"You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort." Malfoy sneered at Ron, before turning back to Harry. He paused to whip his hair back, causing numerous girls to swoon, before adding, "I can help you there."

He thrust his hand forward, smirking as he watched the boy's eyes dart back and forth. His friends, the dingy redhead and the strangely charming frumpy girl, were completely motionless, no doubt entranced by his charisma. Magic charisma.

Harry was frowning in concentration, but Malfoy knew his choice had already been made. He could see it in the boy's expression- this was a child who didn't care about magical or plain blood. He would defend his newfound buddies like a chump- but truthfully, Malfoy wouldn't have it any other way. Their rivalry would be glorious, even legendary, each increasing the other's fame within the school with every duel, every confrontation and angsty scowl, until finally-

"Alright, sure."

Malfoy blinked, squinting slightly. "Erm... what was that?"

Harry shrugged. "Makes sense to me." He shook Malfoy's hand firmly, turning over his shoulder to add, "Later, dorks."

Mouth hanging open, Malfoy watched in shock as Weasley burst out crying. "B-but you- I thought-" The Granger girl led him away, darkly muttering something about diapers and negligent fathers.

"Harry Potter. Pleasure to meet you." Malfoy spun to see Harry shaking hands with his gaggle of Slytherins, pausing once he held the hand of Pansy Parkinson. "Might even say I'm... charmed."

She giggled hysterically, and Harry spun back to Malfoy, beaming. "Well! Shall we?"

Shaking his head, Malfoy could only stare as he was lead into the Great Hall.

[]

"Are you sure?" the Hat purred. "You could be great, you know. It's all here, in your head! And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that!"

Harry blinked. "Hang on- greatness?"

The Hat paused. "Well... yes, of course. That's the whole point of Slytherin, really- ambition, cunning and-"

He nodded, nearly causing the Hat to fall off. "Yes, that sounds good. I want that one."

Somehow, the Hat frowned. "You want- I'm sorry, but are you sure?"

"Of course," he said irritably. "Who wouldn't want greatness?"

"True, but you don't understand," it whispered frantically. "Slytherins are- well, they're seen as... Are you sure?!"

"Oh, shut it." Harry rolled his eyes. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Eh, no reason." The Hat raised the tips of its brim in a shrug. "If you're absolutely certain...

[]

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Yes. I'm sure."

The face in the mirror twisted and grimaced in confusion. "I... I don't understand," the voice rasped. "Shake your head, Quirrell."

He did so, and Voldemort's face swung from side to side. "Why... why suffer an horrific death, when..." the voice stuttered, "when you can join me- and liiiiiiiive..."

"Yeah, I know." Harry shoved his hand in his pocket. "I already said I would."

Quirrell stared blankly into space, like he always did, and for the first time, Voldemort's expression matched his. "But why?!"

Harry pulled the Stone out, flipping it from hand to hand. "Well, think about it," he said patiently. "I certainly don't want to die. You want the Stone to keep you alive because of..." He vaguely waved his hands at the ceiling. "Magic, I guess? But staying alive through strange, half-explained tricks- it looks like you already have that covered."

Quirrell raised his eyebrows, somehow not changing expression at all. "That's... that's true, Master."

"You're not going to try to stop me?"

He shrugged again, almost looking bored. "I'd rather not. Besides, even if you don't get the Stone, I'm sure you'll find some other way of coming back in a few years or something." He casually tossed the Stone forward.

Quirrell dropped it. "Pick it up, slave," Voldemort ordered.

He did so, and the face hesitated. "You know this won't... actually bring your parents back," he said sheepishly. "I sort of lied about that."

"Figured as much," Harry muttered.

"Shall I still kill him, Master?" Quirrell asked.

Voldemort frowned. "I... suppose not? He did join us, after all..."

[]

The army of Death Eaters was enormous. They covered the grounds of Hogwarts, launching Dark Mark-issue fireworks into the sky and jeering at the cowering mass of students and teachers.

Harry strode past them, looking absolutely fabulous in his black Death Eater robe. One of the professors hissed, "Potter! Down here!"

He turned, looking down at the hunched-over form of Professor Flitwick. "How could you do this, Potter?" he squeaked in fury. "How could you betray Hogwarts? Don't you realize how many people he's killed?!"

Harry gazed up at the sky, deep in thought. "Six," he finally answered. "He's killed six."

Flitwick paused. "Oh... really?"

Shrugging, Harry pointed towards the Dark Lord, who was at this moment sitting in front of the main gate, resting his chin in his hand thoughtfully. "Well, most everyone joined him. Murder wasn't really necessary."

Casually flicking his wand toward the professor with a "Stupefy," he approached Voldemort, who looked up in surprise. "Oh! Harry! Brilliant job in the victory, by the way. Don't know if I mentioned it."

Harry shrugged again. "Yeah, you might've." He nodded to the castle. "What're you going to do now?"

"Well, I-" Voldemort sighed. "I'm not quite sure. Rule the world, I guess? There's no one left to stop me, so..." His voice trailed off.

Frowning, Harry nudged his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"That's just it." He looked up, troubled. "There's always someone to stop me."

"Huh." Harry sat down next to him. "You know what would make you feel better?"

Voldemort said nothing. Harry grinned. "Quidditch."

"I hate Quidditch." He scowled. "Besides, we burnt down the pitch."

Harry sighed. "That we did, Tom." He clapped him on the shoulder. "That we did."