I'm really sorry if this offends anyone. Not my intention, of course, but I thought that this idea had too many similarities to not write. This one is about how Tom Riddle set up his plans for eternal rule. Tom is very twisted.
As always, everything Harrypotterverse belongs to JK Rowling.

Tom Marvolo Riddle wanted to be the best.

At the tender age of three, he had realized that he was different from the other children. He did not cry when none of the other orphans played with him, nor did he mind when the same children would later shrink back from him in fear. No other smiled when they saw the ginger kitten twitch in pain under Tom's crushing foot. All the other children were stupid and weak, preferring others' company when that company, to Tom, served only to distract and bother.

So, Tom concluded, he was special.

Tom was better.

He could think faster and clearer than those shallow-minded idiots. He could see others' emotions, motivations, and manipulations; they were all so transparent and pathetic. They were crude and easily swayed by emotions, whereas he was, ruthless in his perseverance.

Tom knew he was better than the orphanage staff, yet they still controlled him. Who was to say, least of all Mrs. Cole, that he would not get his books? He knew that if he showed her his power, like he had to the other children, she would submit to his every whim.

But he didn't, because, for all his power, he was better off at the orphanage than on the streets. Precious time spending stealing food was time wasted, and if he were hired, he would waste more of his time on meaningless tasks.

Oh, how he hated authority. He had to endure this humiliating punishment because someone had power over him.

He glared at the matron. He was slightly mollified by her cringe.

"Tom," she spit. "Stand there. Do not run off or commit some other offense."

Tom said nothing. Instead, he stared straight ahead, eyes blank, faking deafness.

Mrs. Cole turned an unappealing shade of red. She sputtered, angrily, "Tom, do you HEAR me?"

He ground out a "yes, Mrs. Cole." She was so predictable.

"Good," she added, tucking back several loose wisps of her bun. "Now, be cooperative and greet Mr. Winston nicely."

When Tom Riddle was seven, he met Mr. Winston, a clergyman.

Mr. Winston was an eloquent preacher and a kindly man. Tom had long accepted that, if he had powers that were almost magical, then a God certainly could exist.

At the end of Mr. Winston's speech, Tom stared in fascination. "And we should all follow Him? Just because He said we'll be saved? Even if He doesn't help us?"

"Yes, Tom," Mr. Winston patted him on the back. "We should love the Lord our God, not his blessings."

Tom smiled. "The bad ones go to hell went they die, don't they?"

Mr. Winston chuckled. "Tom, by what I have seen today, I am sure that you can learn to repent and love. You are a wonderful boy."

Tom knew that he was going to hell. But he had power...a inhuman power that Mr. Winston had called witchcraft...so why not make himself immortal? He could escape hell.

A god on Earth.

"Thank you, Mr. Winston." Finally, his smile was genuine. "I've learned a lot today."

When Tom Riddle first met Dumbledore, he thought the man belonged in an insane asylum.

His purple coat had a hideous flower sigma that contrasted rather horribly with the man's auburn hair.

Tom sneered. "You're the doctor, aren't you?"

The strange man denied it.

"I don't believe you," he started, angrily. He hated it when people insulted his intelligence. "She wants me looked at. They think I'm... different."

The stranger agreed pleasantly.

The man seemed to not have a brain of his own. "I'm not mad," Tom stated coolly. This wasn't worth his time. Perhaps he should just show him the door?

"Hogwarts is not a place for mad people. Hogwarts is a school. A school of magic. You can do things can't you, Tom? That other children can't."

Tom couldn't help but widen his eyes. There was a school for witches and wizards, "demonic" people like him who were all trying to become god? Maybe a group was ruling over the inferior commoners already.

He couldn't help being eager. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt, if I want... Who are you?"

If these magical people were really like him-if they thought like him, then he would finally not be bored. He would use this man as a connection to ascend to the top of this...Hogwarts.

"Well, I'm like you, Tom. I'm different."

The man hadn't given Tom any information. If this was just another ploy of Mrs. Cole's to imprison him...he berated himself for being so foolishly naive.

"Prove it," he challenged.

The wardrobe suddenly burst into flames. He could hear his heart rattle in terror.

"I think there's something in the wardrobe trying to get out, Tom."

Not his heart, then. He scolded himself for showing a hint of his fear. Actions a little too exaggerated to be flawlessly nonchalant, he flung open the wardrobe and dumped everything out.

"Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Tom. At Hogwarts you will be taught not only how to use magic, but how to control it. Do you understand me?" Without waiting for an answer, Dumbledore turned to leave.

Tom didn't understand. Who cared if he stole? Those things were base weaklings compared to them. Had he failed, somehow? A wave of disappointment washed over him, and for the first and last time in his life, he was lonely.

So he let out one of his biggest secrets.

"I can speak to snakes, too. They find me... whisper things."

Dumbledore stopped.

"Is that normal, for someone like me?" Tom asked, but he already knew the answer. This man was just the same as the rest of those.

The first day at Hogwarts had been...surprising, to say the least.

He had been hoping for a fresh start, but, apparently, these "Slytherins" were prejudiced little stuck-ups. After he had been sorted, there had been a stunned silence from the Slytherin table that quickly changed into whispers and glares of hostility. He heard the word "mudblood filth" several times and deduced that it was used to describe poor people of common heritage.

He smiled to himself. The Slytherins were thankfully, not as stupid as the orphanage children, but they were bumbling blockheads when it came to blood purity. These were certainly the right sort for his followers. He wanted easily controlled magical people who weren't afraid to use whatever means without hesitation to get to their ends.

Slytherins were the perfect soldiers.

They were simple: they wanted power and they hated muggles. And they certainly didn't shy from breaking any rules that they could get away with. Dumbledore won't have approved of whatever spell that Abraxas Malfoy had used on him.

Resting comfortably on his new bed, he eased magic into his broken leg. By the morning it would be healed, and Malfoy would pay dearly.

Once Tom built his empire, he'd make sure the Malfoys would become his biggest supporters.

"Crucio!" Tom snarled.

Nott twisted under the curse and gaped a silence scream. Tears ran down his face. In the darkness of the dungeons, Nott's blood could easily pass for ink stains.

Tom was thankful for the muffling charm. He certainly didn't need another annoyance.

His followers surrounded Nott like wolves around fresh meat. Except for the glimmer of fear in their eyes, they betrayed no surprise at Tom's first use of the Cruciatus curse.

Tom was pleased. This empire of fear was what he had wanted. After all, for someone who was planning to rule for eternity, taking control of the ministry wasn't going to cut it. He had learned from his early days in the orphanage that love was easily lost. The matrons had loved him fleetingly for his looks, but they had feared him for far longer.

Fear was binding.

Eventually, he could make them fear him so much that he could champion mudblood rights and they would comply without question. He would cut all their other obligations and trusts until each one would serve him and only him. Later generations would serve him out of habit, not knowing to do anything else.

He would stomp out any challengers and make a lesson out of them. He would give his most avid supporters his love and watch them fight each other for his praise.

Stick and carrot.

"My Lord," Nott begged.

Lord Voldemort. The Lord our god on Earth. It was flawless.

He would be god, forever.