A/N: One of the plot bunnies I couldn't get rid of in my mind. A part of Riddle was left within Harry - until, of course, the rebirth of the current Voldie. Will he join Voldemort? Defeat him, maybe? Hmm...

*Anyway, I'll be putting this in the several or so plot bunny stories I'll upload: I'll wait for the reviews on all of them and continue on the one that has the most reviews/comments/alerts. The rest I might leave up to adoption. Enjoy!

Through it all, as the portkey transported them to the graveyard at Little Hangleton, the Boy-Who-Lived made no fuss. His fellow triwizard champion, Cedric Diggory, just fell lifeless before him. Instead of keeping in the expected scream, he tried not to chuckle, ignoring the voice that commanded his schoolmate's death. As Peter Pettigrew dragged him, he made no move to resist. He simply greeted the mouse of a man.

"Hello, Wormtail," he began conversationally and, seeing others, added, "wonderful evening we're having, isn't it?"

The addressed stared at him with not a little awe. Perhaps the Potter boy hit his head somewhere along the way, Peter mused. Here he was, feeling rightfully vile for what he was about to do, and the boy had the audacity to mock him as if they were old friends. Within him, what little Gryffindor spirit he had left lit a weak flame of anger. Dare this boy ridicule him, the most loyal of all servants of the Dark Lord?

"Not for you, it won't," Peter countered spitefully, "my master shall rise, and as for you," he pointed his wand directly at him, "you will die tonight."

Gesticulating with his wand, the rat caused the marble statue in front of the Riddle graves to capture the boy in a vice grip. He showed little resistance as the angel of death itself claimed him.

Had it been someone else, a trickle would have been running down their trousers. Had it been someone else, each breath would be shallower than the last. After all, being unable to move while in the clutches of your enemy is almost never a pleasant thing. However, this was Harry Potter. And yet, this was also someone else.

"Nice view up here," the raven haired boy said with mock cheer, "I miss this place – Little Hangleton, right? Pleasant little village, if I remember correctly."

The sarcasm in his words bit at no one in particular. Instead, he looked on and saw before him a damnable place. The graveyard was in disarray. Wild growth covered most of the tombstones, while the earth itself was patched sporadically with grass, some parts tall enough to reach a man's hip, some parts small enough for a rat to scurry detected. Some mausoleums still stood proud, while other grave markers sunk into the earth as if ashamed. The stone wall surrounding the property was chipped heavily in some places, and the entirety of it was covered in moss and ivy. Only the Riddle graves were kempt. The polished stone of the sarcophagi gleamed in the moonlight, with one of three slightly ajar. Harry chuckled at the thought of a muggle movie – the only thing this place needed was the skeletal arm of the dead pushing forth from one of the graves. That would complete the whole undead spawning grounds motif.

He stopped looking around and focused on the cauldron before him. As he surveying earlier, he heard some commands from someone with an unnaturally cold voice. It was the raspy sound from a man breathing his last. With Pettigrew's quiet mumbling, it began. From one of the sarcophagi, fine dust flew into the cauldron. There was a whimper, and something plopped audibly into the now hissing cauldron. If anything, it was roaring now, alight with colorful sparks not unlike muggle fireworks. It was shaking fretfully, as if the magic it was calling was tearing it apart. The raspy voice from within the cauldron screamed, frantic at the delay.

"HURRY!"

Pettigrew, who was attempting to nurse the stump at the end of one arm, carelessly slashed at Harry's forearm, leaving a diagonal gash down from the midpoint between his elbow and wrist. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and into the cauldron. At some point, enough blood was spilt and the cauldron was still. Moments later, the Dark Lord rose once again.

Harry Potter yawned. The trite tirade that came from Voldemort contained the usual: the dark wizard's downfall, admittance of his arrogance and, as the cherry on top, his obviously imminent redemption. Somehow, he'd known that his self-appointed executioner had an infatuation with his own voice. Deep inside, a part of him could relate - very well, in fact. The grass could grow in front of their very eyes, and he would still be at it.

Looking around, Harry took in his situation. No longer immobilized, he was standing quite calmly in the middle of the Death Eater circle. Peter was sporting a silver arm, and beside him were witches and wizards in dark robes and the penchant silver masks. They blocked off the perimeter, giving the two people in the middle a relatively wide berth. The Chosen One then looked on in disgust at the ... thing, in front of him. Pale skin with a scaly look to it, slits for nose, and dark red eyes. How droll, and absolutely unattractive. Still, he mused, Tom Riddle was never for looks beyond their usefulness. Chuckling throatily, he now realized how much of an utter lie that thought was. There was probably a history of sexual tension there, somewhere. Moments later, he was snapped out of his reverie by a very irate Lord Voldemort, who had chosen that moment to realize that no one was listening to him.

"Potter!"

"Yes, Voldie?" the boy bit out mockingly, "Really, flight from death? I thought you were more original than that. With a decade and then some to think about it, I believe there are so much more apt monikers out there. Well, maybe that's just me."

He finished with a lopsided grin.

Everyone in the immediate area was suddenly fidgety. The devil-may-care attitude carried by their captive was making them uneasy. Surely, as hostage, the Potter boy would notice how nonchalantly he's been toying with death? Still, the fact that the boy dealt so crassly with his lethal situation troubled them. Had he something up his sleeve?

"You dare mock me? I -"

"Oh please, Tom. You're what, in need of an organ that supplies olfactory senses? Spare me."

He smirked for added effect. Voldemort should cave in to his anger soon, and then he'd reveal himself. Sparing a last glance at his surroundings, he waited for the emotional eruption of who is, undoubtedly, one of the most devious of wizards who walked this earth. There was this foreign thrill he felt at poking death with a stick, then staring at it in the eyes. Just the latter would be enough for it to bite.

"Crucio!"

A red jet of light burst forth from Lord Voldemort's wand, straight into Harry's chest. He smiled smugly. No one who insults him would last without pain. Death would be a gift, salvation, to those who dare mock him. Pain would be their best friend. Pain will know every inch of their body, and vice versa. Intimately. A deep throaty rumble came from his target, and he stared at the raven haired boy in unabashed surprise. The Boy-Who-Lived had caught the spell in mid-flight, and was now toying with it. With his bare hands.

"Surprised? I must admit - I am, too. You see, I wasn't really certain whether this would work or not."

Pausing, Harry stared with no little awe at the spell floating just shy of his hands. He had just caught the spell. No one had done that before. Ever. Smiling and looking straight ahead, he continued.

"Few had taken the time to actually research what becomes of spells as they leave the wand. You were one such person, and you once theorized that the magic exuded by a wizard was malleable only to him. With the wand acting as a focus, the wizard molds this magic, that which has a unique signature, to cast what we've come to know as spells. Of course, there are other considerations, such as how such magic reacts when cast upon a separate unique signature - such as when one casts the disillusionment charm on another. Evidently, such is possible. But the unique signature the caster uses is easily disrupted by the opposing signature of the target. As such, concealment in this fashion is not viable in situations that require movement. However, it is proven to work when the target is still."

Everyone other death eater was silent now. The Gryffindor in front of them was spouting some obscure theory about magic that none of them had ever heard. With all its merits, it seemed useless to apply to life as it was. It wasn't as if magic could be siphoned from another. Perhaps this theory covers that - another's magic is unique to him, and thus cannot be contained or assimilated into another. That was mere speculation, though...

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, his arrogance melting into wariness at the one who stands before him. Even he could remember little of said theory, though he knows for a fact that it came up, at one time or another. Still, he shared his secrets with no man. Only Nagini had any inkling of the vast fount of knowledge he prided himself on. He chose his words carefully, not daring to look away from the captured crucio spell his enemy held.

"How did you come to know this?"

The boy snorted before replying.

"Polite now, are we?"

He twiddled with the red spell in front of him, seemingly in thought. A few moments later, having decided, he gathered the ball of energy at the tip of his wand hand's pointer finger, and aimed the spell at Pettigrew. Before anyone could react, the rat's screams filled the air. The only reason no one returned fire was that the spell never broke, nor ceased.

Voldemort looked on as his servant curled into himself. A few minutes had passed, and he had long cast a silencing charm at the prone figure on the ground. With one eye at Harry, who seemed to be observing the scene as intently as he was, he considered the possibilities. A self-powered crucio spell? What Dark Lord worth his mettle wouldn't want that?

Frowning, he was nevertheless displeased at the loss of a servant, no matter how seemingly stupid. As the thought of ending the spell flitted through his mind, Pettigrew ceased his throes of agony. Interesting. While he was thinking, Potter spoke up.

"Ah, there we have it. You thought of ending the spell, yes? As it came from you, it can be assumed that your intent was still linked to the spell. It took no power from you, though. That was unexpected."

Voldemort could no longer contain the curiosity that had been bourne from the oddity of the scene playing out. How could Harry Potter, a teenage wizard , know such things? Things, he admitted, that would capture even his interests. And deem it worthy. He voiced this thought.

"Who are you - no, wait - what are you?"

Again, the boy's features only schooled itself into a smirk.

"Ah, I guess that's my cue. Listen well, then, Voldie."

He chuckled at the nickname, before continuing.

"I am Tom Malvoro Riddle. Sort of."

The boy, evidently no longer Harry Potter, ignored any and all reactions. He tore his way through to the point.

"Being the snake I am, I let the boy known as Harry Potter suffer through the first 10 years of his life. I've had enough of what it felt like in the orphanage," he looked straight at Tom when he said this. Days later, he could've sworn the Dark Lord twitched at the memory.

"And then, from what little chivalry was passed down to him from his family, and by his very own, forged through trial, I let him enjoy his years at Hogwarts, the time which I had originally planned on taking over his nubile mind. I had merely slept, and waited for the next opportunity to present itself. I felt just that as the Diggory kid and I touched that we were in transit - as we were in magic itself - I took over."

Green eyes dancing with mirth, the anomaly in front of the Death Eaters gave an exaggerated bow.

"I was pretty merciful, don't you think? After all, his last memory would be winning the Triwizard Tournament. Yes, I believe that is quite apt. I was simply 'asleep' the whole time. While I had no love for anything muggle, I had always believed knowledge was always the exception to the rule. You see, I was by no means idle when this boy was gallivanting through life. Indeed, I was theorizing everything I could think of. I had an indeterminate amount of time stuck within that boy's soul to do whatever thinking I had wanted to. That spell-catching you witnessed, for instance, was one of the... tamer, theories."

He put a finger to his chin in thought. A move Lord Voldemort knew well. The Dark Wizard braced himself, his mind still reeling from the night's very unusual and most certainly unwelcome revelations.

"The question now, Tom, is where do we go from here? I carry Potter's face, and bear his memories - both good and bad. That said, I loathe you. I hate you. And yet, I am you. This boy has suffered. Ten years, Tom. You know how that is. This was something similar, yet relatively worse. It leaves you in a very fiery disposition - it makes you want to see the world burst into flames and turn into ash. So, let's have at it, shall we? Tonight, whether one of us dies, or both of us lives, I can at least assure everyone else here that one way or another - "

He paused and looked each masked Death Eater intently.

"- this world will indeed burn."