Characters: Moaning Myrtle and Sirius Black II (great-grandfather of the Sirius we all know and love!). :P
Genre: Crime/Horror
The Benefactor
Curled awkwardly in her cramped U-bend, Myrtle's sigh echoed dolefully through the sewage-filled pipes. A particularly morbid thirteen-year-old, she had often entertained thoughts of death – her lavish funeral, her lamenting friends and family and, best of all, how she would torment those who had made her life hell.
Her funeral had sucked, no one had even given a speech save for the wheezing director. She could have excused the lack of formality with grief-stricken relatives but no . . . they appeared to have forgotten her within the month. She would have haunted them, would have never let them forget that cheap-arse coffin, but she had had other things on her mind.
Olive Hornby, for one.
Even that, though, had been ruined. Just as she was settling down, gleefully stalking her antagonist's every step, the Ministry had had her exorcised and sent back to the scene of the crime, the scene of her death.
And she was bored.
Once able to chill bones and inspire fear in all but the bravest of souls with her high-pitched shrieking and wailing – bemoaning her tragic fate – Myrtle had found herself denigrated into little more than a walking joke. At best she was a pest, preventing visitors to her bathroom from emptying their bladders or bowels, at worst the butt of one cruel joke after another.
Students had taken to avoiding her toilet while Myrtle had drawn further into herself. Though the Ministry had given her full leave to roam the castle – it would just have been cruel and unusual punishment to condemn someone to a bathroom for eternity – she had no wish to experience another call of moping Myrtle or, still worse, pimply Myrtle.
Why had she been cursed with this zitty face – why? She wailed with zeal, smiling as her shrieks echoed back to her from all directions. This was one of the few things she still enjoyed; if she couldn't wallow in her own death, what could she do?
The first year or so, she had taken to flooding the bathroom whenever she got bored, translucent tears flowing just as fast as the faucets. She had enjoyed herself immensely, wailing over Headmaster Dippet and Professor Flitwick's solicitude and Apollyon Pringle's grumbled complaints. They had all been paying attention to her; she may not chill blood, but they were still completely under her thrall, controlled by their guilt. After all, she had been murdered on their watch.
After a few months, though, even that had grown boring. Her professors' words became less and less comforting while Pringle's campaign to have her banned from the school became more and more real. It just hadn't been worth it.
That left her in a quandary. What was she supposed to do now?
She couldn't believe it; it hadn't even been a decade and she was bored to death. That is, if she hadn't already met such a tragic end. An end that no one seemed to care about anymore. . . .
Another grief-filled shriek. Another echo. Myrtle beamed.
Some of the ghosts, from what she had heard, had been here for centuries, almost since the school's founding, including her own House ghost, the Grey Lady. At least the Grey Lady was beautiful, though; her ghostly state didn't change that fact. It was only she, Myrtle, who was stuck with her pimply, bespectacled face for all eternity.
About to work up a nice long wail, Myrtle paused. Tilting her head, she listened to the winding pipes; they had just begun to gurgle again. Had someone used her bathroom – a stranger? It had to be, everyone else knew this was her domain . . . and sought to avoid it. But a stranger. . . . Puffing herself up to her most imperious, Myrtle zoomed up the pipe, ready to scare some unsuspecting parent out of their wits.
So caught up was she in this fantasy that she had to stop short so she didn't float straight through the ceiling. Glaring daggers, she soared toward the figure now washing its hands at the sink – a man.
But this was a girls' bathroom. Boys weren't allowed – they should go use their own toilet. . . .
A boy. Speaking some odd language.
A pair of big, yellow eyes.
This morbid reminder enraging her still more, Myrtle's welcoming shriek was even louder than usual. The man spun around, dripping hands clutched to his chest.
"Wh-who. . . ?"
"What are you doing in my bathroom?" she demanded, eyes rolling. "You're not a girl!"
Running a shaking hand through his shoulder-length silver hair, the man did not appear to have taken in what she had said. "Who are you?" he managed, his voice faint.
"And what business is that of yours?" she retorted, a feeble imitation of the regal Lady. In truth, she hadn't expected the question; those who knew her would only laugh in her face while those new to her domain – many of them first-years – would inch toward the door, quivering. This man, however, met her gaze straight on. Despite his fear, he exuded an aura of confidence and Myrtle couldn't help but be surprised; her scowl softened.
Perhaps taking strength in her weakness, he continued more confidently. "I merely ask because I haven't seen you around before . . . and I'm sure I would remember."
Was he flirting with her?
"And you visit girls' toilets often, do you?" she snapped. Slowly, her anger was receding. She studied the olive-green tiles, struggling to hide her silvery blush.
"Touche." He smiled, his eyes crinkling with laughter. Though an elderly man, his innate charm and grace couldn't help but attract her.
Or maybe he could help it. . . .
It was wrong – she knew it was wrong – but she couldn't help herself. No man, handsome or otherwise, had ever been so interested in her before. Had never flirted with her certainly. . . .
"I visit the school often," he continued. "I am one of its top financial backers and one of the school governors. I wish to see how my money is being spent."
"And does it meet your expectations?" Cocking her head, Myrtle batted her eyelashes in what she hoped was a fetching way. She couldn't take her eyes off of his.
Big blue eyes. . . .
"Not if they are keeping pretty ghost girls locked up in bathrooms."
Her blush deepened, she didn't even bother to hide it this time. She giggled. "Oh, they . . . they don't keep me locked up. . . . I just stay here in – in my toilet; everyone – everyone out there – makes fun of me. Mopey . . . ugly . . . p-p-pimply!" She wailed, barely focusing on that lovely echo as the man strode toward her, his eyes tender.
"There now, there now, calm down." Her heart leaped as he reached forward as if to cup her face in his long-fingered hand. "There, there, no reason to fret, Myrtle."
Myrtle.
"How did you know my name?" she asked, eyes hardening.
His mouth formed an O of surprise before he gathered himself. "I just visited with Headmaster Dippet today; he wished to address a few of Mr. Pringle's complaints, most of them grievances concerning you. Intolerable man, really." He chuckled.
It didn't reach his eyes.
Big yellow eyes. . . .
No, they were blue, weren't they?
She moved away from him, feeling a perverse pleasure as his grasping fingers met only smoke and vapor.
"You're lying."
"Myrtle, I told you. . . ."
"You're lying!" she screamed.
His eyes flashed.
Predatory eyes . . . just like his. . . .
Whose?
His.
How could she have forgotten? Memories of her short life had become so fuzzy, one thought slipping into another. It was so hard to pin anything down. But it was easier to forget, easier than remembering. . . .
That boy.
Yes, Tom Riddle. That orphan boy. That handsome boy. That boy everyone in school had had a crush on. . . .
And he had kissed her. Not out of love or passion, out of power. A need for power
She was weak and he had controlled her, dominated her in that broom closet, if only briefly. Shrieking, she had slapped him across the face. He had looked shocked for a moment – she wondered how many other girls he had done this, too, how many had allowed him to do it – before his eyes flashed a bright scarlet.
Scarlet as the blood now dripping from her lower lip. He had bitten here, had marked her as his. From that moment, he had owned her.
And she was going to be punished. Those scarlet eyes had told her so. . . .
The bathroom walls seemed to fade around her . . . and now – now. . . .
She was strolling down Hogsmeade's High Street. It was a miserable, rainy October day - one that matched her mood – she wondered why she had even bothered. Honeydukes was packed and so was the Three Broomsticks, the butterbeer which so many raved about wasn't even all that good. The hem of her robes was soaked from dragging through so many muddy puddles. Stupid school trips, she might as well go back. . . .
But wait – what was that boy doing? What was he doing outside in this weather? But of course, it was Tom, talking to a man outside of the Hog's Head. A man with sleek silver hair and, even from this distance, piercing blue eyes. A package changed hands.
"Thank you, Mr. Black. It's very generous of you."
"No trouble at all, Tom."
Blue eyes crinkled in a smile. . . .
And the day after – hadn't Tom showed up in a beautiful new pair of robes? Robes that several of Myrtle's classmates couldn't stop gushing about? But all she could think about were those eyes. Both pairs. . . .
Blue.
Scarlet.
Both of them the same.
Because this Mr. Black had been more than Hogwarts's financial backer, hadn't he? He'd helped Tom, too. The boy was an orphan, handsome and charming to boot. He was a prime example of the qualities Slytherin House – Black's own alma mater, she presumed – treasured so dearly.
Ambition.
Dominance.
Power.
Enough power, perhaps, to convince Black that what he was doing was right? Enough power to make him keep the higher-ups from investigating too deeply into strange happenings at Hogwarts? Enough power to make sure he was never accused, never even suspected.
With that power, how could Black not help him? How could anyone?
They couldn't . . . could they?
Big, yellow eyes. . . .
And she had been punished.
What was more, her murder had never been avenged. The wrong person had been accused, a Gryffindor in her year, Rubeus Hagrid. How could they possibly think a Gryffindor had done something like this?
Because their instincts had been hoodwinked, led awry by this man – this Mr. Black. Because he had the same control over the wizarding community as Tom had eventually gained over him.
But there was no pity in her. Not now. He may not have orchestrated her murder but he had certainly done nothing to stop it.
"Myrtle?" Those big blue eyes were full of concern once more . . . but that wasn't it. It was concern for his own soul that motivated him, not her own. He had come to assuage his guilt, see that the girl he had aided in the murder of was happy – content, trapped in her bathroom – before jetting off again, perhaps leaving this mortal plain for good.
"Get out," she hissed.
"Myrtle, you don't understand. . . ."
"Understand what?" she retorted. "That you helped him? That's right, I know, I saw! I can't believe I never put it together before."
But maybe she had . . . maybe it was just easier to forget.
"Please, let me. . . ."
"Explain?" she screeched, mockingly. "Explain what? That you couldn't resist him?"
"He was a boy – just an orphan boy. I never knew that. . . ." Limbs quivering, he tugged at his hair; several silvery-white strands came out in his hands and he looked at them, as if dumbstruck.
He was weak.
"I don't care what you never knew!" she shrieked, towering above him again. "You should have known it! You saw it in his eyes!"
Those scarlet eyes.
"You were weak, Mr. Black! You got by all this time, just pretending, but you're weak!"
"Myr-tle," he choked. He was coughing in his agitation, pounding at his chest.
"Shut up!" she screamed, barely listening now. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! Get out, get out – get out!"
He collapsed, striking his head on the vanity. Red rivers of blood oozed over the green tiles. Piercing blue eyes darted rapidly around the room, body twitching helplessly. They fell upon Myrtle.
"Hel-" Then he lay still.
Myrtle didn't move.
Water from the still-running faucet dripped from the overflowing sink, turning the crimson puddle pink.
The water washed away everything. . . .
Myrtle began to wail.