Chapter 50: What Does Snape Know About Quidditch

What Harold didn't know was that not long after he'd left the headmaster's office, someone else arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the stairway. Snape. He spoke the password, ascended the spiral staircase, and entered Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was browsing the shelves when he turned to see who had arrived. "Severus, how rare. What brings you here today?" "I just saw Ollivander," Snape said, his tone clipped. "So you've finally decided to expel him, haven't you?" "I'm afraid I don't follow," Dumbledore replied, stepping away from the shelf. "From what I can tell, this was a minor accident. He did break school rules, but it's not an offense worthy of expulsion. Besides, Minerva already issued punishment—she is the head of Gryffindor House." "But what about the troll's spine?" Snape said evenly. "And I seem to recall telling you before that Ollivander also purchased red cap hearts in Knockturn Alley." "So did you," Dumbledore said calmly. "And yet, you're still Head of Slytherin House, Severus." "We're not the same!" "In my view, you are," Dumbledore replied, then paused thoughtfully. "Though I do agree it's improper for a student to be frequenting Knockturn Alley. Five points from Gryffindor, then. Hopefully it'll remind him to steer clear of such places." Snape's expression turned to ice. Five points? That's the punishment? He docked more than that from Potter in a single lesson. He doubted the Gryffindors would even notice they'd lost five points. "Do as you please," Snape said coolly. "In that case, what about the matter I brought up last time?" "You mean becoming referee for the next Quidditch match? Because of Harry?" "That idiot Potter has no idea Quirrell is the one trying to kill him," Snape sneered, as if talking about a troll with half a brain. "Generic counter-spells won't cut it. I need to stay close to him to make sure his broom doesn't go haywire again." "You don't need to do that," Dumbledore said as he opened the window, looking out toward the Quidditch pitch. "I plan on watching the next match myself. Quirrell won't dare try anything." Snape said nothing, just stood there, silently staring at Dumbledore... "All right, if you insist," Dumbledore relented with a sigh. "I'll let Madam Hooch know. She'll be happy to finally watch a full match from the stands." "A wise decision," Snape said, turning on his heel. His black cloak flared behind him like a giant bat as he swept from the office. He didn't bother acknowledging Dumbledore's parting remark: "I trust you'll be fair and impartial." He simply slammed the door shut behind him. ... "What did you just say?! Snape's refereeing?" Oliver Wood's words sent a ripple of panic through the Gryffindor common room. Within seconds, everyone forgot all about Harold. Last night's dormitory destruction, this morning's skipped class—none of it mattered anymore. Even though Harold had tried to explain he hadn't really skipped class, nobody listened. Thankfully, the Quidditch team returned just then, and with them, the focus shifted back to the real emergency. "That's got to be a joke. He's never refereed a match in his life!" "This is a conspiracy! There's no way he'll make fair calls!" "Let's go complain to Professor McGonagall!" "It's no use—this was the headmaster's decision!" "So what, we're just supposed to roll over and lose?" "There's got to be something we can do. As long as we don't break the rules, he can't touch us!" Everyone was shouting at once, trying to come up with a solution. Harold, meanwhile, quietly slipped away and returned to his room. He didn't want to be dragged into any wild scheme involving rebelling against Minerva McGonagall. He did want to master Animagus transformation—but not by getting turned into a toad by his Head of House. The debate in the common room went on until nearly midnight. But come Saturday afternoon, the match kicked off right on schedule. Harold didn't have anything else planned, so he joined the others to watch. As he settled into his seat in the stands, he heard a familiar voice to his right. "Don't forget—it's Locomotor Mortis. Got that?" "I know, stop nagging," Ron muttered. "Huh?" Harold turned to look at them. "It's for fairness," Hermione said quietly when she noticed Harold's confusion. "We talked about it last night. If Snape tries to hurt Harry, we'll hit him with the Leg-Locker Curse." "You're planning to curse a teacher? Do you want Hogwarts to expel you on the spot?" Harold frowned. "I get where you're coming from, but there's no need. Look over there." He pointed toward the teachers' stand. "Dumbledore!" Ron nearly shouted. "He's watching the match too—that's brilliant! No one's touching Harry with him around." The two visibly relaxed, both slipping their wands back into their sleeves. As it turned out, Ron was right. The match ended without a hitch—no broom malfunctions, no dark magic. Then again, it was also over in less than five minutes. Harold hadn't even finished his third roasted walnut before the crowd erupted in cheers. On the walk back toward the castle, Harold's eyes lingered on something in the distance. "What are you looking at?" Neville asked curiously. "That." Harold pointed toward a large, gnarled willow near the greenhouses—massive, thick-trunked, and radiating power. The Whomping Willow—one of the rarest magical plants in the wizarding world. He hadn't dared mess with it earlier in the year, but after half a term at Hogwarts, Harold felt like it was time to set his sights on new challenges. He was... bored. After completing that two-foot wand, regular wand-making had started to feel dull. The passion just wasn't there anymore. He'd tried to work through the rest of the red cap hearts yesterday afternoon, and had only made two wands before his focus slipped. The failures piled up quickly. It got so bad he actually considered doing homework instead. Homework. While wand-making. It was horrifying. So he did the only reasonable thing: fed the leftover materials to Tom the cat. Then he made a decision—time to set a new goal. (End of Chapter)