Myrtle really needs some more screen time, fanfiction-wise. As do most female characters when it comes to genfic. Hope you like, and many thanks to Jaxmari for her wonderful beta skillz XD
Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones
There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.
She remembered the names they had called her back then.
They would only stop to look her over at her parents' parties for the briefest of moments, and even at that age, she had guessed correctly that they did it out of politeness to her parents rather than any real wish to see her.
Soon enough, meeting the guests became part of the routine. She would be dragged downstairs by Nanny, who would use a mixture of blackmail and bribery to lure her into the reception room. Once she was there, dozens of pairs of eyes would instantly fix on her for a very uncomfortable five seconds, and the conversation would lull briefly before returning to more interesting topics than her. She would then be passed around the room like a tray of drinks so that they could make known their opinions on her in their stage whispers, not that they ever realised how well an eight-year old child could understood them.
An unfortunate child, they would call her. A pity about her appearance, they supposed, but it couldn't be helped. They would only wish, despairingly, that her personality should become slightly less…morbid. All that talk of magic and excessive reading of fantastical books simply wasn't healthy in a young girl, and her pasty, chubby face and mousy hair didn't help matters either. And really, they would ask themselves in shocked whispers, wasn't there anything that could be done about those glasses? Such a shame, they would say, shaking their heads and turning back to their glasses of wine. Such a shame, especially with parents as nice and normal as hers.
The whispered ritual would continue around the circle of adults, each discreetly whispered comment outdoing the last in condescension and venomousness until she thought she would burst, and then, it would end. The one time she had felt her feelings burst, every wine glass in the room had exploded in reply. She had been kept in her room for a week for daring to suggest that this happened because she had magic, and by the time of the next party she knew better than to react again.
The monthly punishment over, she would quietly ask her parents if she might leave and go to read a book in her room. Their reaction to her question was as inevitable as the question itself. A frown would mar her mother's delicate features, and she would raise a hand to her pale forehead and sigh weakly. Her father, ever practical, would give her a long look which she was unable to draw her eyes away from, and then he would deliver his routine, reluctant response.
"If you must, Myrtle."
Permission granted, she would leave, knowing that she would be forgotten before she stepped out of the room.
Then she would cry into her pillow, unread book clutched tightly in one hand as the sounds of the party drifted up to her ears from beneath the floorboards.
She tried not to hear what they called her at school.
Receiving her Hogwarts letter had been the happiest moment of her life, and her happiness had continued until she'd realised that witches and wizards took the same delight in cruelty as her parents' Muggle friends had done.
The words they whispered had changed only superficially. The scorn behind them was still the same.
They called her a Dirty Mudblood. Fat and ugly. Spotty-faced, blind Bat, they would say, and steal her glasses. They loved to ask each other, in tones of mock surprise, "Is that really a girl?", or "Don't worry, Myrtle, I'm sure someone will discover the cure for unattractiveness someday".
The punishment for making every single inkpot and the foe-glass explode in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom when she had first heard them call her Moany Myrtle had been five days of detention with Professor Merrythought and thirty points taken from her House. She became even more friendless than before, and those who had whispered before became bold enough to mock her in loud, clear voices now.
She did what she'd always done. She ran and hid, and then she cried.
When she finally picked up the courage to leave her shelter, she found herself face to face with the large, yellow eyes of death and died.
Now she couldn't leave, not when she had never been given the chance for a good life. So she stayed, determined to live a happy death.
The whispers, though, were not through with her yet.
Stupid, useless ghost. Why does she have to haunt our toilets?
Petty, whiny bitch. She's always flooding the whole damn corridor.
Why doesn't she ever shut up her moaning? Bloody Moaning Myrtle, that's what she is.
Moaning Myrtle, they called her now.
The name stuck, and her reputation grew until they avoided her corridor completely in order to avoid her. The whispers were so far away now that she could almost ignore them if she tried.
Almost.
She sank into her U-bend, crying; her dull grey hands grasping her dull grey ears tightly as she tried to block out the whispered taunts of the people in the castle.
She listens to the curses he is hissing at her now. For the first time in her life or death, she does not care about the spiteful whispers. She has not lived for so long, and the years weigh heavily on her mind and make her feel as though she is stretched far too thinly. She does not back down.
His followers, hooded and masked, encircle her. She sees him sneering at her seemingly pitiful stand- a ghost pitting herself against powerful wizards.
She is trapped, but she finds herself unable to worry about it. She has a task, and she intends to complete it. When Dumbledore had called her, she had not understood why he had chosen her.
Protect the children. Safeguard the castle. Hold off Voldemort to give the Aurors a chance to arrive. His orders had been brief and to the point, so unlike the way he had spoken when alive.
Then, as she had turned to leave, he had called her name and given her a look out of his portrait that was so characteristic of him that she'd had to force herself not to cry. He had asked her, gently, whether she was ready for the next great adventure. Only then had she understood. Out of all the ghosts in the castle, she was the only one who wanted to die. She had nodded and turned to leave to complete her task.
Trembling, she raises up her hands, preparing herself to use magic for the first time in fifty-five years.
Voldemort begins to mutter a spell to get rid of her. She resists his spell, with all her might, causing Voldemort to snarl. Her power is unfocused and careless, but still potent. He pours more of his magic into the spell, his wand shaking with power as he focuses it at her. She begins to weaken, wondering how she ever thought she would be strong enough to hold him off. Finally, he finds a crack in her shield and directs all the power of the spell at that area.
She sees a smirk on his snake-like face when she begins to scream.
One last time, she remembers the names they called her as a child. A numb feeling encircles her heart.
Her voice becomes hoarse. The pain is too much to bear.
Again, she hears the insults they used when she was at school, and numb tendrils begin to spread their way through her body.
Her screams have stopped, but he does not seem to have noticed.
She feels the weight of the curses he hurls at her as, distantly, she hears him yelling something at her. There is no more pain, only coldness.
She sinks to the ground, her insubstantial body sinking slightly into the stone as the strands of cold freeze her body.
She realises that there is only one name that ever really mattered.
"Myrtle," she whispers, and the numbness turns to icy fire, setting her ghostly body brilliantly alight for a second and then dissolving it into a million tiny pieces in the air. The particles spread out, mingling with the castle's magic as they settle onto the building itself. For a moment, it looks as though Hogwarts is covered in a fine layer of dust. Then the dust begins to glow- red, yellow, blue and green- until suddenly all the colours meld into white. There is a flash of enormous power; every magical being near the castle can sense it.
Voldemort is the first to recover from the shock, and he tries to climb up the stone steps and enter the school. His roar of frustration sounds quite tiny from Myrtle's point of view, and she wonders why she can still see and hear him when she knows perfectly well that she just blew herself to bits. She wonders how exactly she managed to witness her own death from the outside of her body, and Myrtle finds that she doesn't really want to bother with in-depth analysis at the moment. The scene beneath her, of Voldemort and his Death Eaters trying frantically to enter the castle and failing, begins to fade, and her scattered thoughts are forgotten. In the distance, she can hear the song of a Phoenix. The beauty of the song etches into her soul, and she weeps for it. She does not understand how she cries without a body, or whether her tears are tears of sadness or joy.
The song grows louder, drowning out all other sound, and at last, the whispers end.
Concrit always appreciated :)