Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated there with. Nor do I own The Sandman or any other related characters.
Voldemort lay unmoving on the floor of the Great Hall.
"Tom," an insistent voice called to him, "Tom!"
Voldemort's eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly, wondering who dared address him with such familiarity. Standing before him was a strange black haired woman.
"Well," she said, "it's nice to have finally caught up with you. I had suspected that that you wouldn't come quietly, of course; but I couldn't have guessed that you would give me so much trouble. I thought Rasputin was a pain in the neck, but at least he didn't have me running up and down Europe for seventeen years."
Voldemort blinked his eyes in confusion, "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Me?" the woman grinned. "I am the very one you've worked so hard to avoid meeting. Tom, I am Death."
He stared in open disbelief. "You...are Death?"
Death chuckled, "I get that a lot. People think of Death and picture someone grim and skeletal, carrying a scythe and playing chess with Vikings. It can be a fun image, but it's not really my style."
Voldemort sat unmoving on the floor; still very much in shock over this turn of events. He'd worked very hard for so long to avoid just this eventuality.
"I do have to give you credit, Tom. Over the history of Created Things many people have tried hard to avoid me, but few have gone so far or failed quite as spectacularly as you did."
He closed his eyes and hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe, when he opened them he would awaken and this all would have been a very odd, very bad dream. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw that Death still stood before him. He looked for a moment into her large, black eyes; but he soon found her gaze too unnerving and had to look away.
"How?" he asked, more himself than her. "I did everything that a human being could possibly do, I even did a few things long thought not to be humanly possible, and in spite of all my work, I still died. How?"
"Well you didn't take into account one thing. That is, you were trying to go against one of the basic truths of existence. Everything that exists is going to die someday; plants, animals, humans, stars, planets, it is only a matter of time. Greater entities than you have tried to get around it and they didn't succeed either, Tom."
"Stop calling me that name," he snarled.
"No, I will not," she countered. "However you may feel about it, that is your name. It is the only name I have ever known you by, and, so far as I'm concerned that is who you will always be."
"I am not...wait. You said, 'ever known.' What do you mean 'ever known'? We've never met before this."
"We certainly have, you just don't remember. No one ever does. We actually had a conversation not unlike this one right before you were born."
"We did? What did we talk about?" he asked.
"Everything and nothing. None of which would be of any help to you just now, at any rate."
He stared off into the distance, trying to come to grips with everything that had happened.
"And, Tom, I wonder; as you meet me now, what do you think of me?"
It seemed like so simple and straightforward a question, but he found himself unable to answer her. How could he tell her what he really thought?
He stood and turned away from her to survey the aftermath. It didn't surprise him that his army hadn't survived him. Without the fear of him to motivate them, the Death-eaters were quick to save their own hides. He saw, lying on the ground a few feet away, the body of Bellatrix Lestrange. He suddenly felt a sharp pain deep in his chest. He realized that he had been more than a little cruel to Bella. Anyone with eyes could see that she had been smitten with him, for whatever reason, and he had so often taken advantage of that love that he couldn't requite and convinced her to doing his dirty work. And now, the reward for her unwavering loyalty had been her death.
He could no longer stand to look at Bellatrix, and so continued looking over the results of the battle.
His gaze fell on a corner of the Great Hall. There he saw the Malfoy family; Lucius clutching his wife and son to him as though they were the only things left in the world, Narcissa whispering something to her husband, Draco clinging to his mother and holding his father's hand, apparently not so bothered by this open familial affection as most seventeen year old boys would be. Tom openly stared at the family as they sought solace in each other and rejoiced at merely being alive and in that moment he envied Lucius Malfoy. Lucius lived, and he had people who were happy that he lived. Whereas Tom knew that his passing would go unmourned. This had never bothered him before, but now that it came to it, he couldn't help but feel a little unhappy that the only person who would have possibly been sad at his death was lying, dead herself, just a few feet away from him.
He turned back and saw where his own body lay upon the ground. His body; a monument to his desire to inspire fear and cheat death, fashioned from flesh, bone, and blood he'd stolen from others. His face still bore the expression of a man who felt he was at his most triumphant. He had been proud of that body. It had been no small achievement, rebuilding his body after years spent in purely spirit form and he had been quite happy with the result; it was strong, imposing, and showed no signs of his true age. But now, it felt more than a little unnerving to see that lifeless husk that he had been inhabiting.
And still standing next to his body was the black clad form of Death. She merely smiled serenely at him, allowing him his reflections.
In that moment he made a decision. He took a step back, turned, and ran toward the door.
He quickly crossed the expanse of the Great Hall and fled into the entrance hall beyond. He was stopped cold by the sight he saw there.
The entrance hall was filled with the dead. Aurors, Death-eaters, and a fair number of students lay everywhere throughout the hall as grim faced survivors went about trying to identify and count the dead.
Less than ten minutes earlier he would have been proud of the carnage that he and his followers had managed to create, how many of people they had managed to kill. But dying has a way of changing a person's perception. Now, all he felt was a sharp, cold feeling, starting deep in his chest and spreading throughout his body. All of these people were dead because of him. All of these people were dead because he thought life had been unfair to him.
"As you can see I've been rather busy today," Death said as she walked up beside him. She still looked serene, but also a little weary. "I would appreciate it if you didn't make this harder for us both than it needs to be." She extended one white hand to him, "It's time to go. Take my hand, Tom."
So this was it; take her hand and say goodbye to this world forever. It seemed wrong that it was that simple, just a touch and everything was over. But, what else was there to do? When she was standing right in front of a person, Death seemed rather unavoidable. And, though he would die again before he admitted it, now that he'd met Death, she no longer seemed like the worst thing in the world.
Slowly, he reached out and took her hand. In less time than it takes for a living thing to take a breath they were gone and Death was leading Tom to what lies after.