Disclaimer: see part 1.
Beautiful Poison
By Random1377
Chapter 7 – My Friend Misery
Moaning Myrtle slid up out of her favorite drainpipe looking sullen and forlorn. Of course, since this was her normal expression, no one would have thought anything was different – indeed, only those that spent significant time with the ghost could spot the twinkle in her eye as she spied a lone sixth-year leaning up against the far wall, hugging his knees to his chest and staring silently at the tile under his feet.
The old expression 'misery loves company' was very fitting for the dead girl, only it would be more accurate to say that Myrtle loved misery – specifically, other peoples' misery. Seemingly delighted that the boy was in a bad mood, she hovered closer to him.
"Ohh, is it really awful?" she asked hopefully, grinning broadly as Harry cast her a baleful glance. "It is, isn't it? Are you planning to do anything… drastic?"
Harry ground his teeth.
This, he did not need.
"No, Myrtle," he said patiently, very much wanting to avoid one of the ghost's famous crying jags, "I'm afraid I won't be joining you today."
"Tomorrow then?"
His nostrils flaring, Harry gritted out, "No, Myrtle… I'm not going to kill myself, I'm just having a hard day."
Myrtle sighed. "Pity," she said wistfully, "t'would be nice to have some steady company." She fixed him with an accusatory stare. "You used to visit so often," she remarked, "now you haven't the time for me…"
"That was four years ago," Harry pointed out tiredly, "when we were making the Polyjuice potion."
"And could you be bothered to stop by every now and then?" Myrtle sniffed, "No, no, you're far too busy for poor Moa-"
"Oh sod off!"
Myrtle's jaw fell open.
She tried to recall the last time someone had treated her so, and came up empty. Normally, when people were foolish enough to come into her bathroom, they did their best to keep her from crying. Partly, she supposed, out of pity for her deceased state, but mostly because her keen was tuned to such a pitch as to encourage peoples' lunch to come up – making most visitors thankful that she happened to haunt a toilet.
It was time, she decided, for the waterworks… but no sooner had she opened her mouth to begin to wail, than Harry whispered, "Come off it, Myrtle."
His voice was so soft and firm that – to her own surprise – Myrtle closed her mouth.
Not to be out-depressed, though, she mumbled, "It must be really, really, awful… you're usually nice to me, not that anyone else is, but you used to be…"
"Sorry," Harry murmured, "I didn't mean to snap."
Floating down to rest next to him, Myrtle simply shrugged. "I'm used to it," she said matter-of-factly.
They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for several minutes, with Harry plucking at the hem of his robes and Myrtle staring off into space, thinking about death and sadness.
Old habits and all that.
"Myrtle," Harry finally mumbled, "when I was working on the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and you saw me in the bathroom…" he winced as Myrtle's luminous eyes turned his way.
Maybe I shouldn't have brought that up, he thought as a faint smile lit the ghost's face.
"Yes," she said slyly, "I remember that quite well…"
"Uhhrm," Harry cleared his throat, "yes, well… I never did properly thank you for helping me figure that out."
Myrtle's smile grew less predatory. "You still haven't," she said smugly, "but I forgive you."
Harry sketched a smile.
"Thanks."
"So spit it out."
"Hmm?"
Leaning against – and partially into – the wall, Myrtle clarified, "You must have come here to talk. There's hundreds of places in Hogwarts to hide out and be left alone, but you came here – so spit it out, Harry."
Harry opened his mouth to say that he had, in fact, come to the bathroom to be alone… but he slowly closed it as he realized this was not entirely true.
Myrtle was right… there were hundreds of places to hide in the school, and with the Marauder's Map and his invisibility cloak, he could have stayed out of sight of any living (or undead) creature for days – weeks if he chose to.
Yet there he was.
Not knowing quite why… Harry told Myrtle everything, from Pansy sneaking up on him on the first night of the new term, to their training together and his slowly growing more comfortable with the Slytherin girl, to the rumor (he still could not quite make himself believe it was fact) that Pansy was sleeping with Malfoy, he gave the ghost the whole story.
Save one, minor detail.
She already looks grumpy, he thought as the ghost absorbed all that he had told her, No need for her to know about the kiss.
Somehow, he felt that Myrtle might not be too pleased about this news – not that he feared her or anything, but even he was not so dense as to miss the cues the ghost showed every time he was in the room, and besides… he didn't want to badmouth Pansy out of sheer spite. He liked to think he was better than that.
"She sounds like a tart."
Harry sighed.
Guess I could have told her after all…
"Pity," Myrtle elaborated, "she sounded nice up until then."
"Did she?"
"The way you described her, yeah," Myrtle pointed out, "well… up until you found out she was a strumpet, anyway."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, resisting the urge to defend Pansy's 'honor.'
How strange, he mused as the silence returned, she's never met Pansy, so all she has to go on is what I've told her… and from that, she thinks Pansy's a nice person – which means that somehow, I must think she's a nice person too… right?
Though the logic was nebulous, it still felt sound to Harry's mind.
Perhaps, he thought dismally, he simply wanted to see something in her that was not there, or perhaps… perhaps he had hoped to get her to become something she was not.
What a fool…
"Harry…"
"Hmm?"
"…did you ask her about it?"
"How's that now?"
Myrtle studied the back of one ethereal hand. "Did you ask her if she did what you heard she did?" she murmured, sounding as if giving this advice was well outside of her scope of experience. "You know, when I was in school… people always teased me about my glasses, and the fact that I was always sick – but no one ever said I slept around. I'dve died if they did… but d'you know something? I would have told everyone it wasn't true as soon as I could."
"So if she's not doing that, maybe it's true…?" Harry ventured dismally.
"Well, no," Myrtle said reluctantly, "it is finals, right? Maybe she's too busy with that to worry about it – and didn't she tell you it was a lie straight out?"
Harry was exasperated. "Yeah, but… but how do I know that wasn't a lie? She sure hasn't been rushing around telling everyone that Malfoy's spreading rumors…"
Glancing sideways at him, Myrtle observed, "Maybe she doesn't care what everyone thinks of her… except you."
Covering his face with both hands, Harry let out a great sigh.
"I just… I don't know what to believe anymore…"
Nodding sagely, Myrtle said, "I used to be just like you."
Smiling weakly, Harry said, "Yeah? What did you to about it?"
"Died."
Harry's smile collapsed.
"…right."
"Poor Harry," Myrtle whispered, reaching out and running her ghostly hand over his bowed head, "I don't know what to tell you. I'm not good at dealing with the living, you know… and… and you're the only one I would even try for, but I don't know what to say…"
Slowly, Harry lifted his head.
"Thanks for trying," he said quietly, pushing himself upright and straightening his robes as Myrtle rose as well. "I have my potions final in an hour… guess I have to go face the music."
"If it goes badly," Myrtle said immediately, "you can always ki-"
"Don't," Harry cut in softly, silencing her in a heartbeat. "You don't have to act that way with me, you know. I don't know if… if you think you have to because you're a ghost, and everyone expects you to moan and sob all the time, but if you promise not to be that way, and just talk to me like you did today… I'll visit more."
A look of hunger flashed across Myrtle's face, vanishing so quickly that Harry almost thought he'd imagined it and being replaced by a finely crafted mask of mild shame.
"Alright, Harry," the ghost said lightly, "I'll be waiting."
Making his farewells, Harry got the disturbing impression that, in spite of her moping and whining, Myrtle… was very patient.
( 0 0 0 )
The proverbial music Harry faced began to 'play' at exactly four-fifty-five. The instruments were clinking potions bottles, shuffling feet, and clanking cauldrons… the accompaniment, softly whispered musings on the subject of grades and summer school.
Potions were to be turned in at five o'clock sharp, handed over one by one to Snape, who sat at his desk with several doses of the anti-poison because there was always, as he put it, 'At least one nitwit every other year that forgets to stopper his vial properly.'
Neville, of course, paled at hearing this – partly because he was sure he would be the nitwit, and partially because Snape had muttered his warning while looking Neville straight in the eye.
"M-Maybe I'll just t-take the failing grade…" Neville stammered as they all lined up, vials in hand, and began marching towards the front of the classroom.
"Come off of it," Ron muttered, keeping his voice too low for Snape to hear, "you'd just have to do it again next year – and besides, yours looks just like mine and Harry's."
Harry bit his tongue rather hard.
He did not have the heart to tell his friends that their potions looking like his was not a good thing.
One by one, the students made their way to Snape's desk, waiting as patiently as they could while the potions master uncorked their vials, sniffed the contents, dribbled some onto a piece of paper they assumed to be enchanted to detect failure or success, and shooed them away without telling them what their grade was, telling one particularly nervous Gryffindor that she would find out by the day's end… but that she should not make any plans for summer.
The girl had run out of the dungeon sobbing.
Well at least I know what to look forward too, Harry thought dismally, wondering if Snape would be able to tell why his potion was a failure.
Finally, the time had come. Harry slowly held his vial out to the professor, keeping his gaze fixed defiantly on the dark pits Snape called eyes until the potions master began the now-ritualistic task of testing the potion. It took, in Harry's opinion, twice as long to determine his grade – a testament to the older man's cruelty, as Harry knew full-well what was coming.
Or at least, thought he did. Part of him still hoped that what Hermione had heard was false.
As the potion was re-corked, though, Harry's shoulders slumped. Snape looked even more upset than usual, leading Harry to believe that the man would stand up at any moment and point to the door, screaming, 'Out, out! Out of my classroom, you FAILURE!'
When the silence stretched into a staring contest, Harry was the one who finally broke eye contact, bowing with forced diffidence before turning on his heel to walk back to his desk.
"Potter."
Harry tensed, freezing immediately at the ice in the potions master's voice. "Yes, Professor?" he muttered miserably.
"Turn around," Snape commanded, "I would like a word with you."
The Slytherins immediately began whispering to each other, their eyes fixing avidly on the exchange taking place at the front of the classroom. Slowly, Harry turned to face his teacher, keeping his back as straight as he could under the gleefully malicious eyes of the students behind him.
"Sir?"
Snape was holding the vial up to the light, tapping the side of the glass with the tip of his finger. "This elixir," he said softly, arching an eyebrow, "who helped you make it?"
Feeling rather bold, as he now knew without a doubt that he would be getting a zero, Harry replied, "It was a member of Slytherin House, Professor. They donated the blood, too."
He felt a sense of cruel satisfaction as he heard Hermione wince behind him. You said not to mention her name, he thought savagely, so I didn't. I didn't even say it was a GIRL I was working with… but now I know that what you heard was true, so-
"Is that right," Snape muttered sourly, his eyes sweeping the Slytherins – who had, Harry noticed belatedly, fallen silent – with a clear look of disapproval. "Well then I guess I have no choice but to award Slytherin House twenty points."
Harry turned red. "That's… not fair!" he sputtered, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to scream, 'you can't give points because I failed!' but the anger in Snape's eyes was enough to silence him.
His teacher's lip curled up into a sneer. "Fair?" he spat distastefully, "I think it is more than fair to award a few house points to anyone that could get you, of all people, to create a potion of such…" the man's mouth worked silently for a moment, clearly having trouble forcing out the word he wanted to use. "Perfection!"
It took a moment for Snape's comments to sink in, and though Harry had opened his mouth to lodge another protest, he let it simply gape, staring with naked shock at his instructor as a murmur of discontent arose from the Slytherins. "Wh…at…?" he managed finally.
Snape was still surveying the potion, his dark eyes gleaming with almost religious fervor. "I would never – never – have believed you capable of producing such a beautiful poison, Potter," he said coolly, "had you but applied yourself like this in previous semesters, your O.W.L. grade might not have been so… abysmal."
Much to his distaste, Harry found the words, "Thank you… sir," rolling like oil off his tongue.
"Full marks, Potter," Snape muttered, bending his head to mark the grade on a piece of paper on his desk. Then, sounding far more reluctant than Harry had when thanking him, he whispered, "And five points… to Gryffindor."
In any other classroom, this declaration would have brought immediate cheers from Harry's fellow housemates… but knowing Snape's long-standing hatred for Gryffindor and Harry alike, the only response to his comment was a soft rustling of paper as the students gathered their things and stole out.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, however, it was as if Christmas had come early.
"Harrryyyy!"
The moment he stepped inside, Harry was bombarded with cheers, the force of the merriment inside nearly knocking him off his feet. No one could remember the last time Snape had awarded Gryffindor points, and there was talk among several of the seventh years of marking that day as an official 'Potter Over Snape' holiday – complete with cakes and posters and a magically enhanced picture of Snape endlessly repeating, "And five points… to Gryffindor," though no one quite knew who managed to gather the sound without Snape noticing.
Harry barely noticed.
"Hey," Lee Jordan cried, "where are you going, Potter?"
Dropping his bookbag on the floor, Harry ducked back through the portrait hole. "Something I've got to do," he muttered, ignoring the people protesting his departure as he looked left and right down the hallway, then rushed off towards professor Septillion's classroom.
So stupid, he thought, barely noting the faces he passed as he raced through the halls, how could I have been so stupid?
Of course Malfoy would say he was sleeping with one of the girls in his house – why wouldn't he? He was a seventeen year old, swaggering, big-mouth jerk… exactly the kind of guy to claim he was sleeping with a pretty girl. It should have clued Harry in that the rumors did not start to spread until this term – when Pansy was prettier than the year before. If they had really been sleeping together for two terms, Malfoy would have splashed it all over long before now.
STUPID!
Rounding a corner, Harry found what he was looking for.
"Pansy!"
A surreal silence fell over the hall as everyone turned to face Harry, and almost immediately, three of Pansy's friends (Harry only recognized one) formed a screen in front of her, wands appearing almost out of thin air as they glared at him, showing a surprisingly unified front.
Harry skidded to a halt, eyeing the trio warily as Pansy slowly turned to face him.
"Well if it isn't Harry Potter," she said coolly, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, "something you need, Potter? Or are you here to call me a slut again?"
"It's just…" he fumbled for words. "I was… everyone was so sure… and… I just thought-"
"No one can make you believe unless you let them," Pansy cut in brutally, "you made your choice. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a final to get to."
As she turned around and started to walk away, Harry called, "Hey – remember the Defractouscharm… Septillion won't expect it – it'll give you extra points."
Pansy said nothing, though Harry imagined that she hesitated for a moment before striding off down the hallway. With a deep sigh, he turned around and headed back to his dorm. There was nothing more he could do.
Continued…
Author's notes: I said last chapter that there would be two more chapters. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess, if you like the story) chapter 8 grew too long, and had to be split in two. So, for better or worse, depending on your viewpoint, there will be two more chapters – no more, no less. Here's hoping you enjoy them.
I scored the assist on this chapter from SxStrngSamurai – thanks, man.
Feedback is always welcome on any site with reviewing capabilities, or by e-mailing me directly at random1377(at-sign)yahoo(dot)com.