Into Your Gravity ( Luna Lovegood & Tom Riddle )

Chapter three: Introductions

"You're Russian?" he asked, deadpan, words heavy with skepticism.

"Ah, no. I'm English," she said, eyelashes fluttering downward. "My, um, father is Russian, though, and wanted me to attend Koldovstoretz."

"You speak Russian, then?"

She hesitated a fraction of a breath, less than the time between one echoing footstep to another. "Yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're lying." His voice had changed; previously, even through the smirks, sarcasm, and skepticism, he had maintained a careful cover of politeness in his tone, which now fell away.

Luna felt indignant despite knowing this was a factual statement. "I am not."

"Yes, you are. I don't know why you are, but you are."

"Well, that's awfully presumptuous of you. You've only just met me, and I'm quite excited to be here for my first day, and you're being remarkably unwelcoming. At Koldovstoretz, you would be made to stand outside in the snow and be subject to a Toe Biter jinx as punishment for your lack of hospitality."

The boy stopped walking to stare at her, and Luna took two more steps before stopping as well and looking back at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time she could ever recall, she felt she was being perceived by someone just as perceptive as she was. A second passed. The faintest shiver traveled from her head to her toes. She didn't blink, and the boy frowned. He broke their eye contact. "Fine," he said, continuing to walk, brushing past her, crossing into the intermittent moonbeams cast onto the floor through the windows in the corridor. "What do I care if you're full of rubbish."
•

The girl flitted after him. "I'm Luna Lovegood," she said.

"Not really a Russian name, is it?"

She winced. "We immigrated once or twice."

"Lovegood...I think I've heard of it. You're pure-blood, then?"

"The polite thing to do would be to then provide your name, sir," she said, "but yes, I'm pure-blood." There was a bored tone to her voice that she didn't bother concealing. She wasn't interested in bloodlines, then. Probably a Mudblood lover, like her supposed relation, Dumbledore.

"Tom Riddle," he said after a brief pause.

"Well, your name sounds familiar, too."

A look of disgust passed over his face like a shadow. "I'm certain you wouldn't have heard of it."

She shook her head, causing her waist-length blonde hair to undulate back and forth in gentle waves, catching the moonlight and winking it back at him. "If you say so."

Another lull in the conversation fell, and Tom stole the opportunity to further scrutinize the girl next to him once again. She was small, more than a full head shorter than him, and everything about her seemed to evoke a feeling that she was about to just up and float away: soft, wispy hair; thin frame; a gait more like drifting than walking; arching brows over grey eyes half-unfocused at least half the time.

As he watched her from the corner of his eye, she crouched near the ground. He was just about to ask her what she was doing when he saw a small, grey mouse approaching her outstretched hand, taking tentative steps into a square of light on the ground. The girl reached into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out a dinner roll which she must have pocketed from the feast earlier, broke off a small, mouse-sized piece, and offered it to the little creature. The mouse stood on its hind legs to sniff at the offering, whiskers twitching. Then it grasped the bit of bread in its tiny hands, placed the bread in its mouth, and scampered back out of sight.