Remorse

A/N: I do not own Harry Potter. That never-ending mantra.

This is an alternate ending to the Harry Potter series. It starts on page 741 of my copy of Deathly Hallows, right when Harry is telling Voldemort to try to feel remorse. In this version, I have decided to show what would've happened to him - or at least, what I think would've happen - if he had actually done that.

"Before you try to kill me, I'd advise you to think about what you've done . . . Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle . . . "

"What is this?" Voldemort cried. Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked him like this.

"It's your one last chance," said Harry, "it's all you've got left . . . I've seen what you'll be otherwise . . . Be a man . . . try . . . Try for some remorse . . ."

"You dare –?" said Voldemort again, but he was unable to summon the same amount of venom.

"Yes, I dare," said Harry, "because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle."

Voldemort's hand was trembling on the Elder Wand. Harry Potter's words had affected him more than the boy could ever imagine. He was suddenly pulled into a flashback, unintentionally remembering the first murder he'd ever committed.

Her name was Myrtle . . . Moaning Myrtle, they called her. She was always upset about something or other and no one liked her. No more than she deserved, of course, being the filthy little Mudblood she was . . . add that to her too-thick glasses and constantly moping personality, it was a surprise that she hadn't been killed sooner.

It was so convenient that she chose that particular bathroom to cry in. With a few whispered words, the sink that led to the Chamber of Secrets opened and the basilisk appeared. "Kill her!" It was so easy – the snake didn't even have to do anything; Moaning Mudblood Myrtle opened the door of the stall without any prompting. I watched with a wild, uncontrollable joy as my first victim locked gazes with the basilisk, then collapsed.

And I made her death into the first Horcrux, the diary. I took my time, as it was the first time and I needed to take particular care to get it right. This diary would be used for greater purposes eventually and it had to be perfect.

Besides, there was no need to hurry . . . no one cared about Moaning Myrtle . . .

And if no one cared about her, even in her death, then why should I? Why should I care that I killed her? She was a Mudblood . . . a nobody . . . worse than a nobody . . .

Voldemort's hand trembled still harder as the memories sped forward through the next year and he relived the visit to the village of Little Hangleton, where he'd murdered his father and grandparents. They were Muggles – worse even than Mudbloods, of course – and yet, they were family, and could hardly be called nobodies . . .

They were sitting at dinner, all three of them. I stood behind them – invisible, of course – and examined the youngest with interest. He looked so much like me, or rather, I looked so much like him that it almost sickened me. To think that I could share not just the name, but the appearance of a Muggle!

This was him then – that horrible man who had abandoned my mother when he realized she was a witch and caused her to give up living, leaving me in that orphanage! As I stared that the man I hated so much, my anger grew and suddenly I cast aside the spell of invisibility. The three Riddles turned, and I saw identical looked or terror on each of their faces. It was both liberating and shaming to see such fear on the faces of those I must call relatives . . .

"Who are you?" Mrs. Riddle cried, leaping to her feet. I raised Morfin's wand to point it at her.

I had not planned on speaking to them, but I could not help it. "I? My name – Avada Kedavra –" My grandmother died. " – is – Avada Kedavra – " So did my grandfather. I turned to my father, if this man can deserve such a title, and said quietly, "Tom Riddle. Your son, Tom Riddle. Avada Kedavra!" And so the ring that I'd taken from Morfin became the second Horcrux.

And now I'm supposed to feel for these Muggles, this family that abandoned me?

There was silence in the Great Hall as Voldemort and Harry continued to circle. Once more, his memories fast-forwarded to the next Horcuxes.

Hepzibah Smith. A rich, greedy woman with hundreds of priceless treasures. She didn't know what she was getting herself into, showing me the cup and locket – future Horcuxes, both of them, and precious items that belonged to Hogwarts founders. The locket was rightfully mine and the cup deserved a better owner than Hepzibah Smith. She died to make the cup a protector of part of his soul – a noble death, though she didn't know it . . .

Still, he felt a small amount of guilt at her death. She, after all, was no Mudblood. She was pureblood – and related to Helga Hufflepuff herself, no less.

Before Voldemort could banish the guilt, more memories came, faster and faster.

The locket wasn't transformed so quickly. Now that I think about it, I'm not even sure who it was that died to turn the locket into a Horcrux . . . a Muggle . . . a poor Muggle, I think. He lived in the village near the cave . . . I killed him out of convenience – he lived so close to the place I planned on hiding a Horcrux . . .

And the diadem. Again, a Muggle, this time an Albanian peasant. She lived near to where Helena Ravenclaw had hidden diadem – again, she was killed because she was there. So she could serve a greater purpose . . .

Then there was Bertha. Her death, as he had explained over and over to Wormtail, had been necessary. Not only to make Nagini into a Horcrux – a decision made out of desperation, had I a choice, I'd never have made her a Horcrux – but also because she knew too much. About Crouch, about Wormtail, about me. She had to be gotten rid of.

Voldemort, still circling, was amazed at himself. Never before had he attempted to justify killing people. Never before had he needed to – they were lesser beings, weren't they? Why did he need reasons to kill them? Still, now that he was thinking of reasons, they seemed hollow and false.

Her parents were Muggles . . . he abandoned a son he didn't know he had . . . they were Muggles . . . she had something he wanted . . . they were there . . . she knew things and had no other use . . .

With the possible exception of his father, none of these people had done anything to him personally. And then there were the countless others that he'd killed or had killed.

Aurors.

Muggles.

Anyone who defied him.

Lily and James Potter – because they wouldn't leave their son.

The other boy that had shown up at the graveyard, not even because he fought, but because there was no need for him.

For another minute or so, memories flashed through his head of all the times he'd ever used the Killing Curse. Most of the people were nameless; many were faceless, just shadows that had gotten in his way. An unknowable number of people were dead because of him.

And why?

Why!

Along with the question that he'd never before bothered to ask came excruciating pain.

It was the pain of the people he'd killed. All the pain they'd ever experienced and all the pain they would've if they'd lived. Then the pain of everyone who'd known the victims – parents, siblings, lovers, friends. He relieved each death over and over, from the perspective of anyone who'd been close to the people he'd murdered.

As it escalated, Voldemort began to shriek. This was unbearable, intolerable. He threw aside the Elder Wand and, still screaming, put his hands over his ears as though trying to block out the pain. Tears began running down his face and he didn't even bother trying to stop them.

Unable to make it stop, Voldemort did something he'd never done before – he ran. He ran from the school that had been the first thing he'd cared for, his first home – and the first place he'd committed murder. He ran until he crossed the border and was outside the Anti-Apparation spells and then he disapparated. Within minutes he was back in the secluded forest of Albania, writhing on the ground in pain, trying to stop seeing phantoms of all the people he'd ever killed.

Silence reigned in the Great Hall. Everyone was staring at the door that Voldemort had fled through. Finally Hermione spoke up, "I don't believe it!"

Everyone now stared at her. "I don't believe it." She repeated faintly. "He actually – no, it's not possible . . ." she trailed off.

After a few seconds Ron said. "If you feel like explaining some time this century, let us know, all right?" A few people laughed, but most were still focused on Hermione.

She sighed. "Remorse. He's feeling remorse." A disbelieving muttering swept through the hall. "Think about it – all the things he's done, the people he's killed – and now he's feeling remorse for all of it. It's the kind of pain that can destroy you – worse than the Cruciatus Curse. A living Hell – literally. Even if he survives, I don't think we'll have to worry about Lord Voldemort anymore. Not after he goes through that."

Slowly the pain began to fade, finally becoming a dull ache. Tom Riddle opened his eyes and stared up at the trees. How long had he been here? Days . . . Months . . . Years . . .? He sat up and looked around. Nothing around showed any sign of the passage of time. He carefully pushed himself to his feet and gasped as he saw his hands - not pearly white, like they had been when he was Lord Voldemort, but light tan. A color they hadn't been for years.

Suddenly, he looked around again and, seeing a stream nearby, he rushed over to it. He gasped again upon seeing the reflection - his eyes were brown again, and the pupils normal. He even had hair - brown, though graying. He smiled - his first smile of true happiness in years, perhaps his first ever.

Tom stood up again, his happiness fading as he remembered the past - had it really been more than sixty years since he'd killed Myrtle? The ache, left over from the intense pain, was still there and probably always would be. But right now he couldn't dwell on it. He had apologies to give - to the friends and family of all his past victims. To the wizarding world in general.

And first - to Harry Potter.

So? I think it's an interesting twist, for Voldemort to realize all his crimes and actually change. I have no idea how long he was in the forest, but I'm leaning more toward months or years than days, considering everything he'd done. Did you like it? Not like it? Please review! I'm considering adding more, of the Wizarding World's reaction to Voldemort's transformation, but I won't if you don't want me to.