Disclaimer: You know the drill.

/wat

Harry had cleared Professor Trelawney's copious rugs out of the way, and was sketching on the floor with white chalk. His "common room" was actually a closet of moderate size off of Trelawney's classroom. A quick password spell and a bed, and the thing was the perfect sleeping-space for Harry Potter.

However, it was too small for much else. Harry was a creature of many hobbies, most of which involved bloated carcasses and lots of knives, and cramped spaces hindered his ability to effectively indulge in his pass-times. Lucky for Harry, Trelawney was lax enough to permit him to use her classroom for his hobbies. Way she saw it, he would be dead in a month anyway, so what harm was there in humoring him?

As Harry sketched intricate runes on the floor, Trelawney bit her lip and frowned at her student. "Mister Potter... I've only been the Head of your House for a week now, but don't you think it's about time you, you know, attend some of your classes?"

Harry paused, stooped over on the other half of the room. "Professor, you're concerns are well-placed, given your current title and the responsibilities that come with it. But I assure you, my time is wasted in a classroom. I have work to do. I'll go to class when it's time for my cult to start recruiting, or if I need to talk to Professor Quirrell. In the meantime, I have..."

Suddenly, Harry checked his watch and gasped. "Smack my ass and call me Sally!" he exclaimed. He pocketed the chalk and made for the door. "Forget what I just said, I need to go talk to Professor Quirrell now. Don't mess with my work, Professor! Ta-ta!"

Trelawney's mouth opened and closed. She hadn't foreseen Harry's sudden departure, which was odd because she actually did foresee a lot of things. She idly wondered if Severus or Minerva had problems like these. The Seer opted to let Harry's behavior slide for now, and instead went back to musing over names and colors for the House.

Meanwhile, Harry strode through Hogwarts with the utmost confidence. As he walked, he adjusted his bowtie. Wouldn't want to look silly when he met Lord Voldemort, now would he?

Ah, Voldemort. What a nutcase. Harry had to admit, he looked forward to finally meeting the guy. For years he'd been keeping tabs on the man's soul fragments, stalking them, learning from them, and finally he got to meet the most intact hunk of Tom Riddle's soul that remained.

Harry came to Quirrell's classroom and welcomed himself in. It was dinnertime, so all the students were eating – duh – but Quirrell had quickly taken to eating by himself in his office. Harry assumed this was because he was harboring a large chunk of Lord Voldemort on his person.

In any case, Harry pranced right up to Quirrell's office, pausing only to make sure his vest wasn't goofed up. He didn't bother knocking, just barged in with a loud, "Hello!"

Quirrell squeaked and knocked his dinner onto the floor, managing to jump behind his chair and whip out his wand at the same time. When he saw that it was Harry, he seemed to physically relax, but Harry was certain that only made him feel worse. "M-Mister P-P-Potter," stammered Quirrell.

"P-P-Professor," Harry said mockingly. He grinned widely. "Evening to you, but I'm afraid I'm a little pressed for time. I've got an obligation to acknowledge, you see, so I need to speak to your master."

"M-Mas-?" Quirrell began to stutter, but Harry wanted to take care of his end of the deal quickly. He didn't have time to play pretend with some kind of pseudo-coward.

"Yes, your master – the esteemed Lord Voldemort, if I am not incorrect. I need to talk to him about restoring him to his former glory and him marrying Bellatrix Lestrange. Don't waste my time – I have lots of work to do, so let's see him," Harry went on, tone very busy indeed.

Quirrell's face was as white as snow – the sludgy stuff on the sides of the road – and he seemed to be about to object. But a new voice spoke before him, raspy and lisping, definitely male and very, very weak. "Quirrell, no... let me speak to him..."

"But, sir," objected Quirrell.

"Silence! Let me speak with the boy." Quirrell was unwilling to show off Voldemort, but defiance would mean punishment.

Harry smiled something small and sickly as Quirrell unwrapped his turban.

"It's quick! It's simple! It's highly beneficial! Join the New Religion, led by our esteemed savior, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and birth-giver of Hogwarts history!" Fred Weasley called, his tone highly persuasive, waving hand-made and magic-copied fliers over his head.

"For the affordable price of three drops of your own blood, sufficient proof of virginity, and your soul, you may join the New Religion taking the world by storm!" George declared, offering buttons to passing students. "Join the New Religion! Be showered in riches, knowledge, powers previously unfathomable, all for the small price of your soul! Well, and your virginity and your blood... But all of those you should have already anyway! What are you doing with them? Nothing - that's what I thought."

Harry sat outside in the courtyard, watching as the twins pressed fliers into the hands of passerby. Watching as his influence slowly seeped into the student body. Beautiful.

"Well, Kid! It seems you haven't been wasting any time," observed a familiar voice.

Harry's eyes flickered up over his shoulder, where a familiar triangle floated with his little black hands on his entirely-metaphorical hips. "Already starting a cult?" whistled Bill Cipher. "New Religion, you said? It's good that you're in with the ginger crowd. Soulless husks like them make for nifty meatshields."

Harry emitted a low hum of agreement. "I know, I know... Say, Bill, any ideas on how to buy a house?"

Bill seemed a tad thrown off by the question. "I'm an inter-dimensional demon with knowledge of over a million years' worth of secrets and the power to bring any given human's worst fear to life behind their eyelids at night. What would I know about real estate?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Knowledge of over a million years' worth of secrets, and not one of them pertaining to the process of buying a house?" he sighed. "What have you been up to all these centuries?"

Bill pouted, but before he could formulate a response, Hermione showed up. "Harry Potter! It's been three weeks and you haven't gone to any classes at all. How are you supposed to learn if you don't-" She stopped short when she saw Bill. "Oh, um, hello there. Are you Harry's... bro-ther?"

Bill and Harry laughed jovially. "Brother! Oh, that's rich," they said in unison. Bill took over, draping an arm over Hermione's shoulder. "No, no, no. Name's Bill Cipher. I'm more of a... godlord, master of immorality, teacher and breast-feeder. Demonic magic extraordinaire. Pleased to meetcha."

Hermione thought the 'breast-feeder' part was a bit odd, but did not openly question it.

"Ah," was all she said, before turning back to Harry. "But a cult? Instead of classes? I thought you were supposed to be attending classes with the Gryffindors. I haven't seen you anywhere. Professor Snape is halfway berserk, Professor McGonagall is so very disappointed, and poor, poor Professor Flitwick... It's a huge blow to his ego."

Bill rolled his eye and Harry sighed. "Is it because you feel left out, Hermione? Look, you're basically in the cult already – it's more just a soul I need anyway, so if you wanna pledge that to me real quick you can calm down..."

Hermione was red in the face. "Harry, you're impossible."

"Correction! He's improbable," Bill offered.

Hermione looked at him like she wasn't sure what to make of the magical tortilla chip, and returned to Harry. "Harry, I don't want to join any cult..."

"Your loss. The New Religion is gonna be amazing."

"... I want you to get a good, proper education," Hermione stated firmly. A bell tolled somewhere in the background, and she bit her lip. "I have classes to go to, and so do you, Harry. See you in Potions?" Her voice took on a hopeful tone that just tore up Harry's heart.

With that, the brunette scurried off. Harry and Bill shared a look, one long, pained look. "Go to her," Bill said softly, hand on his underling-thing's back. Harry rolled his eyes at Bill's dramatic tone, but did as he was ordered.

Harry wasn't a weakling, but disobeying Bill was even more dangerous than disobeying Voldemort. Flashier, too. More sparkles, more birds, and definitely more screaming.