Tom knows he is different then others. More ambitious, more sharp, so much more clever. He looks around him, and he knows he is the only one who really sees. Really understands.
Tom takes what he wants, and what he can't take, he makes his own.
Stupid, he hisses to his basilisk, moving his palm across the shiny, smooth scales. Stupid, they are all so stupid.
Albus Dumbledore isn't stupid, Tom knows. He isn't fooled by his polite words, by his perfect record, by his outstanding grades. He can herd the others, with charming smiles, soft-spoken words and graceful gestures. Tom is beautiful, Tom is charismatic, Tom is brilliant, and they all want to believe him, they all hear only the words and ignore the voice.
But Dumbledore isn't like the rest of them, Tom knows. He knows this, because Dumbledore looks at Tom's eyes, not at his smiles, and Tom, for all his knowledge and cleverness, cannot hide the fact that he has the eyes of a killer.
Stupid, the basilisk hisses back, in agreement, as she nudges her huge head against his shoulders, encouraging him to pet her. Stupid, they are all stupid. Not like you.
Tom looks at Dumbledore's eyes, too, and what he sees in there makes him shiver, despite his efforts to control it. Tom may have the eyes of a killer, but Dumbledore has eyes like a one-sided mirror; hard and icy and give away nothing, while they look into your soul. Tom knows Dumbledore doesn't trust him, not one bit, but he doesn't really blame him.
If Tom were someone else, he wouldn't trust him either.
Never like you, the basilisk hisses, her scales making dry noises on the ancient floor of the Chambers of Secrets. Which can also mean never like them, he knows, but Tom tries to ignore that.
There isn't good or evil, Tom knows. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.
He thinks of a small boy in an orphanage, alone and frightened, crying while the shadows dance on the peeling walls around him.
Tom knows: never again.