Cedric stares, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry you had to die so suddenly," he tells Myrtle.

She turns to him, eyes owlish behind her ghostly frames. She is young, probably a second-year or first year when she died, Cedric can't be sure, having never had a cause to enter the girl's bathroom on this floor(or any floor, really) and known of her. She never goes to any of the feasts, and Cedric knows he would have noticed a girl this young floating in the Great Hall. She's short, lingering bits of childhood fat still present, her face full of spots of someone just starting puberty, her hair is lank, probably with a lack of care the day she had died. She had been in the bathroom crying after all. Myrtle frowned, her face quivering, probably on the verge of more tears. Honestly, Cedric doesn't begrudge her this.

"Thank you," a flush of silver to her cheeks, and she bobs in place, head down a touch sadly.

"It was a basilisk, placed by Salazar himself that killed you," he told her, "Can any of the other ghosts claim anything as special as that?"

She blinks, and this time tears come silently, no wails or dramatic overflow that Ron had promised them.

"No. No, I suppose not," she tells him, a touch of confidence to her voice.

"You didn't deserve to die because of a mean girl making you cry."

"No, I didn't. But's what's done is done. Thank you, Cedric Diggory. If you or Harry die because of the basilisk down there, you're welcome to share my toilet with me if you come back as ghosts."

With a small, fragile smile, Myrtle went to her stall and closed the door with a small click, and a splash a little afterward.