Wherever there are people, there will inevitably be conflict.
And especially here—at a school where even children wield supernatural power through magic.
And especially with the first Quidditch match of the year approaching in early November.
And even more so when the opposing teams are Slytherin and Gryffindor.
But the most crucial factor of all was this: the present moment marked a turning point inside Slytherin House—a time when the Pureblood Doctrine was more rampant than ever.
Even within Hogwarts, Snape could distinctly sense the tightening winds of unrest sweeping in from outside—a gale everyone was starting to whisper about as the beginning of war.
The Death Eaters had grown bolder by the day, openly ignoring every warning sent by Minister Eugenia Jenkins.
Attacks erupted across Britain, leaving fear, blood, and ruin in their wake.
Even the Aurors—valiant as they were—and former dueling champions who challenged Voldemort himself had all been crushed. Those who survived did so maimed, missing limbs, missing hope.
Within this escalating turmoil, the Pureblood families, who made up the core of the Death Eaters, reaped endless rewards.
And inevitably, inside Hogwarts, the pure-blood Slytherins basked in an echo of that same arrogance.
Nearly ninety percent of the students in Slytherin now revered Voldemort—savior of their families, the man who promised to restore their "rightful" dominance—and embraced his ideology without question.
Why oppose him?
Was anyone complaining about being too rich, too respected, too powerful?
Ambition had always been Slytherin's virtue and vice alike.
And within the Dark Lord, they saw the ultimate reflection of their desires.
In this feverish atmosphere, the House had become a crucible of fanatic devotion. Soon, joining the Death Eaters would become the proudest career path a young snake could aspire to.
On the eve of the Halloween Feast, that zealous pride took shape in something far less ceremonious.
The upcoming Quidditch match—Slytherin vs. Gryffindor—was more than a sport.
It was ideology versus ideology, blood versus blood.
Among the upper‑year Slytherins—those immersed in the rhetoric of purity—a plan was already forming.
A coordinated "incident."
A pre‑match "lesson."
A way to show their "loyalty" while also weakening Gryffindor's team before the game began.
But they were not as unseen as they believed.
Every whisper, every scheme, was already being carried—word for word—through secret channels straight to a certain, seemingly harmless first‑year boy.
"Thank you, Fleran. Here is your payment."
The old, squeaky voice stammered in disbelief.
"Oh, merciful heavens! The noble Master Snape remembers my name? Surely Fleran must be dreaming!"
"Of course not," Snape replied softly. "You've done me a great service. And this isn't charity. You earned this reward yourself."
"N‑No! It's too expensive! Fleran couldn't possibly—!"
But Snape ignored the protests.
He gently clasped the little elf's trembling hand and pressed a small packet of sweets into it.
A perfect smile touched the boy's lips—warm, patient, kind enough to bring tears to the creature's eyes.
"You're my friend, Fleran. No matter what troubles you face, I hope you'll remember that."
Those words—the tone, the look of sincerity—were pure artistry.
The elf wobbled where he stood, eyes wide and shiny as saucers. By the time Snape dismissed him, Fleran's expression had melted into a mix of devotion and awe. He vanished in a whirl of loyalty.
Behind him, the warmth on Snape's face disappeared at once—melting like snow under the sun.
Expressionless, he whispered under his breath.
"Number forty‑seven."
That made forty‑seven house‑elves so far—forty‑seven "friends" who would, by reflex, tell him anything they saw or heard.
An invisible network wrapped around Hogwarts, unseen and untouchable.
Who, after all, would ever suspect a house‑elf?
They repaired frames, polished floors, cooked meals, and bowed low before every wizard.
And no one—not even the teachers—ever wondered who those small, silent servants talked to when their labor was done.
All Snape had needed to do was remember each of their names… and treat them as equals.
Simple gestures, perfect results.
Thanks to this network, he now knew nearly everything worth knowing at Hogwarts.
Including this latest secret: Lucius Malfoy and several upper‑years were planning an attack on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
And Snape had no intention of stopping them.
In fact, he planned to help.
To Lily, he would appear to defend Gryffindor—for her sake, and for the image that future Dumbledore would see.
But to his Slytherin housemates, he would act as if protecting their interests from behind the scenes.
Either way, the result would be the same: Snape would shine.
If he played his cards correctly, he could display talent enough to catch Lucius's attention—perhaps even secure an invitation to the Black Eye Society, the inner circle whispered to hold ancient texts and forbidden spells unseen anywhere else.
He already knew what would follow.
Such a performance would make him impossible to ignore.
It would draw envy, resentment, hostility.
But that was fine.
Every step closer to the secret knowledge he sought was worth the price.
This was Hogwarts.
No one would dare take a life here; all conflict remained under the professors' leash.
And even if they did come for him… Snape doubted their ability to win.
Lily, this time, he would leave out.
Dragging her into this mess would do more harm than good.
Days passed.
As Halloween crept closer, tension thickened throughout the castle like an approaching storm.
Then—on the night before the Feast itself—just as the sun set behind the towers,
the air above the castle walls erupted in shouting, sparks, and the telltale flash of spells.
A full‑scale, premeditated brawl had begun.