Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

A/N: Hello! Thank you for all the reviews! :) Sorry I never replied each review individually but I'm glad that you guys liked this story so far. Ah, and sorry for the slow update *insert sheepish laugh here*


She was halfway through her drink when what Harry had said really dawned on her. Her eyes widened in shock and she choked on her water, spluttering and coughing hard.

"Wait, what do you mean he's your grandfather?!" she gasped.

"Uh…I meant that my father, James Potter, was Charles Potter's son," Harry spoke confusedly, not really knowing how to explain the current situation to her.

"But…how?" Callista questioned, completely flabbergasted.

Perhaps this strange boy – Harry Potter, did he say he was he called? – was mad, after all. What kind of nonsense was he spouting anyway? If Charles Potter was his grandfather, and this Harry looked about 18, wouldn't she herself have to be like, almost 70 years old? She clapped her hands to her mouth, looking rather horrified. Then she realised, her hands were smooth. No wrinkles. She took a deep breath to calm herself before hesitantly voicing out her doubts.

"Harry, perhaps, you are slightly, umm, confused?"

He opened his mouth to speak but she quickly continued, "I mean, if you are that prick's grandson-" she broke off to scoff at the thought (why anyone would bear Potter's spawn is a mystery) "I'd have to be over 65 years old, and I'm not! And this would be like year, nineteen ninety…something, which, of course it isn't, since I uhh…" she faltered for a moment, "-fainted, probably only a few hours ago," she concluded triumphantly with a winning smile.

Harry blinked a little dazedly at the sight of her radiant grin; the stunned look in his eyes only further confirming Callista's belief that this boy was indeed crazy.

"Do you need me to call the Mediwitch?" she asked him uncertainly, bringing Harry back to the present.

Harry shook his head quickly and scowled, mentally berating himself for acting like some stupid, lovesick puppy. Then, unsure of how to break the news, he decided to take the Band-Aid approach – just get it over and done with. He reached for the roll of Daily Prophet on a nearby bedside table and passed it to her.

"Look at the date."

A tendril of self-doubt suddenly crept into her. She looked up into startling green eyes apprehensively, before forcing herself to unroll the newspaper.

The date was October 25th, 1998.

Her mouth dropped open almost comically, her brain frantically trying to register the numbers. A sense of panic suddenly enveloped her and she felt her throat close up. Callista gasped for air, hyperventilating, and then she started to scream.

Madam Pomfrey was having a rare pleasant dream when the ungodly noise roused her. She jumped out of her bed and quickly rushed out to aid her distraught patient. Grabbing a vial of Calming Drought, she gently pressed the vial into the girl's hands, coaxing her to drink its contents. The screaming stopped as soon as the potion touched her tongue.

By the time she finished the potion, she was significantly more subdued. Harry, on the other hand, was more than a little shaken by the girl's reaction.

"Mr. Potter! Honestly, couldn't you have found a gentler way to break the news to the poor girl?" scolded the Mediwitch.

"I thought it'd be better to get it over with fast," Harry mumbled, quite abashed.

"Well, try not to provoke her too much now, her emotional state must be quite fragile after just waking up from such a long period of stasis." Turning to her silent patient, Madam Pomfrey continued, "I know it's shocking, dear, but everything is fine. Mr. Potter here will fill you in on what is going on," she smiled kindly, before going back to her quarters.


/FLASHBACK/

"What are you reading now, Tom?"

A slim brunette settled into a couch by the fireplace, her neck craning to get a peek at the tome clutched by the slender fingers of a handsome, 17-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"None of your business, Rose," he waved the girl away, but not unkindly.

"Play chess with me, I'm bored."

"I'm not."

"Unfriendly git," she grumbled.

"Selfish, spoiled brat," he smirked.

She grabbed the book and danced away out of his reach, earning an indignant "Hey!". She laughed and spun away when his arms tried to catch her. A mischievous glint sparkled in her violet eyes as she ran from his chasing form, her laughter resounding in the room. He caught her in no time, though; his arms snaked around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest, causing her already-pink from running cheeks to blush a bright red.

She tried to calm her rapidly beating heart, focusing her thoughts elsewhere, anywhere but the solid chest her back was pressing against.

" Very funny, Rose," his tone as if scolding a little girl.

"The Complexities and Intricacies of Time – Spells Gone Wrong. By Tim Turner," she read the title.

"This sounds horribly boring, Tom. Are you sure you won't rather play a game of chess?"

He neatly plucked the book from her hands in response.

/END FLASHBACK/


"Spells gone wrong, indeed," she thought darkly, and then sighed, "I'm sorry I screamed, it must have shocked you."

Harry laughed slightly nervously, "It did, yeah, I thought you had gone completely bat shit crazy for a moment there."

"I thought I had gone mad too, actually," Callista laughed sheepishly in response.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, she pierced Harry with her violet gaze.

"Tell me more."

Harry spent the next 3 hours or so telling about everything she had missed out on during her long slumber. He told her everything from Tom Riddle's evolution into one of the most powerful Dark Lords of all time to Voldemort's first rise to power. He recounted the fateful Halloween night that secured him his front line position in the current war as The-Boy-Who-Lived and the prophecy that made him the Chosen One. He even explained the secrets of Voldemort's immortality and described regretfully their failed attempts to retrieve and destroy the horcruxes. If she was the key to the war, then she needs to know everything. He spoke of the current war that the Light side was tragically losing and the people whom he failed to save and the most recent raid. He talked until his voice was hoarse and his eyes glistened with unshed tears while she listened quietly and attentively with her expression utterly unreadable, not once interrupting him.

"- and then for some reason I had the urge to go explore the Chamber. The basilisk was dead, I killed it in my second year, but it was surprisingly well preserved, by the way. I probably should send someone down to harvest the bits, must be worth quite a few galleons. And well, anyway, that was when I found you lying on the floor inside Slytherin's statue, and I immediately brought you to Madam Pomfrey," he finished.

She remained silent as he stopped talking and looked at her uncertainly, gauging her reaction. The silence quickly morphed into an awkward one, forcing Harry to look away. If only for the sake of breaking the silence, he conjured a goblet and filled it with water to soothe his burning throat. But just as he brought it up to his lips, her hand suddenly came out of nowhere and knocked it over. Harry spluttered in shock – his shirt now drenched with cold water – staring up at her now standing frame. Her eyes were burning with fury, practically spitting purple flames.

"You are a despicable liar!" she hissed at him.

Then she turned and ran out of the Hospital Wing, leaving Harry to sit there, soaked and shivering and completely flabbergasted.


Tom would never – could never – commit such atrocities. How dare that Potter accuse Tom of such crimes? Like grandfather, like grandson, she supposed. Charles Potter was never above such bitter and disgusting tricks in his blind crusade against all things Slytherin. This has to be some sort of sick joke. It can't be true, of course not. This is probably another of that git's pranks. But honestly, even Charles had never indicted Tom to such extents.

He wouldn't. Tom wouldn't.


/FLASHBACK/

"You haven't slept in 2 days, Tom! At least take a nap! That book can wait; it's not going to disappear."

The raven-haired boy ignored her and continued to read his precious book with an enraptured expression, his gaze scanning the text excitedly, shining with a strange fervour and triumphant glee.

"Tom, we have class tomorrow, you should get some –"

"Tell the teachers I'm not feeling well," he interrupted impatiently.

She gaped at him: the Head Boy Tom Riddle skipping classes? She never thought she'd see the day.

"I'm not going to lie for you, Tom, this is for your own good! Go and sleep," she retorted disapprovingly. She turned away and made towards the staircase that led to her rooms but was jerked back roughly. She stumbled backwards, finding herself looking up into Tom's icy blue stare, his hand gripping her elbow so tight his knuckles were white. His blue eyes narrowed threateningly.

"You will tell the teachers that I am not feeling well, do you understand?" he ordered her in a deceptively calm, yet absolutely frightening, voice.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" she struggled futilely to wrench her arm away from his crushing grip, but it only tightened painfully.

"Do you understand, Rose?" his voice was dripping with venom now, and Rose's eyes widened in slight fear.

"Tom, you're hurting me! Let go!" she snarled out furiously, attempting to use anger to mask her increasing alarm at Tom's behaviour.

His eyes narrowed in response, and his other hand shot out to curl around her neck. Rose gasped uselessly, her hands scrabbling at the one strangling her neck, and her mind spinning as it demanded the oxygen it was denied. Her eyes watered as the pressure around her throat increased. She could only gaze at Tom, transfixed at the frightening image of his blue eyes - wild with rage - and the tendrils of thick, dark aura that pulsed eerily around him. A tear slid down her cheeks and landed on Tom's arm as her vision blurred.

Tom's entire body suddenly blanched in response, and he jerked back as though burned, letting Rose go. His entire form sagged as his self-righteous fury evaporated and his expression quickly morphed into one of regret and panic. His blue eyes, now wide with concern, stared in horror at the bruise blooming on the sides of her neck.

"I'm sorry! Oh Merlin, Rose, I'm so sorry," he pleaded.

He didn't dare look at her. He didn't want to see the expression of anger, fear and disappointment he was sure to find on her face, so he looked away.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he repeated softly, his expression guilt-stricken.

She didn't reply; still in a state of shock, and too busy desperately gasping in lungfuls of delicious, precious air as she massaged her abused neck.

"Rose, please," his voice was pained, "Say something."

His hand reached to heal her exposed elbow, also bruised from his grip, this time without ill intent. But the moment her fingers touched her, she recoiled back as if struck, and her gaze snapped to him, and her purple eyes were fearful. She was scared of him.

"I'm going to go sleep," Tom mumbled and quickly escaped to the confines of his room, safe from her judging and apprehensive stare.

In his haste, Tom forgot all about the book he was reading, still lying on the couch.

Rose slumped against the wall, forcing herself to calm down. Tom just strangled her. He actually strangled her. She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly blinked it off. She recalled his rage-filled features, the pulsing aura, so very dark, the hate-filled gaze and the cruel smirk. She shook her head. That person just now, that wasn't Tom.

As she turned to retire to her rooms, her gaze was caught by the book that was left on the couch. Now burning with curiosity, Rose reached out for it, wondering what topics it wrote of that could entrance her friend so much. Tom had not been himself the past few days. He barely talked, ate or slept – all he did was read that accursed book. He became very short-tempered and earlier, completely menacing. She slowly lowered her eyes to the title, half fearful that the book was one of those tomes that cursed the reader.

"Immortality," she read. Frowning, she flipped through the book, but there were so many terms she could not understand. She rifled through the pages before pausing at one particular dog-eared chapter, its margins overflowing with Tom's elegant script. There was not one page of that chapter that has an inch of blank space, filled as it was with Tom's thoughts and questions. She flipped back to the beginning of the chapter.

Horcruxes, it was titled.

/END FLASHBACK/


Callista paled at the memory that surfaced in her thoughts.

Then she started shaking her head fervently in denial.

It was a book. It meant nothing. So what if Tom read a book on horcruxes? That doesn't mean he would go on to make one. That doesn't make whatever the Potter boy said about Tom being some crazed Dark Lord now true. Alright, so maybe he was quite interested in the subject. Oh, fine, very interested.

She bit her lip at the unwelcome thought, recalling the notes Tom had written all over the chapter on Horcruxes.

But it could've been for some research paper, some extra credit essay Slughorn wanted him to do! I'm sure he wasn't actually contemplating on making a Horcrux. Or six, like the Potter boy claimed, which really is just preposterous…right?

Her thoughts trailed off as she started to realize the very real possibility that Potter was, in fact, not lying to her. Her heart sank.

Tom killed at least six people to become immortal. Many more than six, actually, if all Harry Potter said was true. He became a murderer. Oh Merlin.

Callista sank to her knees in despair.


"The wards are too strong, my lord, we might need assistance from the Gringgotts curse-breakers. I have been negotiating with the goblins, give them a few more days, there should not be a problem," Lucius Malfoy's silky baritones echoed in the dark recesses of the spacious room.

The figure on the marble throne, nodded, pleased, for once.

"Thank you for your efforts, my friend," he announced imperiously, ruby eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Next."

A trembling Death Eater shuffled forward, hardly daring to raise his eyes to meet his Lord's crimson ones. Lord Voldemort felt a strong surge of fury, his hands already moving towards his wand, ready to torture the failure that was kneeling in front of him.

"What news do you have to report of your mission, Reef?" the Dark Lord hissed out, voice full of menace.

"I…he was…I couldn't-" the kneeling man stuttered, dread freezing his tongue.

"You have failed me, you imbecile, and I detest useless fools. Let me remind the rest of you why you should not disappoint me, shall I?"

Blood red eyes gleamed maliciously as he aimed his wand with relish.

He closed his eyes in anticipation of the surge of dark magic and sheer power.

"Avada Kedavra."