Chapter 5
The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and laughter as the Halloween feast came to a close. Benches scraped along the stone floor as students stood to leave. Seamus made to join the throng exiting the hall, thought twice, and doubled back to the Gryffindor table to stuff his pockets with deserts. Dean watched Seamus scoop handfuls of pudding into his robes, and rolled his eyes.
Glancing furtively at the teacher's table to make sure he hadn't been spotted, Seamus trotted over to where Dean waited. "What?" Seamus said defensively in response to his friend's cocked eyebrow. "What if I get hungry in the common room later?"
"Cheers to that, mate," Ron cried as he strode past them, brandishing a chicken leg in one hand and an apple in the other. Like Seamus, Ron's pockets were bulging with deserts and bits of dinner.
"I don't understand how you can have room for more food after a feast like that," Hermione Granger quipped. "I feel positively full." Dean and Seamus followed Ron and Hermione, who were now bickering, out of the hall.
"Shut up, Hermione, I'm hungry," Ron defended himself, his mouth full of chicken.
"You are always hungry, Ronald!" Hermione moaned, frustrated. "You just had three helpings of dinner and a plate of deserts! How can you want more?"
"I'm a growing boy!" Ron retorted indignantly.
"Soon you're going to start growing sideways instead of up, and we'll see how you feel about food then!"
"But I'm hungry, Hermione!" Ron complained.
Seamus patted Ron on the back sympathetically. "Women," he sighed. "They just don't understand." Ron nodded fervently. Seamus continued, patting his pockets, "We'll have a second feast in the common room before bed."
"Save some for me," Dean told Seamus as the others mounted the stair case.
"You're not coming?" Seamus said.
Dean jerked his head towards the bathroom down the hall. "One too many goblets of pumpkin juice, if you know what I mean. I'll meet you in the common room in a few minutes."
Seamus grinned. "I'll save you some treacle tart!" he called to Dean as he was herded up the stairs with the rest of the Gryffindors. As Dean rounded the corner, faint strains of Hermione and Ron's argument were still audible. He heard Hermione, fuming, tell Ron that if he kept up his eating habits, he'd end up turning into Crabbe, as if doing it once wasn't enough. He grinned, wondering if there was something the two were masking with their constant nagging and arguing.
Dean pushed open the heavy door of the boys' bathroom. It was empty, and Dean ventured into a stall. He flushed the toilet and was washing his hands when he heard a gurgling coming from the toilet he had just used. Drying his hands, he pushed open the stall door to investigate.
Suddenly, a translucent blur rocketed out of the toilet. Wailing, the blur shot through his chest, and he gasped, stumbling backwards, as chills swept through his body. Water gushed from the bowl, swamping Dean's sneakers and leaving puddles on the floor. Shivering, Dean turned, and realized Moaning Myrtle was in the first floor boys' bathroom.
Myrtle zoomed around the bathroom, sustaining a long, high pitched scream. Finally, she settled down on the edge of a sink, and pulled at her opaque, brown hair, muttering to herself furiously. Dean watched her rock back and forth for a moment, and realized she hadn't noticed him at all. He cleared his throat. She looked up at him, surprised out of her muttering.
"Erm," he began articulately. "Hello, Myrtle."
"How do you know my name?" she wondered, forgetting her obvious frustration for a moment.
"Well, everyone knows you haunt the second floor girls' room, after what happened my second year and all…."
Myrtle eyed him suspiciously for a moment, and then resumed her screeching.
"Hey, Myrtle," Dean called, trying to get her attention again. "MYRTLE!"
She quieted and glared at him. "Yes?" she implored icily.
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? WHAT'S WRONG?" she roared. "For two months – TWO MONTHS! – every day since the start of term, that…that…GIRL! She's vile! Vulgar! Always in my toilet! Always in MY U-BEND!"
"What happens in your U-bend?" Dean prompted.
"VOMIT!" she screeched, flying off the edge of the sink and coming to a halt inches from Dean's face. He stumbled backwards, startled. "VOMIT!" she screamed again, "Vomit is what's happening my U-bend! Every day after dinner – sometimes after lunch – I just can't take it anymore! I had to get away! I had to leave my bathroom and come to this…this…BOYS' BATHROOM!"
Dean thought that Myrtle's complaints about an invasion of her living space were hiding a more serious problem. "Someone's been sick after every dinner since the start of term? Is the food making them sick?" Dean thought that was impossible. The quality of the food at Hogwarts surpassed that of most five star restaurants.
Myrtle scoffed. "Oh, she's sick all right, but it's not from the food. She didn't start until two days after term started. It's her pointer finger that does it, not the cooking."
Dean's jaw dropped. "She's making herself sick? Myrtle, that's really bad! That's like…a disease! She needs to see Madam Pomfrey! Who is it?"
"Oh, I don't know her name. I never talk to her. She's always too busy crying. Anyway, I don't associate with people who VOMIT in my U-BEND!" She promptly began to wail again.
Dean started to feel his temper rising, but controlled himself. He was genuinely worried about whoever was wrecking Myrtle's favorite bit of plumbing. He'd read about plenty of athletes suffering from the same ailments as this mystery girl in the Muggle magazines to know that throwing up after meals is never a good thing.
Finally, Myrtle's cries ceased. She made to dive back into a toilet, but Dean stopped her. "Myrtle! Wait! Please, you have to describe what she looks like!"
Myrtle sniffed. "Why's that?"
"I just…need to know." Dean felt, for some reason, like he needed to rescue this person.
Myrtle sniffed. "She has brown hair. It's very curly, and long."
"How long?"
Myrtle looked very annoyed with him. "Half way down her back."
That wasn't enough information; he knew a few girls with long, brown hair. "What color are her eyes?" he wondered.
Myrtle thought for a moment. "Brown," she said decisively.
Dean's stomach lurched. He had an inkling about who she was, but couldn't be entirely sure. "What…what year do you think she's in? What house?"
"Oh, I don't know. At least fifth, maybe sixth; she's always muttering about how much homework she has."
"And her house?"
"Ravenclaw."
Dean felt dizzy. He knew.
"I've got to go, Myrtle!" he said, rushing towards the door.
"Where?" she demanded. "You're not going to be a hero, are you? She doesn't deserve any sympathy. She should clean out my U-bend, though…."
Myrtle's lack of sensitivity angered Dean. "I'm going to the second floor bathroom to help her, seeing as you've done a lousy job."
"You can't go into the second floor bathroom! That's a girls' bathroom!" Myrtle cried, indignant.
"You're one to talk," Dean spat. He heard Myrtle splash back into the toilet as he sped out of the bathroom and up the stairs.