Every broom dropped at once.
Only half a foot.
That did not sound like much.
But in Quidditch, half a foot at the wrong moment could break a neck.
A guest Seeker spun sideways. One Chaser lost his grip with one hand. Two Beaters nearly collided above the center line. The crowd screamed, and the scream poured straight into the pitch core like oil into fire.
"Quiet!" Madam Hooch shouted.
No one heard her.
Theodore stood beneath the stands, one palm pressed against the ground.
Wutu Divine Light sank into the soil.
The falling brooms steadied.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Above the pitch, Harry's willow branch pulled hard to the left.
He swung.
A green slash cut through empty air.
The invisible pressure around one broom snapped apart, and the player shot upward with a terrified yell.
Harry's arm went numb.
He gritted his teeth and swung again.
Another broom steadied.
Near the commentator's box, Hermione slammed her notebook shut.
"Lee! Tell everyone to sit down and clap three times!"
Lee stared at her. "What?"
"Now!"
Lee Jordan had no idea why, but Hermione's expression looked exactly like Professor McGonagall before a punishment.
He turned to the stands and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Everyone sit down! Clap three times! Tournament safety rhythm! Do it!"
For a second, nobody understood.
Then Fred and George stood up from the Gryffindor section.
"CLAP THREE TIMES OR YOU SUPPORT SLYTHERIN!"
That worked.
The stands erupted into messy clapping.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The rhythm was ugly.
Uneven.
Completely unmusical.
But it broke the panic.
The pitch core lost a mouthful of fear.
Hermione exhaled sharply.
"Good."
Ron looked at his brothers with new respect.
"That was horrible."
George grinned. "Effective."
Fred pointed downward. "Your cabbages are eating the railing again."
Ron snapped back to reality.
"Oi! Bite the black lines, not school property!"
The Chomping Cabbages ignored the second half of the sentence and continued their work.
Beneath the grass, red lines spread faster.
Wind Roar gathered around the goalposts.
Golden Light crawled toward anything polished.
Heaven's Extinction tugged at timing, balance, and bad luck.
Falling Soul whispered under the cheers, trying to turn fear into confusion.
Theodore's expression remained calm.
Now it finally looked like an array.
Messy, incomplete, damaged, and angry.
But still an array.
He raised his other hand.
"Willow Immortal."
The roots beneath the pitch moved.
They did not block every red line.
That would only make the core retreat.
Instead, they opened three paths and closed seven.
The angry core took the bait at once.
Red light rushed toward the open routes.
Professor Sprout's plants were waiting at the first.
The moment the red line reached the lower entrance, three potted vines exploded from their pots and wrapped around the ground like green chains. The students nearby cheered, thinking it was part of the show.
Sprout smiled pleasantly and tightened her grip.
"Decorative," she said.
The red light hit the second route.
Professor Flitwick's charms woke.
Silver threads flashed around the commentator's box, catching a burst of Golden Light before it could reflect through Lee Jordan's spare megaphone.
Lee looked offended.
"That was my backup!"
Hermione kicked it under the bench.
"You have lungs."
The third route reached the west stand.
Filch was there.
He had been waiting.
The yellow talisman in his hand burned so brightly that several students gasped.
Filch slapped it onto the railing.
"Stay in your lane!"
The red line struck the talisman and stopped.
For one glorious second, Filch looked happier than he had ever looked in his life.
Then the railing cracked.
Filch's smile vanished.
Mrs. Norris hissed.
Filch drew his peachwood sword and stabbed it into the wood.
"I said stay!"
The talisman steadied.
The red line withdrew.
Under the stands, Theodore smiled.
Everyone had held.
Good.
Then the core changed methods.
The grass at the center opened.
Not physically.
The surface remained there, but a dark eye appeared beneath it, looking upward through the soil.
Theodore felt the lake node answer.
Chains groaned beneath Hogwarts.
In the Headmaster's office, Quirrell screamed.
The bindings around him flared.
Voldemort's voice tore out of his throat.
"Snow!"
Dumbledore stood before him, wand raised.
Fawkes burned like a small sun behind the chair.
"No, Tom."
The silver binding tightened.
Voldemort slammed against it.
The pitch core called again.
The lake node answered again.
Quirrell's body arched.
The leaf talisman on his chest burned green.
For a moment, Voldemort was being pulled in two directions.
Dumbledore's seal held him in place.
The pitch wanted him.
The lake wanted the pitch.
And Theodore wanted the tooth between them.
On the field, one broom suddenly broke away from its rider.
The player fell.
The crowd screamed.
Harry moved without thinking.
He ran from the entrance line, jumped onto the low barrier, and swung the willow branch upward.
The branch lengthened.
Only for a breath.
Like a green whip.
It wrapped around the falling player's arm and pulled him toward the side.
The player crashed into the grass, rolling hard, but alive.
Harry fell backward off the barrier.
Ron's cabbages shot out and caught his robe.
Unfortunately, they caught it with their teeth.
"Ow! Let go!"
Ron winced. "They saved you!"
"They're eating me!"
Hermione did not look away from the pitch.
"The center!"
The dark eye beneath the grass had opened wider.
Theodore stepped out from under the stands.
This time, everyone saw him.
Students shouted.
Some cheered.
Some looked confused.
The professors did not stop him.
Theodore walked onto the pitch as if entering a classroom.
Madam Hooch stared at him.
"Mr. Snow!"
"Pause the match."
"The match is already—"
A red-black blade of wind sliced toward her.
Theodore lifted one finger.
The blade stopped.
Then shattered.
Madam Hooch closed her mouth.
Then blew the whistle hard enough to hurt ears.
"ALL PLAYERS DOWN! NOW!"
The players descended in chaos.
Theodore reached the center of the pitch.
The dark eye stared up at him.
Theodore looked down.
"You have eaten enough."
The eye blinked.
Then the first true killing strike rose from the ground.
Wind, light, bad luck, soul pressure, and lake-chain power twisted together into a single red-black spear.
It shot straight toward Theodore's chest.
Dumbledore's phoenix flame flashed from the distant tower.
Willow Immortal's roots surged.
Hermione's pendant burned.
Harry's branch trembled.
Ron's cabbages all opened their mouths.
Theodore raised his palm.
Heaven and Earth in My Palm.
The spear entered his palm and vanished.
For one second, the entire pitch went silent.
Then Theodore closed his fingers.
A cracking sound echoed beneath Hogwarts.
The dark eye screamed.
The Wuzhuang foundation opened under the field, green and gold lines spreading beneath the red array like roots under old stone.
Theodore did not destroy the spear.
He folded it.
Compressed it.
Refined it.
Then pressed it back into the ground.
Not as an attack.
As a nail.
The pitch core shuddered violently.
The stands rocked.
Students grabbed railings.
Professors raised shields.
Filch shouted at the west stand like it had personally offended him.
Theodore's sleeve fluttered in the storm.
His voice was calm, but everyone on the pitch heard it.
"First nail."
The red-black eye cracked.
Beneath the Quidditch pitch, one part of the Ten Absolute Arrays was pinned to the Wuzhuang foundation.
Not broken.
Pinned.
The difference was important.
A broken enemy could hide.
A pinned enemy could be used.
The pitch stopped shaking.
The players landed.
The crowd stared.
No one spoke.
Then Fred Weasley stood up.
He looked around at the silent stadium.
Then shouted, "TEN POINTS TO THEODORE SNOW!"
For some reason, that broke the fear.
The Gryffindor stand erupted first.
Then the other students followed, not fully understanding what had happened, but very willing to cheer now that they were alive.
Hermione sat down hard in the commentator's box.
Harry leaned against the barrier, breathing heavily.
Ron rescued his sleeve from a cabbage and muttered, "I'm counting that as a win."
In the Headmaster's office, Voldemort went silent.
Completely silent.
Quirrell slumped in the chair, soaked in sweat.
Dumbledore looked toward the pitch.
For the first time that day, his smile became real.
On the field, Theodore looked down at the cracked eye beneath the grass.
The first nail was in.
The array had taken the bait.
Now it could not leave easily.
And deep beneath the Black Lake, the ancient golden eyes opened once more.
This time, there was amusement in them.
"Yuxu disciples," the old voice rumbled.
"Still unreasonable."
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