Dawning Moon | Tom Riddle x reader

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

1932

UPON an evening after a waltz, you were slumped at the corner of the ballroom. Wizards and witches come and go as you feel boredom has taken over your entire demeanor. The dim glow of the chandeliers cast shadows on the elegant walls, creating an ambiance of fading revelry. The rhythmic melodies from the dance floor echoed faintly, but your surroundings remained still.

You're not to blame. You're a child with a childish mind. Nanny doesn't seem to be around your vision and Father is, well, absent. A little fun wouldn't hurt anyone. The idea of indulging in a little mischief sparked a flicker of curiousity in your youthful eyes. Beyond the hushed conversations of grown-ups, the allure of an adventure beckoned.

Your delicate little feet hastily traversed the empty corridor of the manor house away from the noise. The echo of your footsteps reverberated through the silent halls, casting shadows that danced across the paintings.

The trinkets displayed in an antique cabinet catches your eye, each holding a story of its own. Delicate figurines, antique watches, and faded pictures creating a mosaic of history that sparks your curiosity.

"Who are you, and why are you here, away from everyone else?"

You turned around to see a boy who appeared to be roughly the same age as yourself, standing there. Sporting an air of poise. A boy with platinum-blond locks cascaded effortlessly and a pale, pointed countenance. A subtle intrigue lingered in his gaze, waiting for an answer.

". . . I'm bored," you replied.

"Bored?"

"The party — it's boring."

The boy appeared to ponder his words carefully, deliberating on the next utterance that would grace the conversation unfolding before him.

"What's your name?" He inquired.

You answered him with a subtle smile. A silent acknowledgment that carried a hint of understanding.

The boy did not reciprocate the gesture though. But a hint of mild surprise flickered across his face, a gentle revelation that bespoke an unexpected nuance in the conversation.

"I've . . . heard about your family."

"You do?"

"Your family no longer a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight but you're still considered as one of us, given your family tree," the boy speaks with great intelligence, albeit in a rather confounding matter.

Confused, you earnestly try to understand what he just said, "Sacred Twenty-Eight? What is that?"

The boy appeared befuddled, as if your question was something to be answered with common sense.

Inquisitive, the boy directed his gaze towards you and queried, "How old are you?"

A gleeful spark in your eyes, you shared, "I'm 5 but I'm turning 6 soon, how about you?"

The boy responded confidently, "I just turned 6," his words carried a hint of pride, as if reaching this milestone marked a significant achievement in growing up.

"Oh, the party back there is celebrating a boy's birthday! have you met him?"

"I've never seen someone as daft as you. That party was for me. Your oversight is truly lamentable, I must say."