A/N: So, thank you for the reviews. Most said the idea was good, it just needed a little...readjusting. Well, I suppose I did a decent job here. Anyway, everyone knows the characters do not belong to me...so read away.
***
It had been a month since Hermione had her fateful incident, and her afterlife could not have been any worse. She was beginning to miss the things she had taken advantage of when she was alive. She missed the taste of slave-labor prepared food, she missed talking to her parents about what the future had in store for her, and most of all, she missed her academics.
Dumbledore had tried to convince the board of governors that all was well for her to continue her education. The board mentioned that there would be no future for her, and it was absolutely pointless for her to waste her and the professor's time.
"I am sorry, there is nothing I, nor anyone can do," Dumbledore explained.
Hermione sobbed, "It's just not fair! Why shouldn't Snape be responsible for this! He's the one that left his class and office doors open!"
Dumbledore looked at her, with a glint of pity in his eyes, "Well, the board did the 'Priori Incantato' spell, and the last two were 'Alohomora'."
Hermione sobbed even more, "Do...sniff...you still have...sniff...my wand? You know...sniff...for a souvenir."
For the first time ever, she had seen a true frown from Dumbledore. He held up a gallon sized ziploc bag; this did not look good. She saw that the bag had contained the precious splinters of her former wand. Hermione broke into even larger sobs.
Though that had been a week ago, it seemed like an eternity. Every day she saw the happy, alive students walking to and from their classes. She wanted to shake them and tell them not to take their life for granted, but that might cause even more regrets in the long run.
Harry and Ron had been encouraging at the beginning, but had slowly shelled her out. She had try to catch up with them after every class, but they just answered her questions with vague answers.
Her parents had been a large help, but the Ministry of Magic was now telling her that a ghost going to visit a muggle home seemed odd, and they could not have that permitted. Hermione was devastated, but not as much as her parents.
***
"Myrtle, I need to talk to you!" Hermione floated into Myrtle's bathroom. Hermione seemed to have an immediate need to talk to her.
Myrtle was redecorating her bathroom. She was painting the stalls a pale shade of blue, being especially careful not to drop any on a pile of over turned photos.
"Myrtle, we need to talk." Hermione said, even more impatient than the last time. Myrtle sighed and set her paintbrush back in the can.
"What do you want?" Myrtle was obviously not happy since Hermione disrupted her redecorating mood.
"Were you depressed when you died?" Hermione asked, toning down her voice to reasonable terms.
Myrtle laughed, "I was severely depressed until," She heaved a sigh, "I met him."
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Well, unless I can share 'him' with you, I am in a bit of a fix."
Myrtle looked offended, "You're not touching him!"
Deciding that a subject change was the best possibility, Hermione spoke again, "Well, how long did it take for you to...well...adapt. I am not very happy at this moment."
Myrtle recognized the seriousness, almost urgency, in her voice. "Well, it did take me awhile, but once you get past the fact that you are dead, and you will always be dead, it isn't so bad. It took me 45 years, so I am rather proud of myself!"
Tears began to swell in Hermione's eyes. Myrtle had not been much help.
Myrtle looked at the dusty clock above the sink. "Oh look at the time! I have a date in ten minutes, I think I will go tidy myself up."
Myrtle had left, and Hermione had the sudden curiosity to look at her pile of pictures in the corner.
'No, Hermione,' she thought to herself. 'That's not yours. Remember what your parents taught you when you were alive? They said not to look at other people's personal property.'
Then another thought popped into her head, 'You are dead. It's not as if she could kill you if she found out. I doubt it could be anything terrible. If it's a picture of her naked, you can just throw it down and run away trying to get the terrible thought out of your head.'
She battled with herself for a mere ten minutes when Myrtle arrived, dressed impressively in a sheer white transparent dress with dangling earrings. "How do I look?" She asked smiling.
"Good, I suppose," Hermione replied, still battling over the photos. "Where are you going?"
Myrtle giggled as she looked into the unnaturally dusty mirror, "I have a very important date with my boyfriend." She gave a sigh of satisfaction. "I do believe it'll be pivotal towards our relation." She gave a final look at the dusty wall clock, "I'm on my way! Please do lock up on your way out of here."
As soon as she let out her last words, she disappeared beneath the crack in the floor.
Hermione still struggled with herself on whether to look at the photos or not, but finally, she gave in and rushed over to the pile.
There were not very many, four or five at the most, but seemed to be taken very good care of. They were still very glossy, and did not have as much as a slightly bent corner.
She poured over them, looking at every aspect, every angle, and every detail. In all of them she saw, of course Myrtle, and a very familiar looking ghost. No matter what she did, his name could not come to her mind.
"You can do it Hermy!" She tried encouraging herself. Then it came to her. "Professor Quirrell?"
***
It had been a month since Hermione had her fateful incident, and her afterlife could not have been any worse. She was beginning to miss the things she had taken advantage of when she was alive. She missed the taste of slave-labor prepared food, she missed talking to her parents about what the future had in store for her, and most of all, she missed her academics.
Dumbledore had tried to convince the board of governors that all was well for her to continue her education. The board mentioned that there would be no future for her, and it was absolutely pointless for her to waste her and the professor's time.
"I am sorry, there is nothing I, nor anyone can do," Dumbledore explained.
Hermione sobbed, "It's just not fair! Why shouldn't Snape be responsible for this! He's the one that left his class and office doors open!"
Dumbledore looked at her, with a glint of pity in his eyes, "Well, the board did the 'Priori Incantato' spell, and the last two were 'Alohomora'."
Hermione sobbed even more, "Do...sniff...you still have...sniff...my wand? You know...sniff...for a souvenir."
For the first time ever, she had seen a true frown from Dumbledore. He held up a gallon sized ziploc bag; this did not look good. She saw that the bag had contained the precious splinters of her former wand. Hermione broke into even larger sobs.
Though that had been a week ago, it seemed like an eternity. Every day she saw the happy, alive students walking to and from their classes. She wanted to shake them and tell them not to take their life for granted, but that might cause even more regrets in the long run.
Harry and Ron had been encouraging at the beginning, but had slowly shelled her out. She had try to catch up with them after every class, but they just answered her questions with vague answers.
Her parents had been a large help, but the Ministry of Magic was now telling her that a ghost going to visit a muggle home seemed odd, and they could not have that permitted. Hermione was devastated, but not as much as her parents.
***
"Myrtle, I need to talk to you!" Hermione floated into Myrtle's bathroom. Hermione seemed to have an immediate need to talk to her.
Myrtle was redecorating her bathroom. She was painting the stalls a pale shade of blue, being especially careful not to drop any on a pile of over turned photos.
"Myrtle, we need to talk." Hermione said, even more impatient than the last time. Myrtle sighed and set her paintbrush back in the can.
"What do you want?" Myrtle was obviously not happy since Hermione disrupted her redecorating mood.
"Were you depressed when you died?" Hermione asked, toning down her voice to reasonable terms.
Myrtle laughed, "I was severely depressed until," She heaved a sigh, "I met him."
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Well, unless I can share 'him' with you, I am in a bit of a fix."
Myrtle looked offended, "You're not touching him!"
Deciding that a subject change was the best possibility, Hermione spoke again, "Well, how long did it take for you to...well...adapt. I am not very happy at this moment."
Myrtle recognized the seriousness, almost urgency, in her voice. "Well, it did take me awhile, but once you get past the fact that you are dead, and you will always be dead, it isn't so bad. It took me 45 years, so I am rather proud of myself!"
Tears began to swell in Hermione's eyes. Myrtle had not been much help.
Myrtle looked at the dusty clock above the sink. "Oh look at the time! I have a date in ten minutes, I think I will go tidy myself up."
Myrtle had left, and Hermione had the sudden curiosity to look at her pile of pictures in the corner.
'No, Hermione,' she thought to herself. 'That's not yours. Remember what your parents taught you when you were alive? They said not to look at other people's personal property.'
Then another thought popped into her head, 'You are dead. It's not as if she could kill you if she found out. I doubt it could be anything terrible. If it's a picture of her naked, you can just throw it down and run away trying to get the terrible thought out of your head.'
She battled with herself for a mere ten minutes when Myrtle arrived, dressed impressively in a sheer white transparent dress with dangling earrings. "How do I look?" She asked smiling.
"Good, I suppose," Hermione replied, still battling over the photos. "Where are you going?"
Myrtle giggled as she looked into the unnaturally dusty mirror, "I have a very important date with my boyfriend." She gave a sigh of satisfaction. "I do believe it'll be pivotal towards our relation." She gave a final look at the dusty wall clock, "I'm on my way! Please do lock up on your way out of here."
As soon as she let out her last words, she disappeared beneath the crack in the floor.
Hermione still struggled with herself on whether to look at the photos or not, but finally, she gave in and rushed over to the pile.
There were not very many, four or five at the most, but seemed to be taken very good care of. They were still very glossy, and did not have as much as a slightly bent corner.
She poured over them, looking at every aspect, every angle, and every detail. In all of them she saw, of course Myrtle, and a very familiar looking ghost. No matter what she did, his name could not come to her mind.
"You can do it Hermy!" She tried encouraging herself. Then it came to her. "Professor Quirrell?"