Snape was a man with no particular instinct for social navigation and even less for gratitude. He had cornered Tom at the door like a debt collector rather than someone asking a favour, and the only reason he had survived this long doing business with people that way was that he happened to be genuinely good at potions and genuinely difficult to kill.
Tom felt the distinct urge to sit the man down and deliver a lesson in basic human interaction. He was, after all, technically Snape's student, which made this an educational context.
Snape registered something in Tom's expression and took two quiet steps backward. He also, apparently, recognised that he had overplayed his position, because he added, with the awkwardness of someone unaccustomed to walking anything back: "I'm not asking for charity. You need money, don't you? I'll pay in Galleons."
He felt slightly undignified saying it, but undignified with Tom was still preferable to the alternative. The boy was different from the Dark Lord. He looked more approachable. He was, in practice, considerably more dangerous, and more importantly, he had a short memory for slights and a long memory for everything else.
"I'm afraid not, Professor." Tom was smiling in the way he smiled when he was enjoying himself at someone else's expense. "I've moved past needing Galleons. Gold is just refined dirt, and dirt doesn't interest me."
The five-million-Galleon milestone from Grindelwald's orders was within reach. Snape's contribution to that figure was not worth discussing.
Snape's jaw tightened. His eyes communicated, with precision, that if Galleons were dirt, someone had recently been face-down in a great deal of it.
Tom read the expression perfectly and made as if to leave. Snape was in front of the door before the motion completed. "Fine, forget the Galleons. What do you want? Potion formulas, materials, anything, name it."
"Before any of that." Tom looked him over with the unhurried attention of someone taking stock. "Tell me what you want the Inferi for."
"I found a poison in an old text." Snape said it without evasion. "Colourless, odourless, blends into any liquid without a trace. When it activates, the body begins to decay from within. Maggots that consume magical energy grow in the tissue. The subject dies in sustained agony over an extended period."
Tom held out his hand.
"Give me the formula."
A recipe that vicious deserved a thorough critical evaluation.
Snape's expression darkened, but he produced parchment and a quill with the resignation of someone who had run out of reasonable objections, and began writing.
He wrote; Tom read. The preparation techniques could be assessed later. The ingredient list alone was impressive in its specific malevolence, a careful selection of components that seemed to have been curated by someone who genuinely disliked people.
"May I have the Inferi now?" Snape watched Tom fold the formula away and barely kept the impatience out of his voice.
"Have what?"
Tom looked at him with the expression of someone who has genuinely forgotten the context of the question. "We haven't discussed terms yet."
"You just said-"
Snape stopped mid-sentence and understood what had happened. He had handed over the formula before establishing what he was getting in exchange, because Tom had created the impression that he had already agreed to something, and Snape had gone along with it without noticing.
"What do you actually want?" He pressed his composure flat and held it there, covering the very sincere desire to do something physical.
The problem with every transaction involving Tom was that Snape was always the one with a need. Tom was occasionally the one who came to him with a request, but even then he arrived carrying something Snape could not easily refuse, and Snape ended up agreeing to terms he would not have accepted from anyone else.
"Professor," Tom said, his tone shifting into something almost gentle, "you obtained this formula recently, didn't you."
He was reading something from Snape's bearing, something left over from wherever Snape had been. "You went somewhere interesting. And you came back with more than one thing. Sharing is a virtue."
Snape's expression shifted before he could contain it. The observation was more precise than he had expected.
"You know the text called The Most Toxic Magic?"
"The copy in the Restricted Section, yes." Tom was entirely unbothered. "I've read it."
He had done more than read it. He had transcribed the entire Restricted Section and stored the copies in the learning space library. The Most Toxic Magic was one of the more significant dark magical texts available, and he had gone through it with Ravenclaw when developing the blood curse analogue. Parts of it had been directly useful. Parts had been ancient enough that the casting conditions no longer matched anything in the current magical framework.
Snape shook his head. "The Restricted Section copy isn't the original. It's been transcribed and retranscribed across generations, every hand that touched it adding its own errors and omissions. What I obtained is not the medieval original either, but it's considerably closer."
"For example, the formula you just copied down. Is that in the Restricted Section version?"
"No," Tom agreed, and the smile that followed was completely unguarded. "In that case, Professor, I'd appreciate a full transcription. I'll give you fifty Inferi in exchange."
"One hundred."
"That's too many. Fifty is generous."
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