The first node did not break.
That was the first thing Theodore noticed.
Under Wutu Divine Light and Yimu Divine Light, the black-red pattern beneath Quirrell's feet should have been crushed into dust. Ordinary dark magic would have collapsed. Even high-level alchemy would have cracked under the pressure of earth's suppression and wood's endless life.
But this thing endured.
It twisted.
Theodore stood in the folded space, one hand lowered, green and earthen light flowing between his fingers. The stone floor around Quirrell had sunk by half an inch, as if an invisible mountain pressed upon it. Yet the half-finished alchemical pattern continued to crawl beneath the dust, dragging itself forward like a dying insect refusing to die.
Quirrell's legs were shaking so badly that his knees almost knocked together.
He stared at Theodore, then at the array beneath him, then back at Theodore.
A very sincere thought rose in his mind.
Every time the Dark Lord said, This time will be different, Quirrell should have run in the opposite direction.
Unfortunately, the Dark Lord was currently living on the back of his head.
Running had never been an option.
"Theodore Snow…" Voldemort's voice hissed inside his skull. "Do not panic."
Quirrell nearly laughed.
Do not panic?
Theodore had just folded space like a handkerchief, appeared beside him without warning, and pinned down the first node of an array personally designed by Voldemort after days of sleepless calculation.
And now the Dark Lord was saying do not panic.
Quirrell swallowed hard. "M-my lord, I am not panicking."
"You are trembling."
"That is… tactical trembling."
Voldemort ignored him.
Through Quirrell's eyes, he stared at the young wizard standing only a few steps away. Theodore's expression was calm, almost thoughtful, as if he had not interrupted a forbidden alchemical ritual but had instead discovered an interesting herb growing between two paving stones.
That calmness irritated Voldemort more than fear would have.
Fear meant understanding.
Calm meant Theodore was already dissecting the problem.
"Interesting," Theodore said softly.
Quirrell flinched.
Theodore lowered his gaze to the pattern underfoot. "This is not merely dark magic. The outer shell is alchemy, but the inner structure is closer to an array. Ten branches, mutually linked, mutually feeding… no, not complete yet."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"There is tribulation qi inside."
Voldemort's thoughts froze for the briefest moment.
Then anger surged in.
Nonsense.
This was his design.
His calculation.
His brilliance.
The so-called guidance that had appeared in dreams, in sudden flashes of inspiration, in the strange materials he had found exactly when he needed them—those were simply proof of his genius surfacing under pressure.
Theodore Snow could not understand it at a glance.
Impossible.
"This is not your field, Snow," Voldemort said through Quirrell's mouth, voice cold and smooth. "Do not pretend to comprehend what you are looking at."
Theodore smiled faintly. "Then why are you nervous?"
Quirrell wished, with all his heart, that Theodore had not asked that.
The temperature dropped.
For a second, the node beneath them stopped struggling.
Then the entire corridor groaned.
Theodore looked down.
The black-red lines under his divine light suddenly brightened, not with magic, but with something more ancient and vicious. The pattern snapped open like an eye.
Somewhere far away in Hogwarts, nine other hidden points answered.
A cold draft swept through the castle.
Candles guttered in empty corridors. Suits of armor turned their helmets toward nothing. In the Owlery, dozens of owls woke at once, wings beating in panic. The great staircases jerked, shifted, then locked in place with a harsh grinding sound.
In the Great Hall, Hermione's quill stopped mid-word.
She looked up sharply.
The fire crab pendant at her throat had gone hot.
Across the table, Ron was trying to sneak a roasted potato from Harry's plate when the string of miniature Chomping Cabbages around his wrist all opened their mouths at once.
Tiny teeth clicked in the air.
Ron froze.
"Right," he whispered. "That's never good."
Harry said nothing. His hand had already moved to the willow branch hidden beneath his robe.
The branch was trembling.
Not in fear.
In excitement.
Outside the castle, by the lake, Willow Immortal stirred.
Its vast branches had been quiet beneath the night sky, half-asleep as it digested the fortune Theodore had given it. But now, from deep under Hogwarts, something foul brushed against the school's ancient magic.
Willow Immortal's leaves rustled.
A thin strand of sword qi slid through the air.
In the Headmaster's office, Fawkes opened his eyes.
Dumbledore stood by the window, fingers resting lightly on the sill. He had been watching the grounds in silence for several minutes.
The portraits behind him were awake now.
Some whispered.
Some pretended not to be afraid.
Dumbledore's gaze moved from the Quidditch pitch to the lake, then toward the deeper shadows around the castle.
"Hogwarts is being touched from underneath," he murmured.
Armando Dippet's portrait frowned. "Dark magic?"
"Partly."
"Partly?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes were unusually grave. "That is what troubles me."
He could feel the castle's wards resisting. He could feel old enchantments waking one by one, like ancient knights rising from sleep. Yet whatever had entered Hogwarts' foundation did not simply attack the protective magic.
It persuaded.
It searched for old gaps, old accidents, forgotten possibilities. It nudged stone, luck, timing, and chance. A student stumbling on the stairs. A candle falling onto parchment. A broomstick strap loosening by half a thread.
Not enough to kill.
Enough to begin.
Dumbledore's fingers tightened slightly.
"This is not a curse," he said. "It is trying to make misfortune look natural."
Back in the corridor, Theodore saw it more clearly than anyone.
The first node had awakened too early because he had pressed it too hard. It could not complete its intended formation, so it had chosen the next best option.
It called the other nine.
Theodore watched thin lines of gray-black qi stretch through the castle walls. They were faint, incomplete, and unstable, but their nature was viciously high.
The Array of Heaven's Extinction.
Not fully born, yet already reaching toward fate.
A loose stone shifted above Quirrell's head.
A crack spread through the ceiling.
At the same time, the floor under Theodore's left foot softened by a hair's breadth, just enough to disturb balance. A torch bracket creaked. A splinter of iron snapped loose and fell toward his eye.
Tiny things.
Pointless things.
But when dozens of pointless things arrived together with perfect timing, they became murder.
Theodore did not move.
The falling iron stopped an inch from his face.
The broken stone froze above Quirrell.
Dust hung in the air.
Within the reach of Theodore's hand, space folded inward like silk gathered into a fist.
Heaven and Earth in My Palm.
Quirrell stared at the suspended debris, his mouth dry.
Voldemort went silent.
Theodore turned his palm, and the trapped accidents collapsed into a bead of gray-black light.
"So that is how it works," he said. "It does not only kill. It edits the road leading to death."
The bead trembled.
Theodore closed his fingers.
With a muffled crack, the gray-black light shattered.
The first node screamed.
It was not a sound anyone heard with their ears. It ran through the stones, through the portraits, through every hidden passage in the castle. The wards of Hogwarts flared gold, then dimmed, then flared again.
For the first time in centuries, the castle felt pain.
Willow Immortal's branches lifted.
A green-gold glow rose from its trunk, faint at first, then bright enough to paint the grass around it.
Theodore looked toward the grounds.
Their gazes met across stone, ward, distance, and night.
"Awake?" Theodore asked quietly.
The willow's answer came as the rustle of ten thousand leaves.
Awake.
A smile touched Theodore's lips.
"Good. Then watch carefully."
He lifted his right hand. Yimu Divine Light flowed out, not toward the node, but toward the castle itself. It seeped into the cracks between stones, into moss, roots, old wood, and sleeping earth.
Then Wutu Divine Light followed.
Where wood brought life, earth gave weight.
Where life spread, earth anchored.
The two divine lights did not destroy the first node. Instead, Theodore used its exposed structure as a reference.
The Ten Absolute Arrays wanted to bury killing intent beneath Hogwarts.
Then Theodore would plant life deeper.
Fine threads of green and ocher light slipped through the floor, down into the old foundations. They did not rush. They did not clash directly with the hostile array. They settled quietly, patiently, like roots finding soil.
The first foundation mark of the simplified Wuzhuang Temple Grand Array was planted.
The moment it took root, Willow Immortal shuddered.
Its roots sank deeper.
Under the lawn, beneath the lakeward slope, through stone and old magic, something answered Theodore's call.
The castle's trembling eased by a fraction.
Only a fraction.
But it was enough.
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore looked toward the grounds again.
This time, surprise crossed his face.
Not alarm.
Wonder.
"Someone," he said slowly, "has begun teaching Hogwarts a new way to breathe."
The portraits fell silent.
In the corridor, Quirrell could no longer hold himself upright. He dropped to one knee, sweat running down his face.
"My lord," he whispered in his mind, "he is using our array."
Voldemort did not answer at once.
He was watching the same thing.
Theodore Snow had not merely suppressed the first node. He had read its structure, forced it to reveal its connection, then used that connection to begin laying his own formation beneath Hogwarts.
It was outrageous.
It was impossible.
It was theft.
Voldemort's pride twisted violently.
No.
Not theft.
Theodore was simply… reacting well.
That was all.
A talented child could occasionally make a clever move after seeing a great design. It did not mean he understood the design's true depth.
Yes.
That explanation was acceptable.
Voldemort's voice returned, low and venomous. "Let him plant his little roots. The full array has not descended yet. When the tournament begins, when the crowd gathers, when the castle's attention is split and the wards are strained, he will understand the difference between a spark and a storm."
Quirrell wanted to believe him.
He truly did.
Unfortunately, Theodore was still standing three steps away.
And Theodore had just turned his head slightly, as if he had heard every word.
"Tournament," Theodore said.
Quirrell stopped breathing.
Theodore looked at the half-suppressed node beneath him, then toward the direction of the Quidditch pitch.
"So that is the battlefield you chose."
For a moment, no one spoke.
The awakened node pulsed weakly under Theodore's palm. The other nine incomplete nodes hid themselves again, but their connection had already been exposed. Far away, Willow Immortal's branches spread wider beneath the moonlight, sword qi sleeping among its leaves.
Theodore's expression remained calm.
Too calm.
"Go back," he said to Quirrell.
Quirrell blinked. "W-what?"
"If I destroy this now, the other nine will scatter and hide deeper. That would be troublesome." Theodore withdrew his hand, leaving only a seed-like mark of green and ocher light buried in the floor. "Tell your master to finish what he started."
Voldemort's anger flared so sharply that Quirrell nearly choked.
Theodore's smile did not change.
"The Quidditch Tournament will continue."
The first node sank back into silence.
The corridor returned to normal, at least on the surface. The broken stone dropped harmlessly to the floor. The torch flame steadied. The air warmed again.
But Quirrell knew nothing was normal anymore.
Theodore turned and stepped away. Space folded around him, and his figure vanished as quietly as he had arrived.
Only his final words remained in the corridor.
"When the Ten Absolute Arrays descend, my Wuzhuang Temple Grand Array will be waiting."
Quirrell stayed kneeling for several seconds.
Then, very carefully, he asked in his mind, "My lord… this time will still be different, right?"
Voldemort's silence lasted far too long.
Finally, he answered.
"Of course."
Quirrell closed his eyes.
That was exactly what he had been afraid of.
Outside, above the sleeping Quidditch pitch, the night wind passed through the hoops.
Under the grass, two formations began to grow toward each other—one born from calamity, one rooted in life.
The tournament had not yet begun.
But the battlefield was already alive.
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