"One of the traps of adolescence is the sort of paranoid resentment that somehow you're never going to match up, and that everybody else's life is going to be better and fuller and finer, and everyone attended some secret lesson in which, how to live, was taught, and you had a dental appointment that day, or you simply weren't invited."

Stephen Fry

A/N

Gift-Chapter for an awesome writer, ArielArtemis, who I had actually promised to write this within a completely different fandom, yet found that it worked rather well here, as well as fitting for the time - despite being a few days late (and Harry doesn't actually face Voldemort)... But, oh well.

Originally this was to be Davros, from Doctor Who, and it probably would have been hilarious.

But you're stuck with Tom, sorry (not sorry!).

Hope you enjoy!

(I AM NOT APOLOGISING FOR THE AGONISING MEMORIES THE SONG CHOICE IN THIS CHAPTER WILL MOST CERTAINLY BRING FORTH! I WROTE THIS! JUST THINK ON THAT!)

In the cluttered office of one Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, a Pensieve lay on the large, ornate desk, its silvery contents swirling mysteriously. Harry Potter, a Sixth Year Gryffindor, sat across from the Headmaster, his 'green' eyes glinting behind his tapped spectacles with a curiosity that couldn't be contained, more so when the prospect of diving into the memories of one Dark Lord Voldemort did lay before him.

Dumbledore, his long white beard flowing like silk over his robes, looked to his student with a sombre expression. "Harry, to truly understand Voldemort, you must explore his past. It is a dark and complicated journey, but you must face it."

Despite the frown pulling at his lips, Harry nodded, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He watched as Dumbledore rose from his seat, drawing his wand in the process. "Into the Pensieve, Harry," the Headmaster stated, holding out his free hand.

As they both leaned in, the swirling silver strands enveloped them, transporting them into the memories of one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A young Tom Riddle stood before Dumbledore, his handsome features betraying no hint of the darkness that would later consume him.

"Tom, I've brought you here to discuss a matter of great importance," the Transfiguration Professor begun. "Your magical abilities are exceptional, and I believe you have the potential to achieve extraordinary things."

As the Third Year's eyes shifted from the intricate novelty items that littered the Professor's office and to the blue of Dumbledore's, there was a subtle tension that arose between the pair as Dumbledore began to probe once more into the boy's past.

"Your last three years at Hogwarts have been nothing short of impressive, my boy. However, there are... incidents that I'd like to discuss, occurrences that suggest a certain disregard for the well-being of your fellow students."

Tom's expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of something unsettling in his eyes.

"Pardon me, Tom. Did you say something?" Dumbledore added when he thought he saw the boy muttering something, Tom seemingly momentarily distracted by what appeared to be some sort of tune before his attention was quick to refocus on the Professor's questions.

"Nothing, Professor," was offered with a tight smile that did nothing to dissuade the Transfiguration Professor's curiosity. "Just a bit of nonsense I picked up to pass the time."

"Yes, well," Dumbledore leaned forwards in his chair. "As I was saying, Tom, magic is a powerful force. It can be used for good or ill, but it is the choices that we make that ultimately define us."

"Choices, Professor?" the boy questioned as his gaze once more roamed around the room, examining the various artifacts. "Are choices also not meant to benefit me as well? It seems like a simple philosophy, really."

"But life is more than just person gain, Tom," Dumbledore sighed, the words feeling like old news. "It's about connections, friendships, love."

The collected expression upon Tom's features hardened at the mention of love, and his eyes abruptly halted in their wandering, snapping back to Dumbledore. "Love is a weakness. It clouds judgement, leads to vulnerability. I won't be shackled by such sentimentality," he stated, tacking on as his expression relaxed, "Why, have not seen how Rosier was acting when she realised she 'loved' Black?"

"Love is a source of strength, Tom," Dumbledore retorted earnestly, ignoring the boy's last comment. "It has the power to overcome even the darkest of magics."

Dark eyes lingered on the Professor, and for a moment, there was a glimmer of uncertainty in those brown depths. However, it quickly vanished and Tom smirked.

"Professor, I appreciate your guidance, but I have my own path to follow."

Headmaster Dumbledore furrowed his brow as the scene shifted, unsure of the source of the strange sound that had begun to appear. Yet, and as the Pensieve took them to the next memory, Harry looked to his Headmaster, eyes filled with so much trust, that Dumbledore found he couldn't tell the boy he had no idea what the hell was going on, having no recollection of these memories whatsoever.

Within a hidden classroom of the depths of the Hogwarts dungeons, Tom Riddle stood at the front of a rather serious-looking crowd, and it took Harry a moment to realise that each and every one were students - Slytherin students, to be more specific.

The memory of Third Year Tom - given that he looked no different than what he had in the last memory - was passionately explaining the art of crafting the perfect potion, his eyes ablaze with an unusual enthusiasm and knowledge that went way beyond his years; something of which the Boy-Who-Lived couldn't help be impressed by, even if he did think his teaching methods were somewhat unconventional.

"...and that, my dear classmates, is how you turn a simple Sleeping Draught into a concoction that not only will ensure a good night's sleep, but will also give you the most vivid dreams of conquering the Wizarding World!"

The Slytherin's, instead of exchanging glances of confusion much like a certain pair of wizards, were surprisingly nodding in agreement, as if Tom's idea of enhanced dreaming was truly an appealing prospect.

"I never though I'd see the day when Voldemort- er, Tom, would be promoting the benefits of restful sleep," Harry couldn't help but mutter, earning himself a chuckle from his companion.

"Maybe he was onto something with the dreams," the Headmaster did agree with an odd twinkle in his blue eyes.

"You know, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Harry begun, turning his head so he could see the wizened wizard, "Tom might have missed his true calling as a Potions Professor."

"Ah, the magical world's loss, I suppose," Dumbledore retorted with a smirk as the scene shifted once more, and this time they found themselves within the Hogwarts library.

"Transfiguration?" Harry questioned as his gaze fell upon the memory of young Tom Riddle; the boy sitting at a rather familiar table surrounded by books, a - is that a monocle? - perched on his nose as he poured over a thick volume of Advanced Transfiguration. "I thought he was more into the Dark Arts," Harry continued, barely managing to tear his eyes away from a sight that was as familiar as it was scary.

Dumbledore was stroking his beard, a perplexed expression marring his features as he too watched Tom flip through a book that was almost as big as the boy himself. "Well, Harry," he begun, "The pursuit of knowledge can take many forms. Perhaps a young Voldemort was considering a possible career change."

As they looked back to the scene playing out before them, they caught Tom muttering an incantation under his breath, clearly attempting to transform his quill into, well, something. The result, however, was far less spectacular than what Harry had predicted, as the quill sprouted wings and begun to flutter around the library, knocking into tables and creating utter chaos amongst the bookshelves.

"Probably a good idea he didn't take that career move after all," Harry could only chuckle.

Dumbledore, smirking not at Harry, but at the student he had once taught, could only reply with the simple, "It appears that even Lord Voldemort had his share of magical mishaps."

As the two wizards continued their journey through Tom Riddle's memories - Albus still questioning where they had originated from in the first place - they discovered more unexpected facets of the young Dark Lord's life. And as they navigated through the moments of brilliance and eccentricity, they couldn't help but appreciate the irony that the most feared Dark Wizard since Gellert Grindelwald himself had once been a teenager like another, the penchant for peculiar performances and unconventional pursuits running strong within that young mind of his.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry jumped as Tom's voice resonated through the hall that he and the Headmaster had appeared in, looking to Dumbledore just in time to see the wizard facepalm.

"Oh, dear Merlin," was groaned before the Boy-Who-Lived could question what was wrong. Though, and as he turned to what it was Dumbledore was undoubtably not wanting to see, Harry tried not to lose his marbles.

"Professor?" he questioned, "Are you sure these memories are genuine?"

"I assure you, Harry, these are as real as it gets," Dumbledore replied - even as they watched a body fall from the table Tom was standing upon. "It seems that Voldemort's ambitions extended beyond conquering that of just the Wizarding World; he also aspired to conquer the stage."

"Darling! The world is my stage, and I am the star!" Tom Riddle crowed from his place at the centre of the high table, the dummy that had been one Headmaster Dippet laying 'dead' at his feet.

As the young student continued his dramatic monologue, Dumbledore and Harry exchanged amused glances. The memory played out like a surreal blend of Shakespearean tragedy (and by the gods, was it a tragedy) and a Muggle soap opera (which honestly wasn't any better).

"The world will know of my greatness, and with a wave of my wand, I shall be the director of my own destiny!"

Without warning, and causing Harry to hit the deck less he get knocked about by their ghostly apparitions, a chorus of enchanted broomsticks soared into the Great Hall, circling the room before they all nosedived towards Tom - and begun an impromptu dance routine behind the boy; twirling and dipping and adding another layer of utter whimsy to the future Dark Lord's already poor monologue.

"I'd never thought I'd see the day when Voldemort became another magical drama queen," Dumbledore muttered to himself as Harry picked himself up off the floor, the Headmaster just offering a soft chuckle at the confounded expression that was marring the Boy-Who-Lived's face. "Life is just full of surprises, is it not?"

"Sir?"

"It appears that Lord Voldemort had a hidden talent for theatricality as well," The Headmaster peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses, a bemused twinkle in his eyes as they returned to the high table and where the topic of their conversation was 'kicking' up a storm with his enchanted brooms. "Who knew he had a penchant for show tunes?"

"Show tunes, Professor?"

"Yes, my boy," Dumbledore nodded. "It seems that beneath the mask every dark and fearsome wizard lies the heart of a Broadway star. Perhaps we should have arranged for him to audition for the Hogwarts musical."

"Hogwarts has a musci-?"

(NO!)

The Pensieve abruptly whisked the pair away, the scene once more changing around them as the silverly strands of memories took them further into the enigmatic past of Lord Voldemort - student by day, yet seemingly a Broadway sensation and Potions Master by night.

(Not much could be said for his skill with Transfiguration, sadly...)

(...)

(...)

(...or could it?)

"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen!"

In the magical winter wonderland that Hogwarts had become, a Third Year Tom Riddle took centre stage upon the frozen Black Lake, his teenage form now adorned in an absurdly ornate costume reminiscent of a magical Ice Prince. The surrounding lake was blanketed in a layer of pristine snow, and the stars twinkling in the sky above created an almost perfect stage for skiing - something of which Tom was taking full advantage of as he made his way across the ice.

"A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the king!"

Harry and Dumbledore could only watch on in stunned silence, unbelieving of the spectacle they were witnessing as Tom summoned his magical prowess to create snowmen that did dance and slide awkwardly upon the ice around him.

Enchanted with life, these snowmen followed their creator's lead, some even attempting to mimic Tom's rather stunning ice-skating skills. They stumbled and slid, creating an unintentionally comical sight that had Harry stifling a laugh and Dumbledore possibly wanting to take back his comment about the Third Year's rather abysmal Transfigurations skills.

"The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside!" Tom continued singing triumphantly, his wand once more slicing through the air and creating a throne made up of nothing but snow and ice. "Couldn't keep it in, Salazar knows I've tried!"

Plonking himself down on his makeshift throne, the boy continued his performance, conjuring an array of sock minions that twirled and twisted around him, and the snowmen, seemingly attracted to the newest members of this weird memory, attempted a coordinate routine, skiing over the frozen lake with their woollen mates like extras in some, er... (Blank?) winter show.

(The author does not believe that that word is allowed... given the 'stolen' - rolls eyes - (borrowed) song lyrics.)

"Here I stand in the light of day!" Tom suddenly proclaimed as he stood on the throne, his wand pointed up to the sky as his snowy and sock creations attempted a synchronized salute - that ended up with quite the number of heads flying through the air. "Let the storm rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway!"

Dumbledore and Harry found themselves dumped unexpectedly into another memory of Tom Riddle's past. This time, the setting was the Quidditch pitch, possibly the very same day as the last, as Tom was now trying to teach his snowmen and sock minions the finer points of playing the magical sport.

"Alright, my woolly and frosty friends! Grip your brooms tightly and aim for the goal posts!" Tom begun, only to be stopped by, well, a sock minion hopping forwards, clearly wanting to say something but unable to do so. The boy blinked at his minion, a scowl twisting his features momentarily before it was as if a light had gone off and he 'Ahh'-(ed?).

Without warning, and without a word, the sock, along with its friends, were all gifted rather comical 'stick' arms that ended in four 'fingers'. Yet, and much to their observers obvious surprise, all the socks seemed happy with their extra additions, each one 'looking' between their creator and their new appendages with an air that clearly spoke of wonder and reverence, before the socks were all grabbing their brooms (a sight rather comical with their stick-figured hands) and taking to the sky, forcing the snowmen to do the same as the scrambled to follow - one being in such a rush he accidentally left his nose behind!

"That's the spirit!" Tom crowed as he grabbed his own broom. "We'll show those Gryffindors what we're made of!" he declared with another theatrical flair, brandishing a Quaffle even as he shot a glare to the stands. And as Harry and Dumbledore followed his gaze, they were startled to find even more snowmen and socks, these all dressed (created?) in the familiar red and gold colours of their Hogwarts House. Each clearly Gryffindor minion in the stands glared at the group on the pitch, and the atmosphere grew heady with tension.

As the snowmen took to the air, however, each seemed more clumsier than the last. As they attempted to mount their brooms with their real stick hands, it resulted in a chaotic display of wobbly snow figures all trying to stay airborne. One particularly ambitious snowman - one that was suspiciously missing its nose - managed to accidentally knock off the head of another with its broomstick. A miniature snowman brawl was soon to erupt in the sky above the Quidditch pitch and, well, as you would expect when snowmen brawled, it started to snow once more and covered a young Tom with a layer of dusty water.

Harry and the Headmaster exchanged amused glanced, trying yet unable to comprehend the absurdity of the scenes playing out before them. Dumbledore, for all his wisdom, had long ago given up trying to figure out where the memories had even come from, deciding to just enjoy the gift that had clearly been given to him.

With a scowl, Tom, now sporting a makeshift referee's outfit, shot into the air, attempting to restore order among the bickering snowmen. "Enough!" he roared. "We're a team, not a bunch of Hufflepuffs! Get back in formation, and let's try this again."

Much to his delight, the snowmen reluctantly lined up for another attempt at Quidditch. Yet, and as one wandered off to retrieve the missing head of its friend, hearing the whispers and snickers from the stands, it returned, plonked the head onto its headless companion before leaning in close to whisper something. It set off a train reaction of whispered gossip throughout the icy team, gossip of which seemed aimed at the snowman retrieving its missing nose, and it wasn't long until an argument broke out amongst them, each pointing the blame at who had knocked who's head off - now that they were all wearing said appendages (with noses) and identity was far more impossible to define - with accusations of even unfair snowball-throwing and questionable broomstick practices thrown into the mix for good measure.

Tom looked completely dumbfounded upon his broom, before fury ignited within his eyes and Dumbledore suddenly wondered if it wasn't 'love' that powered the future Dark Lord, but 'anger' as magic begun to crackle through the air around the boy's airborne form.

"Enough of this nonsense!" the Third Year exploded, his voice being followed by a thunderous crack of lightning that lit up the sky and momentarily turned night into day. "We're here to play Quidditch, not engage in snowman fisticuffs!"

The snowmen, however - and much to Harry's amusement - paid little heed to their creator's attempt at authority and continued with their scuffle. Socks with their stick arms flailed in all directions as they swooped in to try and help, and the Quidditch pitch was transformed into a winter battlefield.

"Honestly, you lot!" Tom growled with exasperation. "Do I have to transfigure you into snowballs to get you to behave?" he questioned none too nicely, and in response, a particular unruly snowmen - possibly the same one who'd lost its nose - zoomed past Tom and nearly took off his referee's hat. Dumbledore and Harry struggled to stifle their laughter (even knowing that they wouldn't be heard) as the chaotic spectacle unfolded.

"I must say, Harry, this is certainly a unique perspective on Lord Voldemort's past," the Headmaster chuckled, giving up all pretence of having a clue as to what was going on.

"Yeah," Harry could only agree with a nod. "Who'd have thought he once tried to play Quidditch with snowmen and socks?" he questioned. "Or that even inanimate snow figures have their fair share of drama and politics?"

"Ah, the complexities of snowman society," Dumbledore mused - right as a suspiciously green and silver (woollen?) snowball went zooming through his head, Tom having clearly resulted in acting out his threat in order to try and maintain order. "Perhaps," the Headmaster continued, not even blinking, "In the oddest of ways, this sheds light on the complexity of Tom's character."

Harry, who had completely lost all restraint and was laughing his arse off as both socks and snowmen begun to pick up the 'snow'balls that had once been their teammates and tossed them at Tom, managed to get out between almost dying, "If by 'complexity', you mean he's completely off his rocker, then yes, Professor."

As the socks continued their aerial skirmish and snowmen, their ground assault, Tom, now thoroughly drenched in snow and covered in wool, abandoned his attempts at control and - much to the surprise of Dumbledore and Harry - tossed his wand to the side and joined the chaos with a maniacal, teenage laugh; gleefully pelting the socks with handmade snowballs and completely losing himself to the moment.

The scene abruptly shifted, returning the Headmaster and Harry to the familiar setting of Dumbledore's office. Both wizards had been left bewildered by the unexpected and strangely entertaining memories that had unfolded in the depths of the Pensieve, and Harry did truly try and pick himself up from the floor.

"I'm sorry, Harry, my boy," the Headmaster apologised as he watched the teen all but lose what was left of his mind, scratching his head as his pale brows furrowed. He glanced back to the Pensieve, to the silvery strands of memories that swirled within, and scratched his head. "That... that was not what I had been expecting at all."

Harry was unable to respond, cackling like the loon Dumbledore most certainly was thinking one teenage (future) Dark Lord to be, as he rolled across the floor of the Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore could only frown, shaking his head once more, yet finding himself unable to shake of the image of the teenage Dark Lord belting out a magical anthem as he ice-skated across the Black Lake, a trail of socks and snowmen following like un-coordinated ducklings.

Somewhere far, far from Malfoy Manor...

(I'm serious! It's NOT Malfoy Manor!)

In the dimly lit chamber of the Dark Lord's private quarters (and nowhere close to being near Malfoy Manor in the slightest), Lord Voldemort, feared by many and known for his unwavering determination - was in a state of complete disarray.

His usually immaculate room was in chaos as he frantically tore through draws, clothing, and various personal effects, muttering under his breath as he did so, "It should be here. I only took it out for a moment. Where is it?"

What he was after?

Ah.

It was a small vial filled with a silvery substance, a tiny but crucial container that held something of great importance to the Dark Lord, and it seemed to elude him in its entirety. His snake-like eyes flickered with annoyance, and a hint of desperation had invaded his tone whilst he searched.

Though, and just as Voldemort was on the verge of losing his patience entirely, the door to his room creaked open and - *Oh my God! It fucking Malfoy! What is he doing here? - Lucius Malfoy cautiously entered, trailed by a cowering Peter Pettigrew.

"My Lord, Pettigrew wishes to see you," was all that Lucius said before he disappeared (and not at all confirming that the location *was*, in fact, Malfoy Manor).

Peter was left scrambling for what to say as the Pureblood Lord disappeared and left him alone with their Master, and he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

"Your Christmas gift has been sent to Dumbledore, just as you asked my Lord."

Voldemort, who was still rummaging through a draw full of suspiciously green and silver socks, paused upon hearing the rat-man speak and slowly turned to face Pettigrew. His red eyes bore into the rat-like man, and an uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

"Could you repeat that."

The Dark Lord's voice was cold, and his words had not been a question.

"Uh, y-yes, my Lord," Pettigrew stuttered, realising he's stepped in it big time, yet not of as to how. "I said I," he swallowed around the lump in his throat, "I sent the gift to Dumbledore, just as you instructed."

With his expression darkening, Voldemort demanded, "What do you mean, 'the gift'? Explain yourself, Wormtail," despite already having comprehended the implications of what the rat had said.

Sadly said 'rat' was oblivious to the mounting tension, to the growing ire of his Lord, and continued to ramble on. "The vial, my Lord. I put it with the socks, just like you said. I was even thinking, maybe I should just add the poison to the socks directly, but then I thought, 'No, the vial must be important.' So, I-"

"You put the vial with the socks?" Voldemort cut in with a deadly calm voice, one that did betray the widening of his cerise eyes. "The vial I had only taken out for a moment? The vial I *needed* for a specific purpose?"

Starting to realise he may have actually done wrong, Pettigrew could only stammer a nervous, "W-well, ye-yes, my Lord. I-I thought i-it would be more incon-inconspicuous that way, that maybe you had thought Dumbledore wouldn't believe you'd actually send something like that in a vial."

Voldemort's anger, something almost alive and simmering just beneath the surface of his being, erupted in a burst of magical power that sent objects in the room scattering. Pettigrew coward under the Dark Lord's wrath, wincing as socks and other various debris littered his form and realised much to late that he may have made a-(nother) grave mistake.

"You imbecile!" Voldemort roared. "That vial contains something irreplaceable. Something that I cannot afford to lose."

"B-but, my Lord, I thought-"

"You thought?" the Dark Lord cut in with a slice of his hand and effectively silencing the rat. "You dare think without understanding the consequences? That vial was not meant for Dumbledore's hands!"

Pettigrew, fully grasping the severity of his error, continued to stammer apologies even as he attempted to flee the room, but his Dark Master's rage was unabated.

"You will retrieve that vial, Wormtail," Voldemort ordered menacingly. "And if any harm befalls it, if Dumbledore has managed to get it before you do, you will face consequences far worse that the death you're currently imagining."

As Pettigrew hurriedly left to rectify his mistake, not even bothering with a pitiful, 'Yes, Master', said Master seethed with frustration. The delicate balance of his plans had been disrupted, and the Dark Lord vowed to ensure that this unforeseen complication did not jeopardize the bet he did have with a certain Malfoy.

Daily Prophet Special!

Dark Lord's Musical Secrets? - Lucius Malfoy Reveals ALL!