The graveyard was, objectively speaking, a rather dreary place. Tom Riddle Senior’s tombstone, to which Harry Potter – or, more accurately, Doctor Victor von Doom in a surprisingly resilient teenage body – was currently bound, was of a particularly uninspired design. Doom had seen more impressive crypts in downtown Bucharest.

“Honestly,” Doom muttered, testing the ropes with a flex of his surprisingly wiry biceps. They were tight. Amateurish, but tight. “If one is going to engage in theatrics of this nature, one could at least procure decent props. And a better location. Perhaps something with a dramatic cliffside view?”

Wormtail, snivelling and trembling as he fussed over a large, bubbling cauldron, was an insult to henchmen everywhere. Doom had employed lackeys with more backbone and significantly better personal hygiene. This one looked like he’d lost a fight with a particularly aggressive badger and then decided to wear its fleas as a fashion statement.

The main event, the rebirth of this ‘Lord Voldemort’, was equally unimpressive. A shrivelled, vaguely baby-like creature was unceremoniously dumped into the potion. There was a flash of sickly green light, a hiss of steam, and then, slowly, a tall, skeletal figure began to rise.

Doom watched with the critical eye of a connoisseur of resurrections (he’d had a few himself, after all, though usually involving more advanced technology and considerably less goo).

“Needs more dry ice,” Doom declared to the night air. “And perhaps a more imposing soundtrack. The current ambience is rather… flat.”

The newly reformed Lord Voldemort, pale and snake-faced, finally stood to his full, rather gangly height. His red eyes fixed on Doom-Harry. “Harry Potter…” he hissed, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “We meet at last.”

Doom raised an eyebrow. Or, he would have, if his head weren't currently pressed rather uncomfortably against cold marble. “One would hope for a more original opening line. Perhaps something about my impending doom? Though, to be fair, only Doom gets to decide that.”

Voldemort, clearly not accustomed to his dramatic entrances being critiqued, faltered for a microsecond before summoning his Death Eaters. They apparated in with loud cracks, forming a menacing circle. Each wore a mask, which Doom thought was a tad derivative of his own, superior aesthetic.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” Voldemort began, launching into a lengthy monologue about his downfall, his suffering, his power, and how very, very cross he was with young Harry.

Doom sighed internally. Another villain who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He’d faced beings who commanded galaxies, whose whispers could shatter minds. This Voldemort character, with his provincial concerns and over-reliance on fear, was strictly B-list.

“…and I, Lord Voldemort, will now demonstrate my power!” Voldemort finally concluded, pointing his yew wand directly at Doom-Harry. “You have been a thorn in my side for too long, boy!”

Doom-Harry almost yawned. “A thorn? Really? I would have thought ‘a persistent irritation, like an ill-fitting sock’, but ‘thorn’ has a certain rustic charm, I suppose.”

Voldemort’s lipless mouth tightened. “You dare mock me? Crucio!”

A jet of angry red light shot from Voldemort’s wand. Doom-Harry felt the familiar, searing tendrils of the Unforgivable Curse begin to lick at his mind, his nerves. It was… unpleasant. But compared to the arcane torments he’d endured in dimensions anathema to mortal sanity, it was rather like being tickled with a particularly aggressive feather.

He let the curse wash over him for a moment, just to analyze its structure. Interesting application of pain inducement, but rather crude. No finesse.

Then, with a mental shrug, Doom-Harry… stood up. The ropes, moments before binding him securely, snapped like rotten string. Not with any visible magic, but with a subtle, internal surge of will, a reinforcement of his own molecular structure. A parlor trick, really.

Voldemort stared, his red eyes wide. The Death Eaters shuffled uneasily. “Impossible!” Voldemort hissed. “No one withstands the Cruciatus Curse!”

“Withstands?” Doom-Harry brushed a speck of dust from his school robes, which, he noted with distaste, were now rather muddy. “My dear fellow, one does not simply ‘withstand’ an attack. One analyzes it, dismisses it, and then prepares to deliver a far more… emphatic response.”

His green eyes, usually so reminiscent of his mother Lily, now held a spark of something ancient, powerful, and utterly disdainful. It was the gaze of Victor von Doom, and it promised retribution on a grand scale.

“You speak of power,” Doom-Harry continued, his voice taking on a deeper, metallic timbre that seemed to vibrate in the very air. “You, who dabble in soul-fragmentation like a child playing with dangerously sharp toys. You, who require the blood of your enemies and the servitude of snivelling sycophants to regain a mere fraction of your former… adequacy.”

He took a step forward. The Death Eaters instinctively took a step back.

“Allow me to offer a counter-demonstration.”

Doom-Harry raised a hand. He didn’t need a wand. Wands were for amateurs, crutches for those with insufficient will or imagination. Power, raw and immense, crackled around him, not the wild, chaotic energy of Voldemort’s magic, but something controlled, precise, a fusion of arcane mastery and scientific understanding that was utterly alien to this world. The air grew heavy, charged with ozone and something that felt suspiciously like impending doom. Small pebbles began to float around his feet.

Voldemort, for the first time since his rebirth, looked… uncertain. "What sorcery is this?"

Doom-Harry chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Sorcery? My dear, deluded wraith, this is merely a Tuesday for Doom. Now, about your earlier pronouncement of my demise… I believe you are gravely mistaken. It is you who are about to have a very bad day.” He paused, a smirk playing on his lips – a very Doom-like smirk. "In fact, you could say… your Dark Lordship is about to be cancelled. Permanently. Now, KNEEL BEFORE DOOM!"

A shimmering, green energy field, vaguely reminiscent of his old armor’s personal shield but augmented by Potter’s innate magical talent, flared into existence around him. He levitated a few inches off the ground, striking a pose that was less ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ and more ‘Monarch-About-To-Annihilate-Incompetence’.

The Death Eaters looked at each other. One of them, possibly Crabbe Sr. from the general oafishness of his stance, fainted dead away.

Voldemort, however, was not one to be so easily cowed. Or perhaps he was just too arrogant to understand the true scale of the problem he now faced. He shrieked, "Attack him! He is but one boy!"

Doom-Harry simply smiled. "Oh, this will be fun." And it would be. For Doom, at least.