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Chapter 113: Harry's Melancholy
However, the Cooling Potion didn't seem to work well on her. Her bright red hair kept steaming, as if her entire head were on fire.
Everyone was unhappy that Harry hadn't had time to see her.
But Harry really had been busy lately—although, most of the time, he actually wasn't that busy.
Oliver Wood's obsession with Quidditch didn't fade with time—it only grew stronger. He organized regular training sessions, and while the cage strategy drills were progressing smoothly, the high-intensity practices left almost everyone exhausted. Fortunately, their hostility toward Slytherin and their determination not to lose to the "Nimbus 2001" gave them the strength to keep going.
Heavy raindrops pounded against the castle's tall walls. It had been raining for days. In the stormy weather, soaked through and covered in mud, Harry Potter had just finished Quidditch training.
He was in a bad mood. His progress with the "Hawkeye" technique was extremely slow. Even so, he had been practicing diligently during this time—but there simply wasn't enough time. Not nearly enough.
Casting spells in midair was extremely difficult, especially without the help of a wand. He had only succeeded a handful of times, and even then, the spells lasted only briefly.
Fortunately, the team's cage strategy training had been very effective. Because of this, even though Harry didn't need to attend every session with his teammates, he still showed up on time for every practice, rain or shine.
As he walked toward the dormitory, he spotted someone else in the empty corridor who looked just as troubled as he was. No—not a person, but a ghost with the same solemn expression.
Gryffindor's ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, was gazing sadly out at the drizzling rain. His mood seemed to match the weather, as he muttered under his breath:
"…just half an inch more, and yet it still doesn't meet their requirements… so close… just a little bit more…"
Harry had seen many gloomy people, but rarely a gloomy ghost. He greeted him:
"Hello, Nick."
"…Hello, Harry." Nearly Headless Nick was startled by Harry's sudden appearance. The weather had been so dreary that even ghosts were hard to see—Harry's sudden presence startled him.
Nick turned around, noticed Harry, and quickly tucked a translucent letter—visible only to ghosts—into his coat pocket.
"You seem troubled, Potter," he said.
"It's nothing—just someone worried about the match. But you seem quite concerned too," Harry replied before asking about Nick.
Nick raised a hand, then let it fall weakly. "I am… although I don't have to participate… I thought I might apply… but they said I don't meet the requirements."
His tone was calm, but his face showed discomfort.
"Judge for yourself," he said at last, pulling the letter from his pocket. "A ghost who was struck forty-four times in the neck with a blunt axe—does that qualify for the Headless Hunt?"
"Well… yes," Harry said naturally.
Nick waved the letter excitedly and angrily. "Who says it doesn't? I wish it had been cleaner than anyone else's—I wish my head had come off completely! It would have saved me from all this. I've suffered enough, not to mention the ridicule—they actually…"
He read aloud firmly:
"Our Headless Hunt admits only those whose heads are completely detached from their bodies. As you know, if this condition is not met, members cannot participate in activities such as head polo or horseback riding. Therefore, we regret to inform you that you do not meet our standards. Yours sincerely, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore."
Nick stuffed the letter back into his clothes angrily. "There's only a small piece of skin and sinew holding my head on—most people would say that's practically headless. But no—that's not enough for them. Not up to their standards!"
He took a few deep breaths—though, of course, he had no air to breathe—and calmed himself.
"Potter, what about your match? What's troubling you? Can I help?"
"Thanks," Harry said, scratching his head. "Unless you know how to get seven free Nimbus 2001 broomsticks so my teammates can compete with Slytherin…"
"Meow—!"
Before Harry could finish, a sharp screech came from below, startling him.
He looked down and saw a pair of terrifying yellow eyes like glowing bulbs. It was a skinny, ugly gray cat—Mrs. Norris, the caretaker Filch's pet.
"You'd better go, Harry," Nick said urgently, glancing around. "Filch is in a terrible mood. He's caught a cold, ran into some third-years, and made them scrub the dungeon. He's been cleaning ceilings all morning. He's furious—if he sees you covered in mud, he'll go mad."
"You're right—I should go," Harry said, looking for an escape route.
But he was too late.
Filch and that annoying cat seemed to share some mysterious connection. The cat had already sounded the alarm. Before Harry could take a step, Filch burst out from behind a tapestry, panting and eager to catch rule-breakers.
He wore a checkered scarf around his head, his face flushed red—whether from his cold or anger, it was hard to tell.
"Filth!" he shouted, pointing at Harry. It was unclear whether he meant Harry himself or the mud on his Quidditch uniform—probably both.
His eyes were as piercing as Mrs. Norris's, and his trembling red face twisted with rage.
"Filthy, filthy, filthy! Dirt everywhere! I've had enough of this—these wretched things!" he ranted, turning and signaling Harry to follow him, his furious steps shaking his whole body.
Harry waved goodbye to the gloomy Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch at a distance, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him.
This was Harry's first time entering Filch's office—but unfortunately, every student who had ever been there hated it.
The room was dark, filthy, and suffocatingly enclosed. A single battered oil lamp hung from the low ceiling, and the air was filled with a faint but constant smell of fish.