After yet another emotional critical hit, Snape could only blame his own wretched mouth. Why did he have to provoke Riddle—that student who never played by the rules?
Now he'd let his guard down not once, but twice. Even his usual mask of composure was slipping.
Not that Snape would ever admit fault, of course. He was the professor, Riddle was the student—and sooner or later, he'd catch the boy slipping.
With a cold flick of his wand, lines of dense text began appearing rapidly across the blackboard.
"These are the ingredients and brewing steps for the Doxycide Potion. Everyone, collect your materials now. Pair up in twos. If I catch anyone wasting my supplies…" Snape's eyes gleamed, "...you'll be scrubbing the dungeon floors for a week."
At the command, the classroom burst into motion.
Naturally, Tom partnered with Daphne. Even if he had wanted to team up with Hermione, it wouldn't have worked out. It had only been a week since term began, but the rivalry between houses was already brewing strong. The students of different houses were keeping to their own unless the numbers forced a crossover.
Conveniently, this year both Gryffindor and Slytherin had an even number of students.
The temperature in the Potions classroom began to rise as cauldrons lit up and potion fumes curled lazily through the air.
Truth be told, brewing a basic potion wasn't that different from cooking. The only real difference lay in the precision—ingredients needed to be measured to the gram, steps followed to the letter.
Snape prowled the classroom like a silent bat. He moved so stealthily not a single footstep betrayed his presence. It was unnerving. Whenever he was out of sight, every student in the room tensed, afraid he might be right behind them, watching with those cold, soulless eyes.
Soon enough, everyone noticed who was getting the brunt of Snape's attention: Harry Potter.
"Potter, if you don't know what 'sliced' means, you could ask—rather than grind porcupine quills into dust. Gryffindor, minus one point."
"Potter, I'm starting to think Hogwarts should hire a language tutor for you. So the great savior of the wizarding world can, perhaps, one day read his professor's notes. Gryffindor, minus one."
"Potter, did I or did I not tell you to steam the flobberworms? Have you done it yet?"
"Potter!"
"Potter!"
If Harry had been doubting Tom's motives earlier, all doubts were now burned away. There was only one explanation in his mind:
Tom Riddle had completely made all that crap up.
All that stuff about Snape expressing regret, using flower language to convey hidden remorse? Nonsense! The guy was just looking for any excuse to make his life hell!
This version of Snape, freshly provoked, was even more brutal than the one in the original timeline. By the halfway mark of class, Gryffindor had already lost ten points. Hermione looked like she wanted to possess Harry's body just so she could make the potion for him.
After thoroughly venting his fury on Harry, Snape finally decided he'd had enough. He spared a few acid-tongued remarks for poor Neville, who nearly teared up on the spot, then shifted his sights to Tom.
He wouldn't dock Riddle points—Snape still had his house pride, after all. But his tongue? Oh, that could lash. All he needed was the tiniest flaw to launch a full verbal assault.
Except…
As he watched, Snape's scowl deepened.
Where were the flaws?
Why couldn't he find any?
Riddle was following procedure with such absurd precision, it was painful to watch. Snape did find a few minor issues, but they weren't even Riddle's fault—they stemmed from the ingredients.
You see, potion brewing isn't just about following instructions. Ingredient quality and compatibility matter too. Ideally, every batch should be adjusted subtly to account for these differences in pursuit of perfection.
But this was far beyond what first-years were expected to know.
Riddle, however, executed every step from the board flawlessly. Weights accurate to the gram. Timing down to the second. Snape felt as if he were chewing on a hedgehog—no matter how he tried, he couldn't get a proper bite.
From his seat at the back, Andros watched with quiet amazement. Magic aptitude aside, Riddle's learning ability was off the charts. The boy could pick up anything in mere moments—it was almost inhuman.
"Riddle," Snape finally snapped. "The reason I paired students together was not so one of you could just sit there watching. You've done everything yourself—what's the point of having Greengrass there? Don't let a little talent make you so full of yourself!"
Clearly frustrated, Snape didn't give Tom a chance to respond. He whirled away and stalked off, his robes billowing behind him.
After two verbal defeats, Snape had come to a valuable realization: if Riddle wasn't allowed to speak, he couldn't humiliate him. Best to shut him up entirely. That way, Snape wouldn't have to feel like someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs.
Tom couldn't help but chuckle.
What a move, old bat. Only you could manage to turn even this into a complaint.
He wasn't bothered in the slightest by Snape's outburst. But Daphne felt a pang of guilt.
"I'm sorry, Tom. If I hadn't slacked off, Professor Snape wouldn't have scolded you…"
"It's fine," Tom said casually. "I think he was just concerned I was overworking myself."
He smiled and slid the dried nettles toward her.
"Just crush these into powder and add them to the cauldron. Once that's done, the potion is finished. You take care of this last step."
"Okay!" Daphne nodded enthusiastically and began grinding the nettles with careful focus.
Class ended not long after, and Snape, true to form, didn't spare Riddle even a single glance. But before leaving, he dropped a parting blow:
"Your homework is a sixteen-inch essay."
Sixteen.
Every student in the room deflated like a popped balloon. Even Tom grimaced.
First-year assignments were typically light—six inches, maybe 1,500 words at most. Snape had just assigned triple that. A full four to five thousand words.
He didn't care that the entire class looked like they'd been hexed into despair. He simply swept out of the classroom like the grim spirit of misery itself.
"Let's go," Tom sighed, turning to Daphne. Inwardly, he was already scheming. Maybe I should get myself a magical quill like Rita Skeeter's...
Because writing thousands of words on such a basic potion was beyond pointless. He wasn't about to waste his time on something this meaningless. He'd rather go on a walk with Daphne.
At least the little witch was nice to look at—bright eyes, soft dimples, always smiling sweetly. That improved one's mood.
But what annoyed Tom most?
Snape hadn't given him any points.
He was a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake! Was this fair?
Sure, Slytherin was currently ahead by a massive margin, so maybe the old bat didn't feel the urgency…
But Tom wouldn't allow this to stand.
Clearly, it was time to up the difficulty for dear Professor Snape—so he could learn who truly was the backbone of Slytherin House.