Sectumsempra

The second-to-last time they had met, in Myrtle's own bathroom, Draco had been amused – happy, even; he had joked – just a bit, but he had; and he had comforted Myrtle, and they had spoken, and it had been even, perhaps, a somewhat pleasant moment.

The last time they had met, she had found him by chance when he was crying in the boys' bathroom.

Well, perhaps not so much by chance. This was the same bathroom where they had met just after the New Year; she had taken to visiting it occasionally during the day... several times during a day.

Then, Draco had been in tatters; and it had been the time for her to comfort him. She had done her best, in her opinion; when he had told her that he was hopeless and that he wasn't good enough, she had told him that he wasn't and that he was. When he had told her that he couldn't do whatever it was that those– those bullies were making him do, she had told him that he certainly could, and would, because he was clever and skilled and resilient and strong. When, at last, he had told her that they would kill him, she had refrained from telling him that, if they did, he would be still welcome in her bathroom.

Even though he would.

This time they had met, Draco had almost been killed.

Killed.

Murdered.

Murdered.

In a bathroom.

---

"Go," said the scary professor, who had saved Draco's life; and Myrtle went.

---

Many people, Myrtle thought darkly, would say that she would be a hilarious excuse for an avenging angel: a pimply, fat, ugly avenging angel who took altogether too much enjoyment from her task.

Because–

To be able to scream out that, half a century after she had died, another student had been attacked and nearly killed in a bathroom in this wretch of a school; to know the near-murderer's name, and to be able to scream it out, as she could not do for herself; to be able to scream this all out, at top voice and in each and every bathroom of the school–

(and to know that the student, who was Draco, who was her friend, was safe; she had heard that scary man say that he was, and the scary man would be right, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he?)

–how could this not be enjoyable?

(They would tell Draco's mother, wouldn't they? He was a pureblood, or at least she thought he was, after that time he– and, anyway, he had never denied it. So, he was a pureblood, or a half-blood; so, perhaps, they would tell his mother.)

And so, the pimply, fat, ugly avenging angel set out to her self-appointed task.

With evident enjoyment.

---

In the first bathroom she visited there were several boys, fourth or fifth-years by appearance, discussing Quidditch.

"...and so, we won by three hundred and twenty to sixty," one boy concluded. "Brilliant game, that."

"Yeah, except that now, Potter will have his main team back," another boy countered. "So we'll–"

"Harry Potter will have to be glad if he doesn't get expelled!" Myrtle interrupted heatedly, "He almost killed someone, just a moment ago–"

The Ravenclaw stopped talking; the eyes of all turned on Myrtle. It was a very pleasant experience, she discovered.

"I was in the bathroom when it all happened," she said, feeling that such audience demanded for more detail. "There was blood everywhere. Everywhere," she finished gleefully.

The boys exchanged knowing looks.

"If Potter is not on the team..." one started.

"...if your team beats Gryffindor by more than a hundred points..." continued another.

"Then they will come third, behind us!" finished a third.

Myrtle blinked, and went in search of another bathroom.

---

In the second bathroom she visited, there were only two rather grown-up girls. One was sobbing, which immediately caused Myrtle's heart to go to her in sympathy; the tears were gradually dissolving the thick layer of makeup on the girl's face. The other girl – a very pretty girl whom, on contrary, Myrtle immediately detested – was trying to comfort her.

Myrtle was just about to leave this bathroom when the pretty girl looked at her and said, "What are you looking at, Moaning Myrtle? Leave us alone!"

This made Myrtle angry. She was bearing important news, after all.

"Do you know that Harry Potter has just almost killed someone?" she asked haughtily.

The crying girl muttered something which sounded suspiciously like, "...it wouldn't surprise me, the freak..."

The pretty girl, on her part, paled. "Killed someone?" she asked. "Whom?"

This actually started Myrtle a bit. She hadn't thought about how to tell this part.

"Tall, pale boy with a pointy face?" she hazarded.

The pretty girl blinked. "Malfoy? So it has come to this at last..." she said cryptically.

Myrtle didn't understand her, and so, immediately resented her even more; to bring the focus of the conversation back to herself, she hurried with the details.

"He cut him open with a spell...drew blood, lots and lots of it. The boy would have bled to death, except that I called for help," she finished.

The pretty girl said something, but Myrtle wasn't listening to her; a new thought was filling her mind as she dove back into the pipes which would take her to the next bathroom:

In a way, she, too, had saved Draco's life today.

---

In the third bathroom she visited, there was a group of really tiny boys, first- or at most second-years. She told them hurriedly in passing: "Do you know that Harry Potter has just almost killed Draco Malfoy?"

The first name, she noticed curiously, drew a gasp of recognition from about half of the boys in the bathroom; the second one drew a very similar gasp from the second half. As she left the bathroom, the atmosphere inside was distinctly tenser; in fact, the two groups seemed on the verge of following their heroes into battle.

When she entered the fourth bathroom, she halted abruptly.

She was there.

The haughty, pug-faced monstrosity that Draco had called his girlfriend.

He had then diverted the conversation very skilfully, so skilfully that Myrtle hadn't even realised that they hadn't really finished talking about...Pansy; yes, her name was Pansy. And she was Draco's girlfriend.

This, of course, made Myrtle hate her on sight; she hated her even more than she hated the pretty girl from two bathrooms ago. It was a pity, really, that, being Draco's girlfriend, she ought to know what had happened to him. If Myrtle had a choice, she wouldn't tell the girl anything.

Still, this didn't mean that she couldn't have some fun doing so.

---

"Hey, you! Yes, you, I'm talking to you," Myrtle called out, and the pug– Pansy turned around, clearly surprised that the ghost was talking to her. "You're the girl of that ferret-faced boy, aren't you? Malfoy?"

"And if I were, what business would be that of yours, ghost?" Pansy asked suspiciously.

Myrtle shrugged. "Weeeell," she started, savouring the taste of the moment, "only that he's just been attacked, and nearly died. You see," she continued, now, in change, treasuring the look on Pansy's face, "Harry Potter–"

Pansy gave out a small cry.

"–cut him open. Nearly disembowelled him. Eviscerated him. Filleted him like a fish. Gutted him like an animal–"

Pansy now had a look in her eyes as though she were an animal about to be gutted herself; and, to her own dismay, Myrtle felt her non-existent heart twinge in compassion for the girl.

"But he's all right now," she said. "He's in the hospital wing."

She watched in silence as the girl ran out of the bathroom, probably cursing the fact that one could not Apparate in Hogwarts. She would not herself go to visit Draco; he probably wouldn't want it, given that their meetings were to be secret and all–

Then, she shrugged and smiled. There were still many bathrooms to visit; much fun to be had–