For more than a score of years, I have been powerless and without purpose. I could sow fear, but only a hollow fear. A fear of shadows. Now, hope has returned, in the form of a girl, the necessity of whose existence I once doubted.
It was Bella's idea to give me a child. How proud she was, to offer herself as the vessel for my seed. And how disappointed, when I told her that no child of mine would be conceived by undignified Mugglish means, but only through the purity and power of magic itself. She hid her disappointment well, though, and served her purpose without complaint.
As the child grew within her, hidden and secret beneath her robes, I warmed to the idea of it: someone to serve at my right hand, bound to me by blood, closer and more trusted than any of my followers. It was born, too, in secret, only weeks before my fall. Even Bella's own sister, in whose house it was born, knew nothing of it. Only I was present, and a house-elf, serving as midwife. An ignoble enough beginning for the life of one who would surely rise high.
I had planned to reveal the child to the world after I dealt with Potter, before the twin betrayals of Severus and the sister brought an untimely end to all my plans. I had not thought about the child since then, or considered what might have become of it.
Now she has returned, promising to restore me to my former glory. How, I do not know. I hope that she is more like me than her mother in the making of her plans. Bella was always reckless. If the girl is to succeed, she must employ great cunning and care.
When Potter appears at the school, accompanied by his red-haired wife, and that weak-willed creature, Malfoy, seeking their missing sons, at first I do not see the connection. But when the children reappear in the lake, babbling about a time-turner, I begin to understand.
My wonder grows as Malfoy's son describes seeing a world in which my powers were undiminished - and how close that world came to eclipsing this one. They do not mention the girl, but I sense her hand behind it. How near she came to succeeding - and might yet succeed, if the time-turner, lost in the dark waters of the lake, can be found.
It is surely a portent: a child of mine, a child of Potter's, a child of Malfoy's - the destinies of three families inextricably intertwined. How right that they should serve as the unwitting tools to bring about my return.
Do you still see with my eyes, Harry Potter? I murmur, a whisper on the wind.
Potter shivers, glancing over his shoulder, but quickly dismisses the feeling.
I resolve to stay close to the sons. If they are truly the key to my return, the girl will find them again.
My faith in the powers of Destiny is rewarded when the Malfoy boy reveals to the Potter boy that the time-turner was not lost, after all. He has it still, wanting to assure himself of its destruction.
Fool, I laugh silently. You will be your own undoing.
I have heard the rumours. There are some who believe this boy to be my son. Another story involving a time-turner, but false. How absurd to think that such a soft, sensitive creature could bear any relation to me. The Potter boy is soft, too; full of fear and feeling. They are weak, the pair of them, and it is they who will be destroyed when the world is set right.
I follow them to the Owlery, and there, just as I predicted, the girl appears, bright as the moon. She toys with them at first, pretending to agree that they should destroy the time-turner. Until the foolish, trusting Potter boy puts it into her hands. The Malfoy boy is more wary of her, but by now, it is too late. They are no match for her. Within moments, she captures and binds them, sweeping them down from the tower to the Quidditch pitch.
I swell with exultation as she taunts them. There is another prophecy, she tells them. The boys do not understand. They do not see who she is - what her place is in all of this, and theirs. She, the Augurey, heralding my triumphant return, with her at my right hand. They, the sacrifice that must be paid for the resurrection of the world I dreamed of.
"We won't. We won't obey you. Whoever you are. Whatever you want us to do," shouts the Potter boy, defiant.
"Crucio!"
The girl laughs as the Malfoy boy falls before her wand. The Potter boy looks on, anguished, helpless, as if the pain were his own, love making him weak, bending him to her will.
Another boy appears suddenly, unknown, unimportant.
"Avada Kedavra!" she cries, without hesitation.
He, too, falls, and does not rise again.
The girl speaks the words of the prophecy, and I revel in them, gathering them to me and making them part of myself: "When spares are spared, when time is turned, when unseen children murder their fathers: Then will the Dark Lord return."
A flash of gold, and the time-turner activates, snatching them away, beyond my sight, beyond my reach, and once more, all I can do is wait and see what will happen.
In more than twenty years of shadowy existence, time has never passed more slowly. I wait in Minerva's office, knowing that if there is word of a plan to rescue the boys and save this pathetic version of the world, it must surely come there, most likely in the form of Potter. But it does not.
I wonder whether I should have tried to do something more. To communicate with the girl. To take possession of her mind. If I had, perhaps I would even now be where she is, seeing with her eyes, with the power to effect change in the world of the living once more. I do not know if such a thing is possible. What unknown powers lie in this connection of shared blood? I never thought to learn.
Two days pass, and I feel each minute crawl over me, as if I still had skin. And then -
A great, silvery head thrusts itself through the window of the headmistress's office. I shrink back. Ghosts are not fond of patronuses. The silver dragon opens its gaping maw, and the voice of the bumbling gamekeeper emerges.
"Sorry ter disturb yeh, Professor McGonagall, Ma'am, but there's summat happenin' down by the Quidditch pitch."
They are all there: Potter and his wife, Malfoy, the two sons. And the girl. Her hands are bound, her head bowed, hair hanging down to hide her face. The vibrancy of her presence is subdued. She has failed.
Potter, looking grim - almost haunted - keeps his wand trained on her as he slips a time-turner into his pocket. Even at a glance, I can see that it is different from the time-turner the girl used to steal the sons away into the past. The others appear disturbed and exhausted. There is no triumph in their return; only relief at finding their world unchanged.
"What in Merlin's name happened? And who is this woman?" asks Minerva, bewildered.
"It's a long story, Professor," says Potter wearily. "I'll tell you, but first I need to contact my office. This woman is responsible for the death of one of your students, not to mention criminal tampering with the past, and a host of other crimes. She requires immediate escort to Azkaban, to await trial."
Potter leads the defeated girl away, while his wife and Malfoy take charge of the sons.
And I ... one might perhaps expect me to rage and despair that Potter has once again managed to foil my plans. But why should I? All is not lost. As long as Delphini lives, so lives a part of me. While these three fated bloodlines persist - while even one time-turner remains - there is hope that one day I shall return.