"To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure." – Albus Dumbledore
The Next Great Adventure
The pain! That terrible feeling of having a thousand knives plunged into your skin, laced with a thousand venoms and then having the cuts seared shut with fire could never amount to one one-thousandth of what he was feeling now. He thought he had felt the pain of death when his soul was ripped from his body sixteen years earlier, or was it longer now? The pain was destroying his ability to register passing time, if there was any time to pass.
He tried to open his eyes, but ceased his attempt immediately, the effort being excruciating. His arms and legs flailed, in just as much pain regardless of their level of motion. He had known, he had suspected. As a child he had been told that pain awaited wrongdoers, pleasure and rewards would be provided to those who led noble and selfless lives. And he had told those fools that pain was the best anyone could hope for. When they died they would see that he had been right all along. Lord Voldemort was never wrong.
Dumbledore had been wrong. There was nothing that could possibly be worse than this, worse than death. This was why he had created his Horcruxes. This was why -- "AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!" This was why he had sought immortality: to avoid this fate.
Whimpering slightly after having let out such a mighty screech of pain and... Was it terror? He supposed it was, this being the only thing that had ever terrified him in life. He cursed Harry Potter, cursed the boy who had for so long eluded him. He cursed the boy who had taken his most precious, most important pieces of himself. He had tried multiple times to send the boy to this fate, to this Hell.
It occurred to him, though, that the boy would die in time. When the boy did die he would join Voldemort in death and would be equal in his suffering. Unable to open his eyes to see, Voldemort imagined the helpless, suffering forms of the rest of the dead. They too had gone on, having stupidly trusted in the old myths that there was anything but pain after death. The ghosts were fortunate, having known the suffering ahead and refusing to submit to it.
Voldemort thought, trying to drive the pain away. I will, in the end, have the last laugh. They will all suffer in the end, and all shall realise that I had been right about death. Not Dumbledore, but I. In this, in my foresight, I take solace.
The pathetic, flayed form of Lord Voldemort writhed on, opening cracks and scabs in its skin. Every so often the fœtus-like creature let out another terrible wail. It shuddered and convulsed constantly, a physical wreck of a once-proud man. Inside its mind, it still persisted in delusions of grandeur, imagining the suffering of every other human to have passed. Death, it seemed, had not humbled the man. Rather, it encouraged his madness.