Chapter 335: Disappointed Harry
By six-thirty in the evening, the dungeon classroom beneath Hogwarts was crowded with hundreds of milky-white, translucent figures.
Most of the ghosts drifted lazily around the packed dance floor, moving through one another without concern. A smaller group hovered around the massive floating cake, occasionally stretching out their noses as if trying to inhale its scent.
Ron did the same.
He sniffed loudly, then pressed a hand against his protesting stomach.
"Why is there still nothing to eat?"
"You still don't get it?" Draco replied flatly.
He gestured upward toward the chandelier hanging above them. Like the corridor outside, it was fitted with thin black candles—only there were over a thousand of them.
They burned with the same cold blue flame.
"The candle arrangement, the music, and the fact that Nick didn't even remind us to dress warmly," Draco continued, "all of it makes one thing clear."
"He never planned to prepare anything for the living."
The blue glow was more than visible—it soaked into the stone, the air, and their bones.
Harry's magic sun had long since vanished.
He had dismissed it deliberately.
Partly to spare Nearly Headless Nick embarrassment.
"Nick really is a Gryffindor," Draco muttered, teeth chattering slightly. "Careless to the end."
"In my opinion," he added, "you shouldn't have canceled the spell. Let him realize his mistake himself."
White mist puffed from his mouth as he spoke.
The dungeon was far colder than the corridor had been.
"Forget it," Harry said quietly. "Nick didn't do it on purpose. And we were late—everyone was waiting for us."
"Our names are on the cake," he added, exhaling a thin cloud of breath.
Ron and Draco both frowned, clearly dissatisfied.
But neither argued.
Harry's opinion mattered most to them.
Being cold and hungry was one thing—but what truly bothered them was the sense that Harry had been wronged.
So they began walking slowly along the edge of the dance floor, careful not to pass directly through any ghosts. The movement helped keep their blood flowing, even if only a little.
They passed a cluster of gloomy nuns, a man wrapped in rattling chains, and the Fat Friar—still cheerful as ever—chatting animatedly with a knight who had an arrow lodged cleanly through his forehead.
Harry also spotted the Bloody Baron.
That much was expected.
The Slytherin ghost hovered apart from the others, skeletal and severe, silver blood staining his robes. The surrounding ghosts instinctively gave him space.
But despite scanning the room again and again, Harry saw no sign of Helena.
Didn't Nick say she would come?
Unable to ignore it any longer, Harry approached Nearly Headless Nick, who was floating high above the floor, eyes glittering with excitement.
Nick was muttering under his breath, phrases drifting down like fragments of a grudge.
"Who told you to reject me… let me show you how you eat…"
Harry's approach startled him so badly that his head nearly slipped clean off his neck.
"Oh! Harry!" Nick exclaimed, hurriedly steadying himself. "Enjoying yourself?"
Without waiting for an answer, he laughed loudly. "Splendid turnout, absolutely splendid! No other ghost's Deathday draws this many guests."
Harry hesitated, then asked, "Nick… isn't Ms. Grey here?"
Nick blinked.
"Ms. Grey?" he repeated, then slapped his forehead. "Ah! Harry, Harry, I always forget you're a Ravenclaw."
He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"She… well, you know."
"The Bloody Baron is here."
Nick wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
"You understand."
Harry forced a smile and stepped back.
Disappointment settled heavily in his chest.
So that's how it is…
Perhaps destiny really didn't allow them to meet tonight.
Maybe he should spend more time with Ginny instead.
He really shouldn't have followed Alexander Smith's example so blindly.
Ron, standing behind him, had no idea what was going through Harry's mind.
If he did, he might have drawn his wand on the spot.
Instead, Ron simply assumed Harry found the banquet as dull as he did.
"Harry," Ron said quickly, seizing the opportunity, "let's leave after the Headless Hunt arrives."
"Yeah," Draco added, "once they embarrass themselves, Nick will be so happy he won't even notice us leaving."
"Just like he didn't notice the needs of his living guests."
"…Alright," Harry said after a moment.
Ron's suggestion made sense.
Draco's words were harsh, but true.
And Helena wasn't coming.
A few minutes later, the cold became unbearable. All three of them quietly cast the Cold-Repelling Charm Draco had taught earlier.
Just as Ron opened his mouth to suggest leaving immediately—
A long, piercing horse's neigh echoed through the dungeon.
Twelve ghostly horses burst straight out of the stone wall, each ridden by a headless figure.
"Quiet, everyone!" Nick shouted, his voice ringing with joy. "Our friends have arrived!"
"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen—let us dine!"
Thunderous applause erupted.
The ghost horses galloped to the center of the dance floor, reared onto their hind legs, then charged forward.
The leading rider dismounted dramatically.
He was a large ghost, his bearded head tucked beneath his arm as he blew a horn, then lifted it high so he could survey the room from above.
Surprise flickered across his face.
He was clearly unaccustomed to being ignored.
His usual entrance always commanded attention.
But tonight—
No one was looking at him.
In the next instant, he understood why.
The transparent dining table beside the dance floor—previously empty—was now crowded with ghosts.
Even the space around the Bloody Baron was packed.
Every ghost was absorbed in the spectacle of the food, ignoring the hunters entirely.
"Nick," the headless rider said, striding forward and casually slapping his head back onto his neck, "this is Dumbledore's masterpiece."
"I never thought I'd live—or die—to see this day."
There was no doubt who he was.
Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.
Former nobleman. Leader of the Headless Hunt. Nick's lifelong thorn.
"Ah, Patrick," Nick replied stiffly. "Not eating yet?"
"Uncomfortable with such a quiet environment?"
Patrick merely smiled.
"Dumbledore truly is remarkable," he said again, deliberately emphasizing the name.
Then he turned.
"Alright, everyone. The host has spoken."
"Let's eat."
At his command, the Headless Hunt dismounted and floated toward the table.
Nick trembled with rage.
Mockery would have been easier to bear.
What crushed him was indifference.
At that moment, Nick would have preferred ridicule—anything but being calmly ignored.
(End of Chapter 335)
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