Chapter 58: Disliking Sports
As the next Quidditch match loomed closer, a suffocating tension settled over the Gryffindor common room. The crackling hearth fire did absolutely nothing to chase away the chill of impending doom.
"Snape? As the referee?"
Ron Weasley's voice cracked, his eyes bulging as if he had just been informed the sky was falling and the Ministry had mandated a daily diet of slugs. "He'll find an excuse to send you off the pitch in the first five minutes, Harry! Or worse... he might just cast a jinx on you directly while you're hundreds of feet in the air! Just like last time!"
"Don't go to the match," Hermione suggested, her usually logical tone edged with genuine desperation. She slammed her heavy textbook shut. "Just tell them you're sick. Go to the hospital wing."
"Or break a leg," Ron added, nodding vigorously at his own highly constructive suggestion. "I'll push you down the stairs if you want. A clean break."
Harry stared at the flickering flames and slowly shook his head.
If he backed out now, Gryffindor would forfeit the match by default. Oliver Wood would likely hurl himself off the Astronomy Tower in despair. He could not do that to his captain.
While the golden trio wallowed in their collective misery, the atmosphere down in the Slytherin dungeons was entirely different.
Bathed in the cool, emerald light filtering through the Black Lake, Tamara Riddle sat in a high-backed leather armchair, idly listening to Draco Malfoy's incessant, excited chattering.
"Fantastic! Absolutely brilliant! Professor Snape is the referee!" Draco crowed, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, punching his fist into his open palm. "Potter is completely done for this time. The moment that scarhead even dares to twitch on his broom, Professor Snape can call a foul on him!"
Tamara lowered her porcelain teacup to its saucer with a soft, deliberate clink. A faint, playful smile curled the corner of her lips.
'It is indeed a rather perfect opportunity.'
Her mind, sharp and cold as a steel trap, calculated the variables. Severus Snape volunteering to referee a Quidditch match was as absurd as a troll taking up ballet. The man despised the sport. His true motive was glaringly obvious to her: he was placing himself in the center of the pitch to protect Harry Potter at close range, ensuring that the stuttering fool Quirrell could not attempt another dark curse from the stands.
This neatly confirmed her earlier suspicions. Though Snape clearly loathed the boy with every fiber of his being, his loyalty to Hogwarts—and to Dumbledore—ran deeper. He would never allow a student to be murdered right under his rather prominent nose.
Of course, that did not mean he would not take immense pleasure in tripping the little savior up at every legal opportunity.
'However...'Tamara stood up, her hands gracefully smoothing the pristine folds of her dark robes.'This presents a rather delightful opening for me.'
If she wanted to cement her position as the kind, tragic, and utterly faultless angel in Harry Potter's eyes, she hardly minded putting on a little theatrical performance. She would seek Snape out and pretend to advise him against targeting the boy.
If that foolish, emotionally starved savior knew she was braving the terrifying Potions Master just for his sake, he would probably be moved to tears. The thought alone made her want to laugh out loud.
...
Down in the chilly, echoing corridor outside the locker rooms, the air before the match was thick enough to cut with a silver knife.
Snape stood alone, inspecting the school broomsticks. His face was as dark and thunderous as a rain cloud preparing to burst, his long fingers snapping a loose twig off a handle with unnecessary force.
"Professor."
Tamara's soft, polite voice drifted through the empty corridor.
Snape whipped around, his black robes billowing. His dark eyes locked onto her, instantly narrowing with deep suspicion.
"I was under the impression I had warned you against wandering into places you do not belong, Miss Riddle."
"I am merely passing through," Tamara replied smoothly, her footsteps light as she closed the distance between them. Her gaze drifted down to the silver whistle clutched tightly in his hand. Her tone shifted, carrying a weight that demanded attention. "Stopping to see... our beloved Head of House. I heard you are serving as the referee today. That is... surprisingly enthusiastic of you."
Snape's jaw tightened. "I am merely ensuring the fairness of the match."
"Fairness?"
Tamara allowed a soft, melodic chuckle to escape her lips. She took a single step closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, layering her words with an implication she expected only a Slytherin of his caliber to catch.
"Of course. I, too, hope the match is entirely fair. After all... if the targeting is too obvious, it leaves a rather glaring handle for others to grasp, does it not, Professor?"
Her meaning was precise: Do not go too far in suppressing Potter, or Dumbledore will notice your blatant bias, and you will land yourself in unnecessary trouble. Win decently.
But to Snape's ears, heavily burdened by years of espionage and the looming shadow of the Dark Lord, her words twisted into something entirely different.
Snape's heart gave a violent, unpleasant jolt.
Was she suggesting he shouldn't be too obvious about protecting Potter?
He stared down at the delicate, beautiful girl standing before him, his gaze turning incredibly complex. If this were the Dark Lord of the past, he would have simply sneered at the entire affair, or ordered a Death Eater to snap Potter's neck in the locker room.
But this girl... she was actually warning him to be discreet? To maintain his cover?
"You are sharp, Riddle," Snape said slowly, his voice dropping to a raspy, dangerous silk. "Sharp... in a manner that entirely defies a first-year student."
A testing light suddenly flared in the depths of his black eyes. He shifted his posture, towering over her slightly.
"Since you possess such deep insights into the mechanics of Quidditch, why do you not participate yourself?"
Snape did not blink. He watched her face, searching for a micro-expression, a twitch, a flash of the monster he suspected lurked beneath her skin. "With your obvious talent and your sharp mind, there would certainly be a place for you on the Slytherin team."
It was a trap. A brilliant, venomous little trap.
Snape knew perfectly well that Voldemort utterly loathed the sport. The Dark Lord considered flying around on wooden sticks chasing balls to be the behavior of trained monkeys—a barbaric waste of time utterly devoid of dignity.
If Tamara showed even a fraction of that same disgust...
Tamara's pupils contracted the fraction of a millimeter.
She caught the scent of the bait instantly. If she refused outright, displaying her genuine contempt for the sport, she would expose a shared psychological trait with Voldemort. While not hard evidence, it would plant a seed of absolute certainty in Snape's paranoid mind. If he fully equated her with the parasitic wraith currently clinging to the back of Quirrell's head, he might actually assist the main soul in destroying her.
But if she agreed, she would have to actually play that damned, barbaric, monkey-brained sport.
Her mind raced, and within a microsecond, her features melted into a perfectly timed expression of wistful regret.
"If given the chance, I would certainly love to try, Professor," she sighed, her tone dripping with earnest sincerity. "After all, it would be my absolute honor to bring glory to Slytherin House on the pitch. Unfortunately... as you are well aware, the roster is entirely full. And Captain Marcus Flint does not seem to care for me very much."
It was a flawless deflection. She declared her undying loyalty to the house while neatly dumping the logistical blame onto the brutish Quidditch captain.
Snape, however, had no intention of letting his prey slip the snare so easily.
"If that is the only issue, you need not worry yourself."
The corner of Snape's mouth twitched upward, forming an incredibly rare, distinctly malicious smile. "As your Head of House, I possess the authority to recommend exceptional players. I can easily instruct Marcus to make room for you. Perhaps... as our new Seeker?"
Tamara's gentle smile froze solid.
Damn you to the deepest pits of hell.
Was this greasy-haired bat actually serious? Making her a Seeker? Forcing her to fly around a freezing pitch chasing a tiny golden fly while bludgers tried to cave her skull in?
"Then... thank you very much, Professor," Tamara forced out, her voice sweet while she actively felt the muscles in her jaw protesting the strain. "However... I am currently enrolled in Professor Flitwick's Charms Club. The academic pressure is quite demanding right now. I am afraid I simply would not have the hours required for proper team training."
"Is that so?"
Snape studied her face. He saw the smile, he saw the polite deference, but he also caught the microscopic stiffness around her eyes. He felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of dark amusement.
"What a pity," Snape drawled breezily, turning his back on her with a dramatic sweep of his robes. "Then we shall discuss this matter at a later date."
He strode toward the pitch, leaving Tamara standing alone in the freezing corridor.
She took three long, deep breaths of the damp dungeon air, her fingers twitching violently at her sides as she suppressed the overwhelming urge to draw her wand and blast a hole straight through the back of Snape's skull.
'It seems,'she thought, her internal voice dripping with venom,'this loyal little servant has not yet realized who his master truly is.'
...
Up in the Gryffindor locker room, Harry had already heard the whispers. Someone had seen Tamara Riddle seeking out Snape in the corridors right before the match. She had even caught Harry's eye earlier that morning, offering him a soft, reassuring smile and telling him not to worry.
'She must have gone to speak up for me.'
A deep warmth bloomed in Harry's chest, chasing away the pre-match jitters. Honestly, he felt a deep pang of guilt for the thoughtless, defensive words he had thrown at her in front of the Mirror of Erised that night.
Tamara was brilliant, beautiful, and constantly surrounded by a flock of admiring Slytherins, but she entirely deserved it. Beneath that silver-and-green tie, she was genuinely kind. She looked out for people. She looked out for him.
Harry reached beneath his Quidditch robes, his fingers brushing against the amulet resting over his heart. He took a deep, steadying breath. His green eyes hardened with absolute resolve.
He kicked off the ground. The match began.
Exactly five minutes later, the wind roaring in his ears, Harry spotted the glint of gold near the Hufflepuff stands.
He threw his weight forward, pushing his Nimbus 2000 into a terrifying, near-vertical dive. He dropped out of the sky like a red lightning bolt. Before Snape could even raise his whistle to invent a penalty, before he could even attempt to show favoritism to the opposing team, Harry's fingers closed tightly around the small, struggling golden ball.
The whistle blew. The match ended.
Gryffindor had won.
The scarlet-and-gold sections of the stands erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar that shook the wooden foundations.
Harry pulled out of his dive, gliding smoothly over the manicured grass. He held the Golden Snitch high in the air, the wings fluttering against his knuckles. But instead of looking at his cheering housemates, his eyes immediately swept toward the silver-and-green section of the stands.
He found her.
Tamara sat perfectly still amidst the sea of scowling Slytherins. She wasn't cheering. In fact, her expression looked distinctly cold, her posture rigid.
But in Harry's eyes, none of that mattered. He knew she had to maintain appearances among her housemates. He knew the truth.
'Thank you, Tamara.'
Hovering on his broom, Harry looked directly at her and flashed a massive, goofy, entirely grateful smile.
Up in the stands, Tamara stared down at the grinning, triumphant savior. She watched him hold up the Snitch, looking at her like she was his personal guardian angel.
Her plan had worked flawlessly. She had secured his absolute trust without lifting a finger.
And yet, as a dull, throbbing ache began to pulse behind her temples, Tamara found that she wasn't happy in the slightest.
'...Idiot.'
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