Voldemort looked out upon his new empire. He reflected on all it had taken, the many years he had wasted to attain absolute power. Even now, sitting with the entire world at his mercy, he felt like he was missing something. Power had been tempting, yes, but was all his work for something else?
He sighed, getting up to pace the room. He just couldn't put his finger on it. He looked over the floor to Harry Potter's lifeless body, wincing. Had he really caused the death of a 17 year old boy who didn't do anything to deserve it?
For years, Voldemort had acted in attempts to kill this boy, but really, why did he? If he hadn't known about that prophecy none of this would have happened. He felt a tinge of remorse. That boy could have lived a full and happy life.
He was human.
Just a little bit.
Here he was, all alone. There was nobody to share his glory. Bellatrix had died in the final battle. The only one he had ever truly loved was gone. There was nobody to share his life with.
What use is a life in power if you're all alone?
He hated himself for everything he had done. Everything he had lost, and for what? For nothing, really.
Voldemort picked up his wand. No. I won't make this painless. I want to feel all the pain I've caused. He walked over to a drawer and pulled out a long, thin dagger. He hesitated for a moment, then slit his own wrists.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … Voldemort let out one last sigh and fell, next to his last victim, a victim himself.