This is my first ever fanfiction, so be nice to me. I use elpsises to much, just to warn you. (Elipsesesesses? these ...) And apparently I made up the word 'detestful'. Oh well.

Please enjoy, and review ^-^ tell me if I've made any stupid spelling or grammar mistakes. Thanks!

I do not own Harry Potter, that honor goes to the wonderful J K Rowling.

Chapter 1: Transformation, Realisation, Remorse

"It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath.

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it. Nevertheless, he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon he stood near enough to touch it. He felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him.

'You cannot help'."

~ JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Thirty-five

Dumbledore went and sat on the chair next to the thing. It lay there, flailing its puny limbs, crying out miserably. He looked down on it, his blue eyes filled with pity. As revolting as it was, one could not help but want to raise it up, hold it close, stop its cries, soothe it. Dumbledore looked up to his right where a large, ornate clock hung from a pillar. Yet this clock bore no ordinary numbers. Seventeen strange symbols in some unknown language circled it, and the one hand was pointing directly downwards. He sighed and looked back at the creature. From then on he did not move his gaze, just sat patiently, his long fingertips touching.

Over time – though whether it was minutes, hours or even days was impossible to tell – the creature slowly began to change. Its chaffed, red skin pulsated, the fragile bones beneath it stretching and twisting. It elongated into a much more human form, colour changing from crimson to a pale pink, almost an albino white. Dark hair sprouted from the thing's skull, reaching down to the nape of its neck, growing like ivy would creep upon a tree. As this process occurred, the creature began to scream; blood-curdling, agonising screams. It twisted and writhed, clenching its bony fingers, arching its back, showing every rib in its torso. It began to claw at its face. And what a beautiful face it was – a brutal, almost fierce beauty, but beautiful all the same. High cheekbones, curved, thin lips and oval eyes that were pale blue, or perhaps a misty grey, or maybe even violet. Dumbledore viewed this intently, both fascinated and nauseated.

Suddenly, the hand of the clock reached the symbol where the twelve would have been and a chime resonated throughout the place, causing almost a shimmer in the air. At once, the creature stopped its wailing and thrashing and lay still. The transformation was complete. It was a man.

The man looked up, his face fearful. He did not notice Dumbledore, and crawled slowly to his hands and knees, looking round for something to cover his naked body. Finding some plain black robes neatly folded under a chair, he stood shakily to his feet, flexing his muscles warily, as if unused to using his body. He slipped the robes over his shoulders then looked all about himself, his expression cautious. His pearly eyes found Dumbledore and he recoiled in horror. The emotions in his face changed rapidly from alarm, to anger, to confusion, then the same all over again. He raised one thin, white arm, the black robe hanging off it like a silky waterfall, and pointed his finger.

"You!"

"Welcome, Tom," Dumbledore said, smiling kindly, spreading his arms wide.

The man – Tom – stuttered wildly, and seemed as if torn between leaping at Dumbledore and fleeing. Slowly, he seemed to sink a little, his shoulders slumping, his hands dropping to his sides. He looked so very bewildered and scared and... alone. They were emotions Dumbledore had not seen in this man for a very long time.

"How are you feeling?" he asked pleasantly.

"I... what... you..." Tom said, stammering wildly, "Where am I?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

The young man ran his eyes around the room, but did not look away from Dumbledore for long.

"Am I... dead?" he asked, and his voice rose in a high panic.

He found his answer in the old man's piercing eyes, and stared, gaping in utter shcok and disbelief.

"But I cannot die!" he cried, raising his trembling hands, clutching at his face, "My Horcruxes..."

"Have all been destroyed, Tom," Dumbledore finished, "I can only assume that Harry has killed the very last bit of you by now, which is why you are here."

"Then I have..." he took his hands away from his face and stared at them, gulping, "I have failed!"

"Failed what, exactly? If you were to ask my humble opinion I would say you failed many years ago, Tom. Many years ago when you made the choice to become what you are."

"I would have been the most powerful wizard ever," he said defiantly, sounding childish.

"Powerful? In some ways: yes. You would have had great ability, a huge talent in sorcery. You would have had many servants. You would have had control over the world. But you would not have had the most important things, Tom."

He looked up at Dumbledore sharply, confusion etched into his features. The old professor rose to his feet and stared gravely at him.

"You would not have had family and friends. You would not have known how it felt to care for and be cared for. You would never have experienced loyalty and companionship. You would never have had love and happiness."

"Love and happiness!" Tom spat furiously, "I do not need love and happiness. Weak, human feelings."

"Are you not human, Tom?"

He faltered at the question, then became enraged once more, a snarl plastered on his face, pale eyes flashing. He grabbed a chair from beside him and hurled it, closely followed by another, but as they came within a few inches of Dumbledore they simply slowed and drifted to the side. He took a bench and hoisted it above his head.

"You foolish old man," he sneered, "Human? Human? I am Lord Voldemort! The Darkest of Lords!"

Dumbledore did not so much as flinch as the bench sailed towards him then joined the others on the floor. As Voldemort reached around for another item to throw, he caught site of something that had suddenly appeared by him. It was a grey orb, seemingly made of mist, and it hovered in mid-air, throbbing. Shadows flickered within it, and it was emitting a mournful hum. The thing captivated Tom immediately, and he stared at it, riveted, frozen to the spot. He seemed terrified of it, like it had some kind of tormenting hold upon him.

"What is this?" he snapped breathlessly.

He reached out a trembling hand towards the sphere; all his anger had suddenly drained away. As the tips of his fingers met it, it quivered, and smoky tendrils began to wrap around his fingers, curling about his hand, inching slowly up his arm.

"What?" he cried, his eyes wide with fear, "What's happening?"

He watched in horror as whatever it was travelled all the way up to his shoulder, across his chest, and began to sink into the place where his heart was. As it did so the humming increased to a high-pitched, piercing shriek. He scrabbled at his chest trying to rip the thing from himself. But his fingers passed through the cloudy substance, and soon it had disappeared beneath his pale skin.

"What is this?" he demanded, glaring at Dumbledore, "What is happening?"

"That, Tom," he said sombrely, "Was the memories of every person you've ever killed or tortured, and the grief and pain of their families and friends."

Tom clutched at his chest, trembling, a wild panic in his eyes. He crashed to his knees, like some giant weight was forcing him down, and his eyes darted madly from side to side as if watching a scene visible only to him. Tears began to pour down his cheeks, and his shoulders heaved with sobs.

"What is this?" he cried in horror. He covered his dripping face with his hands and began to rock backwards and forwards. A gargling scream rose from his throat and ripped its way violently from his mouth, echoing about the vast hall, every last syllable reverberating off the walls and ceiling. He collapsed to the ground and curled up into a ball, sobbing and shuddering madly. Dumbledore gazed at him sadly.

After a while, Tom quietened and slowly raised his head to look at Dumbledore. He looked so very scared and pathetic.

"What is this?" he whimpered.

He sounded like a small child, lost and alone.

"You feel regretful now Tom, don't you?" he replied in a low voice, "You finally understand some of what your victims felt. And it hurts, doesn't it? It's painful, isn't it?"

"Why am I feeling this?" he said in a strangled whisper, "I am V-Voldemort. I do not feel things like this."

"When you tried to kill Harry Potter all those years ago in Godric's Hollow," Dumbledore said, "Part of your soul attached itself to his, creating another Horcrux. But the same way that part of you got into him, a little of Harry got into you as well. Something so very human, Tom. Something that had felt sorrow, regret, grief and pain like you are feeling now. And that is what is left of you – here, now. The part of you that knows these 'weak, human feelings'. The part of you that has been so very close to loyalty and friendship and compassion and love and happiness. But you've never quite had them, have you, Tom? Have you ever felt happiness, Tom?"

"I do not need..." he hissed, "I do not need... happiness."

But he faltered and did not seem so sure.

"Have you ever felt love?" Dumbledore continued, "You've seen it, haven't you? As you fumed away inside Harry's soul, you saw all the love his friends had for him. You saw all the love and affection that he returned. You saw its power, its strength, its beauty. You were so very close to it. But you've never felt it, have you Tom?"

Voldemort gazed down at his clenched fists, his brow furrowed, his mouth forming shapes wordlessly.

"There is nothing you can hide here, Tom. Stop lying to yourself."

He slowly uncurled from the foetal position he had held on the floor, and raised himself 'til he was sitting there, shoulders slumped, arms hanging limply at his sides.

"I have never... never... no."

His voice was quiet and small, and it was as if he had forgotten Dumbledore's presence and was speaking to himself. He sounded... sad. Slowly, shivering, he raised one thin, white hand to touch his bare chest. Touch the place where, somewhere under his skin, a fist-sized muscle steadily pumped blood through his arteries and veins, crimson ribbons twisting throughout his trembling body. That muscle constantly pounding away, was it incapable of experiencing peace, contentment and warmth? That blood – rich source of life as it was – continually flowing around every bone, muscle and organ, was it somehow infected with resentment, misery and bitterness?

All his life he had felt negative emotions coursing through him. He was polluted by them. Certainly, he had felt some happiness when he'd achieved his plans. But it had only been momentary. A fleeting feeling of joy, quickly replaced by dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction and a need for something else. Something more.

And he'd always had a fierce loathing for his mother who had abandoned him, for the muggle orphanage who had treated him so cruelly, for the world who feared and hated him. Yet perhaps it was just that. Perhaps part of his detestation for the world was spurned by a lack of something. Something that everyone else but him had. Something that was both fierce and gentle, both ravaging and healing. Something that was so strong and powerful that it seemed to overcome every attack.

He had never felt it. Never felt it. Never felt love.

He uttered those last words aloud and they hung in the air, full of grief and pain. He felt suddenly hollow. As is everything he'd ever accomplished was meaningless and insignificant. As if he was meaningless and insignificant.

"Never felt love," he repeated, in a choked whisper.

"I don't think you deserve it, Tom," Dumbledore said suddenly, and his eyes were hard, his voice angry, "You have caused so much pain and suffering in the world. You have torn so many people's families, lives and worlds apart. Do you deserve any love?"

There was a long silence. The air was heavy with unspoken emotion. It was now Dumbledore who glared at the man before him. The man who cowered on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and trembling shoulders.

"No," he said dejectedly, "No I don't deserve it."

Slowly, he rose to his feet and stood there. His pearly eyes were lifeless, a window to the broken soul within.

"What is the point in living without any of these things?" he said dully, "It is just... empty."

"If only you'd realised that before, Tom," the old man said, and his anger had gone – he sounded weary.

Voldemort raised his head and stood tall, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye.

"Then I am ready," he said, "Kill me completely. I am ready to die. For I must die. I thought power gave me something worth living for, but now I see I had nothing all along. I see no point to my existence."

"I think perhaps what you want is not to die, but to be given another chance."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore turned away and looked up at the clock, its hand still resting on the first strange symbol. His expression was sombre.

"Do you know how many worlds there are, Tom?" he said after a while, "How many alternative universes there are? Think of all the what-ifs, the could-have-beens, the maybes. They all exist somewhere. Do you ever wonder if your life had been different? If you'd made different choices? You can find out if you wish it."

He turned back to look at Tom, and his blue eyes were kindly and warm. Voldemort looked confused. He stared at Dumbledore, wringing his hands, and he licked his lips nervously.

"I... I'm not sure what you mean."

"Come with me. I have something to show you."

He led the way across the vast room, past many pillars and columns and the whole odd assortment of chairs, until they reached a far wall where some familiar objects were neatly stacked four by four.

"Muggle televisions," Dumbledore said, looking at them fondly, "Almost magic in themselves."

Each of the sixteen screens flickered blurry, black and white images. They moved so fast it was hard to tell what they depicted, but there were the shadows of people moving around.

"What are these?" Tom asked.

"Why don't you turn some on and find out?" Dumbledore suggested, stepping back and gesturing for him to do so.

"But aren't they already on?" he asked, perplexed, looking at the indistinguishable pictures. Receiving no answer, he reached out tentatively and pressed the button on the first television.

The screen stopped flickering and began to play a scene. It was a grainy image, showing stoned walls and archways – the inside of Hogwarts. A group of students were walking together. There were four of them, all boys, shoving at each other jokily. One had a Slytherin scarf and was waving it excitedly over his head. Another, dressed in the Quidditch gear of a keeper, was dancing energetically about the corridor. The boy with a scarf and a third one – a large, muscular boy – grabbed the keeper, lifted him onto their shoulders, and disappeared off the left of the screen, closely followed by the last of the four, a small boy with a tawny owl sitting on his shoulder.

Once they'd gone, the clip started again, the same people, the same movements. Voldemort watched, his head tilted to one side, pale eyes darting across the screen, taking everything in. He stepped forward and leaned closer, trying to get a better look.

"What?" he cried, "That... no... I... what?"

The keeper, the boy with the owl, and the thickset boy were all faceless. Where their features should have been, the image was blurred and smoky. But the boy with the scarf's face was clearly recognisable.

"That's me!" Tom said in shock, turning to Dumbledore, "But... but I don't remember this..."

"That is because that is a different you. A Tom Marvolo Riddle from another world."

He looked back at the television in amazement, mouth hanging open slightly. His other self looked so gleeful and animated. And he had friends. Actual friends. Not just servants who followed him around and obeyed his commands, but people who were with him, treating him as an equal, sharing their happiness with him. He hadn't had this in the world he'd known.

Apprehensively, he pressed the button on the next television. Another Tom appeared, several years older than the first and this time sitting in The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmead, surrounded by other friends, chattering away, clutching their butterbeers.

"Is this another world too?" he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice, "Another me?"

"Each television shows a different story," Dumbledore said, "Each with its own mysteries, tragedies, beginnings and endings."

The next screen showed an eleven-year-old Tom walking through Diagon Alley, clutching a stack of new spell books to his chest. Behind him walked a tall man carrying a cauldron and an owl cage, and a woman with curly hair, who was holding the hand of a small girl.

"My... parents?" he muttered to himself, his nose inches away from the screen, "A world where they're together, looking after me? I have a family!"

Soon, all sixteen of the machines were on, playing a montage of different Tom Marvolo Riddles; at Hogwarts with friends, walking through various wizarding towns and villages, in different houses. There was one where a middle-aged Tom was teaching a young boy how to ride a broomstick – his own child? Another showed him as an old man in a hospital bed, family and friends clustered around him. In yet another one he was a young man walking down a country lane, everything blanketed in thick, white snow, holding the hand of a girl with long, fair hair.

Voldemort sat on the floor before them all, watching intently, hungrily, child-like fascination on his face. He had forgotten Dumbledore standing several metres away, forgotten where he was, in those few minutes that he'd looked upon these alternate worlds. He couldn't quite believe it, seeing himself so happy and free. It was a strange experience to watch them, and as he did so a heavy sadness grew inside him. He'd never known, and he never would know, how it felt. In this world he was nothing more than a cruel, twisted overlord, barely even human. He had killed and destroyed ruthlessly so many times, bringing chaos and war, death and misery to the whole wizarding world. He was a monster. A sick, detestful monster.

And he was so very jealous of these other Toms. They knew nothing of it. None of the excruciating anguish he felt right now. They were just ordinary, normal wizards, with jobs and friends and a family. And he envied them.

"You know you could still have this, Tom," Dumbledore said, almost as if he'd read his mind, "If you want to."

He sat calmly down on an ornate metal stool and stared at the great arched ceiling, looking thoughtful.

"The afterlife is a mysterious thing," he continued, "Why, I say it often, death is but the next great adventure. Powerful wizards though we both are, it is certain that neither of us can even hope to achieve understanding of even the tiniest fraction of it."

"Is this the afterlife then?" Tom asked, his attention no longer on the television screens, "What happens now?"

"That is really up to you, Tom. It's your life. Your choices."

"Life? But I'm dead... aren't I?"

"In the world you have just come from, yes. But in others... we can assume not. And now you must leave."

As the professor spoke these words, it was like the very air trembled, and the building around them began to blur. Voldemort leapt to his feet, looking around in alarm.

"What's happening?" he cried, "Wait! Leave? I don't understand."

"You're going to another you, Tom," Dumbledore said, and his voice was faint and distant, "Another Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Now he began to fade too, his features becoming hazy and indistinct.

"Maybe you could find yourself. The you who could have been. The real you."

"No, wait!" he shouted, in a rising panic now, gazing about at his rapidly disappearing surroundings, "I don't understand! No... help me!"

"Only you can help yourself, Tom."