The cold stone walls of the girls' bathroom echoed with tension as Rose Weasley planted her hands firmly on her hips, her fiery red hair catching the dim light. "Absolutely not," she hissed at Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. "We are not skipping Magical Arts."

Albus leaned against a sink, his green eyes glinting with mischief. "Come on, Rose. This bathroom's practically abandoned. No one comes here because of—"

"Don't say her name too loudly," Rose interrupted, casting a nervous glance around the tiled room.

Scorpius checked his watch, worry creasing his pale features. "We're already late," he murmured. "Professor Newton will definitely assign detention if we don't show up soon."

Rose shot him a betrayed look. "Traitor," she muttered. "This is what I get for being friends with Slytherins."

Before anyone could respond, a familiar wailing sound filled the air. Myrtle, the bathroom's resident ghost, materialized through the wall, her translucent form trembling with emotion. Her sudden appearance sent a chill through the room.

"Boys!" she cried, pointing an accusatory spectral finger at Albus and Scorpius. "This is a *girls'* bathroom!"

Rose quickly stepped forward, her mind racing. "Oh, um, I was just showing them how... nice it is in here," she stammered, her attempt at casual conversation falling awkwardly flat.

Albus couldn't resist a sardonic whisper to Scorpius, "A real palace, this is."

Myrtle's ethereal eyes narrowed. "What are you whispering about?" she demanded, her voice rising to a pitch that made the mirrors vibrate. "People are *always* talking about me behind my back. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I don't have feelings!"

"We weren't talking about you," Rose said quickly, her diplomatic skills inherited from her mother kicking into overdrive.

But Myrtle was inconsolable. "You brought them here to mock me!" she wailed. "Wasn't my life miserable enough? Now you want to ruin my death too?"

Albus rolled his eyes, a gesture so reminiscent of his father that it would have been comical if not for the ghost's increasing hysteria. "You're a bit oversensitive, aren't you?"

With a dramatic sob, Myrtle plunged headfirst into the nearest toilet. Gurgling sounds suggested she had settled somewhere in the U-bend, continuing to cry.

"Let's get out of here," Scorpius muttered, grabbing Rose's hand and pulling her toward the door.

But fate—or more precisely, Peeves—had other plans. The poltergeist materialized outside, a handful of oil pastels and a wicked grin at the ready. His sing-song voice echoed through the corridor, dripping with malicious glee.

"Oho! What have we here?" Peeves cackled, spinning upside down in mid-air. "Little boys playing tea party in the girls' loo! And looky here—Rose Weasley gets a free pass!" He dramatically winked and added in an exaggerated whisper, "Girl's privilege, eh?"

Albus glared. "Shut it, Peeves!"

"Ickle babies can't handle a bit of mockery?" Peeves twirled his pastels like drumsticks. "Potter and Malfoy, sitting in a girls' bathroom, P-R-I-M-P-R-O-P-E-R!" He deliberately misspelled "improper" with a wheezing laugh.

The colorful projectiles began to fly. Oil pastels zinged through the air like rainbow-colored missiles. The trio ducked back into the bathroom, narrowly avoiding being splattered with vibrant pigments. Peeves' cackling echoed behind them, a soundtrack of pure mischief.

"JUST YOU WAIT!" Peeves shouted between laughs, "I'LL TELL EVERYONE!"

Myrtle emerged from her porcelain refuge, floating above the sinks. "Come to laugh at me again?" she asked, a mixture of anger and desperate hope in her spectral voice.

Scorpius, ever the diplomat, saw an opportunity. "Not at all," he said smoothly. "Why don't you tell us about yourself?"

Her suspicion momentarily gave way to curiosity. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you... die?" Scorpius asked, knowing full well the story but seeking to distract her.

To everyone's surprise, Myrtle's face brightened. The chance to recount her tragic tale was something she never passed up. "It was awful," she began, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. "I had come into this very bathroom to cry because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. Then I heard strange hissing noises. When I looked out, *bang*—I was dead. A basilisk, if you can believe it!"

She puffed up with pride as she continued, "Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger actually went into the Chamber of Secrets to save Ron's sister, Ginny."

The trio exchanged shocked glances. They had heard about the Chamber, of course, but never with such personal details.

"Wait," Rose interrupted, "Harry is my uncle. Ginny is my aunt. Ron and Hermione are my parents. And they never told us *any* of this? They lecture us about staying out of trouble when they once fought a giant snake? How is that fair?"

Myrtle looked at them with newfound interest. "You're Harry Potter's niece?" she asked, her gaze settling on Rose.

"Yes," Rose confirmed. She gestured to Albus, "And he's Harry's son."

Myrtle's spectral eyes then turned to Scorpius. "And who might you be?"

"Scorpius Malfoy," he replied.

A strange look crossed Myrtle's face—a mix of recognition and something deeper, more complicated. "You're Draco's son?" she asked, and then, inexplicably, began to wail again.

"What now?" Albus muttered.

Scorpius shrugged. "Who knows?"

"You don't really want to know me," Myrtle sobbed. "You'll be nice now while you're hiding, but as soon as I'm of no use, you'll leave like everyone else!"

Rose, her compassion winning out, spoke softly. "We promise to visit. We'll come see you."

"Promise?" Myrtle asked, her wailing subsiding to a hopeful whimper.

"Promise," Rose confirmed. "We have to go now, or we'll miss dinner. See you soon."

They left hastily, with Albus muttering, "Why would you promise we'd visit her?"

"She's lonely," Rose said simply. "Everyone deserves a friend."

And so began an unlikely friendship. The trio did visit Myrtle, at least once a week. The bathroom's frequent flooding decreased, and Myrtle's constant wailing gradually transformed into storytelling. She shared tales of their parents' Hogwarts years, castle secrets whispered through decades.

Peeves would occasionally interrupt, sending Myrtle into fits of spectral distress. But overall, something had changed. A ghost who had been perpetually alone now had friends—even if they were alive, and she most definitely was not.

They all lived—or in Myrtle's case, existed—if not happily, then at least less miserably ever after.