A/N: Here again in no time, because I'm very inspired by this plot line. And that rhymed hehe. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the second Chapter, please review and favorite/follow the story if you like it thus far!

Tom Riddle didn't make friends-he collected followers. But he couldn't exactly walk into the Slytherin common room and announce himself as some sort of dark messiah. He had to be subtle, thoughtful. And, most importantly, he had to appeal to each target's particular weakness. Slytherins were ambitious, yes, but they were also fragile, ruled by insecurity and self-importance. Tom knew this all too well.

His first target was Avery, a boy whose bravado hid a constant need for validation. Avery swaggered through the hallways with his nose turned up at nearly everyone, but Tom had noticed that he was always the first to laugh too loudly at jokes or talk a bit too much about the prestigious wizarding family he came from. In other words, Avery was overcompensating.

Tom waited until Avery was alone in the common room, looking down at a pile of notes with a frustrated scowl. He sidled up, adopting the demeanor of a conspiratorial friend, as if they'd already been chums for ages.

"Trouble with the Transfiguration essay?" he asked casually, leaning back against the dark green leather of the sofa.

Avery looked up, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but the expression softened when he saw Tom. "It's just this ridiculous prompt McGonagall gave us. She's acting like we're in seventh year, not first."

"Ah, well, you know," Tom said with a hint of a smirk, "I could give you some pointers if you'd like."

Avery bristled, almost reflexively. But then Tom added, "I mean, no one expects you to be as… meticulous as someone like me. It's a lot to live up to."

The half-compliment, half-insult went down smoothly. Avery blinked, clearly flattered that Tom thought he was almost close to his own level. "Yeah, sure," he said, trying to look nonchalant. "I suppose I wouldn't mind some help. Thanks, Riddle."

And just like that, Tom had reeled in the first.

Next up was Lestrange, whose vanity was on par only with his inferiority complex. Lestrange had once mentioned his distant cousin who worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, dropping the family name with all the delicacy of a toddler throwing bricks. But Tom could see Lestrange was as eager to prove himself as he was uncertain of his worth. He didn't need praise; he needed admiration. That, Tom could deliver.

"Lestrange," Tom greeted him one day after Potions, his voice warm but just quiet enough to make it seem like he was speaking to him and no one else. "You really know your way around a cauldron. Slughorn said it himself-you've got the touch."

Lestrange turned, a bit startled, but Tom continued, not giving him time to dismiss it. "I don't mean to say this too loudly," Tom added, voice lowering to a secretive murmur, "but it's obvious you're leagues above most of the class. Honestly, you make it look easy."

Lestrange's chest puffed up just a little. "Well, I suppose it's something of a family gift," he said, feigning modesty. But Tom could tell he was delighted.

"Maybe one day I could learn from you," Tom said with a small, admiring smile. "If you're willing to teach, that is."

Lestrange blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the suggestion. But there was no denying the glint of pride in his eyes. "Maybe," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "If you keep up, that is."

Tom had him. He could practically feel Lestrange's allegiance knitting itself together as he spoke, the idea that Riddle-a boy who seemed so capable, so mysteriously gifted-might actually look up to him.

Then there was Rosier. Rosier was trickier, less easily swayed by praise or subtle manipulation. He was clever, and his family was well-established. He needed an angle that suggested power, something darker, something appealing to a boy who yearned to feel part of a mystery, a secret beyond the trivialities of school.

It took some patience, but eventually, Tom found the perfect moment. They were in the library one evening when Tom slipped into the chair across from Rosier, casting a quick look over his shoulder as if checking for eavesdroppers. Rosier looked up, curious.

"Rosier," Tom murmured, leaning in as though sharing the beginning of a conspiracy. "Have you ever wondered… what lies beyond?"

Rosier's brow furrowed. "Beyond what?"

"Beyond this school, beyond what they tell us about magic, about the rules." Tom lowered his voice even more. "You strike me as the sort who knows there's more to life than just passing exams and learning charms."

Rosier's eyes narrowed, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

Tom tilted his head, offering the faintest of smiles. "There's power out there, Rosier. Real power. The kind we can't even imagine. But…" He shrugged, leaning back as though the weight of the secret were too much to bear. "Maybe it's not something everyone can understand."

Rosier's gaze sharpened. "Maybe I can understand," he challenged, voice just as low.

Tom waited a beat, letting Rosier stew in the moment. Then, he nodded, almost reluctantly. "Perhaps you could." Tom held Rosier's gaze, watching as the curiosity in his eyes morphed into something keener. Then, almost casually, Rosier asked, "You are pureblood, right?"

Tom froze, the question piercing him in a way he hadn't expected. Pureblood. He had never heard the phrase before, but its meaning was unmistakable. Pureblood—something untarnished, respected, desirable. It was a title whispered through Slytherin circles, passed down in histories he hadn't known, symbols of power etched in family crests he had yet to learn. In an instant, he grasped how much it meant to the people here, how much they revered it. And worse, how he was excluded from it.

A new emotion, sharp and bitter, flared up within him, twisting in his stomach like a snake coiling for attack. Shame. He despised the feeling instantly, feeling it taint him, gnaw at him from the inside. He wasn't going to allow anyone—not Rosier, not anyone—to look down on him. Least of all because of something as uncontrollable as one's blood.

"It's natural to be curious, Rosier. But the truth is, some mysteries are more dangerous than others," he said coolly, his voice smooth but sharp. "It's not merely blood that defines power, Rosier. It's strength. It's wit." He let his voice drop, adopting a steely edge. "The very things that make one destined for greatness."

Rosier blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. Tom could see his question shrinking, the doubt fading, dissolving under Tom's intensity. "I... I suppose you're right," Rosier stammered, clearly wanting to avoid whatever nerve he'd accidentally touched.

Tom's gaze didn't soften, though his voice grew calm, almost thoughtful. He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. "When you're ready, I'll show you things most wizards could only dream of. But first, you'll have to prove you're strong enough to handle them."

Rosier looked back at him, wide-eyed, his earlier question all but forgotten. Tom could see the hunger there, the eagerness to be part of whatever Tom Riddle was hinting at. He could sense he had Rosier under his influence now, swept away in a current of promises, hints of power, and just enough secrecy to keep him chasing after answers.

The newly-felt shame faded, buried by the thrill of control. Tom wouldn't let that feeling—weak, vulnerable—surface again. He would crush it, turn it into fuel for his ambitions. And if people like Avery, Lestrange or Rosier demanded strength, demanded purity, he would give them something far greater than blood. He would give them fear, awe, and destruction—on his terms.

...

The next day, Tom was seated at the Slytherin table, his expression as sharp and unreadable as the stone walls around him. The Great Hall buzzed with the usual clatter of breakfast being consumed, gossip being exchanged, and endless chatter about things that didn't matter. To Tom, this was all noise, a minor irritation. He was here to control—everything, and everyone.

Then came Arlo Greaves.

Arlo was the type of bully who wore his cruelty like a badge of honor. He was a fourth-year Slytherin, broad-shouldered, with a permanent sneer that seemed to reflect some deeply misguided sense of entitlement. He was the undisputed king of his little band of misfits, and his daily goal in life was to make sure everyone knew it.

It wasn't that Tom had never seen him before—he had. Arlo liked to make a spectacle of himself, and for whatever reason, his eyes had finally landed on Tom, who was proving a little too… dignified, a little too composed for his taste.

"Oi, Riddle!" Arlo's voice cracked through the conversation around them, sharp and grating, like the screech of a badly tuned violin.

Tom didn't immediately respond. He didn'tneedto respond. In fact, he found the whole thing rather beneath him. Arlo's thinly veiled challenge was something Tom had grown accustomed to in the orphanage: a test of power. Tom simply wasn't interested in such petty games. He was above it. But of course, Arlo wasn't quite so willing to let this slide.

"You think you're special, don't you?" Arlo continued, pushing his way into Tom's personal space. "Well, maybe I'll show you what happens to little princes when they forget their place."

Tom raised an eyebrow, the faintest twitch of amusement crossing his face. The world, it seemed, was full of people like Arlo: desperate to assert control over something, anything. Pathetic, really.

Tom sought power too, but he never bullied just because. He never exerted power without a purpose. He always had an end-game, because he was not an air-head.

Arlo grabbed a plate of eggs and—naturally—launched it across the table. It sailed through the air in a graceful arc, as if it were some grand gesture. The eggs hit their target, splattering across Tom's robes in a sloppy mess. There was a collective gasp from the students who had gathered to watch the drama unfold.

For a moment, Tom did nothing. He stared at the food as it dripped from his shoulder, utterly unimpressed. Was this supposed to embarrass him? Was he supposed to flinch? The schoolyard tricks of children were nothing compared to what Tom had learned to master. He had beenraisedon humiliation.

The only mistake Arlo had made was thinking that Tom was like the others, that he could be cowed by such a display.

Tom let his wand slip from his sleeve, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't even look up at Arlo as he muttered the incantation under his breath, the words just a soft murmur—enough for only him to hear.

"Vermis Incantare."

A sickly green light flickered from the tip of his wand, and in the next moment, a large, writhing worm shot out and latched onto Arlo's wrist with an alarming strength. Arlo yelped, his arm jerking back in surprise as the creature squirmed and coiled, its tiny fangs digging into his skin.

"Get it off me!" Arlo shrieked, panic rising in his voice. He shook his arm violently, but the worm held fast, like some kind of demented parasitic creature. The students around them were frozen—some too terrified to breathe, others barely able to suppress their awe.

Tom stood motionless, his eyes never leaving Arlo's thrashing form. This was a fitting punishment—simple, effective. In his mind, it was almost laughable. A bully who couldn't take what he dished out.

"I'm sorry," Tom feigned politeness. "Were you talking to me?"

But of course, this wasn't enough for Arlo. He fumbled for his wand, muttering curses under his breath.

Before either of them could do anything, a soft voice interrupted them—no,stoppedthem dead in their tracks.

"Gentlemen," said Professor Dumbledore, his voice like a warm, unyielding breeze cutting through the tension.

Tom's heart stilled as he looked up. Of course. He should've expected the meddling headmaster. Dumbledore stood there, serene as ever, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips—though there was nothing in his eyes that suggested amusement. He had seen it all before, no doubt.

"That's quite enough," Dumbledore continued, eyes flicking between the two boys with a calmness that could have easily been mistaken for apathy, were it not for the sharp glint of authority in his gaze.

The worm immediately vanished, as though it had never existed. Arlo stood there, shaking his arm, his face twisted in disbelief.

Dumbledore's gaze didn't falter. "Mr. Riddle, you will report to detention tonight for using an unauthorised spell in the Great Hall." He turned his eyes to Arlo, his voice soft, but with an unmistakable bite. "And Mr. Greaves, for your behavior, you'll join him."

There was a pause. The hall was unnaturally silent.

Tom's gaze flickered to Arlo, whose face was painted with a mix of fury and humiliation. His eyes narrowed, but the fight had gone out of him. For now, anyway.

Tom couldn't help but smirk. Detention. It seemed like such a trivial consequence for the grand display of power he had just demonstrated.

As Dumbledore began to lead them both out of the hall, Tom caught sight of her again—the girl. The one with the grey eyes. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, her wide gaze flicking between him and Arlo with a look of something between terror and awe.

For a moment, they locked eyes, and Tom felt the unmistakable pull of curiosity, though he'd never admit it aloud. She looked at him as though she had just witnessed something extraordinary, as if the entire event had been just for her benefit.

He allowed himself a brief, calculated smile before he turned and followed Dumbledore out, his mind already moving ahead to the next steps, the next plans.

Arlo's little display hadn't been a challenge at all. But the girl, the one with the grey eyes... she intrigued him.

And that, he realised, was a far more dangerous thing than any feeble bully.

A/N: Thank you for reading! please review and favorite/follow the story if you would like to show your support. See you next Chapter!