I know that OCs are less popular than Filch, but I had to. Seriously. This plot was begging on its metaphysical hands and knees to be written. I would have made Harry Voldie's son if I liked Harry's speech mannerisms, but I didn't because Harry stutters.

Now, for some conventional warnings: This contains spoilers through book 5 and regarding Voldemort's quasi immortality and slash. Because it's hot. Not the spoilers, the slash. No incest, though, if you're worried about the father son thing. I'm explicit when I need to be, though I don't recommend you skip because it's usually for the plot or character development.

I'll also have to warn you that while I try to stick with the books as much as possible (as in all significant events of the first four books have occurred), for the purposes of this fic, I had to give Voldie a heart. Sorry. I've also changed the number of Horcruxes he has to make sure he isn't too dehumanized. I do, however, try to keep him as in character as possible as a seriously twisted and sadistic non-psychopath/sociopath.

Any comments/concerns/conundrums/compliments/complaints/computers? Leave a review because high review count attracts readers and makes me feel good.

Oh, also, I disclaim. On with the story.

Chapter One

Albus Dumbledore had not set foot in the States for some time now, and he must admit that it had grown into quite the smoggy place in his fourteen year absence. While London could hardly call itself the role model for pollution reduction, at least its wizarding societies were kept proper and trim. Now, as he strolled down the city's famous magical Seven Point Two Six Avenue, he found it hard to say the same for New York. It was sad, really, that the only powerful country without a dark lord to fend off didn't have the time to clean up a bit.

Fortunately, American urban planners were as organized as their streets were messy, because it took Dumbledore a grand total of four minutes and forty seven seconds to locate his final destination. The numbers would have doubled, or tripled, or maybe quadrupled depending on the day of the week, had he been in Diagon Alley. Not that there were many innocuously light blue Muggle-looking townhouses in Diagon Alley.

The one in front of him was particularly Muggle-looking, Dumbledore was happy to note, and hopefully as innocuous as it seemed. Preparing the twinkle in his eyes, he rang the doorbell. The door opened promptly, and he was met by a young man who looked to be in his early twenties.

As a rather wizened and intelligent old man, Dumbledore had learned to be good at hiding his emotions, so it wasn't with difficulty that he suppressed his slight trepidation at the sight before him. The boy he'd last seen as an eight year old child had grown into his chillingly familiar, darkly beautiful features, and if the almost palpable hum of magic was anything to go by, into his inherited power as well. If his eyes had not held the gentle, surprised curiosity they did, Dumbledore would have had his wand out by now. Instead, he smiled.

"Good evening, my boy! You've grown quite a bit since I last saw you."

Under the doorway, the boy's eyebrows knitted slightly. "Good evening, sir," he began politely. "Have we…met before?"

"Yes, we have, though I'm afraid you will find some trouble recalling," replied Dumbledore. A suspicious hesitation crossed the boy's features, and he continued. "I took your memories, you see."

The older wizard watched in inevitable admiration as surprise and understanding dawned with unnatural speed in the other's eyes. "The plane crash, I suppose?" asked the boy, guarded and testing, but also like he had been waiting for this wizard to show up on his doorstep.

Dumbledore wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased that the young man had also inherited his father's intelligence. It was too late to turn back now, though, so as benevolently and apologetically as he could, he said, "Yes, the one that never happened."

A quick pause passed. Then, the boy stepped back and said, "Will you come in?"

Of course, Dumbledore did.

The interior of the home was not as nearly as Muggle as the exterior, but it did have its nonmagical touch. The walls were a welcoming burgundy, and the floor an earthly length of polished wood. Instead of the traditional magical portraits, beautiful paintings decorated the walls. As Dumbledore was ushered to the living room, a family portrait with a familiar couple caught his attention. A smile turned his lips as he recognized them; it was the Muggle couple that he'd left the boy with fourteen years ago, when the boy's biological father fell to baby Harry. As long as the boy had learned to love them, he would never follow his father's footsteps—and judging from the happiness emanating from the picture, he had.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, the focus of his thoughts returned to the room with tea. Dumbledore didn't know how the boy knew he'd wanted tea, but took it with thanks anyway. They settled into two opposing sofas.

Dumbledore hummed happily as he drank—the liquid was very saturated with sugar, by the way, just the way he liked it—and his company sat in silence. Apparently, one thing that the boy had not inherited father was the man's impatience. Dumbledore decided not to push it anyway and eventually declared, "I'm here to give back the memories I took from you fourteen years ago."

Silver eyes widened, then narrowed in a familiar manner. Dumbledore recognized young Tom Riddle's calculating face.

"You are Albus Dumbledore."

Ah. So it seemed the boy was an exception to the famed American ignorance.

"I am."

"I'm curious," started the boy, not without cautious suspicion. "What is a great wizard such as yourself doing with my memories, and what could you possibly have to gain from leaving a political war zone to return them?"

Dumbledore smiled. "The answers lie in your memories, dear boy. Will you take them?"

The young man leaned back, looking wary. As he should, thought Dumbledore, because if the boy did remember the first eight years of his life, the blissful, easy prestige he lived with now would be replaced with the pains and conflicts of war. But that was what was meant to be, anyway.

"Should I?" asked the boy softly, though Dumbledore could already see in his eyes and hear in his voice what his choice was. "Would you?"

"Yes, and no," Dumbledore replied honestly. "You have a role that should be played—that must be played. But it is a difficult one. The truth will hurt you more than anything you have experienced in the life you know now."

Eyes cast downwards as the boy laughed. It was such a pretty, pure sound, one that his father would have never been able to make. Or rather, would never be able to make, with his recent return during the past Triwizard Tournament and all.

"The truth tends to hurt, sir. That's what makes it so desirable. We're all masochists on the inside, you know," he joked, relaxing against the sofa. Dumbledore recognized the action as preparation. "I will take them."

"Then, my boy, will you make me a promise before I give your memories to you?"

An elegant eyebrow arched in question.

"Tell me."

"I heard you are quite the brilliant Magic Specialist, yes? Well, Hogwarts is in dire need of a Defense professor. Our last one turned out to be rather…unreliable, you see. I would appreciate it if you would take the position for this upcoming year."

The boy paused to think. He thought quickly, Dumbledore noted, because after a short silence, he asked, "Given what you know about me, do you think I would appreciate the position?"

Dumbledore felt the twinkle in his eyes fade. Grimly, he responded, "Yes, I believe you will appreciate the position, but not for the reasons you are currently imagining."

"I am not imagining any reasons," said the other lightly. "I'll take your word for it, though. I accept."

The older wizard nodded.

"Then I suppose this is as a good a time as ever."

The younger wizard only smiled and closed his eyes.

Dumbledore pointed his wand, focused his magic, and casted.

"Restituo."

The careful frown on the young man's face was the only sign that the spell had worked. But then, he leaned forward, leaned over, silently, until his face was hidden by his black locks and pale hands. Any eye less trained than Dumbledore's would have missed the barely perceptible tremor of his body.

For the longest while, the only sound in the room was the boy's low, suppressed, ragged breathing. Until the breaths became smooth again, Dumbledore dared not change that.

When they did, he called gently, "Callisto."

Callisto Arius, the son of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the Order's greatest risk and Harry Potter's biggest hope, did not respond immediately. Dumbledore didn't think he would answer at all, but then he heard an empty, singular laugh. The boy lifted himself, relaxed against the sofa again, impeccably dry eyes looking like he may or may not have cried a bit. It was an unusual and unnerving picture.

Unpredictable, controlled, and eerily perfect. Just like his father.

"Well, I didn't really enjoy that. This," he said calmly. "I guess I'm not a masochist."

"Life would be too easy if we all were," replied Dumbledore. "Do you understand, now?"

"Most of it," said the boy. Then, his voice softened, and his features looked strangely vulnerable as he murmured, "So it's true, then? He's alive."

"He's always been alive, my boy, just…" Dumbledore made a gesture with his hand, and finished, "…not there. Until recently, anyway."

A shaky sigh left the boy's lips. The relieved tenderness frightened Dumbledore. Quietly, lids closed, the wizard whispered, "I can't."

Though no request had been made, Dumbledore knew what the boy referred to. He couldn't help the instinctive tightening of his fingers around his wand as he said, "He will kill the people you love. He has already destroyed too many lives. Please, Callisto, I know it is difficult, but you know what is right."

"I can't," he repeated, catching ancient blue eyes with young silver ones. "I can't."

"Then you are supporting him. Caleb, you are supporting his crimes," said Dumbledore pleadingly, hoping that the boy's name of his past reality would remind him of the love he'd learned as the treasured son of the Muggle couple—of the reason why Voldemort could not be allowed to continue.

"I don't," countered the wizard.

"Then stop him."

The boy's eyes lit with a sudden accusatory fire. Dumbledore almost recoiled at the harsh, silver ferocity. "You want to kill him," he shot back. The older wizard tried to protest, but was cut off. "Don't tell me differently. You are a great and a good man, sir. So you plan to destroy Voldemort, because it is your responsibility to. You can't risk doing anything else. You can't afford to."

The truth of the boy's words rang loud and clear. Dumbledore couldn't deny it, couldn't even move properly under the spell of the angry charm of Tom Riddle's son, so he sat silently and listened.

"But he is my father. I might only have eight years of hazy memories, just returned to me at that, but I remember him being my father. How could you ask a son to kill his father? How could I kill him?"

"He is beyond saving, my boy," replied Dumbledore sadly. He'd tried and failed, and like the boy himself said, to risk it all on something so improbable would be foolish. It would be wrong.

But the boy didn't seem to accept that.

The ferocity disappeared from his eyes, and was replaced with a gentle sincerity. "Did you see my memories when you took them, sir?"

He had. He'd seen things he'd first thought were distorted by the perception of a child. He'd seen the cruel, cold, evil Dark Lord laugh and smile and love. He'd seen Voldemort murmur words like my beloved, my beautiful, my heart and mean them. He'd seen a man that was supposed to be a psychopath love and give like he had nothing else in the world to love and give to, and really, had that not been the case? He'd witnessed the impossible in the boy's memories, so he nodded.

"Then you know that's not true," said the boy.

And he did. But he shook his head regardless, because he was a good man who also needed to be a great man.

"We can't risk it."

"You can't," clarified the boy. "So let me."

"This is war," said Dumbledore, warning the determined light in the other's eyes. "You will die if you fail." Or if we succeed.

"Then we have an easy solution, correct?" The unease, the anger, the tenderness had all disappeared from the boy's expression, leaving him looking nothing but confident and relaxed. "I just have to not fail."

Despite the absolute absurdity of the notion of saving Voldemort, Dumbledore found himself almost believing the boy. He promised success the way his father had promised power and revenge, and his father had done the highly improbable, after all. Perhaps this boy, who had both a Dark Lord's talent and what seemed to be a very human heart, would give the Order a run for their galleons. Dumbledore certainly hoped so, because wouldn't that be the ideal outcome? The war would end, and Harry would—

Ah, Harry. The prophecy.

Neither can live while the other survives.

But you will fail, Dumbledore thought, because Harry deserved to be the survivor. The world could not lose Harry and to keep Voldemort. For the smaller good, the greater good, and all the good in between, it couldn't happen.

Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to say the words, though. If his conclusions were correct, which they usually were, then Callisto's death would be necessary for Voldemort's own demise. It hardly seemed appropriate to deny a young man, whose greatest fault seemed to be the misfortune of his birth, what could be his only chance of survival. Which, being a chance that the Order could not allow, was hardly a chance to begin with.

Thus, Dumbledore only said sadly, "I wish you the best."

"Thank you," replied the boy. "So, Hogwarts?"