An unprecedented sense of power roared through his newly formed veins like surging magma.
Voldemort slowly raised his hands. They were pale and slender, with well-defined joints, and held explosive power.
He had succeeded.
He had returned.
Blood.
He could clearly feel the blood from the boy on the stake singing joyfully inside his body.
It was not merely his enemy's blood. It was ancient blood, enchanted by Lily Potter.
Now, through an even older, darker ritual, he had made that protective magic entirely his own.
He could even feel a wondrous connection forming between himself and Harry Potter, rooted deep in their blood.
This filled him with immense pride, leaving him smug over his own ingenious conception.
He stood naked, like a perfect work of art fresh from the furnace, ready to receive the worship of the entire world.
Yet the next second, the smugness froze on his face.
A faint glow, seemingly rising from the depths of his soul, flickered beneath his skin.
He looked down.
"Welcome Mr. Tom Riddle back to the Riddle Family."
The damned little fluorescent words he had previously seen on that hideous "infant" form had not disappeared with the rebuilding of his flesh. Instead, they seemed to have been engraved into the very core of his magic.
They brightened and dimmed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Every breath seemed to charge the words, making that declaration of his lowly Muggle ancestry even clearer.
Humiliation.
A sense of humiliation more profound than the Cruciatus Curse, reaching deep into his bones, instantly washed away every trace of his ecstasy and pride.
Tom Riddle!
The name he had discarded, despised, and regarded as the greatest stain of his life was now carved into his perfect, newborn divine body like a brand that would never fade.
"Wormtail!"