— — — — — —

Snape continued taking roll.

Eventually, he reached Tom's name—and shot him a look that could have frozen boiling water. His eyes were dark and unreadable. Tom, ever the gentleman, simply smiled politely at the man funding his education.

Snape gave a soft, disdainful snort and snapped the attendance book shut.

"You are here to learn the exact art of potion-making."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but every word was razor-sharp and crystal clear.

"Here, you won't be flailing your wands around like idiots. In fact, you might even start to wonder if this is magic at all."

"I don't expect you to appreciate the delicate wafts of white steam or the faint aroma curling from a perfectly brewed cauldron. Nor do I expect you to understand the exquisite allure of a potion that glows like blood and holds the power to enthrall the senses."

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stop death—if, and only if, you're not the hopeless morons I usually have to deal with."

Silence.

The class was dead quiet. Harry and Ron shifted awkwardly in their seats.

Hermione, on the other hand, was leaning so far forward she was practically halfway across her desk. And she wasn't the only one—several students were clearly trying to prove they weren't part of Snape's "hopeless morons" category.

"Potter!"

Snape's cold gaze locked onto Harry like a hawk spotting prey. "If I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what do I get?"

Honestly? Harry couldn't even parse half the words in that sentence. Scratch that—he didn't even know what "wormwood" was.

All he could do was glance helplessly at Ron for backup.

To his dismay, Ron immediately broke eye contact and tried to shrink into his seat like he could disappear by sheer willpower.

Hermione had her hand up so fast it was a blur, but Snape completely ignored her. His eyes were fixed on one person and one person only: Harry Potter.

"I don't know, Professor," Harry said stiffly.

Snape curled his lip. "Tch. Fame clearly isn't everything."

Malfoy snickered loudly, clearly enjoying Harry's embarrassment more than he would've enjoyed praise from Snape himself.

"Let's try again, shall we, Potter?" Snape drawled. "If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, where would you look?"

"I don't know, Professor." Harry was still trying to wrap his head around the first question. "Uh... What's a bezoar?"

"I'm asking the questions, not you. One point from Gryffindor."

Snape shot him a withering look. "Fine, let's go even simpler. What's the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

He turned sharply. "Miss Granger, I suggest you stay seated."

Hermione froze mid-rise and reluctantly dropped back into her chair.

"I still don't know, Professor," Harry muttered, now fully numb.

Snape let out a dramatic sigh, as if Harry had personally offended him by daring to exist.

Then, suddenly, he turned.

"Riddle. You look far too relaxed—clearly you know the answer, don't you?"

"Why don't you tell us what happens when you mix powdered asphodel with a wormwood infusion?"

Tom didn't even blink. After standing up to Snape once already, he'd been expecting this. In fact, he'd been waiting for it.

As Hermione looked on with a mixture of awe and jealousy, Tom rose from his seat and began speaking in that calm, unhurried tone of his:

"Asphodel is a member of the lily family. In Greek mythology, it's said to grow in the Underworld—symbolizing a barren land where souls rest after death."

"During the Victorian era, flower language was all the rage. Asphodel represented the phrase 'My regrets follow you to the grave.'"

"Wormwood, likewise, carries meanings of bitterness and sorrow."

"So, in this question, the one who asked it might be using the language of flowers as a metaphor—expressing deep remorse toward someone who was pure and gentle like a lily. Or perhaps… that person's name was... Lily?"

Scribble, scribble, scribble—

The whole class—Harry included—turned in unison to stare at Snape, their expressions ranging from confusion to total shock.

Wait… THAT'S what this question was about?

Harry, in particular, was reeling. Lily? That was… that was his mum's name.

Is Snape… apologizing to her?

Why?

Meanwhile, Snape staggered back a step as if physically struck, staring at Tom like he'd just risen from the grave.

I asked you to answer the damn question, not write a bloody essay on symbolism!

The worst part? Tom had read him like a book—uncovering the emotions and intentions Snape thought he'd buried deep. The kid had flayed him with nothing but metaphors and wordplay.

Because yes, that question was Snape's roundabout way of saying something he couldn't say outright.

And no, it wasn't even meant to be a real quiz. It was a sixth-year level question that had nothing to do with what first-years should know. It was just an excuse to mess with Harry.

If Snape really wanted to stump Potter, any standard first-year potion would've done the job.

But no. He'd chosen this one.

And now, for the second damn time, Tom Riddle had sliced right through his heart like a cursed blade.

Snape's thoughts were an internal scream. His expression had turned positively glacial. "Riddle," he said coldly, "I asked you what potion the mixture creates. Not for your analysis of flower meanings!"

"If you don't know the answer, just say so. No need to ramble about nonsense."

"Ohhh, that's what you meant?" Tom tilted his head innocently, as if he'd just remembered this was Potions class, not Literature. "Right, when combined correctly, asphodel and wormwood produce a powerful sleeping draught known as the Draught of Living Death."

"I suppose the name of the potion itself is the final flourish—implying a grief so deep it makes life unbearable."

Pffffft—!

Again?!

HE'S DOING IT AGAIN!

Snape was done. His icy composure cracked into full-blown fury.

"SIT DOWN! JUST—SIT! DOWN!"

Tom blinked innocently, then quietly returned to his seat, looking like he had no idea what he'd done wrong.

Daphne looked like she'd just seen a ghost.

How did answering a question make the professor this mad? And wasn't Tom's answer… technically correct?

The younger students glanced from Harry to Tom, then back to Snape.

Snape snapped. "What are you all looking at?! Do I have the answer written on my face?!"

"WRITE IT DOWN! Unless you'd like me to drill it into your skulls personally!"

Everyone jolted into action, scribbling furiously.

Then Snape stormed past the front row, caught a glimpse of Nott's notes—and nearly had a stroke.

"WHY are you writing down Riddle's rambling nonsense?! I meant the formula!"

"You lot are the worst class I've ever taught!"

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