Disclaimer: Yep, I stole Harry Potter.

This was gnawing at my brain for ages. Until I wrote it down, I could have no peace. Ah, the irritation of plot bunnies...

Sorry, readers of Dawn Crux, I have a severe dose of writer's block... I'll just have to wait for it to pass. In the meantime, everything I try to write about it becomes a pile of extremely stinky cow dung. Forgive me, once again.

Please give this a chance and read on!

Oh, and please review if you have the time. It's much appreciated! :)

A fourteen year old Harry is shoved into the body of an older Harry in another universe where he is friends with Tom Riddle, a young and legendary politician, and the name Voldemort never existed. Now, he has to survive the Slytherin Heir who goes on the warpath upon concluding that 'his' Harry had switched places and is now trapped with a dangerous Dark Lord. AU. No slash.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

The exterior of the grave at Harry's feet cracked. Horrified, he watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air and descended softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; sparks flinging in all directions.

"Flesh of the servant – w-willingly given – you will revive your master…"

With an agitated whimper, Wormtail stretched out his right hand and holding the dagger with trembling hands, he swung it upwards. Lights bounced off the blade as it soared.

Harry realised what was about to happen a second too late, and he saw crimson blood splatter onto the grass, accompanied with a scream that pierced the night.

There was a sickening thud as the severed hand fell to the ground.

Harry choked back vomit as his stomach heaved.

Wormtail howled in distress, but even so, he lurched forward, picked it up and dropped it in the cauldron. The potion flashed a burning red.

He closed his eyes tightly.

Peter Pettigrew was gasping and moaning in agony. Not until he felt Wormtail's anguished breath on his neck did he realise that the traitor was directly in front of him.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."

Harry could do nothing to prevent it; he was tied too tightly. Writhing against his bounds, rubbing his wrists until they were raw from the robes… squinting down, he struggled hopelessly, eyes fixed to the shining silver dagger approaching.

He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm, and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes.

His blood was collected in a vial and added to the brew…

And then, the cauldron was simmering, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety darkness. Suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished.

A surge of white smoke billowed thickly from the cauldron, obliterating everything in Harry's sight so that he could not see Wormtail or the cooling corpse of Cedric… or anything but vapour hanging in the air.

For a moment, his heart clenched with fool's hope, hope that it had not worked and the creature had not regained his body.

But then, through the mist, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark silhouette of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

Cloaked in black silk robes which fluttered eerily in the wind, the man stepped out of the cauldron, narrowed scarlet eyes pinning Harry as if he was an exotic specimen of butterfly…

And Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares and his life for as long as he could remember.

Complexion paler than that of those embraced by the touch of death, with livid eyes, nose with only slits for nostrils and lips that twisted into a cruel smile as he strode towards Harry…

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

...

He circled Harry; movements deliberately slow, like a predator toying with a prey he knew he controlled…

Harry felt sick to his stomach.

The Dark Lord slipped on of his slender hands into a pocket and drew out a yew wand, giving a sharp intake of breath as he caressed it gently; and then he raised it, and the ropes binding Harry slithered away.

He had no time to run before Voldemort flicked his wand curtly and Harry was lifted through the air, suspending like a helpless kitten, and thrown against the headstone harshly.

He promptly understood the meaning of 'seeing stars' as his head collided harshly on the concrete. He fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up.

The Dark Lord laughed…

A high, cold, mirthless laugh that sent shivers rushing down his spine.

Harry opened his mouth to say something defiant but no words came out, dying upon meeting his dry tongue.

Luckily, Voldemort had already looked away from him and was hunched over Wormtail, pressing a finger against the snivelling man's arm.

The scar on Harry's forehead seared with fresh pain and he almost wished the ground could swallow him alive. He did not want to see his greatest enemy looming above him, mocking him, taunting him…

"My followers will choose their fate," the Dark Lord murmured softly, to no one in particular. "Tonight, the faithful ones will reunite… and those who do not return to me… I will personally hunt them down."

Harry raised his head from the ground and glared at the wizard balefully. "If any of them are clever, they will keep away from you."

Voldemort whirled around, amusement darting in those orbs. "Oh, and why is that, Harry?"

"Because you are insane, you are a murderer, you torture without batting an eyelid, and they are nothing but pawns in your game against Dumbledore…" Harry paused to take a breath. "And did I mention that you have no future?"

The Dark Lord scoffed. "Wit," he said lightly. "I like it."

Harry knew it was not wise to spar verbally with the most powerful dark wizard of all time, especially when one was in his position, but he could not help it.

"Pity you have none."

"Such daring you possess," Voldemort remarked lazily. "It is truly a tragedy you do not realise when you –" he stepped towards Harry and Harry flinched, "– overstep your boundaries. Seeing as Dumbledore failed to teach you manners, I will have to take his place. "

Voldemort was advancing on him.

Harry wanted him to halt, to stay there, to stay away from him, but the Dark Lord continued walking, closer and closer.

"Oh, dear Harry, you have not graduated from Hogwarts yet, have you?" Lord Voldemort shook his head in mock regret. "Wormtail, tell me, what do we teach to the young who are still in school and lack knowledge?"

Ringing silence.

"Lessons," Voldemort sighed, "Wormtail, we teach lessons."

One more step and Harry felt his entire scar burning so fiercely that he almost screamed aloud, drowning in the pain that devoured him from the inside.

"Think before you speak, Harry…"

The Dark Lord pressed one of his long fingers on Harry's cheek, smirking at the shudder, and said, "Even my touch causes you pain."

It was true.

He felt the cold tips of the fingers connect, and he thought his head would burst. His shoulders buckled and he would have buried his face into the grass if Voldemort had not wrapped his other hand in Harry's hair and dragged his head up.

"I can kill you, Potter."

"And Dumbledore can kill you," Harry bit.

It was the last thing he said before there was an odd trembling sound. His vision was slipping, like crystal water gushing off the rocks, and there was a second of blackness.

When his eyelashes fluttered open again, he gaped at the scene, and tried to take in the flood of information before he fainted again.

...

When he came to consciousness, he was gazing into the bottomless pits of twin blue eyes that glistened with ill-disguised amusement.

His heart leapt into his mouth as his own eyes swept the face hanging over him.

The aristocratic cheekbones, the prominent nose, the sharply sculpted features, the dark waves of hair and the roseate rims of the lips… the epitome of beauty and cruel glory that would stand in his memory forever.

After all, how can one quickly forget the face of the devil?

Harry felt a rush of hatred for the face, the face of his lifelong nemesis, the face of the young man who had attempted to kill Ginny Weasley and him, master of the dead Basilisk whose bones still remain on the floors of the Chamber of Secret.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I Am Lord Voldemort.

Harry surged up, blood pounding through his veins, adrenaline steaming across his body, expression murderous as his arm dove into his pocket for his wand… only to grasp at nothing but fabric…

"Looking for your wand?" Riddle inquired, voice deadly sweet. "It is on the table, darling. You can get it anytime you want, though I wouldn't recommend trying now."

What the hell was Voldemort up to? Tossing around fake visions of his younger self? Was it to shake up Harry? Or was it some other motive?

Tom Riddle was shaking his head in feigned sympathy. "We were having tea, Harry, when you decided to faint. This is, like, the seventh time you have fainted on me this year. Most inappropriate."

Harry gagged, jaws dropping.

"Each time you pull that trick, I end up being the one having to carry you upstairs… so next time, I would love it if you can spare some consideration for me," Riddle muttered dryly.

His eyes widened in alarm. And he knew he had to get away. Anywhere but here. Harry swung his legs over the bed on which he had lain, only to be stopped halfway.

A firm hand gripped Harry's shoulder in a vice-like grasp, restraining him from getting up any further.

It was too much to bear; to have the Dark Lord fingering him.

He had the violent urge to rip the hand off his shoulder, and he didn't even hesitate to consider whether it was wise.

He seized the pale hand, uncaring if his fingernails dug into soft flesh, and flung it away from himself with force, all the while glaring daggers at Riddle who looked utterly unimpressed by his actions.

"Look, I did not spike your tea with a sleeping potion or anything," Tom snapped, rolling his eyes. "You know me better than that. This time, you fainted entirely on your own accord, without assistance from anybody."

Harry, instead of listening, was more focused on the holly wand on the table, pinpointing the precise location and counting the number of steps he would need to take to get there. If he was correct, if he moved fast enough and took Riddle by surprise, he suspected he could reach the wand and knock the Slytherin Heir unconscious.

He readied himself, muscles locking tightly in anticipation…

And barged headfirst into Tom, elbowing him in the ribs and consequently earning a delicious inhalation of pain, and thrust the teen Dark Lord unceremoniously out of his path.

He bolted for the wand, eyes fixated determinedly on the wood…

One more step…

And he had it!

Harry twisted around, took a stride forward, and levelled the wand at Riddle's neck. "Face the wall," he panted, warningly. "And stay there."

Tom Riddle laughed, mockingly, in response. "What is this?" he scorned. "Teenage rebellion stage? Or have you become mentally unstable?"

"Neither," Harry retorted, reinforcing his sweaty grip on the wand. "Get out of my way before I make you."

Blue eyes narrowed menacingly.

And Harry resisted the impulse to back away.

"I have a wand," he insisted clearly, training it on Riddle, not wishing to take any chances. "You do not."

"Ah, yes," Riddle agreed pleasantly, and gave a predatory smile. "You do, indeed, have the wand, Harry… but when have I ever required a wand to gain the upper hand and force you to obey, hmm?"

In the next second, the tables were turned.

Harry found himself blasted backwards into a nearby wall, by a smirking Tom Riddle who seemed to have performed wandless magic simply with a lazy flick of the wrist.

Then, he was squirming beneath Tom as the other boy strengthened a clasp on his neck. Harry thrashed with his limbs like a cornered dog, targeting the Slytherin's legs. He managed to get Riddle to wince.

"Stop this at once," Riddle ordered icily.

Harry did not bother to reply. Instead, he bitterly spat a mouthful of saliva directly into Riddle's handsome face, grinning in triumph as the boy made a sound of disgust.

"Playtime is over."

Tom had curled his slender fingers around Harry's chin and pulled it up forcefully so that blue eyes met green in a moment of silent intensity. "Behave yourself."

It was Harry's turn to laugh – and he did so with a mixture of resentfulness and emotion. "Why should I submit to you when you killed my parents?"

Absolute silence… one could have heard a pin drop.

Riddle appeared startled.

"What the hell are you talking about, Harry?"

"You killed my parents…" Harry added sarcastically as an afterthought, "I thought you knew. Happened years ago, on Halloween. Pity the Killing Curse rebounded and you were struck down by a baby."

A cool hand pressed against his forehead to check his temperature, and for a brief while, Riddle almost looked worried. "You are blurting nonsense."

"That is the most ironic thing I have heard all year." Harry was beginning to feel upset. "Don't tell me that you don't even know your own name."

Riddle arched a superior eyebrow. "Enlighten me, Harry, what is my name?"

"Lord Voldemort, of course." He found his current predicament odd, having to explain to the history of Lord Voldemort to Lord Voldemort himself who was playing the fool.

The Slytherin Heir looked like he was ensnared between furiousness and astonishment. "Where have you heard that, Harry?" His expression darkened. "Who told you about this 'Lord Voldemort'? It's a thing of the past, a thing I left behind in my schooldays."

"Says the most powerful Dark Lord of all time who makes it his business to launch a genocide of all Muggleborns and Muggles," Harry said. "You tracked me down as a baby because you wanted to kill me, you stalker. Here I am now. So kill me."

"Excuse me?"

God, Harry had never wanted to slaughter anyone more than the git in front of him, faking innocence that deceived no one.