It was a Sunday and since Zia had the day off of work, she had decided to take Tom to the park. It was cold and the park was covered in a thick blanket of snow, but he didn't seem to mind as long as he was fully covered in his thick snow coat and pants, wearing the green scarf Nana Mary had knitted for him, and had his fuzzy earmuffs on. She herself was sitting on a bench bundled up in a similar outfit, right down to the nearly matching green scarf that Nana Mary had created at Tom's request. Tom had insisted upon everyone wearing specifically a green scarf, although he didn't want them all to have the same shade of green as him. He was merrily crunching through some especially deep snowdrifts when she heard a "thwack" and saw a snowball break on his back. Zia stood up, worried, as she watched him pause, then slowly straighten, drawing himself up to his full (although still very small) height.

There was laughter as a group of older children came into view, none of them noticing the furious frowning face of their target as they pelted him with more snowballs. Tom, who was only a couple weeks away from turning two, was obviously not amused. Zia took an uncertain step forward, but Tom turned towards her, still moving slowly, as if trying very hard to stay calm. This kind of thing had never happened to him before.

"Auntie, I'm sorry." He said simply. Then he turned to face the other children. Zia watched, half mesmerized and half horrified, as the snowballs that were en route to his little body seemed to slow, pause, and then pelt back towards their originators. It took a bit for his attackers to realize that every snowball they threw somehow neglected to hit its intended target and instead boomeranged back to hit them. Zia could not help but be impressed, Tom's aim was impeccable. Many of the snowballs had chunked into ice and thudded one after another in the exact same place as the ones before. The older kids finally seemed to figure out the general idea of what was going on, and ceased fire. Then they all turned to run away from the small child who was putting up a much better fight than they could have expected.

One of them looked back at Tom, yelling, "I'm going to tell my mum about you, you little freak! You'll be sorry!" This was the breaking point. As Zia was running forward, Tom was suddenly no longer in the direction of where she was running but standing directly in front of the other boy, looking coldly up at him.

"And what would your mother think if I told her you attacked a little child like me?" he said menacingly. "Do you think she would even believe you in the first place?" The other boy, who had skidded to a stop to avoid hitting Tom, opened and closed his mouth silently, then shook his head. Tom looked straight into the boy's eyes. "Go," he commanded, and the boy took off after the others. It was then that Zia reached him, and he looked up at her, traces of the anger still on his face.

"Tom, come sit with me," she said quietly, holding out her hand. He took it, hanging his head, obviously aware that she was not pleased. She led him over to the park bench and sat him down to face her. He kept his head down. "What are you feeling right now?" she asked him. He seemed surprised at this question and looked up at her. "Well…?" she prompted.

"I am feeling sad because you are sad," he answered. She nodded slowly.

"And what were you feeling when those boys were throwing snowballs at you?"

"I don't know," he said. She considered this for a moment.

"Let's try to find some good words to describe it. Did you your muscles feel tight, like they were a rubber band when you pull it?" He nodded. "Did you feel more warm than normal?"

"Yes."

"Did it hurt when the snowball hit you?"

"Yes."

"Did you feel like it wasn't fair that so many of them were hitting you with snowballs and they were bigger than you?"

"Yes."

"Did you want them to hurt too?" A pause, as if he didn't want to say it because he was afraid of what she would think.

"Yes." She patted him on the back.

"Tom, that is normal. Most people feel that way when things happen to them that aren't fair and that they don't like," she explained. He looked curious.

"They do?"

"Yes, they do." He looked relieved. "However, just because somebody does something to you doesn't mean that you should do something back. Do you know how to tell if a decision is a good one or a bad one?"

"If it follows the rules? Like when you say it is bed time?" She shook her head.

"No. Here's the secret." He leaned forward, so she could whisper it into his ear. Tom liked secrets; he was always eager to learn new ones. "If it is going to hurt someone, it is a bad decision. If it is going to help someone, it is a good decision."

"That makes sense. But what if somebody makes a bad decision to hurt me?" he asked.

"Then you need to choose whether you are going to make a bad decision, or a good one. Your decision has nothing to do with theirs; your decision has to do with you. Will you try to make good decisions?" she asked him.

"I will try," he responded, his little face becoming determined.

"One more thing," she began. "You did something else that wasn't good. Remember when you promised you wouldn't use your special skills in front of other people?"

"I said sorry for that!" he exclaimed. "I said sorry before I did it! In advance!"

"Yes, you did. But that doesn't make it better." He hung his head again.

"I won't do it again," he whispered. She considered him for a moment.

"Do you want to know when it would be okay with me if you did? Because there are some times." He scooted forward, eyes excited.

"Yes!" he exclaimed

"When it would be a good choice."

"You mean when it would help someone?"

"Yes. I would still want you to be careful, and try not to let other people see it though, okay?"

"Okay."

"Can I have a hug?" she asked him. He was thoughtful, then he consented and gave her a hug. "Let's go home and get some hot chocolate." They both stood up, and he put his mitten-encased hand in hers and they left.

As she watched him sipping his "hot" chocolate out of a small mug she had found for him (his hot chocolate was actually cooler than hers to avoid burning his mouth) she thought about the events of the day. She felt like she had gotten a glimpse at the park of the Tom Riddle that had become Lord Voldemort, and she didn't like it. What had scared her most was not the part where he had used his magic to redirect all the snowballs. It was when he was threatening the other boy, and the look on his face as he had done so. To her, it had seemed out of character. The Tom she knew wasn't the kind of child who would grow up to be a sadistic mass murderer, and she wanted to keep it that way.

He looked up at her, a little chocolate mustache on his upper lip.

"I know it was a bad decision, but wasn't it funny when they were getting hit with their own snowballs?" he asked hesitantly. She laughed.

"Yes, it was." He smiled, and returned to drinking his hot cocoa. She sighed, wondering how many days would be like this, and if she would ever stop worrying about him. Probably not.