Voldemort was a patient man, at least in some regards. Like a snake lying in wait before the kill, he knew when the moment to strike would be. In the ten years since that fateful day, he had had plenty of time to contemplate his decisions. Now the baby whose life he had spared had become a young boy. Scrawny in stature, timid, bespectacled, and yet still so tempting.
Voldemort had been careful with his surveillance of the boy, a disguise here, a stolen memory there, even once attempting to use muggle "cameras" (which had ended in the smashed remains of the device and a considerable amount of frustration.) The waiting agonized him. However, he knew the moment was nearly there. The boy whose destiny was so intertwined with his would finally know the name of the man who.. ah.. murdered his parents. Yes, that would be a tricky step to get around.
But Voldemort had a plan. For he would no longer be the feared, nightmarish figure who ruled the wizarding world. He would shed his identity like a snake sheds it's skin. Becoming a normal, ordinary wizard. Completely unremarkable.
The thought repulsed him.
However, Voldemort reasoned, it was the only way. He would fake a matter of urgent business, don his new identity, and none would be the wiser. He was, after all, the most powerful wizard in all the land. What could go wrong?
