Moaning Myrtle rested her chin on her pearly hand, peering out over the toilet seat dejectedly. Good Lord, they just had to close the school, didn’t they? It’s bad enough that I’m haunting a toilet; now I’m haunting a toilet that nobody uses.



Sighing, the sixty-something-year-old ghost of a fifteen-year-old girl glided out of the toilet bowl (allowing a wave of water to wash onto the floor—not as if anyone would care, since there was no one to see it) and over to the tarnished mirrors that hung over the cracked sinks. “Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle,” she said aloud to the blank mirror—she hadn’t seen herself reflected in one for nearly sixty years.



Myrtle sighed, thinking back over her miserable life and even more miserable death. After she’d taken up residence in the toilet, she’d expected it to be boring. It had been, although not overly so. It was quite entertaining to drift through the stall door just as somebody happened to be using it, or to wail loudly while a pair of first years were trying to hold a gossipy conversation. But it wasn’t what Myrtle had wanted from life (or death). What she had wanted was to be accepted.



That stuck-up Olive Hornby had always ensured that Myrtle was not a part of the popular group. She’d even seen to it that Myrtle’s crush, the extraordinarily handsome Tom Riddle, never looked her way at all, unless he was laughing at her. (In later years, Myrtle learned that she was lucky he had never been particularly interested in her, but it still stung that Riddle had never cared for her even the tiniest bit.) But dying, if anything, had been worse. Myrtle hadn’t made a single friend in sixty years, even with a constant stream of girls running in and out of her bathroom. All the other ghosts were ages older than her, and none of them haunted a bathroom.



Then, fifty years exactly from her death, Harry Potter had walked into her bathroom with that horribly smart Hermione Granger. At first Myrtle had been indignant; boys were not allowed in girls’ bathrooms, which was what she had tried to tell Tom Riddle before he set the basilisk on her. But as she spied on them brewing some sort of disgusting potion over the toilet bowl, she realized that Harry Potter was quite dreamy, as boys go. Not only was he handsome, in a way that was almost reminiscent of Riddle, but he was noble, kind, loyal, and very foolhardy. She’d never expected him to survive second year (and had even asked him to share her toilet if he died), but along with his other traits, Harry also seemed to be unnaturally lucky.



Unfortunately, Harry was not interested in sharing a toilet with a ghost. Even when she all but told him the answer to the riddle in his golden egg in fourth year, he’d only acted stiffly around her. (Myrtle wondered if this might have something to do with the fact that she’d seen him without any clothes on in the bath.)



Myrtle had finally given up on any possibility that Harry would die and take up residence in her toilet, and had moped around for a year. Then she found Draco Malfoy, crying his eyes out in her bathroom, and developed a severe crush immediately. Harry Potter had never confided his feelings to her like Draco did. Harry was too tough to cry, unlike the deep and emotional Draco.



But that, too, ended when Harry burst into the bathroom and nearly killed Draco. Myrtle had been horrified, but she later learned that Draco did not die, much to her relief. Still, at the end of that year, Draco had shown his real loyalties to the Death Eaters and fled the school.



And then it had closed down.



Myrtle felt silvery tears come to her eyes at the thought of it. She was alone, tied to this old castle forever, with no one to hear her sobs and talk to her except the unsympathetic old ghosts in the towers. There wasn’t anywhere she could go for vacation except the lake, and the mermaids didn’t like her. She was trapped for the rest of her death.



“Excuse me.”



The first voice Myrtle had heard in a year split the silence. She screamed and whirled around.



Standing just inside the doorway was the most handsome young man she had ever seen. His blond hair was perfect, his features attractive, his body fit and lean. He was staring at her in confusion.



And he was transparent.



Another ghost!



“Who are you?” he asked, taking a step forward. His feet, like hers, hovered six inches above the ground.



“My name is Myrtle. I haunt this bathroom,” Myrtle squeaked. “What’s your name?”



“I’m Cedric Diggory,” said the boy. “For the last five years I’ve been looking all over for a place to haunt, and haven’t found anywhere. So finally I came back here. I heard it’s deserted now. I didn’t expect to find anyone.”



“Was this where you died?” Myrtle asked curiously.



“No. I was killed in a graveyard miles from here, but Harry Potter brought my body back here. I didn’t want to haunt the graveyard—you can imagine, there’re already so many ghosts there that it’s standing room only.”



“I see,” Myrtle said. “I think I remember you. There were dozens of girls in here crying when you died—there was practically a line for the toilet stalls. I don’t think I ever met you when you were alive though—” Then her eyes widened. “Wait—I did see you once! You were taking a bath in the prefects’ bathroom, and I saw you work out the egg clue!”



“You were spying on me while I was taking a bath?” Cedric asked, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.



“Well…uh…” Myrtle blushed silver. “Kind of.”



Cedric didn’t reply, but he was looking at her rather oddly.



“You have a very nice chest,” said Myrtle before she could stop herself. Then she clapped a see-through hand over her mouth.



“Uh, thanks,” Cedric said. He, too, turned silver.



There was an awkward silence, then Cedric said, “You know, you kind of remind me of my old girlfriend, Cho Chang. You’d be really pretty if you took off those glasses.”



“Thank you,” said Myrtle shyly, silver cheeks burning. “But I can’t see without them.”



“Do ghosts need to see? We just go through everything anyway, so you won’t bump into anything.”



“Good point,” Myrtle said thoughtfully, and whipped off her glasses for the first time since she had died. Everything blurred slightly around the edges, but she thought that her vision was better than when she’d been alive. Tossing the glasses aside, she watched them evaporate into nothing.



“Would you mind showing me around?” Cedric asked. “I mean, I know my way around the castle, but not through the walls and everything. I never did much walking through walls when I was alive.”



Myrtle giggled. She hadn’t giggled in a long time, and was surprised to find it was rather pleasant. “Certainly,” she said, and reached out for Cedric’s hand. Their pearly fingers wove together in an effect that Myrtle rather liked.



Without her glasses, she misjudged the next gliding step and almost stumbled. Cedric’s hands steadied her, and she smiled up at him.



“I know a great place you can haunt,” she said to him, and they floated together through the ceiling into the prefects’ bathroom.

Myrtle hummed to herself, flowing through the pipes of the Hogwarts plumbing system along with a bit of water. The effect of humming in the pipes was almost like singing in the shower, she reflected; her voice echoed a bit and made her sound like a much better singer than she really was.

Without warning, a surge of bubbles cascaded through the pipes. Myrtle smirked thoughtfully. So someone was taking a bath in the prefects’ bathroom, hmm? This might call for inspection. Maybe it was a good-looking boy. Lately her experience with those had been a little limited. Well, she did haunt a girl’s bathroom.

Myrtle ducked down the correct pipe—she knew them all like the back of her translucent hand—and halted just before the water carried her out of the tap. Cautiously, she peered out.

It was a boy. An extraordinarily handsome one, standing waist deep in the bath. His dark blond hair was wet and plastered over his forehead, almost concealing the worry line that was there.

Myrtle settled down to watch, a distantly smug smile on her face. She was fairly sure she knew who this one was—one of the Hogwarts Triwizard champions, Cedric Diggory. She’d heard a gaggle of Ravenclaws grilling this one’s girlfriend in her bathroom the other day. Asking if he was a good kisser. Cho Chang, the lucky girl, had said dreamily that yes, he was.

She saw that Cedric had the golden egg task clue with him. Perhaps he’d taken to carrying it around for some strange reason. But this mystery was instantly solved, for Cedric muttered to himself, “Moody said to put it underwater....�

Ah. So that new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had tipped him off. Cheating? Naughty, naughty, Golden Boy, she thought. She’d expect better of the Hufflepuff prefect, but it seemed everyone had another side....

Myrtle, amused, eyed Cedric as he lifted the golden egg. Then, something seemed to occur to him, and he came toward the taps full of bubble bath—including the one Myrtle hid in.

“Can’t get soap in my eyes,� he murmured to himself. He seemed to have a habit of talking to himself. Myrtle could sympathize. Her eyes widened as he came closer and reached to shut off her tap first.

Ooooh, his chest looked even better when bubbly water wasn’t flowing continuously through her eyes. He must be a Quidditch player to get that kind of muscles. Myrtle continued to stare in fascination as Cedric turned off the other taps. She sighed dreamily, then clapped her hand over her (invisible) mouth as Cedric looked around. He seemed to decide he’d been hearing things, and waded to the edge of the bath for the egg again.

He carefully pried the halves apart. A horrible wailing sound screeched out—Myrtle recognized it as Mermish. Then, grimacing, he lowered it into the water, where the wail was transformed immediately into song.

Cedric ducked under, and Myrtle mourned her loss of scenery, but only for a few moments. He popped back up, wiping water out of his eyes, and then repeated what must be the song’s words.

“Come seek us where our voices sound/We cannot sing above the ground/And while you’re searching, ponder this/We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss/An hour long you’ll have to look/And to recover what we took/But past an hour the prospect’s black/Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.�

Myrtle understood immediately. The task would be to recover something from the merpeople, at the bottom of the lake. Something, apparently, that the champions would miss very much. But this didn’t sink into Cedric’s brain.

“Where our voices sound.� He stared at the egg. “Inside the egg? No, that’s ridiculous, I can’t shrink myself and search in an egg. Besides, there’s nothing in there but noise.�

The painting of the mermaid—whom Myrtle had never liked, on account of her being extremely beautiful and flirtatious, whereas Myrtle was neither—giggled at Cedric and splashed painted water with her fins. Cedric gave her his trademark easygoing grin, which made even the brazen mermaid blush. Myrtle nearly fell out of the tap. This guy was a charmer, all right.

But not very bright. “Don’t suppose you could help me?� he asked the painting.

The mermaid shook her head coyly.

Cedric grinned again. “Didn’t think so.� He turned his attention back to the still-singing egg. “We cannot sing above the ground. Perhaps underground then? Or even....� He lifted the egg out, then dunked it back in to avoid its screechy song. “Underwater! Of course—the lake!�

About time, Myrtle thought. It didn’t escape her notice that the bubbles were disappearing.

“So who,� Cedric said to himself, “could steal something of mine and take it underwater?� He stared pensively at the mermaid. “Grindylows? Nah, they’re too stupid. The giant squid? But it says ‘we’ and there’s only one giant squid...at least, I hope, if I have to dive into the lake.�

The mermaid looked at him through her lashes. Cedric scratched his chin, not getting it. Myrtle was sorely tempted to yell the answer at him, but she didn’t.

Then the mermaid decided to show off a bit, and dove neatly into the painted sea, rising moments later and scraping her hair out of her face. Then she did it again, this time leaping out of the sea in a perfect arc.

This wasn’t lost on Cedric. “You're very talented,� he said to the painting. The mermaid blushed and giggled.

It was then that it hit him—Myrtle saw it happen, almost like a tangible lightning bolt. “Merpeople!� he shouted triumphantly. “That’s it! It has to be! And I bet that screeching is what they sound like aboveground. I’m right, aren’t I?� he added to the painting.

The mermaid smirked at him.

Cedric snapped the egg shut and rolled it onto the edge of the bath. Then, with his back to Myrtle, he climbed out and wrapped his towel around himself. Myrtle blushed. He had an admirable rear end, and she wished she could tell him so, but she had the feeling he wouldn’t appreciate it if he knew she’d been watching him this whole time.

After toweling his hair, the boy dressed—to Myrtle’s guilty disappointment—and headed for the door. With his hand on the doorknob he turned back to the mermaid painting. “Thanks for your help,� he said to it.

Myrtle couldn’t help herself. She murmured, “Well done, Cedric.� The words echoed clearly around the bathroom.

Cedric’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. The mermaid hadn’t appeared to speak. He hesitated for a moment before bowing toward the painting. “Thank you,� he said.

From Myrtle’s point of view, it seemed that he bowed to her and spoke to her. And that was enough to keep her giggling all the way back through the pipes to her own toilet.

It would be several days before she could bring herself to have another tantrum. And even though she later told Harry about the clue, she promised herself that she’d never tell anyone else how nice Cedric’s chest was.