Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 10

Team: Kenmare Kestrels

Position: Seeker

Prompt: Write about Myrtle Warren as a ghost.

Myrtle sits in the corner, slumped against the wall—not that she can feel it, anyway. She stares at the stall, eyes forlorn. Her lip trembles, and a small tear trickles down her cheek. "Why'd she have to die on me?" she asks the stall, a hint of a moan echoing through the bathroom. Then again, when is Moaning Myrtle not moaning?

Myrtle stands up and tosses a pigtail over her shoulder, wiping her eyes. "No offense, Myrtle, but the pigtails are starting to get…" the narrator pauses for a moment, brows furrowing ever so slightly as she debates what word would fit best here.

Myrtle whirls around, fists clenched. "They're starting to get what?"

The narrator coughs. "A bit… old. Maybe you should try a ponytail? Or at least a braid?"

Myrtle gapes at the narrator, her eyes watery. "But… but I like my pigtails!" She starts sobbing, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap.

The narrator sighs, wringing her hands. "There she goes again." She stands up, pulling her fingers away from the keyboard reluctantly. She walks over to Myrtle, attempting to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, only to remember that she can't. "Come on, Myrtle. Let's just get this done with, and then you can go back to your stall."

Myrtle sniffs, glaring at the narrator. "Fine. But this is the last time I'll ever be working for you!"

As if I'd want to deal with you again, the narrator thinks, holding back a snort. "Ok, get back on the set. Myrtle, I want your back at the wall. You weren't even supposed to be standing up."

Myrtle wrinkles her nose—which would've been cute if she wasn't Myrtle—and slumps against the wall. "What am I supposed to do now?"

The narrator sits down, hunched forward as she glares at the computer screen, fingers poised over the keyboard. "Didn't you read the script?"

"I might've skimmed over it," Myrtle says, shrugging.

The narrator tosses a neatly stapled pile of papers to Myrtle with a huff. "Read it."

Music plays in the background—is that the Jeopardy theme song?—as Myrtle takes way too long to read the script. She finally looks up, lip trembling. "I don't want to be be dragged off by Ministry officials!"

"That's what you signed up for."

"How do ghosts get dragged off, anyway?" Myrtle retorts. She draws back as if shocked that she actually said something intelligent. Then again, anyone would be shocked to know Myrtle was capable of being intelligent—sorry, Myrtle!

The narrator sighs. "I didn't think about that. I'll just invent a spell to let people touch ghosts."

"You can't do that!"

The narrator ignores her. "What should I call it?"

"I told you, you can't make up a spell!"

"Shut up, Myrtle. I'm trying to concentrate." The narrator's eyes lit up. "Got it! Sanctus Tangeret!"

"That's not a spell!"

"Now it is." The narrator winks. "Okay, let's do this."

After a long, long time spent rehearsing, Myrtle is finally ready to perform. May the narrator add that it was only after a lot of sobbing?

"Where are the Ministry officials?" the narrator asks. As soon as she is done speaking, the doors of the bathroom are thrown open. Twelve robed men run in, wands out.

"Here, ma'am!" a man says, panting.

The narrator smiles. "Good. Now, circle around Myrtle."

Myrtle trembles as the officials step into a circle, wands pointed at her. "I don't want to do this anymore." A tear slips out of her eye.

The narrator ignores her—as usual. "Sneers, gentlemen! Sneer!" She gives one of the officials one of her 'friendly' pats, sending the man into a hacking cough. She walks back to her desk.

The officials all stare at Myrtle, their eyes shining with a somewhat feral glint. "Sanctus Tangeret!" they shout, and beams of white light shoot from their wands, striking Myrtle's chest.

A dim glow envelops Myrtle for a moment, lighting up her face before it disappears. "It worked!" the narrator says, smiling. Unable to hold back, she sticks her tongue out at Myrtle. "Told you!"

Myrtle sniffs. "I really don't want to do this."

"Quit moaning, Myrtle," an official says, his lips returning back to a sneer as soon as he is done speaking. The officials all advance as one, wands quivering with an ache that the narrator must explain as an urge to get rid of Myrtle. Doesn't everyone want to get rid of Myrtle?

"Why are we dragging her off?" an official asks, brows furrowed.

The narrator rolls her eyes. "Because Hogwarts decided to get rid of all their ghosts. Nothing too scary."

Outside the bathroom, the distinct voice of Nearly Headless Nick yelling can be heard. A ghostly head peeks into the bathroom. The Bloody Baron's eyes are frenzied, and his chains jingle as he tries to pull away from the officials holding him.

"They're going to kill all of us! Kill us, I say!" he roars, gaze fixed on Myrtle. "Save yourself while you can!"

A strangled sob escapes Myrtle's lips. "I don't want to die!"

"You're already dead," an official says. "Why should it matter?"

Myrtle gapes at him, lips parting.

"Bad move," the narrator mutters. "But I guess it'll fit into the script."

Myrtle screams. "How dare you tell me that I'm already dead?" She shoots forward, leaning towards the official's face. "Do you know how it feels to die?"

"Merlin, I'm sorry," the official says, raising his hands in surrender. "Don't go bloody ballistic on me now."

"Come on, guys. We're almost done," the narrator says. "I plan on having my breakfast soon."

The officials nod, and Myrtle backs away, taking her original position. "Get her!" an official yells, and they all lunge forward, grabbing Myrtle.

"I don't want to die!" Myrtle screams. "I wanted to share my toilet with Harry Potter!" She kicks at the official, her screams growing higher.

The narrator waves her hand, leaning back in her chair. "Drag her off."

"With pleasure, ma'am!" the officials chorus. Myrtle's shrill screams echo in the corridor as she is hauled away.

The narrator throws her hands up, grinning. "Finally! Freedom at last!" She dances around. "And that's a wrap!"

"I'll get you back for this!" Myrtle shouts as she is stuffed into a box with the other Hogwarts ghosts.

"Goodbye, Myrtle!" The narrator waves wildly as she watches the boxes being lugged away.

AN: I think I've been watching too many Ghostbusters ads xD