Eleven ~ The Last Cry

This is what happened.

If you ask anyone who was there, you'll get a different account; when, years later, I discovered the pitiable specter of Myrtle haunting that bathroom, I found she had dwelled on her death so much that it had become overblown, exaggerated, and blamed mostly on Olive Hornby. And of course what I thought at the time turned out not to true; nobody really knew the truth, except by instinct, until a twelve-year-old boy called Harry Potter discovered it for us. I wish we had been better investigators.

In the morning, we all trudged down the Great Hall to write the History of Magic exam. I suppose I did well enough. It turned out not to matter. We had a break after that, to eat lunch, and perhaps Myrtle or Cora or Cliona complained about doing badly, but I don't remember if that's true or not. It's probably true.

We were about halfway through our meal when I spotted Olive Hornby striding down along the Gryffindor table, her pack of Ravenclaw friends behind her.

"Trouble at noon," Cora remarked with a look of deep dislike on her face.

"Horrible on that History of Magic exam, Markels!" Olive crowed. "Forgetting which wars were which, I'll wager – one would think that those awful glasses of yours would at least help you see. It must be wretched, being both ugly and stupid."

"Shut up, Hornby, or I'll make you shut up," Cliona growled.

Myrtle's eyes welled up with tears, and she gave one loud torn sob before rushing out of the Great Hall.

I rose to follow her.

"Just leave her," Cora advised. "She'll be fine, she'll get over it in a minute. Honestly, it amazes me how much you can put up with her."

"Yeah, you're a regular saint," Cliona joked, reaching for the flagon of pumpkin juice.

I wish I could say I went anyway. I wish I could say that I went in straight after Myrtle and pulled her back into the corridor and held her shoulders while she cried and waited for the sobs to pass. But instead I sat and did nothing, expecting that she would be back any minute to tell us about the cute sixth-year she'd seen in the hall or other such rot, but she didn't.

Perhaps five minutes passed before anyone spoke up. "D'you reckon she's okay?" Cliona asked, eyeing Myrtle's half-finished meal. "Usually an Olive Hornby insult's only about three minutes in the bathroom."

"Should we go see if she's all right?" Cora asked timidly.

"Yeah, come on," Cliona said with a smile. "Better get her cleaned up for the Potions OWL."

We went to Myrtle's usual bathroom, the one with the great claw-footed sink, and knocked on her usual stall. "Myrtle?" I called. "Come on, we've only got fifteen minutes before Potions; maybe we can go over the Deflating Draught?"

"You can't let that wretched Olive get to you," Cliona added.

"Minerva, Cliona," Cora whispered. She pointed to the ground. "Look."

There, on the floor in a puddle of water, were Myrtle's thick spectacles.

"Myrtle?" Cliona called again, her voice taking on an urgent tone, "you in there?"

"Push the stall open," Cora whispered.

Slowly, with my heart hammering, I did as she asked – and then all three of us screamed at the sight of Myrtle sprawled on the bathroom floor, facedown, her skirts tangled and her shirt untucked. I don't think I stopped screaming. I knew that I should run, go find a teacher – that I could have been in danger – but I stayed fixed to the spot, staring at Myrtle and screaming.

Somehow Cora was the one who composed herself enough to run back into the Great Hall and fetch the nearest professor; Cliona and I only stood there, stricken, neither of us wanting to check whether or not Myrtle was alive, neither of us wanting to look at her poor puffy face. "I don't see her breathing," Cliona said in a choke.

Cora came back in with Professor Vega, the Astronomy teacher; her eyes grew wide and frightened as she took in the scene. "Girls – Miss McGonagall, you're a prefect – go and tell Professor Dumbledore to clear out the Great Hall. Tell him that there may be something dangerous about. Then tell him to come here. We'll get her to the hospital wing." She was already bent over Myrtle, her face grim.

We rushed back out to do as she'd ordered; all of us too frightened to really say anything. In ten minutes all manners of rumour were flying about, from Dark wizards skulking the halls of Hogwarts to Lethifolds coming out of the walls.

"Back to your dormitories!" a seventh-year prefect was screaming, his voice hoarse and fearful. "Everyone back to your dormitories immediately!"

In the mass exodus from the Great Hall, Cliona saw Olive Hornby, and, before either Cora or myself could stop her, Cliona had darted up to her and punched her squarely in the face. "You always have to make fun of her!" Cliona screamed, nearly unintelligibly. "I hate you! I hate you!"

Olive, who had tumbled to the floor from the force of Cliona's hit, only stared back, aided to her feet by two of her friends. I grabbed one of Cliona's arms and Cora grabbed the other and we frog-marched her back to Gryffindor Tower, where all our peers waited in a silent vigil.

"It could be an attack," I heard one small boy whisper. "Muggles have finally found us and brought us into their war."

We were trapped inside for the entire afternoon; out the windows, we could see the day darken into evening. Cora was sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs, her hands white on the arms of it. Cliona and I were cross-legged on the floor. Nobody spoke. The image of Myrtle's prone body on the cold bathroom floor was burned behind my eyelids.

After a long while, Professor Dumbledore entered the common room and took the three of us out, not saying anything to all the other students, who all looked on with trepidation. In the corridor, in front of the Fat Lady, he spoke to us. "There is no danger to you," he said uneasily. "We don't know what attacked Miss Markels, but it seems to be gone." I looked into his eyes; though he did not look at me, I could see that he did not quite believe his own words. "But – as for Miss Markels herself—"

"She's dead, isn't she?" Cora burst out.

Dumbledore paused, then gave a heavy nod. "Yes. She was when you found her; she didn't suffer—"

Cora and Cliona were already sobbing, hugging each other, but I only stood horrorstruck, staring at Professor Dumbledore. There is always the sense of the surreal when someone dies; there is the notion that everything was fine just yesterday, and the human mind has a great deal of trouble absorbing it, accepting it. I had trouble. Professor Dumbledore must have seen it on my face, for he reached and took my hand and squeezed it, and led me away from my friends.

"Will there be an investigation?" I asked hollowly.

"It's already under way," he replied. "We'll be sending all the students home while it goes on. Exams have been cancelled."

I was angry then; Myrtle had died and he had the gall to speak of something so unimportant as exams, but I kept quiet about that. "Did it have anything – do you think – that message we saw on the wall?"

"I don't know," he said grimly. We came to the long stairway that led down to the first floor. "Headmaster Dippet doesn't think so—"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know, Minerva," he breathed. "I don't know."

I saw them bearing her out of the hospital wing; I pulled away from Professor Dumbledore and ran.

Already Myrtle had become her in my mind; already the coolest parts of myself were working on distance. She was covered in a sheet, blanked out, but one hand dangled from beneath it, as though reaching out to grab at the four seventh-year Gryffindor boys who carried her solemnly. I watched that hand for a long moment, eyes half-closed. It was stiff, both waxen and white, like a doll's graceful, unmoveable hand. I wanted to touch it, to press life into it, but I stood where I was.

I was dimly aware that there were two people up on the stairs, past where her ridiculously small procession had gone, and I drifted to them. I was shocked to see that they were Professor Dumbledore and Tom Riddle, having a sombre conversation, and I started up the stairs to see just what was going on when a hand clamped over my shoulder.

I turned round to see Cliona there, and Cora behind her, and then two people I didn't recognize. "Minerva," Cliona said hesitantly, "these – these're Myrtle's parents. They were Flooed here; they want to talk to us."

Forcing a lump down my throat, I went over to them and shook their hands in turn. They both looked very much like Myrtle, both with thick glasses and dark, springy, unruly hair, and my lips trembled as the three of us followed them outside into the evening gardens. It was gorgeous, all flowered and decked out for warm nights in summer, and I felt like a Muggle actress, on stage, playing some foreign role.

"She wrote about you often," Myrtle's mum said – and it was she for her already, too. "She was so happy to have you all, you know – and we're so – so very appreciative of everything you did for our daughter."

"We should never have sent her to this wretched place," Myrtle's father added. He did not look at any of us, or at his wife; he only scowled at the ground. "But – she did love it here, much more than home, much more than anything."

Cora and Cliona could only stare at them, white-faced. I had to be the one to talk. "Mr. Markels – Mrs. Markels – I'm so terribly sorry."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Markels said. "It's not – it's not—"

I stepped up to her and took her hand. I was never good at comforting people with actions, and my hand felt heavy and awkward in hers, but I could use words. "I don't think I know how you feel – I couldn't know – but I won't ever forget her."

Myrtle's mum burst into tears then, and we all stood there in quiet tableau, interspersed only by a mother's tears. I could feel, not see, Cliona and Cora edging uncomfortably behind me. "I – I'm sorry," Mrs. Markels said after perhaps fifteen minutes of crying. "I thought I could talk – I want to understand why – I want to know your people."

"You can find us another time, ma'am," Cliona said respectfully.

"Any other time," Cora added.

We began to walk away.

"Minerva, was it?" Myrtle's mother asked.

I stopped. Cliona and Cora kept going. "Yes, Minerva."

"You're – one of us, I hear. Or your parents are."

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Why did you come here? I mean, instead of going to normal school."

"I – I love it here." And suddenly those words rang false in my mouth; they tasted like bile and rot, and I felt as though I were drowning. "I love it here," I said it again, and it tasted the same. I closed my eyes; lowered my head. I could feel their eyes on me.

"Well," said Myrtle's father, coughing and placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, "they'll have gotten her ready to go by now." They both rose from their white little flower-bench and went together, back to their odd, dead daughter.

It took me a while to summon up the courage to go back, so I sat alone in the garden for a while, watching the grey ribbons of cloud spiral across the sky; I was again taken in by how unbelievable everything was. When bad things happen, life becomes a series of what-if and if-only. What if Olive had never been so cruel? If only I had gone after Myrtle right away.

When I finally made myself go back into the school, there was a different sort of frenzy. All of the students had been let out, but not all of them were leaving; one prefect – the same one from before – was running around announced that Hogwarts was not closing, after all. I spotted Cora among the fray and rushed up to her. "What's happening?"

"Nobody knows," she said, her voice very small. "They say who – whoever did it has been caught. And Hagrid's been expelled, too."

"Hagrid?"

"It can't have been him – it must be something else," Cora said emphatically.

There was only one person who had the power to get Hagrid expelled, and suddenly all the fear and anger and frustration I had been feeling focused itself on one person – and saw his tall head poking out among the others. Tom Riddle.

I dashed after him. "Riddle!" I yelled.

He looked over his shoulder at me, then looked back and kept moving away.

I forced him around, made him look at me. He looked as though he himself had been through a lot; he was messy and pale, but, revoltingly, his lips were curled into a cruel mockery of a smile. "Why would you do this now?" I said through clenched teeth. "As though the school hasn't been pained enough, Riddle – why would you hurt Hagrid now, when we're already grieving for someone else?"

"Are you daft, McGonagall?" Riddle snarled. "That spider he's got hidden in there – that's the one who killed her." He jerked his head to where Myrtle's body had been taken out, the foot of the west stairway.

My jaw fell open; the world seemed to expand and contract. Riddle made as if to say something else to me, but by then I had already turned on my heel and was running up to Hagrid's little hiding-place.

He was there, sitting on the crate where Aragog had been, crying quietly. I couldn't bring myself to greet him, so I stood and waited, half-ducked below the low door, until he looked and saw me waiting.

"Miss Minerva," he said.

I didn't respond.

"They took 'im away and expelled me. Snapped my wand in two."

I still didn't respond. My mouth felt sewn shut.

"He was afraid," Hagrid said, sitting down on the empty crate, stroking its side with one enormous hand. "He wanted to leave; he said somethin' was scarin' him in this castle, somethin' he'd been born to fear. But – I – I convinced 'im to stay."

"The Acromantula?" I said in a strangled voice. "You made it stay in Hogwarts?"

"There weren't nothin' to be afraid of," Hagrid moaned. He was a great lurking shadow, bent over, as though praying. "I swear, Miss Minerva – it can't have been 'im."

"It was!" I shrieked. "Dippet's expelled you, Hagrid! How can you be so blind? This wasn't any accident! It was you – it was you being too thick and too wrapped up in your pets to realize that they can hurt people! Acromantulas are rare! They've not been studied enough! No one knows if they're gentle or not!"

"Miss Minerva—"

"I can't talk to you anymore, Hagrid. Not now – maybe not ever." I gritted my teeth. "It's not like you'll be here to talk to, anyhow."

A look of deep hurt crossed his face. I thought a hundred things then, all of them wrong, and, in that moment, I hated Rubeus Hagrid. Hated him for his sweet clueless sympathy, hated him for his great gentle eyes and simple smile, hated him for the way I had actually liked him. I choked back another shout and whirled out of the room. I couldn't be angry with him, I couldn't blame him, and yet I could in the same moment; I didn't know how to feel, only that something inexplicably and mysteriously not right.

The Gryffindor common room was empty when I returned; some students had scattered home in fear, some had gone to bed, others were still in the Great Hall, shocked and bewildered. I slammed myself down on my bed, not crying, trying not feel anything. I remember that more than anything else I wanted Kitty to be there to lie beside me and tell me things would turn out fine. I half-buried my head into my pillow – and my eyes fell on Snappers. I had forgotten the little plant, and it uncurled itself to greet me, as it always had.

Instead of reaching out to touch it, like I normally did, I stared at it for a long moment, then swept it up within the folds of my robes and went scurrying out of my dormitory, out of the common room, out of Hogwarts. It was night by them, cloudy and starless and hot, and I ran half-breathless to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, concentrating on the rhythms of my breathing so I wouldn't have to concentrate on anything else.

There was no sound but the wind. I plunked Snappers on the ground beside me, then I sat down and leaned forward and started to dig in the dirt, bare-handed; my fingernails cracked and filled with mud, but I kept on until I had a hole big enough. Then I yanked Snappers from its pot and shoved it back into the earth. I threw the pot into the forest and piled dirt around my unusual pet, replanting it, putting it back where it belonged.

Snappers looked at me – well, if it had eyes, it would have looked at me. It inclined its large mouth-head towards the sound of my voice, its stalk bent, as though leaning down, dejected. "Don't do that," I whispered, patting the dirt around his roots. "I can't look at you. I like you, I really do like you, but I remember where you came from – who you came from – and that you're not allowed in the school, really. I know you aren't dangerous, but rules are rules, and that's something everybody should learn."

Snappers bent down further, so that its head touched the dirt.

"Grass will grow here," I said quietly. I wiped my muddy hands on my robe. "Grass will grow here, and nurture you, and I will come see you – after I've had some time – and I'll bring you things. Food."

I rose slightly, so I was kneeling, and Snappers suddenly laid its head across my palm, as if silently forgiving me. The fine hairs on its plant-skin tickled; it was so wonderfully and horribly tactile, so precise and sensory, and I thought of Myrtle's cold, unresponsive, inhuman flesh, and I could bear no more silence. I lowered my head and wept, down in the dirt, face red and blotchy, hair unbound and careless, robes askew, with nothing but a quiet plant for comfort. It was dark; all the Hogwarts lights were out. I put my fist in my mouth, dirt and all, tasting earth and skin, muffling my voice so that no one would hear me.