First year Gryffindor, Harry Potter, sighs softly in relief as he feels the reassuring weight of the stone in his pocket, safe, for the time being, from Voldemort.
"What do you see?" Quirrel asks eagerly.
"My parents. Standing beside me. Mum's hand's on my shoulder, and Dad's telling me he's proud of me." Harry lies, thinking quickly.
"Useless brat. Out of my way. I need that stone." Quirrel snaps, pushing the boy out of the way.
"He's clever, but he lies. Let me speak with him." A high, cold voice demands.
"But Master, you are still too weak."
"You call me weak? I am strong enough for this. Unwrap me and show me the boy."
With shaking hands, Quirrel reaches up, unwrapping his turban, as Harry watches, in sick fascination. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor turns, and Harry gasps, feeling sick as he catches his first glimpse of the face growing on the back of Quirrel's head.
"V-voldemort?" He questions, a quaver to his voice.
"Indeed. Now, give me the stone in your pocket, Boy."
"No." The Gryffindor boldly says.
"Now now, Potter, surely you are not foolish enough to defy me. Or would you like to join your parents so soon?"
"My parents defied you." Harry retorts.
"Yes. They did. And they died for their admirable yet foolish bravery. Do not be reckless, Child. Give me the stone."
Harry's hand reaches into his pocket, fingers curling around the stone, as he stares at Lord Voldemort's face, considering his options. 'There's no way I could stop him from killing me. Obviously the Headmaster doesn't care too much about this stupid stone, or his students. The stone wasn't even properly guarded against a first year, and the Headmaster hasn't even noticed a Dark Lord hiding in his school, in plain sight, all year.'
"What's in it for me?"
"What? If you give me the stone I shall allow you to live. You are not in a position to make bargains at the moment, Boy, so I suggest you take my generous offer."
Harry nods, taking the stone from his pocket, and tossing it into Quirrel's hands.
"Good boy. Perhaps your mother's sacrifice wasn't in vain. Stupify!"
Harry falls as the stunner hits him in the chest. When he awakens again, he finds himself in a hospital bed, a blurry figure with bright gold spectacles and a long white beard leaning over him.
"Headmaster?" He croaks out, fumbling for his glasses, which the old man slips onto his face for him.
"Harry, my boy. What happened down there?" He asks gravely.
"I'm not sure, Sir. The stone fell into my pocket. I lied and told Voldemort that I saw my parents in the mirror, and then I remember him shooting a spell at me, and nothing else." The raven haired Gryffindor lies, managing to look both innocent and confused.
"The stone is gone. I imagine Lord Voldemort took it from you while you were unconscious. I'm sorry to say that Nicolas Flamel will die, without it." Dumbledore says heavily.
Harry feels a brief pang of guilt, but then realizes something. Surely Nicolas Flamel wouldn't have placed his life in someone else's hands unless he had a backup stone, or a way to make another if something were to happen to it. If he had, it isn't exactly Harry's fault that the man is a complete idiot. Still, he knows that Dumbledore probably expects some display of emotion from him so he allows his eyes to fill with tears.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't keep him from the stone, Sir. And I'm so sorry about your friend, Mr. Flamel."
Dumbledore, looking appeased and content, places a hand on his shoulder.
"It's quite alright, Harry. Voldemort is a man like any other, and can be stopped, even with the stone. And Nicolas and his wife are not afraid of death. You will find, as the years go by, that that fear turns into more of a comforting reality." The old wizard replies in his grandfatherly tone.
Meanwhile, in a muggle town called Little Hangleton, Lord Voldemort smiles, enjoying having his body back, plotting his return to power.