THE LOST PIECE

Third POV:

Behind the orphanage, hidden away from the prying eyes of the caretakers and the other children, three-year-old Tom sat in the snow, his tiny fingers clutching an assortment of stolen toys. A doll with a chipped face, a wooden truck with a broken wheel, and a collection of marbles-each one carefully hoarded in the small patch of snow he had claimed as his own. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he arranged his treasures around him, his small hands moving with the careful precision of someone who had learned how to hide things well.

But just as he was about to pick up a shiny red ball, he heard footsteps. Little ones. Tom's head snapped up, his wide brown eyes narrowing. His breath puffed out in visible clouds as he tensed, his muscles ready to spring into action if anyone found him.

"Tom Riddle," a voice called, high-pitched and defiant. It made his stomach twist in irritation, and he turned to find her standing there, hands on her hips, a pout on her freckled face.

It was the red-haired girl-the one who always seemed to be around. The one who had no respect for his space. Her name was Helen, he remembered. She was always smiling, always running around with the others, always annoying him. And now, here she was, interrupting his perfectly quiet moment, staring at him with those big, innocent eyes like she was some sort of hero.

"Give it back," she demanded, her small voice firm, though it trembled slightly with the cold.

Tom's gaze flicked to the small doll in his hands. The one he had taken from her earlier in the day when she wasn't looking. It had a pink dress and a tiny bonnet, and it looked so much better in his collection than it had in her grasp. He felt a wicked little thrill as her eyes locked onto the doll, her tiny hands reaching for it.

"Why?" Tom asked, his voice soft but sharp, a taunting lilt to it. "It's mine now. You weren't using it."

Helen puffed her cheeks out, her brows furrowing in that cute, stubborn way she always did when she didn't get her way. "It's my toy, and you took it!" she said, stepping closer, her small boots crunching in the snow with every determined step. She looked like she was ready for a fight.

Tom watched her approach but didn't move, content to sit back and let her come to him. His vocabulary was already perfect, compared to hers who still mispronounces words and he was taller than she was, even at three, but she was spunky-something he didn't quite know how to deal with.

"Well," he drawled slowly, still fiddling with the marbles, "you didn't stop me, did you?" His voice was so smug, the little monster. He could tell she was getting frustrated, which only amused him more.

Helen's eyes sparkled with a mix of anger and determination. She reached out again, her tiny fingers brushing against his, but he pulled the doll back just out of her reach.

"Give it back, Tom!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with the effort. "You take everything!"

Tom tilted his head, observing her for a moment. She was cute, in a way. Annoying, but cute. And she wasn't giving up, was she? Tom's lips curled into a tiny, mischievous smirk. She was persistence wrapped in freckles and red hair.

"How about this?" he said, his voice far too calm for a boy so small. "You can have it back... if you give me your shiny marbles."

Helen froze, her hands halting mid-air. She stared at him, wide-eyed and confused. "My marbles?" she repeated, unsure of what she had just heard.

"Yeah," he said, leaning back on his elbows in the snow, his small form so relaxed that it looked as though he had all the time in the world. "Your marbles. They're nice ... better than this dumb doll."

Helen hesitated. Her little fists clenched, and her eyes flicked between the marbles and the doll in his hands. It was a hard choice for a three-year-old. But after a moment, her pout deepened, and she nodded resolutely. "Fine!" she said, "But you have to promise you won't take anything else from me again!"

Tom spoke slyly, the deal already sealed in his mind. "I'll think about it," the words barely leaving his mouth before Helen shoved the marbles into his hands, with the air of a child who had just learned that life wasn't always fair.

And so, with a final, resigned huff, Helen handed over her marbles, and Tom handed her the doll. As he watched her stomp off, the boy's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something darker passing through them. Maybe she wasn't as annoying as he'd thought. Or maybe she was, but she was a useful kind of annoying. He had no problem making her give in.

Helen, her face a mix of frustration and triumph, cradled the doll tightly as she walked away, looking back just once at the boy with the messy dark hair and dark brown eyes that seemed far too knowing for his age.

~~~~~

Mrs. Cole, the woman who had helped bring Tom into the world, watched him closely as he went about his days at the orphanage. She had never been one to believe in coincidences, and there was something about Tom that didn't sit right with her. She'd seen many children come and go through the orphanage doors-some with wild imaginations, others with bruised hearts-but none had ever left the same bitter taste in her mouth as Tom. He was a boy of few words, but when he did speak, it was with a confidence that made the other children uneasy.

She had noticed it early on. The way he watched the other children, his gaze cold and calculating, as if he were sizing them up, figuring out who was weak and who was strong. And then there were the incidents-small things at first: a toy disappearing here, a penny or two vanishing from a pocket there. But as the years went on, the thefts grew more frequent, and the other children grew more frightened. They had come to know the unspoken rule of life at the orphanage: avoid Tom, or else. He was clever when it came to getting what he wanted.

One of the younger boys had tried to confront him once, accusing Tom of taking his favorite car. But the encounter had ended in a chilling silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of the boy's sobs as he ran to Mrs. Cole, his face flushed and terrified. "It was Tom," he had said, stammering. "He said he'd make me regret it if I told."

Mrs. Cole's suspicions had only deepened as time went on. The boy was a bully, that much was certain. And he was only three at that.

The worst of it, though, was his kleptomania. Tom would take anything-coins, toys, food-anything he could lay his hands on. He hid his stolen treasures in the most bizarre places: under the floorboards, inside his shoes, tucked behind the rafters in the attic. Mrs. Cole had found one of his hiding spots once when she was cleaning, a small stash of trinkets and stolen goods, a glimpse into the boy's twisted sense of ownership. He didn't just take; he hoarded, as if the world owed him something that no one else could have.

"Tom," Mrs. Cole called one day, her voice stern yet laced with an underlying concern. "You're causing problems again. You know the rules here. You must return what you've taken, and you'll apologize to the others."

Tom turned to her slowly, and just stared at her. There was something unsettling about it. "I didn't take anything," he said, his voice calm, almost mocking.

"Don't lie to me, Tom," she insisted, her eyes hardening. "You know what I mean."

For a moment, Tom just stared at her, and then he shrugged, as if he had no care for her words, for the rules of the orphanage, or for anything at all. "They didn't deserve it anyway," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear.

Mrs. Cole spoke gently but firmly. "Tom, darling, stealing is wrong, you know. You can't just take things that don't belong to you."

Tom furrowed his brows, his eyes narrowing slightly, his small hands gripping the toy in his lap. "I wasn't stealing. I just wanted it."

"I understand you wanted it, but that doesn't make it right, Tom. We have to respect other people's things. You wouldn't like it if someone took something from you, would you?"

Tom stared at her for a long moment, almost as if calculating her words, his voice low and stead. "I didn't take it from them. They didn't need it."

She sighed, trying to remain patient. "But that's not how we behave. We follow the rules, even when we want something. It's important to be kind and fair to others."

"You can't tell me what to do. I don't need to listen to you."

"Tom, I'm only trying to help you. I don't want you to grow up making mistakes that will hurt you in the end."

He looked amused by her concern. "I don't make mistakes. You're wrong. I don't need help."

Mrs. Cole paused her voice becoming a little more cautious, sensing something unsettling beneath his calm demeanor. "Tom, it's not about being right or wrong-it's about being good. And being good means understanding what's fair."

He glanced away, his expression unreadable. "I don't care about being good."

"Well, I care about you. And I want you to learn to care about others too."

He spoke, his eyes meeting hers once more. "I don't need anyone to care about me."