After that cryptic outburst, Snape resumed roll call.
When he finally got to Tom, his gaze turned into a deathly glare—deep and hollow like a dark tunnel. Tom, unfazed, offered the man funding his school a friendly smile.
Snape gave a cold snort and snapped the register shut.
"You are here," he began softly, yet every word rang clear as crystal, "to study a craft of precision and discipline."
"You won't be flailing your wands around like fools in here. In fact, it may not even feel like magic at all. I do not expect you to grasp the beauty of a cauldron simmering with silver vapor and wafting a delicate fragrance. Nor do I imagine any of you understand the subtle allure—the blood-chilling power—that flows through a well-crafted potion."
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death itself—provided you're not the bunch of dunderheaded imbeciles I usually get."
The introduction landed like a cold gust of wind. The classroom fell into a stunned silence. Harry and Ron fidgeted awkwardly in their seats, while Hermione leaned forward eagerly. She wasn't alone—several students mimicked her posture, all desperate to prove they weren't the dimwits Snape was referring to.
"Potter!"
Snape's sharp voice cut the air like a knife, zeroing in on Harry with laser precision. "If I were to add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what would I get?"
To be completely honest, Harry didn't even recognize the word "wormwood," let alone any of the others. It all sounded like gibberish to him.
Desperate, he glanced helplessly at Ron for assistance.
To his dismay, Ron looked away guiltily and shrank into himself, trying to become invisible.
A few seats away, Hermione had her hand shot up so high she might as well have been trying to touch the ceiling—but Snape ignored her completely, his eyes locked onto Potter.
"I don't know, Professor," Harry admitted, bracing himself.
Snape sneered. "Tch. So fame doesn't equal knowledge, it seems."
Malfoy chuckled under his breath, clearly savoring every moment. Watching Potter get knocked down a peg gave him more joy than being praised himself.
"Let's try again, shall we, Potter?" Snape said slowly, with venomous calm. "If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, where would you look?"
"I… don't know, Professor." Harry's eyes were wide with confused innocence. "What's a bezoar?"
"I didn't give you permission to ask me questions. Gryffindor, minus one point."
Snape's gaze grew colder. "Then let's make it simpler. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
He didn't wait for Harry to answer before snapping at Hermione, who looked like she might burst. "Miss Granger, I suggest you remain seated and silent."
Hermione froze halfway out of her chair and reluctantly sat back down.
Harry muttered, "I still don't know, Professor."
Snape sighed dramatically, as if Harry had let down the entire wizarding world. Then, without warning, he turned to Tom.
"Riddle. You look rather relaxed. That must mean you know the answer, don't you?"
"Tell us then—what do you get when you mix powdered root of asphodel with wormwood infusion?"
Tom wasn't the least bit surprised. Ever since he'd stood his ground against Snape that day, he had been expecting something like this.
Under Hermione's admiring gaze, Tom rose from his seat and answered with calm precision:
"Asphodel, also known as Asphodelus, is a member of the lily family. In Greek mythology, it is a flower of the Underworld, said to bloom across the Fields of Asphodel—symbolizing desolation and the resting place of souls."
"During the Victorian era, it was common to use the language of flowers to express emotions. Asphodel conveyed the message: 'My regrets follow you to the grave.'"
"Wormwood, on the other hand, is associated with bitterness and sorrow. Its flower symbolism similarly carries regret."
"From the context of the question, we can infer that the person who posed it used these particular herbs to convey a poetic metaphor—a deep and sorrowful remorse toward someone whose nature was as pure as asphodel, and as graceful as a lily. Perhaps... that person's name was Lily?"
Scritch scritch scritch—!
Every single student, even Harry, turned to stare at Snape in perfect unison—confused, curious, stunned.
That's what the question meant?
Especially Harry—Lily? That was his mum's name.
Why would Snape be expressing remorse toward his mother?
Snape took two stunned steps backward, his face ghostly pale, staring at Tom like he had just witnessed something inhuman.
I asked you a potion question, not for a bloody literary analysis!
And yet... Tom Riddle's answer had peeled him open like a book. Every layer of thought, every hidden regret Snape had buried deep within him—it had all been exposed, word for word.
Yes. Snape had indeed used this moment to say something unspeakable—something he could never admit aloud.
Otherwise, why torment Potter with a question about the Draught of Living Death—an advanced sixth-year potion—when a basic first-year question would have sufficed?
Damn you, Tom Riddle. This is the second time... the second time you've stabbed me in the heart!
Snape's inner voice was screaming in rage, but his face turned even icier.
"Riddle!" he snapped. "I asked you what potion the two ingredients create—not for your ridiculous poetic interpretation!"
"If you don't know the answer, just say so. Stop wasting everyone's time with your nonsense!"
"Ohhh, you meant that, Professor."
Tom blinked, as if he had just remembered this was a Potions class and not a literature seminar. "The two ingredients, when combined in proper proportion, produce a powerful sleeping draught—the Draught of Living Death. The test creator used the potion's name metaphorically to express a soul-crushing despair that makes life feel worse than death… further elevating the emotional depth of the question."
Pfffft—!
He did it again.
He actually did it again!
Snape nearly exploded. He could no longer maintain his carefully constructed composure.
"SIT DOWN! Sit down this instant!" he bellowed at Tom.
Tom, looking completely innocent, sat back down quietly. Daphne beside him looked absolutely stunned.
How did answering a simple question make the professor that furious? Tom had even gotten the answer right—shouldn't Snape be pleased?
The young witches and wizards turned to Harry, then to Tom, and finally to Snape.
"What are you all staring at? Do I have the answer written on my face?!" Snape roared.
"Well?! Start writing! Or do you want me to shove the answers into your heads myself?!"
Everyone flinched and scrambled to jot down notes. But when Snape walked past the front row and caught a glimpse of Nott's parchment, his rage skyrocketed.
"Why are you writing down Riddle's nonsense? I told you to write the recipe! The formula!"
"You lot are the worst class I've ever taught!"