Night Excursion, Accidental Meeting of Twin Stars

The previously noisy classroom fell silent at once; all the young wizards were as quiet as cicadas in winter, none daring to speak a word.

As Snape walked past Tom, Tom subconsciously shifted to the side, feeling a sense of secret disgust.

He hoped none of that greasy hair would rub off on him—it would be impossible to wash out, and it was absolutely revolting.

Snape took out the class roster and began to call the roll, stopping when he reached Harry's name.

His tone was dripping with sarcasm: "Oh, yes, Potter, our new, famous savior. What a rare guest."

Malfoy and his two cronies immediately snickered, looking as if they had just heard the greatest joke in the world.

Harry's heart sank, a vague sense of foreboding rising within him; he felt that this Potions professor did not like him at all.

When he reached Tom's name, Snape fixed him with a death stare, his eyes so cold they could freeze a man, as if he wanted to swallow him whole.

Tom, however, gave him a friendly smile; after all, this was the "cash cow" he intended to fleece in the future, so he had to show some respect.

Snape let out a cold snort, snapped the roster shut, and began his opening remarks in a cold, arrogant tone: "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

"Here, there will be no foolish wand-waving, and you may even doubt if this is magic at all. I do not expect you to grasp the beauty of a simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes and delicate scents, nor do I think you understand the fascination of the flowing, power-infused liquids that course through human veins."

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death. But remember, this is only if you are not the kind of dunderheads I usually have to deal with, understand?"

As the opening speech ended, the classroom remained silent. Harry and Ron sat uneasily, their hands on their knees, not daring to breathe.

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes bright and eager, clearly wanting to prove that she was not one of the dunderheads Snape had described.

Several other students were just as focused as Hermione.

"Potter!" Snape suddenly pointed at the bewildered Harry, his gaze sharp and his tone filled with unquestionable authority. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry was stunned on the spot. Never mind the result of mixing the two ingredients, he didn't even recognize the word "wormwood," let alone know the answer.

He hurriedly cast a look of help toward Ron, but Ron guiltily avoided his gaze, hunching his shoulders and trying his best to minimize his presence, terrified of being noticed by Snape.

Hermione had her hand raised high, her eyes eager, but Snape only had eyes for Harry and ignored her completely.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said, bracing himself and speaking in a low voice.

Snape curled his lip, his tone overflowing with mockery: "Tsk, it seems fame isn't everything, and the savior is nothing more than this."

Malfoy laughed even harder, deliberately bumping into Crabbe beside him with a smug look on his face.

"Let's try again, Potter," Snape said slowly, his tone full of ridicule. "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"I don't know, sir," Harry said, his eyes full of confusion, unable to help but ask, "What is a bezoar?"

"I am asking the questions, not you!" Snape glared at him, his tone severe.

"One point from Gryffindor! Since you know nothing, I will ask something simpler: what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Hermione couldn't help it anymore and was about to stand up to answer, but was blocked by a single sentence from Snape: "Miss Granger, sit down and stay put. I didn't ask you, so don't meddle."

Harry looked numb, his tone flat: "Sir, I still don't know."

Snape sighed with feigned disappointment, appearing deeply let down by the savior.

Suddenly, he changed the subject, looking at the relaxed and indifferent Tom: "Riddle, seeing you so leisurely and confident, you must know the answer. You tell me, what do you get when you add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Tom was not surprised at all. Ever since he had stood up to Snape last time, he had expected this guy to find an opportunity to make things difficult for him.

Under Hermione's envious gaze, he slowly stood up, cleared his throat, and spoke leisurely, his tone carrying a hint of solemnity.

"Asphodel, also known as the yellow day-lily, belongs to the lily family. In Greek mythology, it is a flower of the underworld, growing on the plains of Asphodel, symbolizing the desolate place where the spirits of the dead reside."

"In the Victorian era, people loved to use the language of flowers to convey emotions, and the meaning of the asphodel is 'my regrets follow you to the grave.'"

He paused, deliberately drawing out his tone, and looked straight at Snape, whose expression was gradually darkening, before continuing.

"The language of wormwood also hides bitterness and regret. I suspect the person who set this question intended to use the language of these two flowers to express deep regret and apology to someone as pure as an asphodel and as elegant as a lily. Perhaps that person's name is Lily."

As soon as he finished speaking, all the young wizards in the class looked at Snape in unison, their eyes filled with confusion.

Could this question really be interpreted that way? Harry, in particular, had his eyes wide open, his heart filled with shock.

Lily was his mother's name; was Snape trying to apologize to his mother? Why?

Snape was even more shocked, taking two steps back, his eyes filled with disbelief.

He roared internally: I asked you to answer the question, not to perform a literary analysis!

This brat is like a ghost, actually peeling away the secret thoughts I've hidden for years, leaving me with no face at all!

He hadn't intended to make things difficult for Harry. A first-year novice who had just enrolled wouldn't know about the Draught of Living Death, which wasn't taught until the sixth year.

He had simply used the question to quietly speak of the regrets he couldn't say and had no way to express. But Tom Riddle—this was the second time, the second time he had pierced his heart with such precision!

Snape suppressed his rage, his face as black as ink, and roared at Tom: "Riddle! I asked what potion you get when you mix these two ingredients! If you don't know, just say so; don't go rambling on here with useless nonsense!"

Tom looked enlightened, blinking his eyes with feigned innocence: "Oh? Is that what you meant, Professor? I thought you were testing us in literature class and asking us to perform a reading comprehension."

He cleared his throat and continued to "bullshit" with a straight face: "Mixing the two ingredients in a certain proportion yields the powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death."

"The person who set the question even used the name 'Living Death' to express their own pain of living a life worse than death, elevating the depth of this question. How profound."

Snape nearly lost his breath, completely unable to hold it together anymore, and roared hysterically at Tom: "Sit down! Sit down! Right now, this instant!"