Chapter 12:
The Quidditch Referee
As if Harry's worries weren't enough already, he started to have nightmares. He had been convinced by Professor Dumbledore to not try and find the Mirror of Erised anymore, but now he had his parents' faces etched in his mind.
Each night they would vanish in a burst of green light and evil chilling laughter.
Hermione said it was a warning. Ron said it was scary. Harry wasn't sure what it was, except that he was no longer sleeping well at all.
Harry needed more sleep than usual, for when term started again after the holidays, so did the Quidditch season. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain had the team practicing every spare hour. Harry began to feel as if his knees were permanently glued to his broomstick.
They practiced until it was almost too dark to see on the pitch, in the bitter cold and freezing rain, until Harry was convinced all seven of them would die out there and still Wood would make their ghosts practice.
The positive was that Harry was getting better and better at the game. His reflexes were faster. And Quidditch distracted him from classes, nightmares and Snape.
Until Oliver Wood made an announcement.
Snape was going to be refereeing the match against Hufflepuff.
George and Fred Weasley fell off their brooms.
"WHAT?!" George sputtered.
"When's he ever refereed a match?" Fred demanded. "No way will he be fair to Gryffindor!"
"Look, men, I didn't arrange it. So don't gang up on me," Wood said.
Harry felt his hands get clammy. He wiped them on his robes.
"Snape referring?" he muttered.
Snape hadn't succeeded in killing him off in the first game. Was this his chance to try again?
Harry's stomach clenched. At least he could ask Hermione and Ron to be ready with their wands, just in case.
Yet as the day of the match drew closer, Harry only grew more worried.
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Snape was angry. Very angry. This time it was not aimed at Harry Potter, nor at any students, but at himself. He had let his feelings show. He had gotten involved.
But there was no backing out now. He was too involved.
Snape stalked out onto the Quidditch pitch the day of the game with a broomstick in his hand and a snarl on his face. There were few things Snape disliked more than flying, but still he mounted his broom along with the two teams.
How had Snape gotten himself in this position? He looked over at the crowded stands and saw Albus Dumbledore sitting in the teacher's box. Dumbledore caught his eye and smiled.
Snape had confessed to the headmaster about his fears for Harry and what had happened at the last game. Dumbledore said he would attend the next game and had also suggested Snape referee. Snape had wanted to do anything but that. Anything else. Yet he hadn't be able to refuse, much to his irritation.
So here he was, straddling a broomstick on the Quidditch field with a whistle around his neck on a lanyard and holding the Quaffle.
Snape glared at the players of each team, daring any of them to commit as much as a foul while he was watching them. Anything at all and both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff would find themselves having points knocked off.
Little Harry Potter stared back at him, matching his stare with equal disdain. Why was Snape doing this? He grew more angry.
He tossed the Quaffle skyward and the players sprang to life.
Snape had a task before him; keeping his eyes on the players zooming in every direction and on the crowds below. He was keeping a close eye on the one person he suspected…
Snape dodged out of the way of a Bludger sent in his direction by George Weasley. Snape blew his whistle and awarded the Hufflepuffs a penalty.
Snape glanced upwards as Harry circled. Down in the stands, he noticed Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy locked in a fistfight. Neville Longbottom seemed to be trying to battle Malfoy's two cronies by himself. Snape gave another penalty to Hufflepuff just because he was feeling mean enough.
Seconds later, Harry streaked by Snape, missing him by mere inches as he dove after a flash of gold.
Then quite suddenly, the boy was balancing perfectly on his broom, the Golden Snitch clasped victoriously in his fist.
Snape blew his whistle.
The spectators erupted.
The game had lasted less than five minutes, and Gryffindor had again claimed victory.
Snape kept his nasty thoughts to himself as the players landed and the cheers pelted the air. He saw Dumbledore speak to Potter while Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were cheering, Weasley's nose bleeding heavily and Malfoy nearby scowling with a black eye. Longbottom was out cold.
At least no one had tried to harm Harry Potter. Snape was angry that he even cared. Why should he care? But he couldn't just stand by and let a student be hurt or killed, could he?
Snape dismounted his broom feeling more mixed up and irritated than ever. He caught sight of Quirrell. He looked nervous as ever and maybe a little disappointed. Snape made up his mind. Whatever Quirrell was up to, he'd have to get through him. And Snape could be as unforgiving as a stone wall, and just as stubborn as a mule.
With bitterness, Snape spat on the ground, narrowly missing his boots.
He didn't care. Hate was still coursing through him, but there was something else there as well, something which was possibly even stronger.
If anyone wanted to harm Harry Potter, they would have to get through Severus Snape first. He was determined that harm would never come. Even if he had to resort to shadowing Potter day and night if necessary.
The boy wasn't going to die on his watch.
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