A resonant toll emanating from the grand bell-tower resounds across the campus and sees the flight of crows past the ancient, brick-walled buildings of Hogwarts University. Faded browns and rusted oranges color Luna's path as she makes her way to the science building. With her arms extended at both her sides for balance, she steps with the tips of her toes on the fallen leaves and delights in the crunching sound, soft yet inspiring, bringing forth images of her father's pumpkin pie and of nights spent in a nook adorned with lanterns and books. The warmth of summer lingers, if not by its tangible heat, then by nostalgic impressions, but the breeze that ruffles her hair promises of shortening days and cold, wintry nights.
Luna loves it all the same.
Every season has its special touch, she decides, and she likes to contrast her ideas and thoughts in each one—draw a pattern, of sorts. Pinpointing what inspires those different streams of thought becomes easier that way.
Her sight registers a change in the monotony of autumnal colors to accommodate a sad shade of pink, darkened and decayed. She bends to pick up the lone flower, and though it speaks only of death, she smiles anyway. It now sits in her satchel, trapped by a metallic zipper and knitted fabric.
"Have I stalled long enough, I wonder?" she says, though no one is there to give an answer. She decides upon one herself, and her leisured pace gives way for a light run, blond hair beating about in the wind, her spirit jovial.
In her haze—though she would not call it thus, as it is how she usually exists in her conscious state—Luna collides with a figure; a man, but she doesn't truly spare a moment to examine him thoroughly, and only against the shoulder. It is enough for both of them to falter momentarily, but not lose footing.
"Sorry!" she says, resuming her jog and inclining her head in his direction to see that he has stopped dead in his tracks, a grim frown marring an otherwise handsome face. He looks at her with a condescending, if not scornful, gaze, but again she discards this to the back of her mind and focuses on arriving to her lecture on time.
Her pace slows as she ascends the few steps leading to the science building. The construction is a paradox of old and new, as if to pose as a physical timeline of humanity's greatest inventions. Its walls are rich mahogany, decorated by portraits of prominent scientists and neat posters, extending throughout the hallways and differing in content as subdivisions of departments intersect. Upon entry, an intricate model of the solar system, enticed into characteristic rotation by the delicate differences in magnetic strengths at the cores of its sun and planets, is the first thing to be noted, hanging from the very center of the ceiling much like a chandelier—a telltale sign that one is in the physics department.
Luna admires it only fleetingly, but aware of the scarcity of time, makes haste to climb the stairs to the department of chemistry, and then climbs yet another flight of stairs, stepping into the department of biological sciences.
A lovingly drawn portrait of Darwin adorns the far-left end of one wall. He stares solemnly and wisely into the spectator's eyes, his theories laid in blatant explanation as drawings as well. She looks at the magnificent tree detailing a history of kinship and evolution, walking along to see Mendel with his peas; Miescher with his nuclein; Rosalind Franklin with her x-ray photograph of the double helix.
A sense of excitement and odd pride tug at her heart and she draws in a breath, the corners of her mouth stretching in a grin.
She reaches the subdivision of modern biological sciences and glances at her schedule to make sure she remembers the number of the lecture hall correctly.
"322…" she mutters, scanning the plaques near the halls and quickly finding her designated one. She opens the door and is immediately met with loud chatter. All faces are alien to her, but clearly many of the students already know each other, perhaps from previous years, or are simply especially adept at making friends—a skill that Luna has yet to master, unfortunately.
Finding a seat isn't a straightforward undertaking, it appears, but amongst the dismissive faces she finds a welcoming one, belonging to a girl with fiery hair and a brave smile. Luna returns the smile, albeit more dreamily than bravely, and sits beside her, placing her satchel on the ground after retrieving a pen and a notebook.
"Ginny," the girl says, extending a hand.
"Luna Lovegood," she responds, shaking Ginny's hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Ginny."
"You too—"
But a chance to become better acquainted is promptly stolen when the door opens again and sends the hall into a deafening silence. The only sound that follows is the measured footfall of the intruder, and Luna recognizes him immediately.
"I bumped into him on my way here…" she mutters, more to herself than to anyone.
"You bumped into Professor Riddle?" exclaims Ginny in a hushed tone, and a few students look at the two chatting girls warily. "Let's pray he was in a jolly good mood, or that's a goodbye to your future career."
A light frown settles on Luna's face but it is quickly cleared. Unnecessary worry seems like a waste of energy. "I'm sure it will be alright."
One or two students take it upon themselves to issue a sharp "shh!" in their direction, just before the professor clears his throat. He has dispensed with his jacket and rolled the cuffs of his white shirt to his elbows. The way he holds himself speaks of confidence—relaxed stance, straightened back, hands in pockets—and he scans the hall with a calculating gaze from behind horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes unmistakably intense even from a distance, but there is no telling what thoughts run through his mind. His face is blank and inscrutable.
Eventually, he speaks.
"I trust everyone here is aware that this is a course in synthetic biology. If you believe it to be anything otherwise, I suggest you leave before I proceed." There is a bored quality to his deep voice, and he stops to wait for a reduction in numbers with a raised, expectant brow. The lecture hall remains static. "No one?" he says. "Well, I hope to remedy this by the end of this lecture."
If Luna thinks he is strange, she doesn't let it show.
"I won't be starting with the course material today, but rather I shall provide an introduction of sorts." Professor Riddle begins to stroll, and the students hold their breath whenever he passes by them, exhaling at length when he gives them his back. "Every one of you has finished courses that aimed to supply you with the necessary knowledge to comprehend this one; and supposedly, the fact that you passed your examinations is a testament to a successful endeavor, no?"
A few grunt and murmur in agreement.
He stops in the middle of the hall and says, "Well then surely you can tell me what is meant by synthetic biology. Who would like to contribute with an opinion?"
Again, static silence.
Professor Riddle's mouth twists in a lazy smirk. "I'm aware the question implied some form of democracy, but, and for future reference, it is entirely false. If no one participates by will, I shall force and likely embarrass you."
Still no one raises their hand.
He cocks his head in a manner that says, As you wish, and singles out a very nervous young man. "What's your name?" he demands.
"L-Longbottom, sir," stammers the student, "Neville Longbottom."
"Well, Mr. Longbottom? What is synthetic biology?"
"Um…" he starts, shifting in his seat and wetting his lips. "Well—it can be said… that it's the… opposite of… natural biology?"
Indistinct laughter issues from here and there, and Luna frowns.
The professor silences the noise with a single gesture, his eyes never leaving the now-sweating Neville. "In what way?" he says.
"In… w-well… um…"
Presently Professor Riddle grows bored with the stammering and looks away from Neville with such dismissiveness, such disdain, that he might as well have expelled him from the course altogether.
A girl raises her hand, but Luna can't see her face from where she is sitting, and Professor Riddle gestures towards her in allowance to speak.
She clears her throat and starts in a clear voice, "Synthetic biology is a science that involves redesigning organisms for useful purposes by engineering them to have new properties."
There is a clear sense of triumph in her intonation, but it takes the professor a moment to respond, and when he does, it is with disinterest.
"Hm. Yes, that is how your book would define it. And ironically, repeating what already exists is the exact antithesis to what you just defined."
Sighing, and uncaring of her affronted protests, he continues, "Take a look around you." He spreads his arms to both sides, and the students heed his words. "Everyone you see is the product of mutations; infinitesimal changes that touched the simplest forms of organisms billions of years ago and led to the vast complexity that you see in yourself. It all seems so radical, doesn't it? Perhaps it is when viewed so reductively and stated in a single sentence." He passes each row as he ascends, still gauging his students with an analytical gaze. "The genetic difference between you and bacteria is immense, I'm sure you know. But what of the difference between you and your friend? Can you give me a number for the percentage difference in your DNA?"
He points at a succession of students, who answer with 25%, 15%, 20%…
He shakes his head and lets his arm drop. "0.1%. That is the difference between you and every human on this earth." A murmur rises but dies quickly. "If such a relatively small number of mutations is what it takes to generate this massive diversity, can you imagine what could be achieved if we harnessed the power to induce mutations? Now we are getting closer to what synthetic biology really is."
As he descends the steps, his eyes lock with Luna's, and there is an instant flash of recognition on his face, quite fast and transient, but she has a knack for noticing fine details. The thinning lips and hardened eyes tell her that she is indeed not in his favor. She looks away.
"Close your eyes," comes the odd demand, but everyone does as instructed. "Imagine any entity you want, and think of a problem. Now imagine how this entity can be used to solve that problem."
If Luna opened her eyes, she would see furrowed brows that speak of confusion all around her, but that is far from being her concern right now. Her mind brings forth an image of the flower in her satchel, but instead, it is alive and thriving in a lovely pot, perhaps sitting on the windowsill in her kitchen. She remembers the foul odor of gasoline that often disturbs her when she boils water for her herbal teas and imagines the plant breaking down the benzene in the air. What a lovely idea! she almost exclaims to Ginny.
But her instructor's voice brings her back to reality. She opens her eyes, which are now glistening with excitement, to find him looking at her with his signature condescending look. She doesn't let it bother her.
"I'm sure most of you only managed to draw two dots but couldn't connect them. Or perhaps you did so with a fantastical line that has no business existing in reality. And this is exactly what makes this course challenging. Synthetic biology is not a rigid science, but it's not a playground for imagination either. It is an intersection of logic and creativity. Fact and intuition. And if you find yourself lacking in any of those qualities then I encourage you entirely to leave this course from the very start."
Ginny mouths a 'wow' and rolls her eyes, but Luna is admittedly too riveted to notice.
Professor Riddle smiles, but in a way that makes him seem sadistic and unfeeling. She wonders how he manages such a cold presence. His aura has to be the most imposing yet the most chilling she has ever encountered. But more than anything, this only manages to intrigue her.
He's quite a fascinating person, she decides, tilting her head slightly to the side.
"It is evident I expect a lot from you," he says. "And I'm not kind to those who disappoint me. Throughout the course, you will be subjected to a rigorous selection process that guarantees that only the best get to remain. Survival of the fittest, you may wish to call it," he finishes with a drawl, smirking to himself, before looking at them again.
"You see, those who master the art of mutation, master the art of creation. And not everyone is worthy of a skill that could very well be used to take control of the world. Or wouldn't you agree?"
Ginny's eyebrows rise to the top of her forehead, and Luna leans closer, much like she does when she locates a particularly taxing puzzle.
The professor strides to the board and takes a chalk into his hand. Every written letter is like a strike, forming his name.
As soon as he finishes, he spins on his heel to face them. "To those who wish to stay, my name is Professor Tom Riddle. Welcome to principles of synthetic biology."
He grabs his jacket and his briefcase and promptly exits. At once, the hall erupts in loud chatter.
"What a nut job!" exclaims Ginny, throwing her head back and stretching her arms above her head. "Didn't even give us the syllabus!" She cracks her knuckles. "Or discuss the lab arrangements! Or even talk about grade distributions!"
Luna hums, too distracted to contribute with a substantial opinion.
Ginny eventually slumps against her seat. "You're right, at least he's hot. Hey, what do you have now?"
"A break, then I have biochemistry." She offers her schedule to her friend, who scrunches her face and returns it to her after inspection.
"Guess we only have this lecture in common. See you in the dorms, then?"
The blonde nods. "Sounds lovely, perhaps we could talk about the flower that digests benzene," she says dreamily.
Ginny looks confused, but is nice enough not to deny such a concept. "Um… yeah. See you later, Luna."
Luna waves at her with a smile and watches her leave with a group of friends. The hall begins to clear when she decides that she should go too, but as she passes by the teacher's desk, she notices an envelope, still sealed, lying on the surface. Professor Riddle must have forgotten it here.
A pang of nervousness strikes her as she realizes she will have to go to his office and return it, and she briefly considers leaving it here, but eventually decides against it.
Maybe she can use this as an opportunity to remedy their bad start?
Encouraged by the thought, she take the envelope into her grasp, and proceeds.
Professors' offices are located on the last floor of the science building, at just a high enough altitude to offer a vantage point of the northern side of the campus from a terrace at the very end of the hallway, near the staircase from which Luna came. Its glass doors, clothed by sheer lilac curtains, are purposely left ajar to allow a gentle breeze to drift inside. Sunlight also streams in plentifully, throwing onto the floor impressions of curtain-filtered lilac colors and patterned shadows.
It's all very peaceful here, Luna thinks as she walks down the hallway, her fingers lightly touching the leafs of potted-plants—perhaps its design is meant to dispel any qualms a student might have about visiting a professor during office hours.
She peers into the few opened doors and sees indications of all kinds of personalities. Some offices are light-hearted with subtle decorations and personal memorabilia, and some are grim and foreboding; all dark mahogany and towering bookshelves. She hears light chatter and laughter from one direction, and incessant typing on keyboards from another.
Her eyes pass over the names on golden plaques before at last finding the one she intends. Prof. Tom Riddle. The door is closed, and she gently presses her ear against it, but there is not a sound. Knocking thrice and waiting, no one answers.
A sigh escapes her lips, the envelope hanging loosely between her fingers.
"No need to despair, dear girl," comes a voice from behind, startling her. She turns to see a rather elderly man with a distinguished beard and a twinkle in his eyes. "Professor Riddle will arrive shortly."
"Oh," she voices, quickly adjusting her mind to accommodate his presence. "That's good to hear. I suppose I shall wait for him here, then." And she abruptly, but not without a charming sort of gracefulness, seats herself on the ground.
The professor chuckles heartily. "There's no reason you should be uncomfortable while you wait, Miss…"
"Luna Lovegood," she readily supplies.
"Miss Lovegood. Come to my office and we'll have tea and biscuits."
Looking at him with unblinking eyes, she stands. "It's very kind of you, sir."
"Oh, hardly. It's to my benefit as well as I rather enjoy the company." Extending a courteous arm, he gestures to her to start walking.
Luna smiles vaguely and says, "Yes, it's difficult to discuss ideas when one is alone, I find."
He nods once. "Quite right."
Upon unlocking the door to his office, he allows her to enter first, and she notes instantly that his space is much larger, much more luxurious than any of the offices she saw. High bookshelves line the walls up to an inclination of a few steps that lead to a cozy alcove where his desk resides, behind which is a large window overlooking a lake. Trinkets and wooden sculptures and paraphernalia belonging to vastly different ages fill the room, and she can't help but find it all so enchanting.
Caressing a wooden phoenix with the back of her index, she says, "You have a lovely collection, professor."
"Yes, I've been fortunate enough to travel to many exotic places in my youth, and along the way I made friends from all over the world. Some of the things you see are specifically sought, and other are dearly treasured gifts," he says, bringing a kettle to a brew and setting a tray of biscuits onto a low table, which is circled by three armchairs.
Luna sits, but struggles to restrain her wandering eyes. "How come your office is much larger than the other ones, if I might ask?"
His blue eyes twinkle as he sits opposite her, and she decides it's a distinguishing characteristic of his. "It comes with being the dean of the faculty—makes up for all the paperwork, if you ask me."
Her eyebrows rise in realization, and she looks at the nameplate at once to confirm her suspicions. Indeed, in emblazoned letters, she finds Prof. Albus Dumbledore clearly written.
"You're Professor Dumbledore!" she says, gray eyes turning one shade lighter with excitement, quiet though it may be. "I've heard a great deal about you, sir. Your accomplishments precede you. I particularly enjoyed reading about the time you played an Elvis Presley song in an elderly house and patients with Alzheimer's broke out of their stupor and began to dance."
Professor Dumbledore pours some tea in both their cups with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, it was a joyous moment," he says, amused. "But I admit that this case isn't what most people would site as being especially noteworthy."
Luna takes her cup in both hands and sips before shaking her head slightly to convey disagreement. "You reminded those people of life after they had forgotten it," she says in a matter-of-fact voice. "That is very noteworthy."
He considers this momentarily, and nods, smiling. "Perhaps you are right, Miss Lovegood." Sipping once from his tea, he prompts, "Say, what is it that you wished to speak about with Professor Riddle?"
"I wanted to return to him this envelope," she says, raising the object in question to his line of sight. "He forgot it in the lecture hall—it must have slipped from his briefcase."
"Ah," he voices and regards the envelope with interest. "I can give it to him myself if that is all."
But she looks at his offered palm and shakes her head. "If it's alright professor, I'd rather do it myself. It makes for a good opportunity to apologize properly for bumping into him this morning."
"I see," he says, just before he leans back in his chair and looks at a point behind her. "Well Miss Lovegood, it seems my proposal was unnecessary to begin with."
And indeed, turning her head to see what captured his interest, she finds Professor Riddle closing the door behind him and striding towards them in his dignified gait. Luna ponders momentarily how he managed to enter so quietly that she failed to hear him, but such pondering is quickly stifled and buried when his eyes look away from Dumbledore and pierce into hers.
There is the initial impression of confusion—he clearly was not expecting to find her here—that is quickly succeeded by a walled sort of intensity. He looks down his nose at her, an analytical sort of gaze, before deciding she isn't quite worth the attention.
"Good day, Professor Riddle," she greets anyway.
Completely ignoring her, he directs his speech to Dumbledore, "I see you're accepting students even before office hours are set."
For his part, the aged scholar bears no semblance of surprise. If his relaxed smile gives any indication at all, Luna might say he was expecting the other's arrival.
"On the contrary," he says and sets his cup down, looking at Riddle through crescent-shaped glasses. "Miss Lovegood is the one who accepted to join me for tea and biscuits." And he turns his gaze towards her in a silent, smiling prompt to further clarify.
"I actually came for you, Professor Riddle," she says serenely. "Professor Dumbledore was only kind enough to let me wait with him until you arrived."
He turns his head slightly to one side, frowning.
It's interesting how he speaks without saying a word, she observes.
And as an answer to his unworded question, Luna rises from her seat and moves to stand before him. This does little to diminish the height difference between them and he still towers over her, but she feels less small in her own eyes, and that is what matters. Her dainty hand extends the envelope to him and she says, "I meant to return this to you, sir."
He tenses—quite the minuscule change, but she notices anyway, her gray eyes unabashedly observant—and takes it from her at once.
"Where did you find this?" he says brusquely.
"On your desk at the end of the lecture."
He flips it in a fluid motion, checking if it remains to be sealed, before pocketing it in his blazer. His eyes flick in Dumbledore's direction so as to gauge the old man's curious attentiveness, and he exhales in mild irritation.
"And is that all?" he says at last.
"Well I—"
But he cuts her off, voice lowered with the intention of reaching her ears alone. "If you have anything to discuss, you may do so in the scheduled hours. Right now, however, is hardly is the suitable time."
Having heard nonetheless, Dumbledore intervenes with a voice befitting a reproachful father; gentle in its disappointment, but demeaning to a man of Professor Riddle's sense of grandeur. "Miss Lovegood merely wished to extend an apology. Surely you can afford her that?"
Luna senses the tension between the two men, but before she can say anything herself, her professor has a surprising change in demeanor. He smiles, admittedly charming, and says, "Of course. Please go on, Miss Lovegood."
She blinks, brows slightly raised. "Yes… I'm sorry for colliding into you this morning—I was absentminded, but I admit that's not much of an excuse."
"Quite the forgettable incident," he assures in a smooth voice. "You may rest your conscience."
Nodding slowly, she examines him. Without the imposing edge, he appears rather pleasant. She would have told him this if she didn't deem it forced.
She smiles then—a vague, knowing smile, and says, "That's a relief, then. I can sense that my presence is unwelcome, so I'll go now." Looking behind him, she says, "Have a good day, Professor Dumbledore," then looking at him, "Professor Riddle."
"You as well, Miss Lovegood!" calls Dumbledore as Riddle escorts her out. His presence weighs heavily behind her, and she finds it peculiar how tense it makes her feel, but she continues to walk forward with an air of simple nonchalance. He opens the door for her, and as soon as she is back in the hallway, he shuts it firmly, their eyes meeting one last time as he does so."He really doesn't like me, does he?" she muses to herself, head tilted. With a small shrug, she checks the time and determines that she has more than half an hour before her next lecture. "Perhaps I'll have some pudding… or coffee. I didn't get to finish my tea…"
And she sets off to find a nearby café. Every faculty has its designated café, she discovers, and she is pleased to find that the one attributed to the science faculty has a vintage, retro-futuristic ambience. Cogs and gears decorate the walls, and the cups and mugs are shaped like flasks and beakers. Especially charming is a siphon coffee maker dating back to the 1840s that the customers themselves can operate.
"One cup of coffee, please," she tells the barista, giving him the money. "I'd like to try the siphon brewer."
He hands her the receipt. "Go on right ahead, Miss."
"I like your shirt, by the way." She points at the picture of Oliver Sacks on his shirt.
Grinning, he says, "A great neurologist."
She nods with a grin of her own, her eyes shining, before heading to the brewer.
With the nearby lighter, Luna sets the burner to a gentle flame after filling the lower bowl with water, allowing it to heat up as she grinds the coffee beans. Slowly, the water rises to the upper glass, and she adds the coffee and stirs at intervals before turning off the burner and allowing her brew to sit. She watches as the brown liquid descends to the bottom glass with the enjoyment of a budding scientist, and pours her coffee into a beaker-like mug.
Then she retires to a seat far away from the chatter, right next to the chemical structure of caffeine that is hung on the wall, and adds sugar to her mug, sipping slowly lest she gets burnt.
Her thoughts take a hold of her and she easily slips out of reality and into her mind.