Snape's summons didn't dampen Tom's spirits in the slightest. After lunch, he even returned to the dormitory for a refreshing nap before heading to the greenhouse for Herbology class.
Professor Sprout, who taught Herbology, was a kind-hearted middle-aged witch. She had a plump figure, a constant smile on her face, and a demeanor that made her seem perpetually good-natured.
She called the young wizards to line up neatly, warning them not to touch any of the nearby magical plants without permission. Only once everyone had arrived did she lead the class into Greenhouse One.
First-years weren't allowed near magical plants with powerful properties. Most of what they saw in Greenhouse One were docile fungi and common herbs.
Their assignment for the entire year was to memorize the characteristics and effects of these plants—and to learn how to nurture and care for them properly.
Tom, after correctly answering several questions in a row, earned Slytherin five house points.
To be honest, the three Heads of House at Hogwarts were generally fair-minded. Though they all hoped for excellence in their own Houses, they didn't stoop to suppressing others, maintaining true impartiality in their roles.
But then… there was Snape. A grumpy, bitter old—ahem—well, never mind.
He was the head of Tom's own House, after all. Tom figured he should at least save the man a bit of face.
After class, Tom parted ways with Daphne in the dungeon corridor.
Before leaving, Daphne reminded him earnestly, "Tom, whatever you do, don't talk back to Professor Snape. I asked some older students—if you admit your mistake sincerely, he's actually quite lenient toward students from our House."
"I know, Daphne. Thanks," Tom replied.
Not that he was planning to bite his tongue for anyone. But Tom wasn't socially clueless—he wouldn't trample on a young lady's good intentions by saying something crude.
Knock, knock, knock—!
"Come in!"
Tom pushed open the door and stepped into Snape's office.
The lighting was dim. Only the fireplace and a few eerie green candles cast flickering light over the immediate area. The air reeked of strong herbs and the acrid scent of potions.
The walls were lined with cabinets—not filled with books, but with jars and bottles. Suspended in strange liquids were grotesque animal organs and oddly shaped magical plants.
Snape sat behind his desk, eyes lowered, reading a magazine—as if it hadn't been him who summoned Tom in the first place.
Tom glanced around, then casually transfigured a nearby empty bottle into a single-seater armchair. He plopped down right across from Snape, leaned back against the soft cushion, and closed his eyes as if preparing for a nap.
Snape's hand paused mid-turn. A vein on his forehead twitched.
SLAP!
The magazine snapped shut. Snape glared icily at Tom, who looked entirely too comfortable.
"Riddle, did I say you could sit?"
Tom opened his eyes slowly, feigning innocence. "Professor, is it illegal to talk while seated?"
"Watch that sharp tongue of yours," Snape snarled. "This is my office. You used magic here without permission. What, so eager to flaunt your pitiful little talent?"
Snape wasn't exactly a handsome man to begin with, and now with his face twisted in a scowl, he looked positively frightening. Any other student might have trembled under that gaze—but not Tom.
In terms of raw power… okay, fine. He probably couldn't beat Snape—yet.
But this was Hogwarts. Dumbledore was still alive and well. Even as a future Dark Lord, Tom knew the rules—and knew no one, not even Snape, could openly break them.
So, even if Snape was fuming with rage, he had to stay within the boundaries. He couldn't go too far.
"Professor, you're quite the character," Tom chuckled. "Of course I know this is your office. But I also figured you must have been reading a very important article just now. Otherwise, the Head of the House that prides itself on tradition and manners wouldn't possibly ignore the basic courtesy of hosting a guest, would he?"
"For the honor of Slytherin, I had no choice but to take the initiative. I trust you understand?"
This little brat…
Snape's hand, hidden in the folds of his sleeve, clenched into a fist.
In all his years as Head of Slytherin, no student had ever dared talk back to him so slyly—dripping with veiled sarcasm. And the worst part? He couldn't even refute it. He had been caught slacking on decorum. He just wanted to intimidate Tom a little. Instead, he'd walked right into the boy's trap.
And he knew, deep down, that if he kept pressing, Tom would have more ammunition waiting.
Reluctantly, he marked another tally against the boy in his mind and took a long, calming breath.
"You know why I called you here," he said at last.
"I'm afraid I don't, Professor. Please enlighten me."
"You assaulted Zabini, Rosier, and Nott yesterday." Snape leaned forward slowly. "Riddle, it's your first day at Hogwarts, and you're already attacking your dormmates. Do you have any respect for your Head of House?"
"Professor, I had no choice," Tom sighed, and launched into a detailed account of the incident.
"Those pure-bloods don't like the look of me—an orphan, a Muggle-born orphan at that. They tried to make me their errand boy. And this morning, I even heard them muttering something about Mudbloods."
"At first, I didn't know what that word meant. I had to ask Miss Greengrass to explain."
Tom suddenly raised his head, eyes solemn and sincere. "Professor, imagine this: someone calls you a Mudblood. Even if you didn't punch them, wouldn't it be natural to hate them for the rest of your life?"
Snape's eyes bulged. His face flushed deep red as his blood surged furiously through his veins. A hot wave shot up into his throat—but he swallowed it back down.
His hand trembled as he pointed at Tom.
"You… you…"
Caught completely off-guard, the Potions Master had just had the deepest wound of his soul ripped wide open. It hurt so much it made him dizzy—he nearly passed out on the spot.
Tom's face lit up. "So it is relatable, isn't it? You do understand, don't you?"
"Anyone who calls someone a Mudblood deserves to be cursed, abandoned, and left to die alone. They don't deserve friends, or love. The fact that I only beat them up shows I held back."
"They're my roommates, after all. I didn't want things to escalate too far."
"RIDDLE!" Snape's eyes were bloodshot as he roared, "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"
Tom innocently raised both hands, then made a zipping motion across his lips—finally falling silent.
Snape's chest heaved as he panted for breath, struggling to calm down. But even once he'd regained some composure, his glare at Tom still dripped with barely-contained fury.
"I don't know where you learned all these twisted philosophies," he growled, "but assaulting other students still violates school rules. I have no choice but to deduct—"
He cut himself off abruptly.
Bloody hell.
This little menace was a Slytherin.
If he deducted points… was he punishing Tom—or himself?
Damn it!
This boy was unmanageable!