As the next Quidditch match drew closer, a thick cloud of anxiety settled over the Gryffindor common room.
"Snape as the referee?"
Ron Weasley looked as though he had just been informed that the world was ending. His freckles stood out sharply against his pale face. "He'll definitely find some excuse to send you off the pitch, Harry! Or worse—he might jinx you mid-air, just like last time!"
Hermione frowned, her hands clasped tightly together. "You don't have to play," she said seriously. "You could say you're sick."
"Or break a leg," Ron added helpfully. "Not permanently, just enough to get out of it."
Harry gave them both a tired look and shook his head.
"If I don't play, Gryffindor will lose for sure," he said quietly. "Wood would be devastated."
That was true. Oliver Wood had already been pacing like a general preparing for war. The team needed Harry. Whether Snape was refereeing or not, he couldn't just abandon them.
While the Gryffindor trio sank deeper into worry, the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room was entirely different.
Tamara Riddle sat gracefully on a green velvet sofa, a delicate porcelain cup of black tea resting between her fingers. Across from her, Draco Malfoy was practically vibrating with excitement.
"This is brilliant!" Draco declared, grinning widely. "Professor Snape as referee! Potter's finished this time!"
He punched the air enthusiastically.
"The second Potter makes a wrong move on that broom, Professor Snape can call a foul. Or better yet—just disqualify him outright!"
Tamara set her cup down with a soft click. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips.
"It is indeed… an interesting opportunity."
Draco continued rambling, but Tamara's thoughts were elsewhere.
Snape volunteering as referee was no coincidence. He wanted to stay close to Harry—to prevent Quirrell from trying anything dangerous again. That alone confirmed her suspicion. Despite his obvious dislike for Potter, Snape's loyalty to Hogwarts ran deeper. He would never allow a student to be murdered under his watch.
That did not mean he wouldn't take the chance to make Potter's life difficult.
Tamara stood and smoothed the front of her robes.
"However," she murmured softly to herself, "this is also a very good opportunity."
If she could use this situation wisely, she might strengthen Harry's trust in her. A subtle performance—perhaps a carefully staged conversation with Snape—would be enough. If the foolish savior learned that she had "persuaded" Snape on his behalf, he would likely feel deeply moved.
And gratitude was a powerful tool.
The corridor outside the locker rooms was cold and tense before the match.
Snape stood alone, inspecting the players' broomsticks with sharp, critical eyes. His expression was darker than the thunderclouds gathering beyond the castle towers.
"Professor."
Tamara's voice echoed lightly through the corridor.
Snape turned sharply. His black eyes narrowed the moment they landed on her.
"I believe I warned you," he said coldly, "not to wander where you do not belong, Miss Riddle."
"I was merely passing by," Tamara replied smoothly, stepping closer. "I thought I would greet our beloved Dean."
Her gaze drifted to the whistle in his hand.
"I heard you volunteered to referee. How… dedicated."
"I am ensuring the fairness of the match," Snape said flatly.
"Fairness?" Tamara's lips curved faintly.
She lowered her voice, her tone shifting into something meaningful—layered with implications meant only for him.
"I, too, hope the match remains fair. After all, if one is too obvious in targeting a certain player, it might give others… leverage. Wouldn't it, Professor?"
Her meaning was clear: if he suppressed Potter too openly, Dumbledore would notice. Even a Slytherin victory had to look respectable.
But Snape heard something entirely different.
Was she warning him not to be too obvious in protecting Potter?
His heart skipped.
Snape studied her carefully. His gaze grew increasingly complex.
The Dark Lord he had once known would have sneered at such subtlety—or simply ordered Potter's death outright. Yet this girl before him… she was advising discretion.
"You are perceptive, Miss Riddle," Snape said slowly, his voice almost contemplative. "Unusually perceptive for a first-year."
A faint, testing gleam flickered in his eyes.
"Since you have such keen insight into Quidditch politics, why not participate yourself?"
Tamara's pupils tightened slightly.
"With your talent and intelligence," Snape continued softly, "there would surely be a place for you on the Slytherin team."
It was a trap.
Snape knew well that Voldemort had despised Quidditch. He considered it frivolous—students scrambling through the air like monkeys on sticks. Undignified. A waste of time.
If Tamara reacted with similar disdain…
Tamara's mind moved swiftly.
If she refused outright, she might unintentionally align herself too closely with Voldemort's known preferences. It wouldn't prove anything, but it would plant suspicion. And if Snape began viewing her as connected to the creature attached to Quirrell, he might choose the "main soul" over her.
That would be… inconvenient.
But agreeing meant participating in that ridiculous sport.
Her expression shifted seamlessly into polite regret.
"If given the opportunity, I would be honored, Professor," she said earnestly. "Bringing glory to Slytherin would be a privilege. Unfortunately, the team is already full. And Captain Marcus Flint does not seem particularly fond of me."
A flawless excuse.
She affirmed her loyalty to Slytherin while placing the obstacle elsewhere.
Snape's lips curved faintly.
"That is hardly an obstacle."
Tamara's stomach tightened.
"As Head of House," Snape continued calmly, "I can recommend promising players. I'm certain Mr. Flint could make room for you. Perhaps as… Seeker?"
Tamara's smile froze.
Seeker?
Chasing that tiny golden insect around the sky?
For a split second, she genuinely considered hexing him.
"Thank you, Professor," she said through controlled composure. "However, I am currently participating in Professor Flitwick's Charms Club. The academic workload is quite demanding. I fear I would not have sufficient time for proper training."
"Is that so?" Snape observed her carefully. Her smile was intact—but just slightly stiff.
He found himself strangely amused.
"What a pity," he said smoothly. "Perhaps another time."
With that, he turned and strode toward the pitch, robes billowing dramatically.
Tamara remained in the corridor, inhaling deeply several times to steady herself.
"It seems," she muttered quietly, "this loyal servant still does not understand who his true master is."
Word quickly reached Harry that Tamara had spoken to Snape before the match.
She had even told him not to worry.
"She must have tried to help me," Harry thought, warmth spreading through his chest.
He felt a small sting of guilt remembering his careless thoughts in front of the Mirror of Erised. He had doubted her then.
Tamara was admired by many. She was charming, graceful, always surrounded by friends. But she deserved that admiration.
She was kind.
Harry tightened his grip around the amulet hanging from his neck and exhaled slowly. His eyes sharpened with determination.
The match began.
The crowd roared as the players shot into the air.
Barely five minutes passed before Harry spotted it—the Golden Snitch, glinting like a flicker of sunlight near the stadium wall.
He dove instantly.
The wind screamed past his ears as he plummeted downward, a streak of red cutting through the sky.
Snape barely had time to blink.
Before any foul could be called, before any favoritism could be displayed, Harry's fingers closed firmly around the tiny golden ball.
The whistle shrieked.
The match was over.
Gryffindor had won.
The stands erupted into deafening cheers. Red and gold banners waved wildly as students leapt to their feet.
Harry landed lightly on the grass, still clutching the Snitch. His heart pounded—but not from the dive.
Almost instinctively, his gaze turned toward the Slytherin stands.
He found her immediately.
Tamara stood among her housemates, composed as ever. She wasn't cheering. Her expression was cool—almost indifferent.
But to Harry, none of that mattered.
He raised the Snitch slightly and gave her a wide, grateful smile.
"Thank you, Tamara," he mouthed silently.
In his eyes, she had protected him.
Tamara met his gaze.
And felt her headache worsen.
Yes, she had achieved what she wanted. Harry trusted her more now. His gratitude was clear, open, sincere.
Exactly as planned.
So why did she feel irritated?
Looking at his earnest, almost foolish grin, she exhaled slowly.
"…Idiot," she muttered under her breath.
Yet despite herself, she did not look away immediately.
The cheers of the stadium echoed loudly around them—victory, celebration, triumph.
And somewhere beneath it all, unseen threads tightened quietly in the shadows.
The game had ended quickly.
But the real match had only just begun.
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