A.N: REWRITE! It should be a bit better then the old version, though I am not promising anything. Hope you enjoy, I recommend rereading it. For it hints a little better at some facts that were not made apparent.

Summary: Harry Potter, the wizarding worlds hero, is 15 and fighting Voldemort again. A repeat of fourth years graveyard scene seems unavoidable. And when Harry finally resorts to that method, he finds many differences from last year that he didn't expect. He escapes Voldemort as he had planned; but turns into a child in the process. What will happen when the wizarding world never finds Harry Potters body but dose find Voldemort's; dead? And dose find all of Voldemorts victims alive again? This will happen...


A thousand daggers pressed into his chest. The pain made it impossible to breath, slicing into his lungs, if they dared to take in the tiniest amount of air. He attempted to move from his knees, but the pain pushed him back; locking his bones in place. The teen swallowed, tasting the bitter sweet flavor of blood. It was not an uncommon taste in his mouth.

"I will not join you Tom." Despite the situation, he pushed his lips into as much of a smile as his aching face would let him. How long had he been saying that to this man; how long had he told himself he was going to to stand in front of him, of Tom, and confidently say those words, perhaps even smirk.

How long, also, had this man asked him? What drove him to keep trying? The look he received? Most likely.

What do you see in me, monster? Part of yourself? Perhaps.

But he was kneeling in front of the man, like one of his dirty servants, and he was not smirking, nor speaking it confidently, he was whispering. It did not matter, how many times they both danced this, it never changed. Not until those words were exchanged, then the new steps arose. Then it was up to the quickest learner, to keep up.

It didn't matter that he was The Boy Who Lived, because, kneeling in front of this man, he was only Harry Potter, a scared fifteen year old boy. Briefly, he wondered what was before Voldemort. Who Tom Riddle was.

Like me, huh? I can't say an orphanage would have been worse then my uncle, Voldemort. We both see it don't we. We both see the possibility in my eyes.

But as he looked into those fire eyes, his anger took over and a burst of energy bubbled up from some previously hidden chamber. Survival, it was all that mattered now, not that Tom and he were similar in so many ways, not that he was only fifteen. He pushed the pondering thoughts aside, and put all of his energy into surviving.

The energy rushed through him, like fire burning wood, but even wood must snap at the red flowers jaw. His wood snapped, and Harry Potter once again was left with nothing. It had not lasted long enough. He admitted, it was time to.

Dying, he was dying, the realization came as a faint surprised; rather like learning it was your birthday: anticipated but not understood. Dying, how strange. He had never, he realized, been this close.

No one was coming to help him. And yet, a small voice whispered dully in his head, you planned all of this. You must do it...you know you must.

He shoved the voice aside, but he knew it was true. A band wrapped its way around his chest, slowly squeezing the last breaths from his body. As he realized this, he pushed again at the wall of pain, into the gripping ice, and said. "You chose me, you finalize your choice."

We are equal Voldemort, you made sure of that. Was Dumbledore right? Did you see yourself in me?

The words seared at his throat, smothering it in fire, while his chest was still in ice. When Voldemort spoke again, Harry could not be sure if it was in Pareltongue, or English.

"You know you will die, you can feel your body giving way, can't you. Part of you is in ice, and the other in fire, your mind is zooming, thinking of thoughts, and breaking off. You can't keep you thoughts on my words, can you Potter. I know it to well."

"No, Tom Riddle, I do not." He wasn't going to mention, showing another similarity he was sure, that he had felt this way before, that his uncle had his body crumble close to this extent. No, Harry Potter would keep that secret to the grave.

"Foolish boy, just like your mother, just like your father. Just like your Godfather." His eyes fluttered open, at the words, two emerald beacons in the darkness of night that was beginning to swallow them. To guarded, and hard stones, set in a face that should not have held such pain.

Harry Potter had thought himself dead, until that voice had spoken again, he could almost imagine that voice was of his own waning imagination, but, alas, it was real. His Godfather, he almost laughed, that was a new insult.

It worked as the monster would have like though. Perhaps it was routine, from always defending them, that made his body forget the pain, or, more reasonably, perhaps his mined so craved an idea to cling to, and it had claimed this one, however feeble.

He could hear his heart in his ear, pounding to a unrhymed drum. And although his body begged him not to, he rose to his feet. Voldemort smiled, pleased with his pain, and that he would kill Harry standing up; it was much more enjoyable.

Following his revive in energy, came the fight. The dance continued. Leading up to this point, both Wizards had been careful not to send a curse at the same time, lest the grave yard scene of fourth year, be repeated.

Yet, as he stared across at the monster, Voldemort, The Dark Lord, Tom Marovo Riddle, he felt a sense of foreboding. He knew, that he was going to have to see his parents, he had known all along. "Have you enough energy to duel, or shall I put you out of your misery quickly?"

"I'll manage, I always do. And anyway, Voldemort, it would take a lot more then death, to put me out of my misery." He went into a dueling position, and while he had this moment, he examined the monster.

His face seemed congruous when compared to his younger self, when he had still used his natural name. Those red eyes, they seemed as striking as Harry's green. Anyone, could have spotted Voldemort out of a crowd, just the same for Harry. He had been handsome, Harry knew, when he had been in school.

How death must scare you, Voldemort, to give up such a human thing, for a longer time on earth. Death does not scare me, I am beyond the point of caring.

The Dark Lord, paused, before sending off a paralyzing curse, more advanced then the one Harry had learned in first year. Harry threw a disarming curse, he knew it would not work for its made purpose, but all he wanted it to do was hit the others wand.

They did hit, colliding together to erect an electric wall of purple and blue, before fading. Doubt, washed over Harry for a moment, at the possibility that it had not worked, and with it panic.

But a wall was bursting up, golden and shining. The wands connected with a golden string, and the bead that had been there last year, slit in two.

The beads, as if magnets with wrong ends facing, rushed in opposite directions. His bead, racing at him faster then he would see, crashed into his wand tip. But it did not stop at the wand, it climbed up into his arm, like a burning bullet under his skin. He screamed, the sound burning his throat, and building a fire in his lungs. He couldn't breath.

Then, just when he thought he was going to die from lack of air, the small bead waned away, and he was left with an almost comfortable warmth.

He knew he had to act fast, if he was not dyeing, then he was going to black out, and, Voldemort had to be alive for this part. He heard the mans body fall to the ground.
With his best aim, considering he had lost his glasses, he shot a curse, chanting under his breath. As the last words left his lips, he fell to the ground too. Then darkness hurled a cloak over him, and everything was deadly silent.

He was in a world of darkness. Of deafness. Of images.

Green eyes stared back at him from the mirror, while small hands reached to gingerly touch a swollen eye. It would heal, the black haired child was thinking, as he replaced the black rimmed glasses. He winced as they touched the sore skin, but objected no further.

Wood, three knots in flood board, was staring back at him. He concentrated on the largest knot, forcing himself to think of it, instead of the pain in his stomach. Small hands, tinier then the last, traced the woods grain. The body heaved with an unsteady breath, back arched in pain, but he knew better then to cry out.

A musky smell filled his nose, mingling with the sent of an old dirty cot, but he was far to used to it to really care. Darkness engulfed the small area, and he knew he couldn't reach the light bulb that hung over his head; he was only three. Far to small for the task, and even if he tried, the cot would creek terribly, waking his uncle. Better to wait till morning for light.

Humming. It was pleasant, nothing like the previous memories. He was being rocked back and forth, he realized. He noticed, also, the red fiery hair above him, smiling lips. While smooth, soft hands, brushed his hair.
Harry Potter, could now, not even contain his half conscious mind. He could not even think, let alone lift his lead lined eye lids.
Sleeps took him...

And as it did, he felt as if he were drifting, wind across his face. It was the same feeling that had happened when he had magically appeared on a roof top as a child. He paid it no further heed, preferring to marvel in the feeling of flying.

He did not even think that perhaps he had magically moved himself to another place...