"I am not a total, complete nitwit when it comes to selling books. I promise you there will be unexpected things. Some of them I don't know yet. She's writing it all herself."

Mary Matalin

As Harry Potter stepped through the enchanted flames and into the last room of the underground chambers beneath Hogwarts in his desperate attempt at stopping Snape from getting his hands on the Philosopher's Stone, he was greeted by a sight that left him utterly dumbfounded.

Snape, well, Professor Snape - as Hermione kept on reminding Harry - was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was nothing in the last room but a familiar man standing before an even more familiar mirror. Though there was nothing familiar about the second face that seemed to be infused upon Professor Quirrell's rather dishevelled head, yet that truly was the last thing that Harry's brain was trying to compute at that very moment in time.

For, and while Quirrell did have a second face seemingly attached to the back of his usually covered head, it was the Professors exhausted expression and rather eccentric choice of clothing that truly had the First Year baffled. It was as if his mind was struggling, just couldn't accept or understand what it was oh so clearly seeing.

Professor Quirrell's eyes were wide as he stared at the Mirror of Erised, the man himself looking as though he was unable to believe what he was seeing. And of course, with his continued silence, ignoring the voice that continued to ring through the air and all but commanding him to reveal what it is he was seeing, the face upon the back of his head disappeared, being absorbed into his skull in a sickening way before it had replaced Quirrell's own façade; a parasitic life all but using its host as it wished.

However, and as red eyes landed upon the mirror that their host was standing before, they widened with shocked rage.

Instead of gaining eternal life, just like he had been informed of such a thing to have been secreted away into Hogwarts by that blubbering oaf, Hagrid, the Dark Lord instead witnessed a reflected image of himself dressed in a pink tutu, dancing clumsily while holding a rubber chicken in one hand and a spoon in the other.

Confusion contorted the Dark Lord's borrowed features - even while he found himself twirling and wobbling just like his reflection.

"What devilry is this?!"

Harry couldn't believe what his eyes were so clearly seeing. Was this really He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, Voldemort; the Dark Lord, indulging in a bizarre dance recital? And what the hell was up with the rubber chicken?

Barely managing to supress his laughter, Harry decided to seize the opportunity so clearly given to him. And with a burst of newfound confidence, the eleven-year-old approached the very man who was responsible for murdering his parents; the Dark Lord who was far too absorbed in his ridiculous dance to even notice.

"Uh, excuse me, Mister Voldemort," the boy said, trying to keep a straight face - and somehow managing to remember his manners at the same time.

Voldemort-Quirrell stopped mid-spin, all but freezing on the spot before he - they? - turned to face Harry, their expression a mix of annoyance and bewilderment.

"Who dares to interrupt my... exquisite performance?" the Dark Lord questioned. Yet, it was as if he had no control of what came out of his mouth, the expression marring his features clearing showing his horror at having asked such a thing - and to his one and only enemy, to boot.

What the hell is going on?!

"I, um, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be having a bit of trouble here," the Boy-Who-Lived continued, barely able to contain his laughter as his green eyes drifted up and down Voldemort's rather... eccentric attire.

Voldemort could only wish he could scowl.

"Trouble?" he instead found himself asking, red eyes narrowing on his arch nemesis. "I am Voldemort, the most powerful wizard-"

"-who dances around in a tutu?" Harry cut in, his expression one of complete innocence as his gaze dropped back to the pink monstrosity that was wrapped so flamboyantly around the Dark Lord's waist.

Red eyes only narrowed on the eleven-year-old. Though his reflection in the corner of his eye momentarily won out in Voldemort, and he turned to the mirror with a confused expression.

"What is the meaning of this mirror?" he all but demanded, not even sparing the boy - who was really, really trying not to lose his marbles over the absurdity of the situation he'd found himself in - a glance. "Why do I look so utterly preposterous?"

"Well, you see," Harry began, struggling to keep a straight face - yet unknowingly fell into the same drawl that one familiar bushy-haired witch was known for when explaining something. "The Mirror of Erised shows the one who looks upon its surface their deepest desires." Though his lip twitched, the 'know-it-all' façade he'd taken upon himself falling away like Neville had fallen during their first Flying lesson as he added, "And it seems like your deepest desire is to dance in a pink tutu with a rubber chicken and a spoon. That's okay, though. I've heard from someone that they could only see socks. This... this seems far more preferable than an unlimited supply of socks."

Voldemort's fury at Harry's words turned into a mixture of horror and embarrassment as he looked down at his ridiculous attire and the props in his hands. He willed his limbs to rid themselves of the offensive objects, but much like his voice earlier, they were deaf to his commands.

"This can't be!" the Dark Lord raged, "I demand the stone! Not this, this... nightmare!"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry murmured, pretending to ponder over the Wizard's situation. "I actually think you're onto something here. Your dance moves, they're quite... unique.

Infuriated beyond measure, Voldemort went to raise his wand, ready to cast a curse - and completely forgot about the items he was holding. Yet, and in his moment of rage, his hold on both the spoon and rubber chicken was lost, and as he turned to face Potter head on, he tripped over his ridiculous pink tutu and fell face-first onto the ground.

His impact triggered a series of events that led to an absolutely comical chain reaction. The rubber chicken, which had fallen as the Dark Lord had turned to curse Harry, let out an ear-splitting HOOOONNNNKKKK! as the face of Voldemort attempted to turn it into a pancake - and shot out from under the Dark Lord's face, bouncing off a wall, and hitting a lever that released a cascade of colourful - socks?! - from the ceiling.

The spoon, which was dropped at the same time as the rubber chicken, bounced off the ground before it went careening through the air - and hit a button that activated a trapdoor right beneath Voldemort.

With an undignified - and rather girlish - yelp, the Dark Lord disappeared through the trapdoor, his pink tutu billowing around his form like a parachute. The trapdoor deposited him onto a slide, of which then took him on a spiralled ride through the underground halls of Hogwarts before dumping him into the Black Lake.

Harry watched this all happen with a wide-eyed look before he promptly burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter - a state of which Headmaster Dumbledore found him in hours later after a rather furious Potions Master had stormed into his office, leading two Gryffindor First Years inside by their ears.