The classroom had still been somewhat noisy, but it fell silent at once. Every little wizard was too afraid to speak, and no one dared say another word.
As Snape passed Tom, Tom instinctively shifted to the side, privately feeling disgusted.
He'd better not flick any of that greasy hair onto me. It'd be impossible to wash off. Gross.
Snape took out the roll book and began calling the names. When he reached Harry's name, he paused.
His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Oh, yes, Potter, our new, famous Chosen One. What a rare visitor."
Malfoy and his two cronies immediately snickered, as if they'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Harry's heart sank. He had a sudden, inexplicable sense of foreboding. He had a feeling this Potions Professor didn't like him very much.
When Snape reached Tom's name, he fixed him with a deadly stare, his eyes cold enough to freeze someone to death, as though he meant to devour him alive.
Tom, however, smiled at him amiably. After all, Snape was a future "cash cow" he planned to fleece, so he had to show him some respect.
Snape gave a cold snort, snapped the roll book shut, and began his opening speech in a cold, arrogant tone. "You are here to learn a precise and rigorous craft."
"Here, you will not wave your wands foolishly, and you may even wonder whether this is magic at all. I do not expect you to appreciate the beauty of a cauldron giving off white smoke and a sweet fragrance, nor do I imagine you understand how captivating it is to see veins flowing with magic."
"I can teach you how to boost your reputation, brew glory, and even stop death. But you must remember that this is only possible if you are not the kind of foolish idiots I so often encounter. Understood?"
When the opening speech ended, the whole class remained silent. Harry and Ron sat uneasily, their hands on their knees, barely daring to breathe.
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes shining. She looked eager to prove she wasn't the sort of idiot Snape had described.
A few other students were just as focused as Hermione.
"Potter!" Snape suddenly pointed at Harry, who looked completely bewildered. His gaze was sharp, and his tone brooked no argument. "What would I get if I added Asphodel Root Powder to Infusion of Wormwood?"
Harry was completely stumped. He didn't know what the two ingredients would make, and he didn't even know the word "wormwood," let alone the answer.
He hurriedly cast a pleading look at Ron beside him, but Ron guiltily avoided his eyes, hunched his shoulders, and tried his hardest to make himself invisible, terrified Snape would notice him.
Hermione had already raised her hand high, her expression urgent, but Snape only had eyes for Harry and ignored her completely.
"I don't know, Professor," Harry said, steeling himself and speaking quietly.
Snape pursed his lips, his voice so full of mockery it practically spilled over. "Tsk. It seems fame isn't everything. The Chosen One is nothing special after all."
Malfoy laughed even harder, deliberately bumping Crabbe beside him, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
"Let's try again, Potter," Snape drawled, his tone full of amusement. "If I told you to find a Bezoar, where would you look?"
"I don't know, Professor." Harry's eyes were full of confusion. He couldn't help asking, "What's a Bezoar?"
"I'm asking the questions, not you!" Snape glared at him, his voice stern.
"Gryffindor loses one point! Since you know nothing, I'll ask you something simpler. What's the difference between monkshood and Wolfsbane?"
Hermione couldn't hold back any longer. She sprang up, ready to answer, but Snape stopped her with a single sentence. "Miss Granger, sit down and stay there. I didn't ask you, so mind your own business."
Harry's face went blank. "I still don't know, Professor."
Snape sighed in feigned disappointment, looking extremely disappointed in the Chosen One.
Then he abruptly changed tack and looked at Tom, who was sitting there leisurely, wearing an unconcerned expression. "Riddle, you look so relaxed, as if you know the answer for certain. Tell me, what would I get if I added Asphodel Root Powder to Infusion of Wormwood?"
Tom wasn't surprised at all. Ever since he'd stood up to Snape last time, he'd expected the man to find an opportunity to make things difficult for him.
Under Hermione's envious gaze, he slowly rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and began in an unhurried, solemn tone.
"Daffodils are also known as yellow sun-lilies and belong to the lily family. In Greek legend, they were flowers of the underworld, growing in the Asphodel Meadows and symbolizing the desolate land where the dead reside."
"During the Victorian era, people liked to use the language of flowers to convey their feelings. The daffodil's meaning was, 'My regrets follow you to the grave.'"
He paused, deliberately drawing out his words. His gaze went straight to Snape, whose expression was growing darker by the second, then he continued.
"Wormwood's meaning also carries bitterness and regret. I'd guess the person who set the question meant to use the meanings of these two flowers to express deep remorse and sorrow toward someone as pure as a daffodil and as elegant as a lily. Perhaps that person's name was Lily."
As soon as he finished speaking, every little wizard in the class turned to look at Snape, their faces full of confusion.
Could the question really be interpreted that way? Harry, in particular, had his eyes wide open, utterly shocked.
Lily was his mother's name. Was Snape apologizing to his mother? Why?
Snape was even more astonished. He staggered back two steps, his face full of disbelief.
He screamed inwardly, I asked you to answer the question, not give me a blasted literary analysis!
That brat was like a ghost. He'd dug up every last one of the feelings Snape had buried in his heart for years, leaving him no dignity at all!
He'd never intended to make things difficult for Harry. A first-year newbie who'd just started school couldn't possibly know about the Draught of Living Death, which they wouldn't study until sixth year.
He'd only used the question to quietly express the regrets he couldn't speak of, the regrets he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. But Tom Riddle had done it again—this was the second time he'd hit Snape right in the heart!
Snape forced down his anger, his face so dark it looked ready to drip ink, and roared at Tom, "Riddle! I asked what potion you get when you mix those two ingredients! If you don't know, just say so. Don't go off on tangents and spout a bunch of useless nonsense!"
Tom looked as though he'd suddenly realized his mistake and blinked innocently. "Oh? Is that what you meant, Professor? I thought you were testing us on literature and making us do a reading comprehension exercise."
He cleared his throat and continued his perfectly serious "nonsense." "Mixing those two ingredients in the right proportions makes a powerful sleeping potion: the Draught of Living Death."
"The person who set the question also used the name 'Draught of Living Death' to express the pain of wishing they were dead. It really elevates the meaning of the question. So profound."
Snape nearly choked. He finally lost control and shrieked at Tom, "Sit down! Sit down! Right now!"
Before you continue