A/N: I wrote this fic for this prompt by kitchensink13 on LiveJournal: the request was for a Tom/Minerva dieselpunk fic under the prompt "You grow more ignorant with age". This fic hasn't been beta-ed, but I've revised it since I wrote it. It probably sounds better while listening to "This Flight Tonight" by Nazareth. Also, it may be just slightly AU in the fact that Tom is barely out of Hogwarts and already has an agenda, but then again, maybe not.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, names, places or situations idenifiable from the Harry Potter series.

During the years Gellert Grindelwald tormented the Wizarding World there was a Muggle war that ravaged the entire world. For some reason, Minerva couldn't be as distant about this as some tried to be. She found that knowing that her home was under fire it was hardly more soothing than not knowing Grindelwald was on the loose. It didn't go on behind doors and it wasn't as unknown to the general population, of course, but just like what took place among Wizards impacted everyone else, so she believed this affected her own kind.

This was how Minerva justified fighting in two wars at once. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Lately, she simply felt as though her participation in the Wizarding War wasn't as important as she wanted to make it out to be, with Albus asking a favour here and there but disappearing for large periods of time without explaining what he was doing. He occasionally told her or asked her for advice, but he seldom shared the whole story until it was all done. Even then, she had her doubts that he wasn't omitting a detail or two.

"I'd never have imagined, Minerva," a cold voice came from the other side of the aircraft, "That you would be the first to trade your broomstick in for this device."

This voice would never be strange to her, she thought, not bothering look over the shiny metal surface. Instead, she stared at the gears she had been struggling with all day. At least the jet of diesel she had to contend with in the morning had simply turned into a series of rivulets on the ground. Of course, it could simply be the case that the tanks were drying up, because Minerva didn't feel like she was making any actual progress in fixing anything.

Without noticing, she stroked her chin, thoughtfully, leaving a small dark smudge on her skin. The voice talked again, this time closer. Looking down, she could see a pair of impeccable shoes and trousers which though worn were of very good quality. They were just on the other side of the aircraft, and the other person seemed to be staring at the metal as they spoke, "You could fix that in just seconds, and better than most people I know."

Minerva set her wrench down vehemently, on a toolbox propped up on the wing of aircraft, with a loud sigh. She could hear the speaker breathing, and wondered if he was warm enough to actually fog the metal, like any human would. After taking her sweet time to take off her work gloves and wipe her hands clean of fuel and oil smudges, she climbed up and stared down at the young man, her elbows resting on the side of the cockpit facing him.

"Well, I couldn't use reparo on this," she patted the aircraft, "It's just not ethical. It's a Muggle war, Riddle."

"Then why do you fight at all?" He didn't look at her, simply standing there and staring at the striped metal. "You know full well the Germans aren't going without aid. Neither are the Japanese, or the Italian. They don't worry about whether it says 'Muggle War' on the label."

Minerva didn't know what to say. She was vaguely aware of this, but wanted to believe they were just rumours, foul play. Yet why would the Wizarding Community not take up arms if they knew that so well? The thought almost made her discredit the pale young man standing there, but then again, if anyone knew, that'd be him.

"I just don't know if I should be mixing my duty to my country and my being a witch," she explained, in what was practically a whisper.

Tom finally looked up at her, the piercing dark eyes that always annoyed her so much staring right at her, at her dishevelled hair, at her blue overalls, at the piece of faded cloth holding her hair down and away from jets of diesel, plane oil, and ash. Had he smirked? He looked like he had, in that way in which he always did things so imperceptibly. At the same time, he held out his hand. Minerva took it, looking down and marvelling at how fragile it looked, and how relatively warm it felt. Moments later, she had hopped off onto the ground and was standing next to Tom, who had stopped contemplating the aircraft and stared at her instead.

His breath had indeed left small clouds on the cold metal, that were now disappearing quickly. Minerva almost irrationally wished they wouldn't.

"Minerva, you are one of the most brilliant women I have ever met. Heck, maybe even the most brilliant. Why are you even doing this? You left Hogwarts about one year ago. There's a whole brilliant career waiting for you."

She shrugged, not bothering to add that Albus had offered her a teaching position at Hogwarts, and how he had allowed her to postpone it until she was done with this. Tom would never have understood. He seemed to guess something, because he added, "You're letting that Albus idiot talk you out of your wits."

Minerva shook her head, some stray locks of hair about her face, not even correcting and him and saying "Professor Dumbledore" like she would have. Tom ignored her silence and continued, "You know as well as I do that you're not meant to be your whole life teaching at Hogwarts, under Albus Dumbledore's nose. I tell you, the man's delusional. Someone else, someone more powerful, will one day be able to crush him, and with him, everyone at his side. It's just a matter of time, and if you're by that foolish old man's side tehn, you'll be one of them. Is that what you want, Minerva?"

"I take it you mean yourself? How exactly, Tom, do you intend to ever be that powerful? You're just a young man, you've only just now finished your sixth year at Hogwarts!" She was looking down, but her voice sounded choked with tears rather than angry. It wasn't that she didn't think him capable, but that she hoped he wasn't. Finally, she looked up, a pleading in her eyes. She couldn't stand hearing her name on Tom's tongue, she couldn't stand being told so plainly what she hoped for the future, she couldn't stand having her alliances criticized. Her tone became cold and exasperated, "And it's professor Dumbledore to you, Tom."

Tom laughed, a cold laugh that always scared her a little, "Come on, I'll race you."

"What, with the aircrafts?" Minerva looked at him incredulously, "I can't waste fuel like that."

Tom pulled out his wand, "No, you can't."

"And I might be sighted by Muggle radars and gunned down."

"Yes, you might. But not with this," he waved the wand about as though inspecting it, "Besides, since when have you been so afraid of them?"

"They're human beings too, Tom," she told him, frowning, "They can do everything we can."

"No, not everything," he replied, categorically, calmly walking around the plane and flicking his wand at the open lid from where an infinity of gears peeked out, then at the tank engine, then at the whole plane. Minerva wondered if he still needed to wave his wand about so theatrically for spells like reparo or if this was just for the show, and decided on the latter.

She couldn't find excuses now, so she climbed into the cockpit, checking everything distractedly and being far too aware of Tom's presence, repeating similar procedures on a nearby aircraft. Almost in perfect synchrony with Tom, she materialized a helmet on her lap, and secured it on her head.

"Ready?" she heard him call, and nodded.

"Yes. Let's go."

They took off, Minerva for the first time feeling safe enough to marvel at the amount of countryside under her. There were flocks and flocks of sheep, young people talking gravely, one or two cars. Otherwise, it was too hot (though the sky above was cloudy and grey) to leave the house without a specific and important purpose. There were small cottages, some big mansions, small forgotten shacks and entirely untouched lakes and rivers surrounded by dense forests. After allowing her enough time to look at the scenery, Tom sped on, and she had to catch up with him.

The two went higher and higher, and when Tom thought them high enough, his aircraft turned a bright purple. Minerva laughed, though only after worrying about being spotted and remembering the spells Tom had cast. Then it turned, and seemingly stayed, emerald green. For a few moments, she tried to be the righteous Minerva McGonagall who probably would never borrow the Air Force's aircrafts for races, but finally retaliated. Her plane was a bright scarlet colour, the two stripes on the side turned golden. She imagined Tom's laugh, but doubted it had occurred.

They went on and on in the vast openness of the sky. Usually they just tried to see who was faster, and sometimes Minerva would be quite in front of Tom, and other times he had the lead. Often, one of them would start drawing loops or diving (only to reappear in the front moments later) and the other would follow, as if pursuing an enemy craft. For someone who prided himself on being a Wizard far too much to be healthy, it was surprising how Tom knew how to fly a plane so well. She remembered the first weeks of her private training, on a field near the McGonagall manor. It had reminded her of Quidditch, except less flexible and with a higher rate of being killed instantly and unexpectedly.

At some point, Minerva disappeared completely. Tom flew down and then up and then forward, looking around, but no avail. When he was starting to worry, she showed up right in front of him, sticking her tongue out and getting only one of his customary looks of (feigned, she hoped) austerity.

When everything darkened around them, they were miles away and the clouds had vanished. Instead, they found themselves in peaceful sunset skies, but their only acknowledgment to this fact was simply stopping the maneuvers so Minerva could look about. Eventually, when stars were already above their heads, they made their way back.

Then, the unexpected happened. Just when she saw the landing ground ahead, her aircraft seemed to spiral down, heading to the Earth at an alarming speed. Struggling to figure out what had gone wrong, if they had reparo'd the plane correctly, a strong suspicion of reality hit her on the face with shocking clarity. Hadn't Tom promised to keep her safe? No, no, he hadn't. How had she even taken what he had merely insinuated for his word? He was Tom Riddle, not her trustworthy best friend Albus. Tom was ruthless, and now she remember what truly had set them apart in their final years at Hogwarts, rather than political disagreements or House rivalries. Cursing under her breath, she fumbled with the jet pack under her seat.

It was usually to be attached to the pilots' backs or at least stacked away somewhere at hand, which sometimes caused them to go off accidentally while still in the planes. In a rare display of recklessness and fear, Minerva seldom put it on because she hated jet packs as much as she could. And now she was paying for it.

She only had enough time to pull one arm through one of the straps, gripping it firmly with her elbow because she couldn't adjust the loop. Just one moment later than she should have, really. Pulling the big metal ring, off she went, projected from the cockpit of that death trap and several feet up into the air, spinning unstably and attempting to land as quickly and smoothly as possible. Dangling from one arm from a device that always made her uneasy wasn't her notion of "better than firm ground", but at least it wasn't a plane headed full speed into concrete. Partially due to the lack of practice, partially due to the imperfections of the device, she simply tumbled and spun her way down.

The landing wasn't too rough, but it was brusque and ungraceful enough to make her want to stay still in the smoking mass of metal that remained of the jet pack.

Fighting against herself, she hurried to her feet and away from the cold concrete ground, grabbing her glasses in the process. Fortunately, they were just slightly crooked and dirty. She felt for her wand, relieved at finding it intact in her pocket even though she wouldn't need it for what she had in mind. A quick glance in that general direction told her Tom was still in the air. Minerva would still have enough - though not much - time to do what she needed to do.

Carefully positioning herself behind an old, unclaimed car that had been in the hangar for a long time and which had since been nicknamed "Archie", she crouched down. The emerald green aircraft flew over the ruby red pile of twisted metal out on the field and down into safety. When it stopped, Tom sat there for a few moments before cautiously stepping out. Minerva couldn't see him now, but she could hear his footsteps echoing about in the hangar.

Just when he was reasonably close, Minerva pulled out her ray gun. It was one of the latest models. Though it wasn't distributed to ATA pilots, there was enough space in under-the-table commercial transactions to harbour them and people who acquired them thus out of a need for extra safety. Maybe she wasn't as lawful as she had Tom believe her to be. With a shrug, she flicked it, quickly standing up and shooting at him.

Tom ducked by mere inches and muttered something slightly under his breath. Minerva guessed it was a spell, because the bright miniature bolt that was starting to pop from her gun froze in mid-air. She had never known how gradual a motion it was, because the process usually happened so quickly it seemed like everything was more or less simultaneous. And now, there it was, the image that usually took up the smallest fraction of a second, in such plain sight. She didn't have the time to marvel at the image, because the ray gun flew from hand, apparently due to a swift expelliarmus from Tom.

Promptly drawing her wand, she bellowed "Expelliarmus!" before he could say it again. Tom's wand was soon at her feet she picked it up, and still pointing hers at him.

He stood there, staring at her coldly. Minerva approached him.

"Why did you do that?" Her voice didn't come out as calm as she expected, but rather broken by small sobs here and there, "Why did you try to kill me? I trusted you."

"Join me," he said, simply.

"No, Tom. I won't. You know why? Because you do this sort of thing. You show up here, seemingly on friendly terms, and then you try to sabotage an innocuous race into a death trap for me."

Tom shrugged, "The more you grow, the less you know. Has anyone ever told you that, Minerva? Your knowledge is starting to be what Dumbledore wants it to be. Underdeveloped. At the service of some twisted version of a greater good. Is that what you want for yourself?"

"Then if I know less and less as time goes by, why did you try to kill me? Why not just let me turn into Albus Dumbledore's doormat you accuse me of being?" Minerva was certain she was starting to cry, because her glasses fogged up a little.

He didn't hesitate, and his voiced remained calm, even though what he was about to say wasn't at all expected, " I don't want to see you stuck on the wrong side of things when the right time comes around, Minerva. Or should I say Minnie? Does Albus call you Minnie?"

"How dare you!" She blushed furiously. "I'm not on the wrong side. Everyone sees you teaching at Hogwarts yourself! If I'll just age into a cripple, then it shouldn't worry you that Albus has someone like me among his ranks."

Tom shook his head, "It doesn't. You could age into anything, but I don't want to see you in his ranks. I want you in mine. Even if I'd take up a position in Hogwarts, I don't want you to."

"Why?"

"Personal interest."

Minerva knew this was probably the biggest expression of Tom's feelings she would ever get. "Personal interest" was the Tom Riddle equivalent of "Minerva McGonagall, elope to Alaska with me to live in a shack in the snow, and while we're at it, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I love and admire you".

She barely suppressed a smile. "Are you... jealous? There's no reason to. Dumbledore," it was hard to explain to someone who could use it against him, "just isn't that interested."

"I know full well of his leanings. But I think there is a good reason to be jealous," Tom said, and Minerva noticed how horribly close he'd managed to get to her. He softened up the coldness of his eyes for a few moments - the Riddle equivalent to a smile - after seeing the smudge of oil on her chin.

When Tom left, he had a similar smudge on his own face, and because he made a point of fixing her glasses and the aircraft while she slept, it was the only visible trace of anything that had happened the day before. Minerva told herself she could not love him anymore, because she knew a thing or two about love, and this wasn't it. The more she watched others love and be loved, the less she possessed that inherent understanding of love she once had. The youthful idealism of loving even those who might be far from us, following down different paths, had gone away like rivulets of diesel on the worn concrete of the hangar.