A violent storm had torn through London, shaking Wool's Orphanage with such aggression that a restful sleep had been impossible for me the night she had arrived. With an arm rested atop her swollen stomach, dull brown hair like rat's tails on her shoulders, face taut with not a trace of beauty, I could not turn her away.

Despite the rattling windows and screaming wind, the orphanage had been unusually peaceful that night. Not a single child skulked the hallways, their fingers twitching in anticipation of food they longed to steal. No, the night was one I would never forget. Not simply because of my fear of storms, of which this was one of almost magical proportions, but for the events that unfolded because of her appearance. 

The aroma of a beef stew that had been bubbling away on the stove filled the gigantic building, teasing my senses until I could stand it no longer. One small bowl wouldn't hurt, I had convinced myself, as I tore chunks of stale bread and dipped it into the gravy. Each mouthful had blistered my tongue, burning my throat as I swallowed, but I cared not.

I had been licking the bowl clean when the knocking started. Loud at first, almost uncertain, until it became incessant and deafening. Not wanting the aggravation of twenty young boys woken, I limped as fast as I could manage to the door. I don't know quite what I had expected to find, but she was not it. It wasn't often expectant, married mothers arrived at our door, and so I had my suspicions that she had stolen the gold ring around her finger. I never found out if this was indeed true. 

Being a man of God, I could not turn away a mother in need, no matter the circumstances that brought her to my doorstep. To do so would have no doubt casted me poorly beneath his eyes. She kept her head low, hands clutching a thin veil of fabric about her as though her life might just depend on it. A woman of seemingly few words, I scarcely heard the mumbled thank you upon placing a bowl of food before her. 

Folding my hands on the table in front of me, I leaned forward. "What is your name Miss?" 

The spoon faltered at her mouth, gravy dripping onto the table. Her eyes darted about, body rigid. I knew what she intended to, had seen it more than a dozen times in the fallen women that sought refuge here. 

"You're quite safe here, I assure you. I mean no harm, I only want to help you. Please, eat. You need your strength."

Her head ducked almost entirely into the bowl, her slurping filling the air. It had been while surveying her, taking in the lining of dirt beneath her fingernails and the gauntness of her wrists, that I realised the storm had silenced. For the second time that night, I contemplated the magical qualities the storm seemed to possess.  

She was intriguing to watch, with an air of someone whose life had produced nothing but pain and anguish. Any signs of life that ought to burn in the eyes of someone so young, were non-existent. I found myself feeling sympathetic towards her, curious as to how she came to be in such a state. If she truly were married, where was her husband? Surely no God fearing man would desert the woman he'd vowed to protect in front of The Lord. I came to the conclusion that she must be widowed, that seemed the only reasonable explanation if she truly wasn't a fallen woman.  

The strange woman leaned back into the chair, hand rubbing her stomach, gravy dripping from her chin. Strong movements rippled through her clothing. In that moment I knew, her child was going to be more impressive than their mother when they reached adulthood. I'd never seen such activity before, even that late into a pregnancy. If only I knew then, just how powerful that child was to be. 

"Tom Riddle." her voice was barely more than a whisper, her gaze never meeting my own.

"Excuse me?" 

"If it's a boy, tha'll be his name. After his da'" 

Without another word, the strange woman stood, the chair screeching beneath her, washed her dishes and stood to face me. She rung her hands together, chewing her swollen and bloody bottom lip. I took my cue, leading her to the only spare bed available in the orphanage. She'd struggled up the stairs, pausing on more than one occasion to catch her breath. Still, she did not complain, did not seem to have the energy to do so. 

The soft glow of the candle, flickering in the draught, gave just enough light for the stranger as she lay on the bed, brushing bugs from the once white sheet. It wasn't much, an attic with a bed full of pests, but it was something and for that she seemed grateful. For the first time since I'd opened the front door, her face housed a smile filled with blackened teeth. It was so genuine that it almost made her pretty. 

"I'll bid you goodnight Miss. Breakfast will be ready at six if you'd like to join us."

Her snores, loud and grotesque, filled the attic before I could finish my sentence. Unable to do anything more for her, and suddenly exhausted to my core, I used a second candle to guide my way to my own room. As I passed each room, I pressed my ear against the doors before opening them just a crack to check on the boys. Each slept soundly with not a care in the world, their dreams carrying them to far off places that they would never in their lifetime encounter. Not with the hand life had dealt them. 

It was as I lay the candle on the table by my bed that it caught my eye. A small, folded piece of parchment paper, the writing scrawled in black ink. To its right was a pouch, filled with more coins than I'd ever seen before. But it was the note that truly took my breath away, that caused me to question my place alongside God. Though the words were few, they were powerful. And the money, oh so much money. I knew I had to do as requested.

I had to kill the girl and take care of the kid, too.