As much as Myrtle understood that the Battle needed to happen; for good to triumph over evil and the like, she could not, for the death of her, understand why it had to happen today.
She'd had a severe migraine for the past few days (she'd gone to Madam Pomfrey about it too, but Pomfrey didn't seem to think ghosts could have migraines). Thusly, the fighting could only worsen her condition. The noise of it all and the shaking of the walls and the fact she was almost crushed to death (had she not already been so) was too much. She'd spent her time floating in the lake to get away from it all.
Now that it had ceased, Myrtle longed only for peace inside her cosy little cubicle, but it seemed even that was too much to ask for, as a young man seemed to be bawling in one of the other stalls. Her first instinct was to tell him off for daring to make so much noise, and that he should have realized by now that he was male and should not be in the girl's bathroom. However, Myrtle wasn't a cold-hearted ghost, and soon realized that she should lend a hand to the poor fellow.
She called softly from her stall, she didn't want to startle the young man.
"Sir, I hope you're okay?"
"OH, SHUT UP, MYRTLE! AS IF YOU CARE?!"
She was taken aback by his utter lack of respect. She certainly hadn't done anything wrong. He should have been pleased that someone was thinking of him. Parents nowadays; they never taught their kids to be polite.
She floated through the stalls, and came to a halt when she saw him in a little ball on top of the toilet.
She should have known. The bright red hair, the broad shoulders...he and his twin had once stuffed a whole batch of Dr Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No Heat Fireworks in her s-bend and blown her and her toilet to smithereens. She was so traumatized she almost thought she'd have to go to St. Mungo's.
It was still somewhat sad though, when he lifted his head, and his face was red and blotchy. He choked up as he told her to go away. She knew it was rude, but she thought she knew why he might be crying.
"Did your brother...die?"
She needn't have asked, he sobbed loudly, his shoulders shaking with the strength of his sorrow.
"I can't really offer my condolences, can I? Seeing as I'm also...dead."
"Do you think he could, you know, come back? As a ghost, I mean."
"Depends. Was he scared to die?"
"He died with a smile on his face."
He gave dejected sigh. There was nothing more she could say, his twin would not come back as a ghost. She instead put her hand on his shoulder. He gave a slight shiver. She always forgot she was cold.
"Don't tell anyone I was here."
He slowly unravelled himself, but didn't seem ready to leave just yet. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks and his breath was shallow and ragged with fear. Fear of what? What he'd seen? His own mortality? Fear of being alone? She wasn't sure and she frankly did not care. He was leaving, wiping the last tears from his eyes.
"You know, Myrtle, you're not too bad when you aren't moping about."
"I hope I'll be able to say the same for you."