Tom was lying in his bunk bed, solving a Rubik's Cube, when he felt something. It wasn't an external pain, but it wasn't exactly internal either. It felt like his soul had just died a very painful death.
He screamed. He screamed because of the pain, because his life was over, because he knew that Harry Potter had won. Even as he was dying, he regretted nothing. Of course, he knew why he died. It was because good always triumphed over evil; because he hadn't been clever enough to stay alive; because Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, beat him.
Very little ran through his mind at death. He didn't think about Jeanie, his beloved horse. He didn't think about his parents, who were dead. He didn't think about the Malfoys, or even Narcissa's pies. In less than a minute, he reflected upon his whole life. He thought about the Sorcerer's Stone, and how he had made Quirrell steal it for him. He thought about the Chamber of Secrets, and how he had possessed that Weasley girl. He thought about having a very weak body for a whole year, and then the glorious feeling of being alive again. He thought about the Ministry of Magic, and his duel with Dumbledore there. He thought about how Severus Snape killed Dumbledore for him the next year. He thought about the Battle of Hogwarts, and how everyone believed him to be dead at the end of it. He thought about the twenty years he spent with the Malfoys. It was all good fun, but then he thought of something he had never thought of before: he had not done anything that changed the world. Ultimately, his goal in life had been to rule it, to take it over. But he had failed countless times. He had never even considered the idea of regretting anything before, even a minute ago. But now he realized that was it. He had done nothing to change the world, for good or bad.
He had been screaming for at least a minute. Then, all of a sudden, he couldn't feel the pain anymore. In fact, he couldn't see, hear, smell, or taste anything either. He had finally died.