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What Robert didn't know was that not long after he had left, someone else appeared from the other end of the corridor.
Snape walked up to the gargoyle, muttered the password, and ascended the spiral staircase behind it to reach the Headmaster's office.
At that moment, Dumbledore was scanning a shelf of books. He turned around upon hearing the footsteps.
"Severus, this is rare. Is there something you need from me?"
"I just saw Ollivander," Snape said coldly. "So, you've finally decided to expel him, haven't you?"
"I don't know what you mean," Dumbledore replied, puzzled. "From my perspective, this is just a minor incident. It may breach school rules, but it's hardly grounds for expulsion. Besides, Minerva already issued punishment. She's the Head of Gryffindor, after all."
"But what about the troll's spine?" Snape continued calmly. "And don't forget—I've already told you before—Ollivander also purchased Red Cap hearts from Knockturn Alley."
"You've bought those too," Dumbledore countered. "And yet, you're still the Head of Slytherin, Severus."
"We're not the same."
"In my eyes, you are the same," Dumbledore replied. After a pause, he added, "But yes, it is improper for a student to go to Knockturn Alley. Gryffindor will lose five points. I hope this punishment teaches him a lesson—and keeps him away from such dangerous places."
Snape's expression turned even colder, like frost hardening on glass.
Gryffindor loses five points? That was the punishment? He deducted more than that from Harry in a single lesson. He doubted Gryffindor students would even notice the missing points.
"Do as you like," Snape muttered, too tired to argue further. "Now, about the matter I raised last time?"
"You mean your request to referee the next Quidditch match... because of Harry?"
"That fool Potter will likely never realize it's Quirrell who wants to kill him," Snape sneered, his tone dripping with contempt, as if talking about a brainless troll. "The general counter-curse isn't sufficient. I need to be close to him to make sure his broom doesn't lose control again."
"You don't actually have to do this," Dumbledore said as he opened a window, gazing out at the distant Quidditch pitch. "I'll be watching the next match. Quirrell won't dare to try anything under my nose."
Snape didn't answer. He simply stood there, his black eyes locked on Dumbledore.
After a long pause, Dumbledore sighed. "Alright, if you insist," he conceded. "I'll inform Madam Hooch. She can finally enjoy an entire match from the stands."
"A wise decision," Snape said curtly. He turned around and swept out of the office, his billowing black cloak trailing behind like a great bat in flight.
He ignored Dumbledore's parting words: "I hope you'll be fair and impartial," and slammed the door shut behind him.
"What did you say—Snape is going to be the referee?" When Oliver Wood shared the news, the Gryffindor common room exploded in uproar.
No one paid attention to Robert anymore; everyone swarmed toward the Quidditch captain.
Smashing the dormitory the night before, skipping class this morning—and it was Professor Flitwick's Charms class at that—had made Robert an infamous figure in Gryffindor. Even though he explained repeatedly that he hadn't skipped class intentionally, no one seemed to care.
Fortunately, the Quidditch team returned in time to steal the spotlight. Suddenly, nobody cared about broken dormitories or missed classes—Quidditch was all that mattered now.
"Are you serious? When has Snape ever refereed a match?"
"This is a setup. He'll definitely be biased."
"We should protest to Professor McGonagall."
"It won't work. The Headmaster already approved it!"
"Then what do we do? Just throw the match?"
"There must be another way. As long as we play by the book, he can't accuse us of anything."
Everyone shouted at once, their voices overlapping. Robert didn't join the chaos. He quietly slipped back to the dormitory to avoid any wild ideas—like being appointed to lead a rebellion against Professor McGonagall.
He still wanted to learn Animagus transformation, but not if it meant being turned into some bizarre animal by force.
The uproar in the common room lasted until midnight. But when Saturday afternoon rolled around three days later, the match proceeded as scheduled.
This time, Robert had nothing else going on, so he decided to watch the match with everyone else.
As he settled into the stands, Robert heard a familiar voice to his right.
"Remember—it's Locomotor Mortis. Don't forget."
"I know!" Ron replied irritably. "Stop nagging."
"Hmm?" Robert turned his head, confused.
"For fairness," Hermione whispered, seeing the puzzled look on Robert's face. "We talked last night. If Snape tries anything funny to hurt Harry, we'll use the Leg-Locker Curse on him."
"You're going to attack a professor?" Robert frowned. "You're basically begging Hogwarts to expel you. I get where you're coming from, but there's no need for that. Look who's here."
He pointed toward the staff stands.
"Dumbledore!" Ron nearly shouted. "He's here! That's perfect—nobody will dare try anything with him watching."
Hermione and Ron both relaxed, withdrawing the hidden wands from their sleeves.
And Ron was right. Throughout the entire match, Harry's broom stayed completely stable.
But perhaps it wasn't just Dumbledore's presence—there simply wasn't time for mischief. The entire game was over in under five minutes. Robert hadn't even finished his third roasted walnut.
Cheers thundered across the Quidditch pitch as students began to trickle out.
As they walked between the castle and the pitch, Robert stared fixedly in one direction.
"What are you looking at?" Neville asked, curious.
"That!" Robert pointed to a massive willow tree near the greenhouses. It stood far taller than ordinary willows, its gnarled and twisted trunk radiating an intense presence.
The Whomping Willow—one of the most treasured magical plants in the wizarding world.
Robert had avoided it before, but after half a year at Hogwarts, his curiosity finally got the better of him.
He was simply bored.
After crafting that two-foot wand, Robert had lost his drive when making regular wands. They no longer challenged or excited him.
Yesterday afternoon, with no classes on his schedule, he had planned to use some Red Cap hearts for new wands. But after finishing just two, his concentration faltered, and the failure rate soared.
Eventually, he even entertained the unthinkable: doing homework. Homework! While making wands!
Terrified by this lapse, he fed all remaining materials to Tom—the box where he disposed of failed wand cores—and decided he needed a new project.
He now had his sights set on the Whomping Willow.
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