Kind of a dramatic title, I know, but it's kind of a dramatic little story. :P I usually like something with a mix of drama and humour, so it is a little weird that the first thing I post on my fanfiction account is this dark. So, here's a warning for readers - it is indeed dark. Very very very dark. Reviews, good or bad, are very welcome and appreciated.

Anyways, this is an alternate ending to the first Harry Potter book, in which Voldemort succeeds in getting the stone and regaining his body. Harry is unable to stop him and Dumbledore does not return from the Ministry in time to help and everything is awful. Like I said, it's dark.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing! All the characters and the story they are from belong to the brilliant J. K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them. I promise to put them back when I'm done, honest.

The Beginning of the End

He had simply walked out of the castle. The halls were empty, as all the students slept soundly in their beds. The teachers were also likely fast asleep, unaware at how their world had changed in just a short hour. He thought he might run into the Squib caretaker, at least, but no one crossed his path as he made his way through the familiar place that had once been his home. Even the sound of his bare feet against the stone floor had echoed in the surrounding emptiness. A pity, really. Part of him had hoped that he would meet someone as he went. Part of him had hoped that he would see a look of confusion and then terror cross over a face as he raised his wand to silence the inevitable scream before it was made.

"Master! Please – Master – no! I have served you! Please, don't leave me. I have been faithful!"

"And for that I am grateful. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

"My-my sacrifice?"

"Come, Quirrell. Think of all I've taken from you this past year so that I could live. Look at what the boy has done to your body. Surely, you must have realized you would not survive once I'd gained my own form."

"No...no, I can live, I'll be fine, I'll still serve you, please, don't abandon me..."

"If you'd like, I could ease your passing."

"No..."

"Never let it be said that I am not a merciful Lord."

"Master..."

In fact, it took a great deal of willpower not to go on a murdering rampage right then, in celebration of his new physical form. Everyone was sleeping and vulnerable. It would be wonderful to rip them from their peaceful slumber. Ah, to hear the screams, to see the hurt and confusion, to smell the fear – it was almost too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

"No one will believe it. Who would want to? So many think that defeat meant death, that they're safe. They'll blame it on a tragic accident, blame it on the guards we put in place, they won't accept the explanation of murder. It makes far more sense for him to have been killed as a foolish child trying to get passed enchantments and...and..." Her voice broke. "Oh, Albus. What are we going to do?"

The old wizard turned away from Minerva McGonagall, staring at the many portraits of past headmasters as they gaped back at him in horrified fascination. For once, he was at a loss for words. For all his wisdom, he could not figure out how this had happened, how he had let it. Why had he ever left Hogwarts?

He could not, however, afford to be discovered so quickly. He had not become the most powerful and feared wizard of all time by acting on whims, after all. He needed to wait until he had gathered the faithful once more. He carried on with a sigh. Two murders in one night would have to suffice. It wasn't a bad start, in any case.

Rubeus Hagrid had been told before anyone else, by Albus Dumbledore personally. The Headmaster had taken it upon himself to tell his two closest classmates as well. McGonagall told the rest of the first year students in his house shortly afterwards, and the news spread quickly before the rumours were confirmed at dinner the next evening.

"Who didn't see this coming, really?" exclaimed Draco Malfoy loudly as students filed out of the entrance hall. "Famous scar on his forehead and the moron thinks he can do anything despite being raised by muggles. Got what was coming to him, if you ask-"

He was interrupted by a shriek of rage. It took five older students and a teacher to pull a hysterical Ron Weasley off of Draco. Both boys were completely covered with blood, and none of it was Ron's. Hermione Granger stood a little ways off, seemingly oblivious to the situation despite staring right at her friend and enemy. Only one thought, however, was present in her mind.

"I should never have left him alone down there," she whispered. "I shouldn't have turned back."

The feeling of grass between his long toes was a strange, simple bliss, and the scent of the outdoors through his own thin nostrils smelled sweeter than anything he could remember. He had not imagined he would take pleasure in such little things ever again, but it seemed some part of him had missed it. He wandered through the grounds, away from the castle, Quirrell's wand held loosely in his hand. He would have to get his old one back, of course. Or, perhaps, he could find a better one. Yes, that was what he wanted. He needed to pay old Ollivander a visit. He had a very special wand in mind.

Molly Weasley waited anxiously in the Gryffindor common room. She wasn't about to wait for the train to bring her family back to her; she was getting her children now. When her youngest son entered the room, she knew she had been right to insist on seeing him as soon as possible. The blank expression in his eyes, the numb shock that still dulled his usually lively face, terrified her more than anything had in her whole life.

"Mom." He looked up at her with eyes that didn't seem completely focused.

"I'm here now, Ron." She knelt to his height and took him by the shoulders with the intention of pulling him close. "Everything's going to be alright."

Ron resisted his mother and suddenly went rigid with panic.

"What'll we do, Mom? Professor Dumbledore says he's back and – and Hermione's going back to the muggles, she won't be safe, he'll go for them first, won't he? Last time didn't he – didn't – we have to help her, he's already – he already – Harry is –"

Molly took a firmer hold on her child and gathered him into a tight embrace, holding him so tightly that no man, creature, or spell could have pulled them apart. He broke in her arms, his small body shaking violently with sobs and his hands clutching at her robes in a desperate need for comfort.

"My baby," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against tears of her own. "My poor, poor baby."

He had cast modesty aside. He revelled in his new freedom, feeling the crisp night air around every part of his new exposed body. He even spread his arms and legs to better experience the sensations of a physical form, not caring as his bare skin became cold. After a few minutes, however, he could not ignore the shiver that had taken hold, and logic would not stop reminding him that remaining naked would only gather unwanted attention. He had to summon his followers , start organizing his return, or at least demand they give him some clothing.

It took him mere moments to pass by all the protections he and his colleagues had put in place, yet even these added seconds felt like painful minutes wasted. He should have realized quicker, he should have turned back sooner, he should never have even left –

Passing through the flames, he stumbled almost immediately on the corpse of Quirinus Quirrell. The sight should have disturbed him, the smell of burnt flesh should have made him wretch, but all breath had been squeezed from his lungs at the sight of a second, much smaller body.

Dumbledore fell to the young boy's side. His glasses were askew, obscuring only slightly the wide green eyes that were glassy and vacant behind them. His skin was pale and, as Dumbledore pressed his fingers to a tiny wrist in desperate search of a pulse he knew he wouldn't find, it felt cold to the touch. The old wizard could deny it no longer. Harry Potter, at age eleven, was dead.

Greif washed over him before any other implications that came from this fact could set in. What his death really meant mattered very little to Dumbledore in that moment. Harry was dead. A brave and innocent child had been brutally murdered in Hogwarts, in his home. Dumbledore had failed him. He had been too late. He'd been far too late.

Harry Potter was dead.

He had to remind himself that basking in his victory could cost him. He couldn't afford to still be present when Dumbledore returned. For all his ridiculous muggle loving, the man was not an idiot. He wouldn't be fooled for long, and he would return to Hogwarts as quickly as he could. He only wished he could see the old man's face when Dumbledore discovered the corpse of young Harry. It would almost be worth the risk of capture to witness. Almost. Instead, while allowing himself to grin at the thought, Lord Voldemort walked gracefully to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. With one final look at the castle, he spun on the spot and disapparated. Even as the air around him constricted unpleasantly, Voldemort could not help but smile. He had succeeded. He had returned.

The Dark Lord Voldemort was alive.