Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 213 Myrtle with a Face Full of Acne

Nick, who was nearly headless, reached out to shake hands with Henry, but pulled back before he could touch him.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, shaking his head again, "you probably don't want to touch a ghost's hand. It's too cold."

A student shook my hand last time and caught a cold for a whole week.

"It's alright," Henry said with a smile.

He reached out and shook Nick's hand.

The touch felt like holding a piece of ice, the coolness traveling from the fingertips to the wrist and then up the arm.

Nick's fingers were long with distinct knuckles, and blue veins, or rather, places where veins used to be, could be seen beneath the translucent skin.

Nick was stunned for a moment, his translucent eyes widening in surprise.

"Your Highness, you—"

"You invited me here, I can't just leave without shaking your hand." Henry released his hand.

Nick looked at him, something glistening in his eyes.

Ghosts don't cry, but their expressions are more moving than tears.

His lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't say anything.

He simply bowed again, this time bowing his head steadily and then straightening it again.

Just then, the Gryffindor trio approached, followed by a female version of Harry's ghost.

"Your Highness!" Harry hurried over and said in a low voice, "You're here too?"

"Nick invited me." Henry glanced at the female ghost behind Harry. "And who is this?"

Harry glanced back, looking a little embarrassed.

"Uh—this is one."

"My name is Myrtle," the female ghost spoke herself, her voice high-pitched and thin, with a sobbing tone, "Myrtle Elizabeth Warren. Everyone calls me Weeping Myrtle."

She sniffed as she said this.

"Because I like to cry. What's wrong with crying? Crying can detoxify you, and you living people should cry more."

Her tears started falling again, one by one rolling out from behind her glasses, sliding down her round cheeks, turning into transparent beads in mid-air, and falling to the ground.

She floated up to Henry, looked him up and down, her clear eyes filled with curiosity.

"You're that prince?" Tears were still falling from her eyes. "Nicholas said you would come, that you were a great man, a prince of England."

She sniffed: "I used to know a prince, not a real prince, but a boy in my class. Everyone called him a prince because he thought he was so great. Later, he got together with a Ravenclaw girl and even said I was ugly."

At this point, her tears fell even harder.

"You guys are all the same."

Henry looked at her, unsure of what to say.

Hermione kept giving Harry meaningful glances, but Harry didn't understand. Ron, however, got the message and quickly said, "Myrtle, you look beautiful tonight."

Myrtle stopped crying and looked at him suspiciously.

"You're making fun of me."

"No—really—" Ron said innocently.

"Didn't I just say that Myrtle looks beautiful?" Hermione said, while nudging Harry and Ron's ribs with her elbow.

The force was considerable, and Ron's lips twitched uncontrollably.

"Yeah—" Harry said, rubbing his ribs.

"That's what she said—" Ron said, rubbing his ribs.

"Don't lie to me," Myrtle gasped, tears streaming down her face, forming a small puddle on the ground. "Do you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Poor, sobbing, sullen Myrtle!"

Her voice grew louder and louder, and all the ghosts in the underground classroom turned to look.

"You forgot to mention 'a face full of pimples'." A shrill voice came from beside her ear.

Pee-Pee was hanging upside down from the ceiling, with his signature wicked grin on his face.

He was dressed in a ridiculous clown costume, his hat was askew, and he was holding a handful of moldy peanuts.

He leaned close to Myrtle's ear and spoke so loudly that the whole room could hear him.

Suddenly, Madam Myrtle began to sob sadly, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

She covered her face, turned and ran—no, she floated, she floated very fast, her white skirt billowing behind her, tears falling in the air all the way.

Mischievous Ghost chased after her quickly, throwing moldy peanuts at her while yelling, "Your face is covered in pimples! Your face is covered in pimples!"

The peanut passed through Peach Blossom's body and landed on the ground behind her with a dull thud.

"Oh my God," Hermione said sadly, watching Myrtle disappear into the wall.

Nick drifted over from the side, looking a little embarrassed.

His head started shaking again, probably bewildered by the scene.

"Your Highness, I'm sorry to have you see this. Myrtle—well, she's a bit emotionally unstable."

"It's alright," Henry said.

Nick turned to the Gryffindor trio.

"You guys came too? Are you having fun?"

"Oh, I'm happy," Harry said dryly.

Ron nodded beside him, but his eyes were darting around, probably looking for food.

Hermione was indeed looking around, her gaze sweeping over the ghosts' clothing and decorations, as if she were conducting some kind of investigation.

Nick proudly puffed out his chest, and the head hanging around his neck swayed forward with the movement.

"The turnout is satisfactory. The weeping widows came all the way from Kent, saying it was the best anniversary party they'd attended all year. There were also several knights from Yorkshire, all from the 13th century, their armor still bearing arrow marks."

He glanced at his watch, a pocket watch that dangled from his vest pocket, its dial transparent and its hands spinning freely.

"My time to speak is almost up, so I'd better go and give the band a heads-up. Their music was too upbeat; a memorial service shouldn't be this cheerful. I told them to make it sad, somber, something that would make people want to cry. They said they would."

He was about to drift away when he suddenly stopped and turned around.

"Your Highness, you must listen to what I'm about to say. I've been preparing for months," he said expectantly.

Henry nodded.

"Yes."

Nick laughed, a laugh like a child.

His head swayed again, but this time he didn't try to steady it, letting it sway as he turned and drifted toward the band.

In the underground classroom, the ghosts were still floating around.

The wailing widows gathered in a corner, covering their faces with white handkerchiefs and making sobbing noises.

Several knights in armor were practicing their swordsmanship on the other side, their movements slow, as if they were practicing in water.

A group of women dressed in Victorian-era gowns sat around a long table laden with moldy cakes and green-fuzz-covered cheese, poking at them with their fingers and emitting shrill laughter.