:Three:
There were two things, only two things, that the old fool Dumbledore really knew about Tom Riddle, Head Boy and the Heir of Slytherin.
One: that he never needed a friend, nor wanted one.
Two: he didn't love.
His easily manipulated, incompetent followers, the Death Eaters, were his sheep. They worshipped him. He could tell them the world was flat and they would believe him without a doubt. That was the way he had always imagined his slaves to be: pureblooded, gullible, submissive Slytherin seventh-years to fall to his feet, to obey his every whim, every fleeting fancy. If they didn't, they knew what was coming to them.
On the outside, he looked like a model student-- everything a Head Boy should be. Devastatingly handsome, tall, charming, respectful, intelligent. Teachers were practically at his feet. Any girl he wanted was his. The Headmaster thought he was the best student in the school.
His disgusting Muggle father was out of the way, the Basilisk was at his beck and call, that oaf Hagrid had been blamed for Myrtle's death, and Slughorn had given him all the information he needed, the gullible idiot.
He knew what he wanted, and damn it all to hell, he was going to be an immortal legend.
Oh, yes, Tom Marvolo Riddle was satisfied.