Tom had apparated from the sea cave, and found himself a few blocks away from Hermione's flat. After hiding the stolen wand in his baggy jeans, Tom took the poorly lit side street to the flat, marveling at how London had changed in the fifty years since he'd last seen it.

So far, his plan was working. The potion was coming along smoothly, with only a few weeks left until it was finished. And most importantly, Hermione still suspected nothing.

She was intelligent, though, far more than any witch from his time. The previous night, Hermione had shown her passion for theoretical Potions was nearly as strong as his. Tom deemed most people too brain-dead to waste time speaking to, but he found himself with a grudging respect for this witch.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, their bond was growing stronger with every minute spent in each other's company. At this stage of development, Tom and Hermione would be able to separate for up to a day without discomfort. After that, the headaches, nausea, and chills would begin to set in.

When the potion was complete they would, of course, need to consummate. Their sexual union would solidify the bond, anchoring Tom's soul to his new corporeal form. Tom still wasn't sure how he'd get her to agree; Hermione was one icy witch.

At least, Tom thought, he'd have nearly a month to get under her skin. He approached the building and waited to be let in.

The coil of tension in Hermione's abdomen seemed to relax as soon as Tom entered the flat. Her body flooded with an odd pleasure that made her flustered and annoyed.

"I've had the workspace set up already," she said without looking at him.

Tom bent down to have a whiff of its bitter fumes.

"This portion of the potion is going to be a little more time-consuming," Tom said. "I'm going to need your help with preparing the ingredients".

He took a seat at the worktop, giving Hermione a meaningful glance that she pretended not to notice.

"Okay".

Hermione sat down beside him on the bench, shuffling over so as not to be too close. She took a phial of filly grass and began to chop the blades into fine pieces.

"You'll have to be incredibly precise," Tom said.

Hermione shot him a withering look.

"I know how to chop filly grass."

"I'm sure you do, Hermione, but this potion requires painstaking precision."

"Something's painful, all right," Hermione grumbled under her breath.

Tom bit his tongue. Her insolence enraged him. His hand itched to pull out his wand and give Hermione a few rounds of the Cruciatus Curse. But the plan was too important to throw it away on one indulgent torture session.

"Has anyone told you you're a bit abrasive?" Tom asked.

"Why would I be nice to you?"

"Well, I've been nothing but polite, myself."

Hermione barked out a bitter laugh.

"A polite murderer is still a murderer."

Tom paused.

"Is this about my… other self? "

Hermione froze.

She hadn't even considered wether Tom had any idea of who he would become. If he didn't, Hermione had leverage. She would need to proceed carefully.

"How old are you, anyway?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"I'm twenty-nine."

Hermione did the math. That meant Tom's last memories would have been sometime in the late 1950s. Technically, she realized, this version of Voldemort wasn't even Voldemort. He was just a troubled young man with some very dark plans.

Hermione snuck a look at Tom. His chiseled features were set into a concentrated expression, and an errant curl had fallen into his face. It was strange to think he would transformed into a serpentine monster in the matter of a few decades.

Tom met her eyes unflinchingly.

"Did you know me?"

Hermione smiled sardonically.

"You could say that."

"I'm sorry."

Hermione nearly chopped off the tip of her thumb in surprise.

"What for?"

"Whatever it was that my other self did."

The witch looked away, staring into the swirling cauldron.

"It's time to stir," she said, grabbing her wand.

Tom sensed he was broaching a sensitive topic. Now that she was vulnerable, it was time to extract a little information.

"What is it that you do at the Ministry? Tom asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Why?"

"I'm just curious."

"I'm an assistant to a Department head. No security clearance. So you can't use me to infiltrate the Ministry, if that's what you were thinking."

"That's it? Filing papers and organizing meetings?"

"It's a perfectly good position," Hermione snapped.

"Of course. It's just a little surprising."

Hermione looked at Tom like she was seconds away from Avada.

"What's surprising about it?"

"Someone with your intelligence could easily have taken a research apprenticeship straight out of Hogwarts. Your magical strength is wasted on menial administrative work."

Hermione felt a pang in her chest. She knew it was true, so she said nothing.

"Well, of course there's the matter of your background."

"My background?"

"You're not part of the twenty-eight families, unless they've changed somehow since my time," Tom began. "You've got a Muggle TV, Muggle books, and wear Muggle clothes. So I'd wager a guess that you're Muggle-born."

Hermione's blood boiled over.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I am Muggle-born. And thankfully, in my time, Muggle-borns hold equal rights as members of Wizarding society. So I'd be very careful what you say."

The hint of a smirk passed over Tom's face.

"Is that really true, though?"

Hermione scoffed.

"Excuse me? Some of the most accomplished wizards and wizards in history were Muggle-born. In fact-"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware," Tom interrupted. "And I admit I may be out of touch with the current era. But can you honestly say that Muggle-borns are held in the same regard as Purebloods?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"Exactly. The wizarding world is no meritocracy- it's all about blood. That's why you're an assistant, and there's probably some Pureblood dolt mucking about in the position you should have had."

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"So what? You're saying you want a society that's all rainbows and equality?"

"Not quite," Tom smirked. "In magical society, power should simply go to those most deserving of it."

"Right. And that entitlement has nothing at all to do with pure magical blood?"

"Not blood status per se. It's intelligence and magical ability that are important. Of course, statistically, Pureblood wizards are more magically powerful-"

"Well of course they are, when they get to practice magic on holidays!" Hermione snapped. "They have supportive magical families, access to tutoring and libraries. The inequality begins at birth."

"I completely agree with you," Tom said.

Hermione paused.

"You… you do?"

"Of course," Tom said. "That's why my aim has always been to create reforms that allow Muggle-borns to better integrate into magical society."

Hermione snorted.

"What, by euthanizing them?"

"No, Hermione," Tom sighed. "By placing them with magical families who can foster their growth and give them better opportunities."

"What? You can't just take a child away from his family!"

Tom pursed his lips. Hermione's altruism was getting tiresome. Yet he had to admit it was almost endearing.

"It's either that, or letting power lie in the hands of the Twenty-Eight forever. I don't suppose you have a better idea?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. She didn't.

"Either way, I don't agree with you," Hermione sniffed.

Tom said nothing.

Wizarding Britain may have underestimated Hermione Granger, but he wouldn't be so foolish.

You'll come around sooner than you think, Tom thought.