𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 [ 𝐭.𝐫 ]

27: RADIO SILENCE

The days at Owl's Orphanage had long since blurred together, a seamless wash of gray upon gray, where sunlight rarely filtered in through the smeared windows, and the cold floorboards echoed with the tired steps of children who had learned too soon not to hope.

Angelina Anastasia Arlo existed in that muted space, like a once-vibrant painting left out in the rain. Her days were stripped of magic, of conversation, of color. There were no spells, no shifting staircases, no enchanted ceilings. Just the rattle of tin bowls against chipped tables and the shrill screech of old iron bedframes. She no longer woke to the sound of quills scratching parchment, but instead to the snap of the caretaker's bell, summoning her and the others to their daily chores.

Gone were the polished shoes, the crisp Slytherin robes, and her carefully applied lip tint that Lily had teased her about. Now she wore the same dull gray pinafore every day, the hem uneven and the thread frayed. Her hair, once sleek and enchanted to resist humidity, now hung loose and lifeless, tied back only by a faded ribbon she'd found in the bottom of a trunk.

The chores were relentless. She scrubbed floors on her knees until they stung and bled. She lifted buckets so often her shoulders ached through the night. Her once-manicured nails—polished, buffed, elegant—had been broken, dirt-packed, and ragged. The skin of her hands, so often admired, had gone coarse and dry.

"Hard work builds character," one of the matrons had said brightly, handing her a rusted scouring brush.

Angelina didn't answer. She just took the brush, dropped to the cold stone floor, and began again. What was there to say? The girl who once held her head high at the Malfoy Christmas galas had been replaced by someone quieter. Someone watching.

She kept her eyes on the shadows outside the window each night. Looking. Waiting.

Tom had told her to write if anything felt wrong.

Everything felt wrong.

But she didn't write. Not because she didn't want to. But because she wasn't sure the letters would reach him. Or worse—that they would, and he simply wouldn't answer.

There was no news about her parents. No mention of them in whispers. No trace. It was like someone had snapped their fingers and erased them from existence. And every time she built up the courage to ask, the caretakers just blinked at her like they didn't understand.

And Tom—Tom Riddle, who had promised to return. Who had pressed words into her skin with the heat of his gaze. Who had made her feel both safe and unsteady in the same breath—

He had not written.

Not once.

She checked for owls every day. Her eyes would dart to the horizon every morning and again at dusk, searching for dark wings against a pale sky. But only the crows came, and they brought nothing but their ugly cries.

Until, one rare afternoon, a soft flutter came at the orphanage window. Angelina didn't dare believe it at first. The little owl hovered awkwardly, talons barely gripping the windowsill. Her hands trembled as she unlatched the pane.

It was from Lily Malfoy.

The parchment was thick, creamy, and smelled faintly of orchids. Her handwriting curled across the page in elegant loops.

Darling Ange,

France is divine. The manor here is a dream — tall white halls, enchanted windows, and a forest that sings at night. Father claims our bloodline has roots here. I think he just likes the wine.