Chapter Text
“And so we dedicate this memorial to the strength, the bravery, the—” McGonagall is cut off by a keening, wailing sound. Some of my best work. After all, that’s all I’m good for, isn’t it? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle. I know what they call me. McGonagall flicks her wand at her own throat – probably casting a ‘sonorus’ – and just talks over me. Rude. “So future generations can understand the loss and the sacrifices made here three months ago, at the Battle of Hogwarts.”
Despite my best attempts, she gets through her speech. I’m not the only one crying by the time she’s done – everyone’s tearing up. But I am the only one getting nasty looks. Apparently, it’s fine to cry because your loved ones died in a war, but not okay to cry because your favourite bathroom is getting turned into a memorial site.
As if they need another memorial! There’s already a huge one on the grounds, with all of the names of the dead on it (not including mine – my death was apparently ‘unrelated’ to the war). But that’s not enough, they also need hang plaques all around my bathroom and purposefully not repair any of the damage. It wasn’t my fault some death eater decided to take cover in here and fight half a dozen aurors and explode my bathroom into smithereens. It’s not my fault that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is now a gaping hole to an exposed pipe and a ‘danger to students’.
All I want is my bathroom back.
But noooooo. It’s a ‘historic site’. And ‘people need to know’ about the Chamber of secrets and Slytherin and the basilisk and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s involvement. And that’s way more important than one ghost, who just wants to sit in her u-bend and think about how awful life is.
Harry Potter stands up and shakes McGonagall’s hand. He is the literal worst. He said he’d be my friend when he was a kid, but it was all just a lie. He was just using me for my bathroom connections. I moan even louder, but he casts a spell on his throat, too, and his voice echoes around my bathroom. My beautiful, ruined bathroom that looks more like a war zone than even the rest of the castle.
“Er… thank you all… for being here…” he starts, his face flushing a bit with embarrassment. Good. He looks even thinner now than the last time I saw him, drawn and pale. His hair, which has always been a mess, is all over the place. He’s sort of got this heroin-chic thing going on. Whatever. It’s hot. I’d spy on him in the prefect’s bathroom any day, but he never goes in there anymore.
He gives some short speech about unity and rebuilding and it’s all just very canned and boring. He doesn’t even talk about me and my sacrifice – just all the people who died defending Hogwarts. In fact, he seems annoyed with me and my crying. As if I’m not the one giving up their actual home so that they can have some ‘historic monument’ and ‘keep kids safe’.
When he’s done, and people have stopped throwing me dirty looks for my frequent interruptions – everyone sort of mills around the bathroom and says inane things like, “preserve the authenticity of the battle” and “a destination for mourners and historians alike.” No one says anything like “poor Myrtle” or “I’m so sorry you had to give up your home.” Which is only to be expected – no one cares about me.
I float up to an older lady in too-tight emerald robes, who obviously found the speeches quite touching. “Your nose is red,” I say to her, helpfully. “You might want to-” I mime dabbing some powder on my nose. She looks absolutely insulted and walks away in a huff. I help a few other people with their hair (wildly out of sorts), their dresses (bra straps showing), and their streaked mascara. No one is properly grateful.
McGonagall takes me aside and asks me to please moderate my behaviour to fit the occasion, whatever that means. I see a girl weeping next to the sinks and go over to her, to try to cheer her up. “Thanks,” I say to her. I’m so polite.
“For… for what?” she blubbers.
“For all the crying. This place just wouldn’t be the same without it.” For some reason, this just makes her cry harder.
Eventually everyone leaves except Harry, who is just standing there, staring at the exposed pipe that leads down to the Chamber of Secrets. “You could say something to them, you know,” I say, floating up to him.
Harry jerks, as if coming out of a reverie. “Say something… about what?”
I wave my hands at all the destruction around me. “About my bathroom! You could get them to rebuild it, just the way it was. People listen to you,” I say, getting closer and dropping my voice. A little harmless flirting never hurt anyone’s cause.
“You want the bathroom back?” Harry says, sounding confused.
“What did you think I was crying about the whole time?” I yell, slightly hysteric. Of course I’m upset about losing my bathroom – who wouldn’t be?
“I mean… that’s just… sort of what you do?” Harry said, making it into a question as if it might soften the blow. It doesn’t.
“I don’t just cry for no reason. My life was sad, and now my death is even worse,” I pout.
“Er… I don’t think that they’ll listen to me about this. They don’t listen to me much at all, actually. They just sort of trot me out for these official things, but…” he trails off, looking disturbed again.
“But you’re Harry Potter. Great Savior of the Wizarding World. Hero of the Ages. The Boy who Lived Twice.” I say it sarcastically, but these are actual titles that people have given him. He grimaces as I say each one.
“But everyone knows about the Chamber of Secrets now. It won’t be long before someone learns the word for ‘open’ in Parseltongue, and I guess they don’t want kids sneaking off down there,” Harry argues.
“Why is there always a reason for why I can’t be happy?”
“It’s not like you were exactly happy before,” Harry points out.
The only rational response to this is to cry. Harry sort of, a little bit, tries to comfort me, but honestly he’s not much good at it. He just mutters ‘there, there’, and sort of tries to pet me on the head a bit, and then goes back to staring off into space. After a while he gets up and walks towards the door. Before he leaves, he turns back, eyebrows all soft and pitying, and says, “I’m sorry, Myrtle.”
I stop crying immediately, which he doesn’t expect, and I get right up in his face. “You had better be sorry. This is at least half, if not mostly, your fault.” His face turns confused, as if he doesn’t quite understand how that adds up. But the maths is simple, really – he discovered the Chamber of secrets and told everyone, which brought all this destruction into my life. “And I promise that I will never let this go. I am going to haunt you until you get me my bathroom back. Just ask Olive Hornby – it is not a pleasant experience.”
“Er… alright, Myrtle. Well…” and then he just walks out the door. As if he doesn’t care much about being haunted. As if he, maybe, is already haunted enough. Well, we’ll just see about that. I guess I also forgot that Olive Hornby is already dead, but he probably wouldn’t actually try to talk to her. No one ever does what I tell them to.
The next day I feel invigorated, even after a horrible night spent trying to find a u-bend that’s as good as the one in the second-floor girl’s bathroom (it was just curvy and tight enough, with that one little crook that sometimes, when I really thought about it, felt like a massage). I may not have a bathroom anymore, but I do have a project. I almost want to squeal with delight. It’s been simply ages since I’ve gotten to haunt anyone. I love that look in their eyes when they realize that I’m just never going away. That I’ll always be there, annoying them and bullying them through every, single, one of their happy moments.
Harry won’t withstand haunting very long – I can already tell. He doesn’t look like he could last through a strong wind. He comes down to the Great Hall for breakfast looking shell-shocked, as if he didn’t sleep at all last night. “Bad dreams again?” his bushy-haired friend asks, looking worried. Harry nods his head. “Maybe I can brew some dreamless sleep for you, now that we’re back in school,” she says.
I’m just about to sit down next to Harry – he is my new best friend, after all (best friend, subject of haunting – same difference, really), but that red-head girl he was dating before the war comes up and plops herself down next to him, looking like she had a great night’s sleep. If I’m going to be haunting Harry, I should maybe learn all of his friend’s names, but also – maybe it’d be better if I didn’t. I’ll just describe them all by their hair and it’ll just be one more annoying thing about being haunted.
“Morning, Harry,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.
Harry flinches.
He flinches away from his girlfriend kissing him.
Ooooooo. Drama.
So I decide to not quite turn visible yet. Haunting is great, but there’s nothing better than gossip. The red-head notices the flinch and pulls back carefully, studying Harry. He doesn’t even look at her, just shoves a bite of toast in his mouth and mumbles, “I’ve got to go. Er…. Class…” and he’s up and out of the Great Hall before anyone else has a chance to check in with him.
I appear, floating next to him. “Well, that was interesting,” I say, trying to make my voice cheerful.
Harry seems startled by my appearance, as if I hadn’t just told him I’d be haunting him only yesterday. No one ever listens to me. “Er… hi, Myrtle?” he says. He’s always been a stutterer, but it’s gotten worse. He only ever seems to stutter and ask questions, now.
“Yeah, Hi. Anyway – what’s going on with the red-head?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, “I know of a lot of red-heads. Any particular one?”
“The girl one. The one who just tried to kiss you and you did not like it.”
“I liked it fine,” Harry insists, dismissing me and my valuable observations. “I just… didn’t sleep well.”
I hum, thinking it all over. It didn’t seem like a ‘I’m too tired’ kind of flinch. It really seemed like a ‘don’t touch me’ flinch. I’ve never been in a relationship, but I’ve spied on lots of snogging, and I know that flinching is not a good sign.
“If everything’s fine, then when was the last time you two snogged?” I never said haunting would be non-invasive. I can do whatever I like with my haunting.
Harry sputters, pretending to be offended so he doesn’t have to answer my question. “Myrtle,” he finally goes with, “why are you here?”
I growl with frustration. “I. Am. Haunting. You.” I repeat.
“Why?”
“I want my bathroom back.”
“But I don’t have anything to do with that!” Harry shouts, drawing some attention of some scared-looking first years. And, honestly, why wouldn’t they be scared? They are going to school in a castle that looks like a warzone, and Harry is a full-grown adult who looks more than a little dangerous and on-edge.
“You owe me,” I press.
“For what?”
“That whole business with you using my bathroom to brew Polyjuice back then.” I don’t actually know when it was; time moves weird for ghosts. But he’ll remember it; and that’s what counts.
“Myrtle… I… I can’t deal with this right now,” he brushes me off and turns into a completely empty classroom, opening a book. He doesn’t read it, but just sort of flips through the pages as an excuse to ignore me. It’s fine. I’ll get him later – I’ve got tons of tricks up my sleeve.
~
Harry ends up being soooooo boring to haunt. Honestly, I feel like I’m the one being haunted. All he does is sleep (way too much – like twelve hours a night), go to classes, do homework, and sit around staring off into space. His friends seemed really concerned about him and have lots of juicy conversations about him behind his back (I try to tell Harry about it, but he doesn’t seem to care). Even my best haunting stunts don’t work: I flood his bathroom, cry randomly and for no reason, and talk to him endlessly about my miserable life and death. He mostly just ignores me. It’s a bit insulting, really.
The red-head girl comes up to him on Friday and announces that they’re going on a date, that it’s been long enough, and that they need some time together. Harry agrees, his smile looking forced and off, somehow. She got permission for them to go to Hogsmead, she says, because things aren’t really back to normal and the seventh and eighth years are of age, so there aren’t as many restrictions.
“Great,” Harry says again, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Great.”
So, we have a date tomorrow. The three of us. I can’t wait!
I was planning on being the third-wheel on this date, and annoying the hell out of both of them (If Harry can’t help me with my bathroom problem, maybe the red-head can? She seems feisty). But, that was before I felt the incredibly awkward atmosphere between them. I decide right then to stay invisible; I have a feeling that something memorable is going to happen; and I want a front-row seat. Me going on the date would just get in the way.
“So…” the red-head starts (alright – I’ve been hanging around long enough that I know her name is Ginny). “So, it’s nice weather, still.”
Oh, this is so good. They’re talking about the weather. I love it. I hope they talk about school next. This is soooo awkward.
“Er… yeah…” Harry says, looking around without really seeming to see anything. It’s late summer, and it looks like it’s not too cold. Not that I can feel it, but they don’t have gloves on or scarves, and they aren’t shivering. “It’s… it’s really nice.”
Ginny tries again, “Did you hear that Quidditch try-outs start soon? They’re going to let eighth years participate!” she says the last like she thinks it’ll really lighten Harry’s mood. But it doesn’t.
“Oh, er…” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t think I’m going to try out this year, Gin.”
She looks away, her brow furrowed in confusion. These two are so not on the same page. “Why not?” she asks, her voice small.
“I just… I don’t feel up to it.”
Ginny doesn’t seem to know what to say after that. They walk the rest of the way to the school in absolute silence. Ginny opens her mouth a few times, as if catching onto some topic of conversation, but none of it ever makes it out. Harry, for his part, looks like he wishes he were in bed.
They walk into the Three-Broomsticks, and Ginny’s face lights up. I can almost read her thoughts: she thinks that being away from Hogwarts, being away from the place where so many of his loved ones died, might help Harry get back to normal. It’s a busy night at the bar, and the atmosphere is warm and cozy.
Ginny orders them both some butterbeers and sits down, passing one to Harry and taking a sip of hers. I do miss butterbeer. There weren’t many good things about life, but butterbeer was one of them. Ginny tries to start a few other conversations – about her family, their summer (it appears as though Harry stayed with them over the summer – scandalous), Quidditch teams, and their first week of school. Harry barely looks at her and only replies monosyllabically. She’s getting more and more desperate as the evening wears on and even suggests ordering firewhisky. Harry, with a self-depreciating smirk, declines.
I contemplate manifesting. I have a lot to say. Things like, ‘honey, this is not working.’ And ‘just accept it – it’s all over’. But I don’t. No one ever takes my advice, anyway. She’d just get offended or something. They leave, Ginny paying (I get the feeling that Harry would pay, but he’s just too out of it to care), and step outside. The night seems to have gotten cooler because Ginny is shivering and rubbing her hands together.
She smiles up at Harry, clearly wanting him to take her hands and warm them up for her – but he just grimaces and gestures towards the castle with his head, “Should we… er… head back? I’m knackered.”
Defeated, Ginny nods. When they get back to the castle (after another mostly silent walk), Ginny grabs Harry’s hands and pulls him to face her. She reaches up and cups his cheek, rubbing her fingers over the stubble there. “Harry…” she starts.
Harry looks a bit panicked; his eyes dart off to the side as if hoping for an escape. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Could we… could you… kiss me?” She looks so pretty looking up at him, all wanting and kissable. No one ever wanted to kiss me while I was alive, no matter how kissable I made my lips.
Harry sort of grunts and leans down slowly, brushing their lips together the barest amount. Like siblings. Like friends. Afterwards, Ginny looks surprised and not at all satisfied. Harry sort of fake-grins at her, grabs her hand, and leads her into the castle.
I choose to appear right after Harry has gotten his pyjamas on and has finally settled down in his beloved four-poster.
“So, still don’t want to kiss your girlfriend?” I ask, my face right next to his.
“… Myrtle. You.. saw that?”
“Haunting you, remember?”
Harry groans.
“Just break up with her,” I suggest, helpfully.
“No. She’s… she’s my family. I love her. I can’t break up with Ginny.”
“But you don’t want her.”
“I’m just… I’m just tired, Myrtle. That’s all.”
I continue to badger Harry, but he ignores me (again), and quickly falls asleep. Maybe he was tired.
~
The next few weeks of haunting are so boring that it makes me miss my u-bend even more. All I want is to curl up there and have some peace and quiet. But that’s what all this work is for, I guess. I’ve got to keep my eyes on the prize, as they say. Keep focused. I’m haunting Harry because he’s my ticket to my bathroom, not because he’s interesting.
Ginny keeps trying to engage Harry, and he keeps on – well – pretty much sleeping all of the time. She tries to hold his hand again, but his is limp in hers, barely holding on at all. She tries to start something (at least I think that’s what she was doing – she put her hand on his chest and she was sort of pushing her boobs into his arm), but that doesn’t work either.
Ginny is the one who eventually breaks the tension (of course it’s her; Harry doesn’t look like he’s going to make any decisions any time soon). She comes to breakfast that day with a determined air about her and she doesn’t sit with Harry. She stabs her breakfast sausages with gusto and shoots Harry disgruntled looks.
This is going to be great.
I stick close to Harry the whole, entire, day, not sure when the storm is going to break. Poor bloke has no clue what’s about to hit him. Ginny catches up with him after classes are over, and it is on. It’s the shouting match of the century; she doesn’t even bother to try to cast a spell or keep anything in. She’s done and she wants everyone to know it.
“Why aren’t you interested in me anymore?” Ginny asks, full of fire.
“Ginny,” Harry says, trying to placate her, “not here, alright?” He gives a pointed look to a few groups who are staring at them; they’re just in the middle of the entry hall, after all.
“No, it’s going to be here – because I can’t take it anymore.” Ginny says, and she’s like an in-person howler. There’s no turning her off once she gets started.
“Can’t take what?” Harry asks, making his voice sound innocent.
“You don’t talk to me, you barely look at me. You don’t… you don’t want me, Harry. Not like you used to.”
“Ginny – I’ve just been... I’ve just been through a war. You’ve got to give me time.”
“I’ve given you NOTHING but time! The whole summer, Harry! A month of the school year!”
“You don’t know what it was like for me,” Harry says, and his mood turns dark again.
“I want to know what it was like for you,” she grabs his hand. “Just talk to me, Harry. Anything, please. I can take it. I can – help.”
Harry looks off into the middle-distance, and says darkly, “No one can help.”
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose? My brother died! I know what it’s like. We need to support each other in times like these, not just… drift away – or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Ginny…” Harry says, pleadingly.
“Tell me right now: do you want me?”
“I love you,” he says, looking hurt.
“But do you want me?” Ginny asks, defiant.
“I… I don’t… I don’t want anything, Ginny.”
Ginny nods her head, as if she was just confirming something for herself. “Well, let me know if that changes. Until then, we’re done.” Her tone softens and she reaches out for him, abandoning the motion mid-way through. “I’ll still be your friend – Harry. I’ll always be that. But I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”
Harry looks after her with lost puppy-dog eyes.
I feel like this is a good time to appear and share my wisdom. “I told you so,” I say, standing right next to Harry and staring at her as she flounces off.
Harry doesn’t respond.
~
The next few weeks are rough for Harry, I’m not going to lie. I almost – almost – feel bad for haunting him. If it wasn’t for the fact that none of the toilets in this castle are even remotely worth living in, I might just leave him be. But, needs must.
Harry doesn’t get out of bed for three days after the breakup, even though I say super helpful things to him like, “nobody likes a cry-baby,” and “it was obviously all your fault,” and “is something wrong with your prick? Why don’t you just let me check...” (I’ve seen a lot of them in the prefect’s bathroom – I could probably tell if something was wrong. Probably). Somehow, none of that seems to work.
Everyone visits him – his friends, McGonagall, even Madam Pomfry. He doesn’t talk to any of them. Hermione manages to badger him into attending classes eventually, but he goes about his day slumped over into himself, as if life just isn’t worth living anymore. Even Ginny checks in with him, biting her lip and being super gentle, but he doesn’t suggest getting back together. He doesn’t do much of anything.
Until Potions.
If there’s anyone I hate more than Olive Hornby, it's Draco Malfoy. We were friends until all of a sudden, it was all ‘ghosts and humans don’t mix’, and ‘go away Myrtle, no one wants your crying’ – as if he hadn’t spent the whole previous year crying in bathrooms with me! The hypocrisy. I punished him by telling everyone what a sissy he really is… but no one believed me.
He’s been in Harry’s potions class the whole term, obviously, but Harry hadn’t noticed him (he’s pretty oblivious). I feel like there used to be more real, adult Professors before the war, but a ton of them must have died or something, because now they’ve got a bunch of kids teaching who seem hardly older than the students themselves. The one who teaches Potions now is ‘Professor Chang’, and the class (besides Hermione) barely pays attention to her.
Draco does very little but screw around in Potions, but this time he takes it too far. Professor Chang is trying to instruct everyone on their dreamless sleep potion, in her quiet voice. Draco’s talking with all his Slytherin friends, and the arsehole hasn’t even got his cauldron out for the day.
“Mr Malfoy,” the nice girl says, looking downtrodden, “Please pay attention. It's time to start class.”
“And why,” Draco sneers, “Should I pay any attention to you?” He looks her up and down, and he’s obviously talking about more than just her teaching credentials.
At that, Harry’s head snaps up from his reverie. “Malfoy,” he growls, “Show some respect.”
“And why should I?” Draco says, his grin wicked. “She’s literally one year older than us, Potter. I swear, Hogwarts will hire anyone with a N.E.W.T these days. Things have really gone to shit around here.”
“There. Was. A. War. Cho—I mean, Professor Chang is helping.” Harry grinds out, as if anyone needed reminding. The potions storage closet still hasn’t been replenished; they’ve been substituting armadillo bile for bat spleen, for Morgana’s sake.
Draco scoffs, “Oh, is this what you call helping? Reading the textbook at the front of the classroom? I’d have a better chance of passing my N.E.W.T.s without the Professor here and her fumbling efforts.” Draco says the word ‘professor’ with every ounce of derision he can muster, which is quite a lot. Damn – that’s exactly why I used to like him. I do love a well-timed insult.
Harry crosses his arms and leans back, a little of his old spirit returning to him. “Fine, Malfoy. Then let’s see who can brew a better potion. You do yours over there,” Harry points to the Slytherin side, “by yourself. And I’ll follow Professor Cho’s instructions.”
“Fine,” Malfoy agrees, finally pulling out his cauldron and ingredients. “But if mine is better, then I’m skipping the rest of the term.”
“Fine,” Harry agrees, even as the young Professor squawks in indignation. She bustles over to Harry and whispers in his ear, “are you sure this is a good idea, Harry?”
“Someone needs to stand up to him,” Harry says back, looking protective and upright and very Harry Potter.
For the first time all year, Harry focuses in a class. He concentrates so fiercely that he doesn’t even notice when I appear, floating over his cauldron, and yell out the wrong ingredient. He pretends not to notice me at all. The Professor is right next to him, pouring over the instructions and helping him with every step.
By the end of class, both of them managed to brew a pretty good example of an Acne Removal potion, if I do say so myself (and I do – I could’ve been a fantastic witch, if I hadn’t been cut down in my prime). But Harry’s is just a touch better.
Draco slams his book shut and spells all of his tools away in a huff. “See you next class, Mr Malfoy,” the Professor coos to him on his way out the door. She and Harry high-five.
I manifest in order to point out that the Professor holding a student’s hand hardly counts as a ‘normal class’, but my appearance only seems to confuse them. “What is Moaning Myrtle doing here?” the Professors asks.
“Oh.. er… she’s haunting me, I guess?” Harry says, not even looking at me. I burst into tears and go moaning back to my u-bend… only to remember that it’s been destroyed. Death is awful. Truly. Almost as bad as life.
~
After that potions class, Harry isn’t the same anymore. Or rather, he is the same – but more how he used to be, before the war. He stops sleeping all of the time and dozing through classes. Instead, he brings out this ‘Marauder’s Map’ thing and obsessively tracks Draco on it.
“Not this again,” his friend Ron says, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t we already do this, sixth year?”
“I was right, then,” Harry snaps. “Malfoy was up to something.”
“Yeah, but he’s not now. He’s just being a slimy git, like always.”
“Well, I’m not going to stand by and let him get away with it,” Harry declares.
“You never do,” Ron sighs.
Hermione elbows him, hissing, “Ron, this is what we wanted. Well.. sort of. He isn’t sleeping all the time, at least.” Ron eyes Harry, who is still fixated on the map, and shrugs.
“I’m not sure this is any better,” he whispers back.
I relay Ron and Hermione’s conversation to Harry later that night, as he’s brushing his teeth (the Map propped up against the mirror). I’m hoping he’ll say something like, ‘that’s it – I knew they weren’t my friends!’… but… he just ignores me. It seems to be his new thing recently. I bloody hate it.
That week, Harry shows up everywhere Draco is. He walks in on Draco regaling a group of Slytherins about how his family “pretty much won the war. I mean, without my mum, our darling Saviour would be decomposing in the forest right about now.”
Harry leaning one shoulder against a wall, interrupting his boasting. “So is that how you’re playing it, Malfoy?”
Draco jerks around, not expecting said saviour to appear mid-story. He smiles, unabashed. “That’s what happened, Potter,” he drawls.
“Only if you forget you sneaking death eaters into Hogwarts, your dad providing room and board for Voldemort, and you imprisoning Luna and Mr Olivander in your cellars. Just minor details, right?”
“The Wizengamot didn’t seem to care much, in light of your heartfelt testimony. Thanks ever so much for that, by the by.”
Harry snorted. “If I’d realized how you would spin all of it, I never would’ve bothered.”
“As if you could’ve stayed away from my trial, with that saviour complex of yours. I knew you’d save me, Potter. You always do.” Draco smiled, then, implying that Harry had wanted to save Draco for some reason other than him wanting to save literally everyone. Some hidden, personal, reason. Harry made a disgusted face. Draco slipped into his class, on time, while Harry would be late, again.
“Why do you even bother?” I asked him, as he walks through the empty corridors.
“With what?” Harry asks, forgetting he’s pretending to ignore me.
“With Draco. It’s like you think following him around will make a difference. Like you think you can make him nice, or something.”
“Someone needs to stand up to him.”
“You can’t be there all of the time,” I point out. Harry would be much better off if he just accepted that I’m far older and wiser than him. I’ve known way more about mean girls (and boys) than he ever will – and they never, ever change.
Something I said seems to flick a light on in Harry’s mind. He stops and stares at me, open-mouthed. “That’s right, Myrtle,” he says. I preen. I am frequently right, but for some reason, almost no one recognizes my brilliance. He continues, “I can’t be there all of the time – but you can! You can haunt Malfoy and come get me when he’s being an arsehole!”
Harry looks so hopeful, so sweet and earnest, that I almost, almost, want to agree. “Can’t,” I say, instead.
Harry’s face falls. “Why not?”
“I’m already haunting someone.”
“Who?”
“YOU!” I yell and promptly burst into tears. No one appreciates my haunting. At this rate, I’m never going to get my bathroom back. Harry barely even remembers he’s being haunted – which means he’s not annoyed enough to do what I want.
After a night in a different u-bend (one that gross and slimy, unlike my u-bend), I come up with a plan. The problem is that I’ve been getting too sucked into Harry’s drama. I keep spying on him instead of remembering the real point of this haunting: me. No more Nice Myrtle – not anymore.
My new plan is to manifest all of the time and just follow Harry everywhere, performing my trademark move: crying. Who wants to be followed around by a ghost, crying all of the time? Olive Hornby certainly didn’t. I also realize that I need to remind Harry, at regular intervals, that he’s being haunted, and why. He is so forgetful.
I cry through breakfast in the Great Hall and no one sits next to Harry; even his best friends scoot a few seats away. Win. But Harry himself doesn’t seem to care, he’s too busy looking at the Map and muttering about Draco. He seems to think that Draco being late for breakfast is highly suspicious, so he jumps up and runs out of the hall towards the dungeons. I trail after him, giving my best performance – if I do say so myself.
Every now and then I quit sobbing and remind him, “Harry, this will all stop once you get me my bathroom back.” I try saying it in different ways – creepy and ghostly, nasally and whiny, urgent and desperate – but he just keeps paying me no mind. The worst part is I don’t even think he’s trying to ignore me, he’s just so focused on his mission that he couldn’t care less. Ug. Men.
Harry runs into Draco just as he’s coming out of the Slytherin common room. “Potter,” Draco smirks, “Wonderful to see you so bright and early. Here to escort me to breakfast?”
Harry scowls at him, “Just here to make sure you don’t harass anyone.”
“Yes,” Draco says, conspicuously looking up and down the empty corridor, “I see. I’m so glad you’ve found a way to feel important after the war.”
“It’s not about feeling important –“ Harry spits out, looking flustered, “It’s about… you.”
“About me?” Draco asks, heading towards the Great Hall. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by Harry, or by me, trailing after them, leaving puddles on the cold dungeon floor.
“Yes, why are you still like this? Why aren’t you… repentant… or…”
“You’d like to see me cowed, Potter? Is that it? You want me to be the victim, for me to beg your forgiveness, to see the error of my ways, to crawl into a hole somewhere and die of shame?”
“Yes,” Harry snapped, his eyes on fire.
Draco turns on Harry, “Well, that’s not going to happen.”
“But, why not?” Harry growls, stepping even closer to Draco. “How can you be so… so shameless?”
“Easy. I’m a Malfoy. This is what we do, Potter.” Draco spins around, his robes flying out behind him (and damn, it looks so cool I forget to cry for a minute). Harry just looks after him, jaw a bit loose, and it takes him a moment before his legs are working and he can tail Draco up the stairs.
~
After D.A.D.A, Harry rushes to Malfoy’s class, only to catch him picking on some first year Gryffindors. Harry stands in front of the little kids, looking like an avenging hero, and raises his wand to Draco. “Back off, Malfoy,” he warns, his wand looking deadly.
Draco pouts, “But life would be so boring if I did. What would you do, without a villain around?”
Harry sputters, “Why… why… why do you keep making this about me? This is about you, Malfoy – you being an absolute git, even after your side just lost a war.”
“We were on the same side, Potter – just ask the Wizengamot.” Malfoy grins and walks away, his friends cackling around him as he reenacts the scene of Harry getting between himself and the poor first years.
I stop my crying to share my wisdom, “He’s got a point, Harry.”
Harry is still looking after Draco, as if he’s a puzzle that Harry, personally, has to solve. “What point?” he grinds out.
“You do have a bit of a thing about saving people.”
Harry runs his hands through his hair, pulling it hard. He growls a bit, out of fury, and stalks down the hallway. I think my haunting is really getting to him. He’s going to break any day now, I can just feel it.
~
Throughout that whole week, I escalate my haunting even more. I start crying at night (everyone in the dorm tries to throw a pillow at me; with almost makes me laugh, if it weren’t so insulting), I invade his privacy in the shower (Harry just rolls his eyes at me and angles his hips away), and I float through him at random intervals, which I know is an unpleasant experience (everyone tells me so). Still no progress though – Harry doesn’t barge into McGonagall’s office, shouting ‘we must restore Myrtle’s bathroom! And also give her a medal!’. Not even a single time.
Instead, Harry just keeps following Draco around. He protects the wood sprites from Draco, in Care of Magical Creatures. He protects various younger kids from Draco in the corridor. He protects the professors from Draco, arguing with every single thing he says in their shared classes. The weird thing is that Draco isn’t even bothered; he acts the whole time like he’s just playing a game with Harry – and he very much thinks he’s winning that game.
“Malfoy” Harry growls, when Draco shoots a small itching jynx at a random girl in the corridor. Harry instantly applies the counter-jynx, before the girl even realizes why she’s scratching her elbow.
“Oh Potter, I didn’t see you there,” Draco says, widening his eyes with mock innocence. “I was just minding my own business, torturing small children. Don’t mind me.”
“You have to stop,” Harry warns.
“That’s so strange,” Draco says, stepping close to Harry and feeling the front of his robes, “I thought for a moment that you were the head-boy… but I guess you’re not.” Draco backs away, his grin wicked and sharp.
“The head boy and girl are busy rebuilding the castle,” Harry says, swallowing hard, for some reason. “They don’t have time for people like you.” Harry makes it clear with his tone that when he says ‘people like you’, what he means is ‘scum of the earth’.
Malfoy examines Harry and taps his chin thoughtfully, as if a rather splendid idea just occurred to him. “Potter, I think I realized your problem.”
“My problem?” Harry splutters.
“Yes. You’re too wound up. Too uptight. You need…” Draco looks right in Harry’s eyes, waiting for the full impact of his words to land, “To get laid.”
Harry makes a coughing, choking sort of sound.
“Are you unfamiliar with that term?” Malfoy asks, mischievous, “I mean you need to have sex, intercourse, copulation, fornication, screwing, shagging, bang–”
Draco can’t keep talking after that, because Harry’s hand is on Draco’s mouth, stopping the endless synonyms for ‘sex’. “I know the term,” Harry says, his voice low and dangerous.
“Great. Then go get some – I bet you’ll be a lot less obsessed with me once you’re more relaxed.”
“I’m not obsessed,” Harry says, his voice tight and a bit high.
“Riiiight,” Draco drawls, full of sarcasm. Draco backs up and continues on his way, and Harry is too gobsmacked to follow him.
“He has a point,” I say, again. Harry acts as though he doesn’t hear me, still staring after Draco. “I think that’s my problem with you, too. You’re too wound up to focus on what’s really important here: fixing my bathroom. Don’t worry, I’ll help.”
“H… help?” Harry says, his eyes suddenly snapping to me.
“Yes,” I say, and disappear. Harry’s shoulders slump, all the fight going out of him. He knows there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s coming next.
I spend the next few days notifying every age-appropriate girl in Hogwarts that Harry is in need of intercourse. Most of them don’t believe me, but some of them look quite interested. Every time a girl sidles up to Harry, twirling their hair on a finger or finding an excuse to touch his biceps, I politely disappear. I would not at all want to get in the way of Harry’s relaxing.
Here’s my new plan: right after Harry gets some, I will immediately announce my presence, beg him to help me, and he – being in state of post-coital bliss – will say, ‘of course Myrtle, and – hey – thanks for the haunting’, and then we’ll hug before he storms the Headmistresses office to get my bathroom back. It’s a great plan; my best one yet.
Only, for some reason, Harry doesn’t seem to be taking any of these incredibly willing girls up on the whole ‘railing them’ business. Every time one approaches him, he’s polite and sweet… but he’s not interested. Three girls invite him to Hogsmeade (all declined), two offer to help him study (declined), and one just says ‘I’ll be at the astronomy tower until curfew. See you there, Potter.” He, of course, doesn’t go.
“Harry!” I say to him, while he’s just sitting around the library, looking at a book, and not having sex, “Why aren’t you going up to the astronomy tower? I’m sure that very nice girl would be happy to suck your—”
Madam Pince shushes me before I can finish my sentence. Harry is so mortified he packs up his bags immediately, just to get me out of the library. “I’m not interested,” he hisses at me on the way out.
“But if you don’t get screwed… how am I supposed to get my bathroom back?” I whinge at him.
Harry shoots me a confused look. “Myrtle… how in Merlin’s name do you think me… you know… doing that… will get you your bathroom back?”
“It’s what Draco said, isn’t it?” I shot back.
Harry snarled when I said Draco’s name. “Nothing that git says is true – Myrtle. He’s just trying to rile me up.”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I think it’s just objectively true: you need to get laid.”
Harry throws his hands up in the air and stalks off to the Gryffindor tower, muttering about idiotic Slytherins and ghosts. I feel like I’ve made great progress. Any day now, I’ll get my bathroom back.
But Harry keeps on living his life, not putting my needs first. Just like everyone else. After the whole ‘get laid’ comment, Harry doesn’t follow after Draco anymore. But he keeps his eyes on him. Harry always positions himself at the far end of the Gryffindor table, or behind Draco in shared classes, so that he can watch him, silent and brooding, as much as possible.
Harry still tails Draco between classes, but he’s less obvious about it – he lurks around corners, casts disillusionment charms (which really aren’t that great), and even digs up a dusty pair of omnoculars to watch him from across the grounds. Somehow, though, Draco rarely seems to misbehave when Harry isn’t obviously hanging around – which seems to frustrate Harry to no end. It takes me a few days before I come up with the brilliant idea to start announcing Harry wherever he is, “Harry Potter! Harry Potter coming through!” I shout to the whole corridor, where Harry is crouched behind a Knight, trying to keep a low profile.
“Myrtle!” Harry hisses. I turn up my nose at him.
~
We’re sitting around in the Gryffindor Common room one night (well, Harry, Ron and Hermione are sitting and studying – I’m floating around, crying), when Harry glances over at his Map and jumps up as if shocked.
“What is it, mate?” Ron asks, looking concerned.
“Nothing…” Harry says, not looking very convincing, “Just… he definitely shouldn’t be there…”
“Who?” Hermione asks.
“Do you even have to ask? It’s gotta be Malfoy,” Ron scoffs, losing all interest.
“I’ll be back before curfew,” Harry says to them, not making eye contact. “Er… Hermione – can you give me the Prefect’s bathroom password?”
“Why?” she asks, suspiciously.
“Quick, Hermione. I’ll tell you later – just trust me, alright?”
Hermione nods and tells him, ‘Lavender fields.”
Harry walks towards the portrait of the fat lady with great determination, his friends looking after him with worried faces.
I’m tempted to manifest and argue with Harry – he already looks rather riled up, and he talks more when he’s agitated – but I decide to follow him, staying invisible. I can’t believe we’re going to the Prefect’s Bathroom! I almost squeal. It’s one of my favourite places on earth, besides my u-bend, of course. I don’t know why the school has a giant, pool-sized bath available for teens to use WITHOUT SUPERVISION, but… they do. And you would not believe the things I’ve seen in this room. Loads of naked arses, to start with. And also sex. Tons and tons of sex.
The last time Harry confronted Draco alone in a bathroom… well, it was scary. But it was also exciting. I will literally never forget the time I got to scream ‘MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!’ at the top of my lungs. One of my proudest moments. If tonight is anything like that – I’m on board. I don’t like Draco much anymore, anyway.
Harry shouts ‘Lavender Fields’ at the door like it’s a curse and it bursts open, nearly flying off its hinges. “Malfoy!” he yells, “I know you’re in here – and you don’t have any right to be.”
Draco, who is entirely naked (yes! – I hate him, but… damn, is he fit), is lounging on the side of the pool, his head leaned back, elbows propping him up. “Potter,” he drawls, not sounding pleased, “fancy seeing you here.” The pool is covered with a layer of light, cloud-like foam, which – unfortunately – obscures the view of Draco’s body. That’s the one problem with the prefect’s bathroom – all those damn taps that provide a thin layer of privacy. Good thing I can go underwater.
“You are not a prefect anymore,” Harry accuses.
“Neither are you.”
“I’m not trying to… to take advantage of privileges, Malfoy. Not like you. I’m here to stop you from unfairly breaking the rules.”
“Is that why you’re here, Potter? To keep me from rule breaking?” There’s a new note in Draco’s voice now… something almost suggestive. Inviting. Harry, of course, doesn’t notice it. He never notices anything.
“Of course that’s why I’m here!” Harry splutters. It’s hot in the Prefect’s bathroom, and Harry is still fully clothed in his thick wizarding robes. He’s starting to sweat at the temples and back of his neck, giving him a flushed, frantic look.
“Are you sure it’s not for… something else?” Draco says, and he starts standing up. First, his shoulders and chest rise above the water – and I’m pretty sure I said he was fit. He was back then, anyhow, and he is even more now. He’s all lean muscles and pale skin, marred only by a slashing scar over his chest.
“W-what… what do you mean?” Harry says, starting to lose some of his bluster. His eyes track over Malfoy’s exposed chest, and he winces.
Draco finds a step and raises himself up a few more inches, so that his abs are plainly visible above the white foam. “I just find it… interesting… how you keep turning up everywhere I am.”
“I-interesting?” Harry stutters.
“Yeah.” Malfoy says, stepping up again so that the foam only barely covers his arse. He has pale blond hair, but if you get up close (I do), you can see the trail of hair running down from his navel. One more step and he’ll be completely exposed. I can’t wait. Malfoy continues talking, “It almost makes me wonder… if you like something you see.”
“Er…” Harry starts, like his brain just shorted out. “I don’t… I don’t know…” he licks his dry lips, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy.” He tries to sneer, but it somehow doesn’t come across right. For whatever reason, Harry doesn’t have his wand out. Too bad – I was really looking forward to a fight.
“Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?” Malfoy says and he moves his leg forward, finding the next step up. I hear a gasp and ‘shit’, and the sound of a door banging closed coming from behind me – but I’m not paying attention to that. Because Draco just needs to move up another step and I’ll get to see everything. But… he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he starts laughing and settles back down into the bath.
Disgruntled, I look around only to find that Harry has scampered off. Phoey. No fight. No nudity. No drama at all. Plus, no u-bend. This is the worst day of my life (death, whatever).
~
The next day, Harry is a powder keg, ready to explode. He snaps at everyone, including me! And all I said was that I wished Draco would’ve gotten all of the way out of the tub. And he called me a perv. Can you believe it? He snaps at Hermione for asking what happened last night, at Ron for laughing at him, and even at Professor Flitwick, for correcting his charm. I prefer sleepy Harry over cranky Harry, any day. Harry does not like it when I tell him that.
By the time we all get to potions, me, Hermione, and Ron are all keeping our distance from Harry. “Myrtle,” Hermione asks, her voice gentle, “What happened last night, in the Prefect’s bathroom?”
“Nothing!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air, “it was literally the most boring thing to happen in the Prefect’s bathroom in years.” I whinge. “They just talked for a minute, and then Harry ran away. No clue why.”
Hermione and Ron exchange a look. Not knowing them all that well, I can’t read it. Harry slams into a seat with a good line of sight to Draco’s cauldron, at the front of the class. Professor Cho comes in and instructs the students to open their books to the chapter on the draught of peace. “This will most definitely show up on your N.E.W.Ts”, she says perkily, “so pay careful attention.”
Draco scoffs, and mutters, “And how would you know? You’ve been a Professor for all of three months.” It wasn’t a very loud comment, and not even that bad (by Draco’s usual standards – he didn’t insult her blood purity, at least), but Harry shoots up, his chair falling behind him with a dull ‘thud’.
“What did you say, Malfoy?” he asks, his hand already on his wand.
Excellent. Drama.
“I merely questioned how our illustrious Professor would know that, given –” But Draco doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Harry raises his wand and points it directly at Malfoy, setting off some sort of blasting nonverbal spell. Malfoy’s desk and cauldron go flying, knocking into the shelf of potions ingredients, which come thundering to the ground with a crash.
Draco doesn’t hesitate for a second, his wand is out before half the class has even realized what’s happening. He sends something back at Harry, some sort of glowing ropes that try to bind him, but Harry slashes through them with another spell. He throws another blunt-force spell at Draco, who dodges with a quick forward roll.
“BOYS!” Professor Cho shouts, casting a ‘Protego’ into the air between them. The students have all taken cover under the remaining desks, many of them sobbing quietly and making their way towards the door.
“HARRY!” Hermione, whisper-shouts, trying not to draw attention. “What are you doing?”
“I’m. Trying. To. Stop. Malfoy,” Harry says, casting a wild spell in between each word. Malfoy counters all of them with swift, sure flicks of his wand.
Hermione, looking a bit torn, jabs her wand at Harry with a nonverbal spell that makes his wand fly out of his hand and land in hers. “Hermione!” he shouts, his eyes wide, “did you just ‘expelliarmus’ me?!” The next second, he falls over in a dead faint. Without his wand, he has no way to defend himself against Malfoy’s spell. I hope it wasn’t a bad one. Sort of.
The Professor disarms Draco, who is panting and going on and on about how ‘he’s the victim’ and how ‘he was attacked first’. Meanwhile, Hermione stands over Harry and revives him. “Mione’?” he mumbles, coming to. So no murder in the potions classroom today, I guess. How disappointing.
The Professor checks in with all the students and tells them that class is dismissed for the day. She calls Harry and Draco up to the front of the classroom, looking absolutely livid. “You two,” she says, pointing her wand at them both, “Will clean up this mess without wands, or I will report this to your head of house. Got it?”
A shame-faced Harry nods, while Malfoy rolls his eyes. The Professor brings Harry over to the side and whispers, “Harry – I don’t need you to defend me, alright? You’ve got to get things under control, yeah? I know you’ve been through a lot, but this was completely unacceptable.”
“But he-“ Harry starts.
“No. You overreacted Harry. You.” She looks at him right in the eyes until he nods and backs down. She makes eye contact with Draco and holds up the two wands in her hands, “You two will get these back when this room is pristine again.” Then she walks out.
At first, I’m still hyped up on the adrenaline of an in-classroom fight. That was awesome. Amazing. I wish it could happen literally every day. I didn’t get to scream MURDER – but it was a close thing. Maybe next time. However, the adrenalin slowly fades as Harry and Draco proceed to clean up the room in complete silence, not even looking at each other. After a quarter of an hour, I’m bored to tears. Literally. I moan around the classroom, griping about my miserable life, and get no reaction. Not even a slow blink. Before long, I fade away, sinking into a blown-glass bottle that almost – almost – reminds me of my u-bend.
I watch Harry and Draco move about the decimated classroom and think about how my death came to this. Watching two boring teenage boys clean. Is my bathroom really worth it? Is anything really worth it? I try to think of some new brilliant plan to get Harry to help me… but nothing occurs to me. Maybe it’s a lost cause. Maybe I should just give up.
Harry is sweeping up a pile of shattered glass in front of the ingredients shelves and Draco crosses the room to grab a cleaning rag. He walks right in front of Harry, getting into his space a bit, and Harry reaches out and grabs Draco by the collar. Without any warning, Harry swings him around and shoves him into the wall. Harry’s breathing hard, like he’s trying to hold something back - something that’s trying to claw its way out.
I pop my eyes out of the glass bottle, maybe something interesting will happen, after all.
“You--“ Draco growls, but I never get to find out what he was going to say, because Harry steps right up to him, still holding onto his collar, and… and..
Harry kisses Draco.
Just like that. Out of nowhere.
Draco’s hands flash up and I think he’s going to push Harry away, but instead he grabs onto Harry’s robes and pulls him closer in. Draco is kissing him back – hard. I get right up close so I can see what their mouths are doing, and they are devouring each other. There’s no finesse in it at all – the kiss is all teeth and desperation and hunger.
Harry pulls back for just a second to gasp a lungful of air and swear a low, “fuck”, but then Malfoy pulls his head in, grabbing his hair roughly, and they’re snogging again. Harry’s glasses get in the way, so he pulls them off his face and tosses them across the room where they shatter into a million pieces. He doesn’t seem to care at all.
Draco does something with his hips and pushes Harry off balance, catching him and turning him so he’s the one up against the wall. Harry lets out a small ‘oof’ of surprise. Draco brackets Harry’s face with his arms and, feral, goes for his jugular – biting his way up and down Harry’s neck. Harry lets out a moan that he probably would be embarrassed about, if he cared about anything right now. His hips jerk forward, right into Draco’s, and I doubt it’s intentional.
They start grinding against each other, increasingly frantic, and one question goes through my mind: what in the actual fuck is happening right now!? I thought that these two were enemies! I thought that Harry needed a girlfriend. I thought… I thought…
But Harry moans again, clutching the back of Malfoy’s robes and Malfoy looks at him with this smug sneer and the only thing I can think is: hot. Hot, hot, so fucking hot. I’ve seen a lot of people snog – and nothing has been as hot as this. If I could drool, I would be doing so now. I mean, the way they are groping each other, both taking what they need, being so, incredibly, uncareful? I could watch this all day. Every day. For the rest of my death.
Draco reaches around to Harry’s arse and pulls him even closer, rolling Harry’s hips in time with his own thrusts. “Malf—” Harry groans, then bites his lip. “Oh fuck, I can’t… nooo… no, no, no, no…” Harry’s eyebrows furrow with extreme concentration, like he’s trying to summon all his willpower, and then, all in one breath, “Oh fuck, I’mgunnacome.”
Harry’s mouth opens, as if in agony, and he groans, shuddering, against Draco. Draco keeps his eyes locked on Harry’s face, like he’s drinking up every expression, imprinting it on his soul. He noses down Harry’s collar, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh between shoulder and neck, and then Draco is crying out, too.
And I… dissolve. I am a puddle. I am nothing but thirst.
The boys sort of collapse onto each other, in a heap on the floor. They’re both panting and blissed out and I don’t think the reality of what they just did has caught up to either of them yet. It certainly hasn’t caught up to Harry, who has a soft, relaxed look about his eyes – an expression I’ve never seen on his face, not since he first showed up in my bathroom all those years ago.
“Oh shit,” Harry hiccups, and it’s almost a laugh, “Oh shit – our wands. We can’t…” he waves his hand at their crotches, which are probably sticky and gross feeling. “And my glasses.”
“We’re almost done anyway,” Draco says, sort of patting Harry on the chest, running his fingers over Harry’s pecks.
Draco stands up, stumbling a bit, and finishes sweeping up the glass shards that Harry had been working on. He tosses it in the trash. “How blind are you, exactly?” he asks.
“Super blind,” Harry answers, still blissed out.
“I’ll go get our wands then,” Draco offers, and it’s the politest I’ve ever seen him. He leaves, his footsteps ringing in the empty classroom. And Harry just sits there, as if he’s forgotten about the entire world.
Draco walks back in and waves his wand first at Harry’s glasses, then at his pants, cleaning him up and putting him back together. “Here,” he says, shoving the glasses on Harry’s face.
Somehow, it’s the glasses that do it. As soon as Draco’s face comes into focus for Harry, he jerks back, as if only just realizing who he’d experienced all that pleasure with. “Fuck,” he says, a panicked look coming into his eyes.
Draco reaches out a hand to haul Harry up and Harry takes it. Draco dusts off Harry’s robes, saying in a chiding voice, “I told you that you needed to get laid, Potter.”
Harry steps back, away from Draco’s proprietary fussing, and looks Draco up and down. He puts back on his disdain like he’s putting on a new set of dress robes. “I hate you,” Harry says, flat and dull. Almost like he’s not sure he really means it, anymore.
“Yeah, me too,” says Draco. They walk out of the classroom together, not touching.
As for me – I float back to my bathroom, feeling a sense of unreality. That was… that was better than seeing Cedric Diggory disrobe in the prefect’s bathroom. It was better than seeing Bill Weasley wank that one time. It was better than seeing Percy rail Penelope Clearwater in the restricted section. It was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life or death, and I know only one thing: I want more.