Disclaimer: Anything that you recognize from the canon Harry Potter universe, I don't own. So please don't sue. Thanks, and enjoy:D

Prologue

Lord Voldemort opened his eyes, surprised to find that he was lying in a rather undignified position on the ground. He slowly sat up, only to look down at himself and notice in shock that his body didn't look the same as it had when he last closed his eyes. Refusing to admit that he, Lord Voldemort, who planned everything down to the last detail only to have the imbeciles that labeled themselves his followers mess things up for him (he, of course, never made mistakes), was confused, he closed his eyes and thought back to what he remembered occurring last before he shut his eyes.

They were in the field by the Riddle House; it's ghostly silhouette rose above what had become a battlefield. Even though Lord Voldemort had been confidently and openly using it for headquarters for some time now, the house looked as derelict and abandoned as ever. Why should he bother fixing the boarded windows? The ivy that crawled up the house looked almost as though it were straining to pull the woe begotten residence into the depths of the earth.

Almost as if the sky sensed the mood, lightning flashes illuminated the scene as thunder crashed angrily, though the sky shed not a tear. And what scene was illuminated? One that would have been most odd to the muggle eye but could still easily be determined to be a fight. Spells flew left and right, you never knew what might hit you wherever you stepped. Unfortunate catchers of spells lay in heaps around the field, but what would have been strange to the muggle eye is that though screams of terror and pain could be heard, little blood could be seen. And rather than pointing familiar weapons at each other, these people were using sticks to shoot colored streams that caused people to fall, to scream, to cease to live.

But the folk of Little Hangleton were blissfully unaware that this great fight for the survival of their very world was occurring a short walk from where they peacefully slept.

Lord Voldemort surveyed the battle with glee. His side was winning! Soon his immortality would be assured forever, and he would no longer have to even consider that paltry thing called "death". Dumbledore had been a fool. The prophecy and Harry Potter had amounted to nothing. The boy wasn't even to be seen! Lord Voldemort threw back his head and cackled insanely, feeling happier than he could ever remember feeling...because the Dark Lord, who didn't even let those close to him call him by the nickname he himself had designed, didn't know what true happiness was.

"Voldemort," a strong young voice called.

Lord Voldemort whirled around and hissed when he saw a black-haired teenage boy facing him confidently with a red-haired teenage boy and a brown-haired teenage girl at his side.

"You'll never win," he hissed, laughing with glee at their imminent failure.

"That's what you think, Voldemort! You think your 'Horcruxes' will protect you, but we have destroyed them all. This is for love, Voldemort!"

And then the teenage boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, the one Chosen by prophecy, fired a spell at Lord Voldemort before he even had time to realize that his failsafe backups at life were gone.

His eyes snapped open in shock. It was impossible! His servants (or slaves) had failed him for the LAST time. LITERALLY. There was nothing he could even do to punish them now. He was…dead.

But…he had feared being dead for so long. As he gazed around at the plain field he was in, he tried to figure out…what was going on? What was he supposed to do now?

Randomly, out of nowhere, a mirror popped up. Suspiciously, Voldemort glanced around before stepping over to the mirror and gazing at himself. In shock, he saw an elderly man. There was vast amounts of gray and white streaking the remaining dark hairs, and dark mean eyes scowled out of a straight apathetic face with the same salt and pepper beard. After looking at the odd reflection for awhile, looking down at himself and up, he concluded that must be his reflection as he would have been if he had not torn his soul asunder. And when he thought about it, he suddenly realized that he felt…different. He felt…whole in a way he hadn't felt in years, mostly because he hadn't realized that was what he felt like before he had committed the acts of murder necessary to create Horcruxes.

"Do you like what you see, Tom?" a female voice asked behind him.

Voldemort had considered himself to be alone and whirled around, cursing himself for not paying more attention. Then he realized…what could they do, kill him again?

There was a young woman standing there in a flowing white robe. She had long dark hair and a pale plain face. But despite her plainness, she was a quiet lovely. Her eyes looked straight at him, solemn, serious.

"Who are you?" Voldemort snarled.

The woman flinched a little at his harsh tone before shaking it off and straightening. She looked at him with a look of such incredible, incredible sadness…and…that odd look that Voldemort saw in other people's eyes sometimes, the one that he had identified as love.

Sure, Voldemort had experienced people staring at him in admiration or like or lust…but he had never, not once in his whole life had anyone stare at him with a look of sincere and honest love. On the whole he decided he was glad about that for the feeling he got from it was rather disconcerting. "I'm your mother," the woman said.

"What?" Voldemort couldn't prevent himself from saying in shock. From what he had heard of his mother…the pureblood Merope Gaunt, who had wasted her blood purity on the muggle Tom Riddle...there was no way this woman could be her. Really, the only thing Merope had had going for her was the pureness of her blood. She hadn't been much to look at at all...lank hair and cross-eyed.

"Tom, Tom," the woman said in sorrow and disappointment. Voldemort felt strangely scolded. He had always felt like the people at the orphanage and Hogwarts hadn't possessed the RIGHT to scold him, but this was his mother…and he had obviously disappointed her. He didn't know how to feel about that. He had played a weird game with Lily Potter once upon a time, seeing if she'd pick her son over her life. It had strangely saddened him that Lily had loved her son so much. But this woman seemed to love him too despite his disappointing her.

"Why, baby? I'm sorry I went and left you, and that your father abandoned you too, but…you failed at your big test."

"What do you mean?" Voldemort demanded. He had never failed at anything...until now.

"Everyone is given trials, and what happens up here depends on how you react to them. Trials are fate…what you do as a result is not. Soooo many times you could've turned from your path," she stopped. "But you'll see."

"What do you mean?" Voldemort demanded again, hating that he was repeating himself and not threatening this woman. But it was his mother!

Merope held out her hand. "Come, Tom. I came to meet you and see you, but I'm not the one to explain all of this."

"Where are we going?" Voldemort asked suspiciously.

"We're going to your trial."

"Trial?!"

"Yes. Did you think there would be no consequences for what you have done?"

"I didn't even know this – here - existed!"

Merope shook her head. "They will explain. Baby, you have committed some of the most grievous of sins multiple times. But you did not commit the most grievous sin of them all yet. You have one chance."

"What?" Voldemort asked. He wasn't even pretending to be not confused anymore. He had feared death forever, and this was it. This was death. He was afraid. He was very afraid.

"Just take my hand, Tom."

Somewhat bothered by her continuous calling him Tom, Voldemort finally reached out and took his mother's hand for the first time since he'd been newly born. The feeling of love was like an electric shock, and when Voldemort looked up from his mother's hand to where they had come, he noticed they were no longer standing in the field with the mirror.

They were facing an amphitheater of seats filled with many, many people. But Voldemort couldn't see any of them clearly because the area where they were sitting was too bright.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," said a voice of such crystalline clarity that it was almost painful to hear.

Merope smiled at him, though the smile didn't reach her sad, sad eyes, and Voldemort wanted it to. She gave his hand a tiny little squeeze of encouragement and faded into the stands.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," the voice called again, and Voldemort felt compelled to answer although he had never felt a claim on that name.

"I am Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said weakly.

"Tom…" the voice said. Voldemort heard in the voice the same disappointed yet loving tone he had heard in his mother's. And even though he had no idea who this voice belonged to, he felt that same pang at having caused this voice disappointment.

"Yes?" he asked with a quaver in his voice.

"Tom, you have committed many of the most grievous of sins." There was silence, as though they were waiting for him to respond.

Voldemort thought briefly about playing dumb and pretending he didn't know what they meant by sins…but honestly, he did. It took an act of murder to unnaturally split the soul, and he knew he had committed - and ordered - murder many, many a time.

"So my mother told me," he finally said.

At this he felt a slight relaxing in the figures watching, but he didn't know why.

"You admit and confess to committing murder and ordering others to commit murder?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"You confess to torturing others physically and emotionally and encouraging others to do the same?"

"Yes."

"You confess to corrupting others with deceit and lies?"

"Yes."

"You confess to tainting innocence?"

"Yes," Voldemort answered once again in a heavy tone. At each accusation he had felt heavier and heavier. He had indeed committed all of these offense. And he could now see that he had made the very reasons that he should fear death. There could be no forgiveness for these offenses. He was going to have to dwell on them forever. That was the way things worked, wasn't it?

"You took your chance," Voldemort heard a whisper of triumph and pride in a voice that he could have sworn sounded like his mother's. He recognized it already even though he had just barely heard it?

But as he registered her words he felt a small glimmer of hope…an entirely foreign feeling to him, who had always thought he held his own fate in his hands…spark and begin to glow.

There was the murmur of talking among the stands. Voldemort just stood and waited, hardly daring to hope, when the voice spoke again. "Tom, if you had denied your sins or argued against them, you would have been doomed. Those who are gathered here are all those who have been harmed in some way by your actions, excepting those who were doomed to suffer because of their own lack of repentance. They have all agreed to forgive you and give you one more chance."

Tom's, yes, TOM's heart leapt into his throat. Was it possible? He was so glad that he had chosen to tell the truth for once. What if his mother had not greeted him? What if she had not...loved?...him anyway?

"This is a highly unusual occurrence. Most people do not require a second chance because they do not injure enough people to have such widespread repercussions. They are able to make their amends simply if they so choose."

Tom, accepting the name his mother had given him due to her love of the man she had chosen to sire him, considered the possibilities. This time he could choose not to act on the prophecy! That would make a difference. He still hadn't completely registered and thought this whole situation through, when the voice spoke again.

"Tom." Tom looked up to the direction he thought the voice was coming from to demonstrate that he was paying attention. "You will not remember ANY of this, so the chances that you will once again fail...are great."

"What?!" he asked, more shocked than angered.

"We will help as far as we are allowed by the universal truth of agency and justice, but Tom...you must learn to make different choices yourself. It is going to be really hard. The trials set you by fate are difficult to overcome. But if you do...your reward will be the greater," the voice said in a loving and confident (in Tom?) tone.

"Come, Tom," he heard his mother's voice say. He turned to see her looking at him with pride and love shining from her eyes. She once again extended her hand. This time he did not hesitate to take it. He tried to resolve to at least remember his mother's love...so that he would not disappoint her again. Then the courtroom vanished, and Tom turned to watch a scene he was sure if he'd seen the first time, it would have made a difference in his life...

A/N: This was inspired by Hamm on Wry's The Judgment of Tom Riddle (part of his Best Defense series. Very excellent, go read!). It was a one-shot, but I felt inspired to take it an entirely different direction and make a whole story.

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