion because it had already hit the proverbial ‘rock bottom’. Potter’s mien was not one of bravado, he was simply so badly broken that he could not break any further. And, God so help me, I had hated him for those traits.

I had loathed someone whom I should have embraced as a kindred spirit. I could see now that Lily’s child had more than her eyes; I had always dismissed Potter’s compassion, his fine sense of justice. I had ignored the good and taken the bad and made it worse. I had misjudged Potter. Badly. I failed the boy as I had failed his mother, by being too blind for too long.

And, as I had with Lily, I only realised the error of my ways much, much too late. Voldemort had returned and, if my blatant victimisation of Potter had not turned the boy against me already, the evil treatment I continued to dole out on a regular basis, for the benefit of his children-spies, would certainly have made Potter loath me as much as I deserve.

I refused to return to the Dursleys, I told Dumbledore to find someone else to do his dirty-work. Potter did not know, nor will he ever discover, that I returned to his ‘guardian’s’ house after he'd left and, having cast a rather ancient and complex spell which will cause the blood to boil in their veins should they break my terms, I put the fear of Snape into them. If you ask any Hogwarts student who they fear most, their Potions Master or God, nine out of ten would opt for me and the tenth, Longbottom, would be hiding under his cauldron. Which, come to think about it, is probably the more dangerous option, considering how badly the useless sot brews.

I see so much of Lily in the boy now. Her gentle smile, her warm chuckle, so very unlike the hard, snide laughter of James, he even has her hands. Perhaps those hands could have been as skilled as Lily’s: from what I saw of the child’s culinary prowess, Harr… I mean Potter should be capable of preparing ingredients almost as well as young Malfoy. I killed Potter’s love for brewing.

“Someone I know is making you cry
Someone who should have been eager to try
But he grew worldly wise
Then he learned how to lie
We don't see eye-to-eye
Any more.”

Yet, I must still act my part, I must continue to remain to wear the masks of ‘Death-eater’ and ‘Tormentor’ and, now I feel nothing but sorrow, manufacturing the necessary anger is draining. I often find myself taking the pretence too far, being too vicious, too unjust, too cruel. I have caused tears to form in Lily’s eyes. Eyes that are no longer set in the face of a demon but that of a child. Eyes that I can no longer meet.

Albus, the bastard, has manipulated me into promising to kill him. Last summer, the old fool decided that it would be fun to try on one of Voldemort’s trinkets and Tom, with his oh so fine sense of humour, considers writing his name on his possessions so 1940s. What says ‘mine’ quite so firmly as a cytotoxic contact poison? Albus’s arm is already in an advanced stage of necrosis and the poison is eating its way towards his heart. There is nothing I can do to stop its progress and Albus is quite cheerful about it. Draco, after all, has been commissioned with the Headmaster’s assassination and, if the Malfoys wretched hides are to be saved, Albus has to die at the right time.

And, when Albus Dumbledore dies, all hell will break lose. I don’t give the current minister a month; Scrimgeor is a fine Auror and a brilliant politician but Voldemort doesn’t fear him and the Ministry is already inundated with Death-eaters. This summer, Potter will be running for his life, hunting for the Horcruxes which Albus should have realised existed long, long ago. However, I, also, should have guessed that Voldemort had at least one. I have failed in my duty to Lily’s child time and time again.

However, even if Harry succeeds, which is unlikely considering how soon darkness will fall upon this world, all my attempts at penitence will still be for naught.

Dumbledore used me; he has raised the boy like a pig for slaughter and, once the Horcruxes are destroyed, Harry will die. Above those haunting eyes is Voldemort’s final horcrux, the scar that has marred his forehead since the boy was a year old. The ultimate betrayal of a person already so betrayed.

If I had any hope of my success, I would kidnap the boy; hide him, protect him and attempt to make amends. Harry would never like me, I appreciate that, nor would he ever forgive me but he might, in time, understand me and, free from those watchful eyes, I would no longer have to maintain the image of a hateful, vicious cruel man so perhaps Harry and I could learn to be allies.

Yet, if I stole the boy and left his friends to die, he would hate me with every atom of his being, not to mention fight against me with his every fibre to escape onto the battlefield. And, even if Harry listened to reason, Voldemort would find us. It would just be a matter of time.

Although not all prophesies come true, Harry’s started to manifest the moment I allowed it to pass my lips. Little did I know, then, how devastating the effect of Trelawney’s mumbo-jumbo would be. That night, I set fate in motion and I know that attempting to throw a proverbial spanner in the works now will, ultimately, not prevent Voldemort from duelling Harry to the death but it may change the outcome of that duel. I have done my best to protect the boy and, now, I must step aside and allow Harry to form his future.

“Someone I know is setting you free
Someone who should have been happy to be
With someone like you
But he couldn't be true
Someone I thought I knew
Someone called --- me”

I am sorry, Harry. Sorry for informing Voldemort of the Prophesy, sorry for not discovering that Pettigrew was the spy, sorry for failing to realise that Black was innocent, sorry for ignoring what I knew of Petunia and leaving you to neglect and abuse, sorry for not listening to Black and Lupin, sorry for sabotaging your occulumancy lessons, sorry for tormenting Black into rashly entering his grave, sorry for the lies, deceit, cruelty.

I am sorry that I am unable to do more than watch over you from afar.

I am sorry that you will never know just how sorry I am.