Voldemort's Death

And I hated the Muggle-loving transfiguration teacher, Albus Dumbledore, because he encouraged the admission of the likes of Mudbloods and half-giants at every oppertunity.

By my sixth year, I had discovered the Chamber of Secrets, of all the places it's entrance could be, a girl's bathroom was the last place I looked. I agreed whole-heartedly with Salazar Slytherin that Mudbloods should not be taught magic, and I wanted revenge on Muggles everywhere for my father's actions, and the way I was treated before I came to Hogwarts. I released the King of Serpents, a beast that only the heir of Slytherin can control, on the castle. I knew it was deadly, and was surprised at how long it took to actually kill a Mudblood. Eight of them were only petrified. But I couldn't continue to kill them, though their kind should be exterminated. The headmaster told me that they would have to close the school if the person behind these attacks wasn't caught. I couldn't return to the orphanage, I would never go back there. Turning myself in wasn't an option, never crossed my mind at the time, but if I had, I would have been expelled, and no better off than if they closed the school (except there would be a few less Mudbloods in the world). Then I remembered the half-giant, Rubeus Hagrid. That great hairy oaf was always trying to raise monsters, in the castle. I knew that I could blame the attacks and death on his latest pet - an Acromatula, how could anyone think they could tame one of those? Armando Dippet believed my story, and Hagrid was expelled, but Dumbledore was suspicious of me. I preserved my memories in a diary, so that I could lead another in my footsteps and finish purging the school of Muggle blood and filth.

I left Hogwarts, after being the first Slytherin head boy in two hundred years. The first thing I did was to locate and kill my father. After what he did to me, it was the least he deserved - but death is the worst that I can imagine. After what I did, I realised - the idea of death terrified me, I couldn't let that happen to me, I didn't want to follow my father, never, I want to live forever.

I sought out people who knew the secrets of life and death. Many told me I should not fear death - what did they know? (I used the past tense for a good reason). I then sought out the Dark Arts. Witches and Wizards who used the deepest evils to accomplish their ends. It took me many years to complete my transformation. I became almost unrecognisable (I say almost - Dumbledore knew who I was).

I met with people who, like me, believed that Muggles were inferior and Mudbloods should not be counted as Wizards. I made many allies, (Malfoy, Snape, Macnair, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Karkaroff - are just a few of their names). With their help I gained power, and people feared me so, that they even feared to speak the name I now used - Voldemort - the Dark Lord - He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But then my seers told me of a prophecy that one could harm me - 'The Potter Boy'. I was certain that the prophecy referred to James Potter. One of my spies, Pettigrew, finally proved himself useful to me when he told me exactly where Potter and his wife were hiding.

I arrived at the Potters' house and heard paniced screaming and shouts (what else would you expect?). "It's Him. Take Harry and get out of here!" I killed him easily, but who was Harry? I followed the terrified woman and saw she was holding a baby, Harry Potter - 'The Potter Boy'. I knew what I had to do. I had to kill the boy before he became powerful enough to hurt me. His mother tried to stop me, "No! Not Harry! Please! Have mercy! Kill me instead!" I don't think she understood the powerful protective charm her sacrafice created. She needn't have died that night, but it was her own choice. I turned on Harry and cast the killing curse, as I had done so many times before...

Contrary to popular belief, I never became truly evil until that moment. I had killed many times, Muggles, Mudbloods, and those who opposed me, but never an innocent child. I didn't succeed in killing him either. His mother had died to save him, and because of that my curse reflected, and would have killed me if it were not for the powerful transformation I had undergone eleven years before. Pain beyond pain, but still, death would have been worse. I fled. I was nearly nothing, almost a ghost, but still alive.

After ten years, I encountered a gullible idiot of a Wizard, named Quirrel, and was fortunate enough to find that he was a teacher at Hogwarts, where a treasure that could restore me was concealed. Unfortuately, Harry Potter was now attending Hogwarts. My plan failed and I fled again. Two years later, one of my followers, Pettigrew, who everyone believed dead, found me. With his willing help, my father's unknowing contribution, and Harry Potter's unwilling assistance, I was restored to my former power. I could have killed the boy that night, but my pride forced me to give him a fighting chance. He escaped. Since that night, I have been gaining power again, as I had thirteen years before.

Now, sixteen years after he first defeated me, I stand here, face to face with the one who can destroy me (I dare not even think the words 'kill me'). I am alone. My followers have deserted me again. He has disarmed and weakened me. One curse could... (I said I dare not think the words.) He raises his wand. I am going to die. After what I have done, I guess most people, even my own followers, believe that I deserve it. They are probably right. I am truly evil. I still believe Muggles are scum, but... there could have been another way. I deserve to die. He's going to kill me, and I deserve it.

* * * * *

Harry Potter opened his mouth to say the words that would kill Voldemort, but paused, surprised, at the expression on his face... was that remorse?

"What are you waiting for, Potter? Kill me." He held his arms out, as if welcoming death. But of course, everyone must face their fears eventually.

Harry shouted the same deadly curse that Voldemort had tried to use on him. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" In this weakened state, Voldemort would die.

With his dying breath, Voldemort whispered to Harry, "I'm sorry." and he meant it.

* * * * *

I am dead, and it is, for me, all I had feared, but I do deserve it.