The first Potions class of the term was held in the dungeons, a combined lesson for Slytherin and Gryffindor. Snape swept in like a great bat, his presence immediately silencing the room. After a roll call dripping with sarcasm, especially when he reached Harry Potter's name, he began his infamous opening speech.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making…" he began, his voice a soft whisper that carried to every corner of the room. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…"
His gaze fell upon Harry. "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry, utterly lost, could only stammer, "I don't know, sir."
Snape sneered. "Let's try again. Where, Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I… I don't know, sir."
Snape's lips curled in triumph. He had successfully humiliated the son of his most hated rival. Then, his eyes swiveled to Tom.
"Riddle. You seem comfortable. Surely you know the answer. Tell me, what do asphodel and wormwood make?"
This was the moment Tom had been waiting for. He stood slowly.
"Asphodel, Professor," he began, his voice clear and academic, "is a type of lily. In Victorian floriography, the language of flowers, it signifies 'my regrets follow you to the grave'."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Wormwood, similarly, symbolizes bitterness and regret. Therefore, the question itself is a metaphor. It expresses a profound, bitter regret for the death of someone named… Lily."
The entire class, Harry included, stared at Snape, whose face had gone ashen. He looked as if Tom had just performed Legilimency on him in front of everyone.
"I asked you for the potion, Riddle!" Snape roared, his voice cracking. "Not a literary analysis!"
"Oh, my apologies, Professor," Tom said, feigning surprise. "The potion is, of course, the Draught of Living Death. A powerful sleeping potion. The name itself suggests a state of living death, a pain so profound it mirrors the regret expressed in the ingredients. A truly poetic question."
Pfft. Snape looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "SIT DOWN!" he shrieked.
Tom sat, a picture of innocence. The rest of the lesson was a blur of Snape's fury. He assigned the class a simple Pimple Cure potion, then spent the entire time tormenting Harry. When he came to inspect Tom's work, he found it flawless, which only enraged him further. Unable to find fault, he criticized Tom for not letting Daphne help more, then assigned a punishingly long sixteen-inch essay.
Tom wasn't angry. He was calculating. Snape's emotional instability was a weakness. And a weakness was something to be exploited. If Snape wasn't going to award Slytherin points, Tom would have to create situations where he was forced to. It was time, he decided, to increase the intensity.