Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way with J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, the official Harry Potter series, or any of J.K. Rowling's original characters. This is purely a fan interpretation.
July 1st, 1999
"Wormtail!"
The cold, high voice rang out through the sumptuously decorated room, full of arrogance and pride. A small, gray man stepped forward from out of the shadows. He looked somewhat ridiculous, dressed in the long purple velvet that all of The Dark Lord's inner circle – the former Death Eaters – now wore to distinguish themselves. What with his watery eyes and his weak chin, he looked more suited to something drab, like brown or gray.
"Yes, my lord?" the small man, called Wormtail, replied.
"Robe me." It was a chill, curt command – and one that Wormtail, as the de facto manservant of the Dark Lord, was familiar with. He walked forwards hurriedly to a richly engraved bureau, matching the stone antechamber's finery. From the bureau he withdrew a long, red robe. Hesitantly, Wormtail approached his master, who stood, back turned to his servant, staring at the fire. With trembling fingers, the small man unclasped his master's black robes and then quickly covered him again in the long, straight red garment. It was a blood red crimson – and, Wormtail could see when his master turned to face him, one shade deeper than Lord Voldemort's red eyes.
"Today is a very important day, Wormtail." Without a sound, The Dark Lord had strode over to a tall bookcase, placing his hand on one of the shelves.
"Y-yes, my lord."
"Today, I crush the last man on this earth who could oppose me."
"Y-yes, my lord."
"Do not stutter, Wormtail. At least Lucius has the decency to hide his fear when he approaches me."
"Y- I mean, no, I won't, my lord."
"Good..." The Dark Lord had a distracted air as he scanned the old tomes in the shelves before him, reading their gold-embossed titles with great familiarity. Suddenly, his mood changed, and he turned round with a click of his tall boots. "Wormtail, is everything ready? Have you prepared all? I will have your head if one thing is astray –"
"Malfoy and Goyle have sent out the notices to attend, Nott is seeing to the Dementors, Crabbe will bring Him –" Something about the way Wormtail uttered the last word made it obvious it was in capital letters; it bore striking resemblance to the way the fearful had spoken of Lord Voldemort.
The Dark Lord noticed, and was not pleased. "I will crush him, today, Wormtail. He is nothing now – and will be less than nothing soon. All will see! I am Lord Voldemort, and none shall stand in my way."
Wormtail, reasonably afraid given his master's present mood, retreated slightly into the shadows again. He need not have done so, for Lord Voldemort had left, through the great oak door opposite the shelves.
For a moment, The Dark Lord's eyes were blinded by the bright light illuminating the Great Hall of what had been Hogwarts School only a few short months ago. When he had adjusted to the light, he saw, to his pleasure, that Wormtail had been correct – all was in order. Nott stood to his left, on one side of the raised dais; Crabbe to the other. In front of him, filling the lower portion of the hall, were thousands of men, crushed so tightly together that they could barely move.
The hall went silent as the oak door slammed shut. All eyes turned directly to the tall, pale man, whose blood red eyes surveyed the crowd, taking in his total domination.
The Dark Lord of all Britain strode forward to the edge of the dais, where a podium had been erected, a podium that bore more than passing resemblance to a judge's bench. The high-necked red robe rustled softly as the man – or what was left of a man – took his place in the last stronghold that had held out against him.
"Crabbe, bring in the accused." A shiver ran around the hall at the sound of The Dark Lord's voice, a ripple running through the assembled crowd.
The thickset man nodded an affirmative, and exited the hall by a side door. The Dark Lord noted that all eyes followed Crabbe , and allowed himself a small smile at their very visible terror. The hall waited in complete silence for only a few seconds.
The man Crabbe was frogmarching was tall, frail, and very old; he was also familiar to all assembled in the Great Hall of Hogwarts – his former domain. Much of the stature and pride in bearing had gone out of him, but there was still an inner strength in his deep blue eyes that had not yet been beaten down.
The Dark Lord was secretly pleased – had Dumbledore been completely subdued, his revenge would be meaningless.
A lean, graying man stepped forwards, holding a scroll of parchment from which he read, like a medieval crier. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you have been brought here today under charges of treasonous acts towards the Dark Lord, namely, organizing resistance to the Dark Lord in his quest to bring all Britain under his rule, battling the Lord in his battles with the former Ministry, harboring fugitives from the Dark Lord, teaching subject matter at Hogwarts contrary to the Dark Lord, and aiding and abetting the deceased criminal Harry Potter in his struggles against the Dark Lord. How do you plead?"
Dumbledore turned not towards the bailiff of this mock-trial, but to his red-robed judge and jury. "Why bother with the formalities, Tom?" he asked, his voice weak but steady.
Lord Voldemort looked his beaten nemesis in the eyes, and said, softly, "The people must see you are beaten... Albus." More loudly, to the rest of the hall, he said, "See how I have conquered you, Dumbledore! I stand in your school, where you have reigned for fifty years – and I am greater yet!"
"They will see only a tyrant and madman, Tom."
"And they see nothing but defeat when they look at you!" Lord Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, the crazy red light in them becoming brighter with his exultant fury.
Albus Dumbledore continued to look straight into the Dark Lord's eyes, not showing any sign of fear.
"Albus Dumbledore, I find you guilty of all crimes!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a fever pitch.
Almost gently, the greatest wizard to live for a hundred years said, "I do not fear death, Tom."
And finally Lord Voldemort smiled, his face suffused with unholy delight. "Ah, but I am not going to kill you, Albus. That is too good." He turned away for a moment, and barked at Nott, "Bring them in."
A shadow of fear appeared on Dumbledore's face for an instant, a moment of doubt – the assembled crowd turned en masse towards the doorway, every breath suspended for a moment, terrified, waiting. The Dark Lord's cruel red eyes gazed unseeing at the doorway, his thoughts on a different plane.
Albus Dumbledore did not blanch when the Dementors entered the Great Hall; he did not weep, or beg for mercy; but he betrayed himself with a quiver of the hand, a white knuckle grasping the edges of his frayed robe.
"And you see, Dumbledore," the Dark Lord said, "today I destroy you utterly." He smiled, slightly, a parody of good humor, his lip lifting slightly – and then decried, his voice rising in an exhortation of malicious glee – "I find you guilty, Albus Dumbledore, and I sentence you to punishment by the Dementor's Kiss."
The Wizarding World – or its male representatives – watched aghast as their leader, their staunch defender through troubled times, was brought to his knees, watched as three tall specters surrounded him, their rotting hands outstretched, watched as his soul was swallowed into the black abyss from which none returned – watched as a lifeless shell fell to the ground, the whites of the eyes showing but naught else. Watched as Nott lifted the frail form, and carried it from the hall.
Watched as the Dark Lord to reign for a thousand years swept out of the room, his robe red as the blood he had no need to shed.