I've been to hell and back again. Those bloody Potters get the glory every time, even if they don't do anything. They're weak. They never could see that the dark will win if we don't fight it with dark. Their heads are filled with that muggle garbage, that good triumphs always, and that the hero escapes without a scar. Well, I may not be a hero, but I sure have scars.

Harry is just like his father. Cocky. Overconfident. Insufferable. It must be genetic. I've done a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand times more than he has ever done, but he's still famous because of that bloody scar. He doesn't even know what it is. Dumbledore knew, but he wouldn't tell him. Let my vices be known, and my virtues be hidden.

They say I don't have a heart like they don't think I can hear it.

The worst part is... they believe it.

I was there that night. That's right. I was there with Voldemort. He asked me to come, hidden. He's a coward, Voldemort. If the good had just joined together at the beginning, he would never have risen. If Dumbledore had actually taken action when his suspicions were confirmed, this would all be over. But foresight is not overly praised in the wizarding world. I must say, we're generally just as stupid as the muggles.

I was there in Lily's house, in James' house. They knew it was coming, both of them. They were trapped, like mice. I came with Voldemort, behind him. I stood by passively as he killed James and Lily. I would have saved her if I could.

But there are necessary evils, and I of all people know that. I bear the scars.

I can still hear her scream. But I had to wait, or there would be nothing. No one would believe James could kill the Dark Lord. No one would believe even a clever mudblood like Lily could. They had to go. I had hoped Voldemort would use a freezing charm on them, make them watch as he destroyed their offspring. Make them suffer for daring to oppose him. But he didn't. It just took two Avada Kedavra's and they were dead. Lily still looked up at me with hopeful eyes, even though she couldn't see me.

It wasn't Lily who saved Harry, and Dumbledore knew it. It was me. My protection spell was shot at the last second; it had to bore into his forehead to gain room to work. The Dark Lord never knew what hit him. Or maybe he did. His anguished shriek was worse than Lily's, because of all the things he is afraid of, the biggest is non-existence. And then he was gone. It was just me, invisible, standing beside the lifeless bodies of James and Lily. Harry was whimpering, too frightened to scream. I knelt down and fingered his scar. I bent down to stroke Lily's face, whose empty body was still clutching her child. "I'm sorry," I whispered, and a tear almost splashed onto her face before I caught with my robe. I looked at James, then leaned over and brushed Lily's lips with my own. "Goodbye," and I was gone, leaving Godric's Hollow, trying to wipe the clammy feeling of death from my mind.

And here we are again. Sixteen years later, and I've killed for Harry Potter. Three people have died for his sake that I could have saved were he not the child of prophecy.

I barely survived the Dark Lord before. It took the utmost of my ability to hide the Potter child from him.

The Potters get all the glory.

I'm going under.

And this time I don't suppose I shall return.