Madam Hooch's backup whistle saved the match.
It also gave the students something new to talk about.
"Why does she have two whistles?"
"Maybe three."
"Maybe she keeps them hidden everywhere."
"Do you think professors are trained for that?"
"Trained for whistles?"
"At Hogwarts? Probably."
Ron listened to the nearby whispers and slowly turned to Harry.
"If I become a professor one day, remind me to carry backup everything."
Harry looked at the Chomping Cabbage hanging from Ron's sleeve.
"You already do."
"That's different. This one bites."
The cabbage opened its mouth.
Ron pushed it back in.
"No, that was not praise."
On the pitch, the match continued.
The players had grown nervous after the broom drop and the corrupted whistle, but Quidditch players were a strange species. Give them a broom, a ball, and enough people watching, and fear slowly transformed into competitiveness again.
A guest Chaser seized the Quaffle, ducked under a Bludger, and shot toward the goalposts.
The crowd roared.
The pitch core listened.
Theodore stood beneath the stands with his fingers lightly touching a willow root. Through that root, the field was no longer just grass and soil. It was a body with sickness running through its veins.
The first nail held the center.
The pitch core could no longer move freely, but it was adapting.
It had stopped wasting strength on obvious attacks. Now it aimed at small things.
A broom strap loosening by itself.
A boot buckle turning shiny enough to reflect Golden Light.
A line judge blinking at the wrong second.
Theodore did not stop all of them personally.
That would teach the core only one thing: avoid Theodore.
Instead, he let the prepared net respond.
A loose strap tightened under Flitwick's charm.
A polished buckle dimmed when Hermione covered it with a scrap of parchment.
A distracted line judge suddenly found Filch standing behind him with a talisman and the expression of a disappointed executioner.
The line judge became very focused.
Theodore smiled faintly.
Good.
Let the enemy learn the wrong lesson.
Let it think Hogwarts' defense was scattered and reactive.
Let it keep searching for the weak spot.
Theodore already knew where it would look next.
The scoreboard.
Quidditch had many rules, but students cared most about one thing.
The score.
Points shaped excitement. Excitement shaped the crowd. The crowd fed the formation.
If the pitch core could twist the score, even slightly, panic and anger would follow.
A disputed goal.
A wrong penalty.
An unfair call.
Nothing made a stadium lose reason faster than believing the game had been stolen.
Theodore glanced toward the scoreboard.
The numbers shone harmlessly in the sunlight.
Too harmlessly.
He raised his hand slightly.
A thin willow root moved under the stand.
Not to attack.
To wait.
In the commentator's box, Hermione had already noticed something strange.
The score had not changed yet.
But the brass numbers were warmer than they should have been.
"Huhu?" she whispered.
The fire-crab pendant pulsed once.
Hermione immediately looked at Lee.
"Who controls the scoreboard?"
Lee pointed toward a narrow platform below the commentators' box. "Two seventh-years. Why?"
"Tell them to stop touching the numbers."
Lee blinked. "That's their job."
"Then tell them to do it with gloves."
Lee stared at her for half a second, then leaned over the railing.
"Scorekeepers! Safety update! Gloves on! Yes, now! Don't argue with Hermione, she's terrifying when correct!"
Hermione gave him a look.
Lee coughed. "Respectfully terrifying."
Below them, the two scorekeepers hurriedly put on gloves.
The brass numbers twitched.
Hermione saw it.
So did Theodore.
The core had tried to use touch.
Denied.
The Quaffle flew through the right goalpost.
Cheers erupted.
The scorekeepers changed the number.
For a moment, everything looked normal.
Then the number shifted again by itself.
Ten points became thirty.
The crowd noticed.
The opposing stand exploded instantly.
"CHEAT!"
"Wrong score!"
"That wasn't thirty!"
"Fix it!"
The pitch core drank the anger greedily.
Hermione slammed both hands on the railing.
"Lee!"
Lee did not need a second warning.
"Calm down! Scoreboard malfunction! The goal counts for ten! Ten points only! Anyone yelling 'cheat' has to explain arithmetic to Professor McGonagall!"
That helped.
A little.
Not enough.
The red light under the scoreboard brightened.
The brass numbers began spinning.
Ten.
Thirty.
Ninety.
Zero.
One hundred and seventy.
The stadium turned chaotic.
Students shouted over one another. Players in the air slowed to look. Madam Hooch blew her whistle, trying to pause the match, but half the crowd could not hear over the noise.
Theodore looked at the spinning numbers.
"Found you."
The willow root beneath the scoreboard struck upward.
At the same time, Golden Light burst from the brass numbers.
Not toward Theodore.
Toward the crowd.
Hundreds of tiny golden reflections shot across the stands, each carrying a sliver of false certainty.
We were cheated.
The referee is wrong.
The other team is favored.
The match is unfair.
A simple thought, repeated into many minds.
That was all it needed.
Hermione felt the thought brush her mind and immediately grabbed the leaf talisman Theodore had given her.
Warmth spread through her palm.
The false anger shattered.
Her face went pale.
"It's affecting the crowd!"
Harry, near the player entrance, saw several students rise angrily from their seats. His willow branch pulled toward the scoreboard so hard that his wrist hurt.
He ran.
Ron saw him move and kicked the box under Fred's seat.
"Cabbages! Scoreboard!"
Fred looked down. "You keep them in there?"
George looked impressed. "That's actually safer than our products."
The box burst open.
Eight Chomping Cabbages shot toward the scoreboard platform like green bludgers.
One bit a railing.
One bit a scoreboard rope.
Three bit the wooden frame.
Two bit each other by mistake.
The last one, either by talent or luck, sank its teeth directly into a glowing brass number.
The number screamed.
Ron stared.
"They can scream?"
Fred and George looked at each other.
Fred said, "New market possibility."
George nodded. "Screaming anti-cheat vegetables."
Ron pointed at them. "No."
Harry reached the lower platform and swung the willow branch.
A green line cut across the golden reflections.
The false certainty over the nearest stand broke.
Students blinked in confusion.
"Why was I angry?"
"I don't know."
"Did I just accuse a scoreboard of corruption?"
"Maybe."
Above them, Hermione raised her wand.
She did not cast at the scoreboard.
She cast at the crowd.
"Lumos Maxima!"
The light burst high above the stands, passing through the fire-crab pendant's warmth before spreading outward. It was not blinding. It was warm, steady, and ordinary.
A campfire kind of light.
The shouting weakened.
People remembered where they were.
At the same time, Lee Jordan found his role.
"Ladies and gentlemen, official correction! The scoreboard has been cursed by what I can only describe as a very insecure piece of furniture! The actual score remains twenty to ten! Please direct all complaints to the cursed brass number currently being eaten by a cabbage!"
The crowd froze.
Then laughter broke out.
The pitch core hated laughter.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Laughter.
Messy, sudden, human laughter that refused to follow the emotional path it had prepared.
The red light under the scoreboard flickered.
Theodore moved.
Heaven and Earth in My Palm folded the space beneath the scoreboard, drawing the hidden red line into his grasp. This one struggled violently, wrapped in Golden Light and Heaven's Extinction together.
Theodore did not crush it.
He pressed it downward.
Wutu Divine Light sealed the lower path.
Yimu Divine Light grew through the stolen opening.
Willow Immortal's root pierced the red line and pinned it to the first nail's rhythm.
The scoreboard gave one final violent spin.
Then stopped.
The correct score appeared.
Twenty to ten.
Theodore tapped the root once.
The second nail sank into place.
A deep thud echoed beneath the pitch.
The cracked eye at the center trembled.
The red network tried to pull away, but two nails now held it down.
The Wuzhuang foundation spread a little wider.
Theodore looked up at the scoreboard.
"Better."
Ron climbed halfway over the railing, breathing hard.
"Did we just save Quidditch from bad math?"
Hermione lowered her wand, still pale but standing.
"Yes."
Harry looked at the cabbage still chewing on the brass number.
"And cabbage."
Lee Jordan leaned over the commentator's box.
"Official ruling! The cabbage gets an assist!"
The Gryffindor stand went wild.
Professor McGonagall closed her eyes.
She looked like she was asking the heavens for patience.
Unfortunately, the heavens had become unreliable lately.
Madam Hooch checked the scoreboard herself, then pointed at the players.
"The score is correct! The match continues!"
The players rose again.
The crowd cheered, louder than before.
But this time, the sound did not feed the pitch as easily.
The second nail had changed the flow.
Excitement still came down.
Noise still came down.
But before the core could swallow it, the Wuzhuang foundation filtered part of it away.
Theodore felt the difference at once.
So did the thing beneath the field.
The cracked eye turned slowly toward him.
For the first time, the pitch core seemed less hungry.
More wary.
Good.
Fear was not useful only to enemies.
In the Headmaster's office, Voldemort felt the second nail pierce the formation.
His fury struck the bindings around Quirrell's body like a storm.
Quirrell whimpered.
Fawkes opened one eye.
The phoenix flame brightened.
Voldemort immediately forced himself still.
Dumbledore, seated nearby, smiled faintly without looking up from the silver instrument in his hand.
"Theodore appears to be doing well."
Voldemort's voice was soft and poisonous.
"He is delaying the inevitable."
"Perhaps."
Dumbledore adjusted the instrument.
"Though I have found that confident people often call many things inevitable right before they are surprised."
The turban did not move.
Quirrell quietly wished he could be unconscious.
On the pitch, the match had become fast again.
The guest team scored.
Hogwarts answered.
A Bludger nearly hit the commentator's box, but one of Sprout's vines slapped it away so hard it flew into the sky and came down smoking.
Lee Jordan called it "botanical Beating."
Sprout looked pleased.
The students began enjoying themselves again.
That was important.
Not because the danger was gone.
Because fear could not be allowed to own the day.
Theodore looked around the stadium.
Hermione was watching the crowd and taking notes.
Harry was moving with more confidence, no longer swinging too hard.
Ron had somehow turned vegetable deployment into a command system involving hand signals, snacks, and shouting.
Filch was guarding the west stand like a temple gatekeeper.
The professors held their positions.
Hogwarts no longer looked like prey.
It looked disorderly, loud, ridiculous, and alive.
The pitch core pulsed beneath the ground.
Slower now.
Thinking again.
Then, very quietly, another node answered from somewhere in the castle.
Theodore's gaze shifted.
Not the lake.
Not Quirrell's office.
Not the trophy room.
A colder direction.
Underground.
The dungeons.
Snape, standing beside the hospital wing entrance to watch Quirrell's bindings from afar, suddenly turned his head.
In the distance, deep below the castle, red water began flowing through a sealed pipe that had been dry for a hundred years.
Theodore's smile faded.
"Red Water."
The third nail would not be on the pitch.
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