Chapter Text
Wool’s Orphanage sat hunched behind wrought-iron gates in a forgotten corner of Greater London, its stone walls streaked with soot and its chimneys blowing smoke into a sky thick with falling snow. It was a bitter night, the kind that seeped through the cracks in the old Victorian walls and made the black-and-white tiled hallway feel like an icebox.
Snow had been falling steadily since teatime, blanketing the narrow London street in a muffled white hush. Inside, the place was spotlessly clean, the walls painted a dull institutional green, peeling in places from the damp. Mrs Cole, who was not yet twenty-five and still getting used to the routine, had drawn the short straw of evening duty. She sat in the small office off the hallway, wrapped in her woollen shawl, tallying the day's ledger entries by the light of a single lamp. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked steadily, its pendulum marking the hours until midnight.
"Another year gone," she muttered to herself, dipping her pen into the inkwell. The orphanage wasn't full (twenty-three children at present, ranging from babies to teens) but it felt crowded enough on nights like this. Upstairs, the older ones were whispering in their dormitories, excited about the promise of the fireworks they might hear from the city centre. Mrs Wool, the head matron, had retired early with a headache, leaving Mrs Cole in charge alongside old Mr Jenkins, the caretaker, who was dozing by the boiler in the basement. Nurse Hargreaves, the part-time midwife who lived nearby, had popped in earlier to check on little Elsie, with her cough, but had gone home for her own New Year's supper.
Mrs Cole glanced at the clock: half-past ten. She sighed and returned to her figures. Coal: down by a scuttle. Donations: a paltry five shillings from the parish. Milk delivery: short by a pint again. Order was what kept places like this running, she thought. Without it, everything fell apart. She prided herself on her neat handwriting, the way her columns aligned perfectly. It was a small victory in a world that offered few.
A sharp rap at the front door startled her. Who could that be at this hour? She set down her pen and hurried into the hallway, her shoes clicking on the tiles. The door was heavy oak, warped from years of London's fog and rain. She unbolted it and pulled it open, letting in a gust of icy wind that carried snowflakes swirling inside.
Standing on the front steps, staggering slightly as if the weight of the world were pressing her down, was a young woman. She couldn't have been much older than Mrs Cole herself, but she looked utterly spent. Her dark hair was matted with snow, her thin coat soaked through, and her face was pale as milk, pinched with pain. She clutched her swollen belly with one hand, the other gripping the iron railing for support. Her eyes, wide and desperate, met Mrs Cole's.
"Please," she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "Help me."
Mrs Cole blinked, taken aback. Strays weren't uncommon, London was full of them, especially in winter, but this one was clearly in a bad way. Late-stage pregnancy, by the look of her. "Come in, then," Mrs Cole said briskly, stepping aside. "Quickly, before you let all the heat out."
The woman stumbled over the threshold, leaving wet footprints on the tiles. Mrs Cole closed the door behind her and steered her toward the intake room, a small chamber off the hall with a worn settee, a table, and a basin for washing. "Sit down, dear. What's your name?"
"Merope," the woman murmured, easing herself onto the settee with a wince.
Mrs Cole nodded, fetching a blanket from the cupboard. She draped it over Merope's shoulders. "And the father? Anyone I should send for?"
Merope shook her head, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Gone. Left me. No one."
Well, that was familiar enough. Mrs Cole had seen her share of abandoned girls in her short time here. She poured a cup of lukewarm tea from the pot and handed it over. "Drink this. You're half-frozen. How far along are you?"
Merope took a sip, her hands trembling. "Any moment now. It hurts... so much."
Mrs Cole's heart quickened. This was beyond her; she was no midwife. "Right. Stay put. I'll fetch Nurse Hargreaves. She's just down the road."
She hurried out, grabbing her coat and scarf. The snow was thicker now, stinging her face as she dashed through the darkened street. Nurse Hargreaves, a stout woman in her forties with a no-nonsense manner, answered her door on the second knock, still in her apron from supper. "What is it, girl?" she asked, peering out.
"A new arrival at the orphanage, in labour, and alone. Looks like the baby will be along any minute now."
Nurse Hargreaves grabbed her bag and coat without a word and followed Mrs Cole back through the snow. By the time they returned, Merope was doubled over on the settee, moaning softly. The grandfather clock in the hall showed eleven o'clock.
"Let's get her upstairs," Nurse Hargreaves said, taking charge. "The birthing room, quick now."
Together, they helped Merope up the creaking stairs to the small room set aside for such emergencies. It was sparse: a narrow bed, a washstand, clean linens folded on a shelf.
The gas lamp cast long shadows on the walls. Merope collapsed onto the bed, her face slick with sweat despite the chill in the air.
Nurse Hargreaves rolled up her sleeves. "Breathe steady, love. I'm here now. Amy, boil some water and fetch clean towels. Wake Mr Jenkins if you must, he can stoke the boiler."
Mrs Cole nodded and hurried downstairs. The orphanage was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the children excitedly out of their in their beds. She filled the kettle in the scullery and set it on the stove, then roused Mr Jenkins from his nap. "We've a birth upstairs," she told him. "Keep the boiler going hot."
He grumbled but complied, trudging away to shovel more coal. Mrs Cole gathered towels and a basin, her mind racing. This wasn't how she'd planned to spend New Year's Eve, but then, life rarely went to plan.
Back upstairs, the labour had intensified. Merope gripped the bedframe, her knuckles white, as Nurse Hargreaves coached her through the contractions. "That's it, push when I say. Not long now."
Mrs Cole stood by, handing over cloths and water as needed. The room grew stuffy with effort, the air thick. Outside, the snow muffled the world, but inside, time seemed to stretch. The grandfather clock downstairs ticked on, audible through the thin floorboards.
At eleven fifty-eight, as Merope let out a cry, the clock's ticking faltered. Mrs Cole paused, listening. It had stopped mid-swing, as if frozen. Odd, she thought, but there was no time to check. Merope was pushing hard now, her face contorted.
"Almost there," Nurse Hargreaves encouraged. "One more. Yes!"
And then, just as the distant church bells began to chime midnight, ringing in the new year, a thin cry filled the room. No, not a cry exactly. It was more of a gasp. The baby emerged, small and slick, into Nurse Hargreaves's capable hands.
"It's a boy," she announced, wrapping him in a clean cloth. She cleared his airways with a gentle pat, but he didn't wail like most newborns. Instead, he lay there, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling as if taking stock of his new surroundings.
Merope reached out weakly, her breath ragged. "I hope he looks like his papa. Let me see him."
Nurse Hargreaves placed the bundle in her arms. Merope gazed down at the child, her expression softening for the first time. "Tom," she whispered. "Tom... for his father. And Marvolo... for my father. Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Mrs Cole noted it down on a scrap of paper, spelling it carefully. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," she repeated. "That's a mouthful, but it'll do."
Merope nodded faintly, her hand brushing the baby's dark hair. "He's special," she murmured, so softly Mrs Cole almost missed it. "Keep him safe... please."
"We will," Mrs Cole assured her, though she wondered at the words. All babies were special to their mothers, she supposed.
Nurse Hargreaves checked Merope's pulse, her brow furrowing. "You rest now, love. You've done well."
But Merope's eyes were already fluttering closed, her strength ebbing away like the last embers of a fire. The room grew very still, the air turning unnaturally cold despite the stove downstairs. Mrs Cole shivered, pulling her shawl tighter, but brushed the feeling aside, drafts were common in old buildings like this.
Within the hour, Merope Gaunt slipped away. Her hands limp on the bedsheet, her chest rising no more. Nurse Hargreaves closed her eyes gently and drew the blanket up. "Poor thing," she said quietly. "Gone too soon”
Mrs Cole stood there for a moment, the quiet baby in her arms now. He didn't fuss or squirm; he just watched her with those dark, unblinking eyes. It was unsettling, in a way she couldn't quite place, but she pushed the thought down. Babies were babies.
Downstairs, she entered the details in the ledger with her neat hand. She blotted the ink and closed the book. The grandfather clock stood silent, its hands frozen at eleven fifty-eight. It never struck again, though Mr Jenkins tinkered with it for days afterward.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in white. Inside Wool's Orphanage, the new year had begun with one life ended and another just beginning. Mrs Cole carried the baby to the nursery, tucking him into a crib with a fresh blanket. "There now," she said softly. "You'll be all right."
But as she turned out the light and shut the door, she couldn't shake the feeling that those watchful eyes were still following her in the dark.