She stood close to the glass window and rested her forehead on it, watching the depressing, slanting rain beat against it. She watched as Professor Sprout scurried out of Greenhouse Three far, far down below, clutching a dirty ivory rain hat to her head.
The irony of it nearly killed her. Patricia wore glasses, too. Big ones like hers, but admittedly not as thick and ugly. She wasn't taunted day and night for resembling a midget with spectacles, though. She was, in fact, more popular than most. Why? Perhaps the unusually large pocket money, comprising mostly of shining gold galleons, could answer that question.
Elsie was short and ugly, too. But she wasn't taunted for not being able to clamber easily onto a broom. Oh, no. Her father was a famous Chaser for the Manchester Medallions. Manchester Morons, scoffed Myrtle maliciously inside her head, recalling the time she'd met Elsie's father, Byron Parker in their first year.
Rica was fat, too. But she wasn't taunted for looking like a waddling duck every time she walked from one class to the next. Not Rica. That did owe, no doubt, to the fact that she received free weekly supplies of the choicest sweets from Honeydukes, thanks to her elder brother, Rupert, the owner of the damned shop.
It's not fair, thought Myrtle miserably, her cheeks streaming with salty tears. Not fair, not fair, not FAIR! Why me? Why should I alone get picked on? Other people have faults as well!
Twin tears crept out of each muddy brown eye, behind the thick, round glasses. Another followed them. Then another. She did not wipe them away. No one would notice her swollen red eyes or her wet cheeks when she went down to the common room. No one would bother to look in her direction. No one would ever look to see if she was alive or dead. No one cared. Then why should she?