“Myrtle…Myrtle,” taunted the bodiless, cold and calculating voice. “I’m ssssoo hungry, Myrtle. I jusssst want to rip, tear, kill. I’ve been waiting yearsss Myrtle… I want to taaasssste blood! The ssssweet, warm, coppery taaasssste of blood!”
Myrtle was running. She didn’t know what she was running from or even where she was running to, but she could hear her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Her breath caught painfully in her throat. She knew that she had to keep moving. She was in a great hall of stone, pillars so tall that she could not see where they ended and the ceiling started. Or was it just because of the darkness? The shadows surrounded her, and she knew that something was behind her, something horrible.
There was a labyrinth of twisting tunnels coming off the hall, which Myrtle could just see by the eerie green glow of phosphorescent mould. The luminous fungus grew along the walls and covered the carved serpents. It seemed to feed on the heavy moisture within the strange chamber.
The temple like place smelt musky and damp, and, even though Myrtle was running, she could still feel the cool air through her uniform.
An ancient stone face, monkey-like and lifeless, stared down at her from the slimy walls. In a deep, booming voice it spoke to her. “Don’t look into the eyes of the serpent, Myrtle!”
She backed away from the strange statue, running into a nearby passageway. She was aware of the terrifying sound of something dry sliding behind her.
Shallow pools of water splashed under her feet as she continued to run, through dark tunnels. The walls were coated in thick slime; the floor beneath her feet was carpeted in the brittle bones of small, unfortunate creatures. Each footfall was punctuated by the crunch of bones.
“Come to me, Myrtle! Pleeeassssse! I’m ssssoo hungry! I need to taaasssste blood! Sssso sssweet and satisfying!” She trembled at the sound of this voice. It sounded foreign and yet, she still understood every word. She soon found herself in the main chamber again, the carved snakes seeming to watch her every move.
She let out a cry of fear and pain through gritted teeth. The prickling of a stitch in her side became too much to bear. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant sound of trickling water and her own heavy breathing echoing in the large chamber. At the sound of movement behind her, she opened them again and began to turn around.
“NO! Don’t turn around! Trussst me Myrtle… don’t turn around… don’t try to look at me…”
“Who are you?” Myrtle asked, her voice quivering with an unknown fear. The voice laughed softly, in a hoarse, yet high tone.
“I’ve been here many yearsss, Myrtle… you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I wassss… maybe you wouldn’t even know… No! I told you not to turn around, Myrtle!”
“What are you?!” Her breaths were becoming sharp and quick as she stopped herself from turning around. The voice just cackled.
“WHAT ARE YOU!?” It laughed even harder, its voice eerily bouncing off the dank, wet walls. She could stand it no longer, she spun around to face what ever had been chasing her.
“Oi! Moaning Myrtle! Get up!”
Myrtle’s eyes flickered open and she gingerly patted her hand around her bedside table, searching for her glasses. She soon found them, hidden amongst the piles of unfinished homework and half-written tragedy stories. Her dormitory came into focus. The other girls were running around trying to beautify themselves. Myrtle didn’t see the point “ everyone hated her, they always had and they always would. Plastering her face in make up wouldn’t change anything.
“Your hair is greasy, Little Miss Mope,” observed Olive Hornbury, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Didn’t you wash it last night?” asked Esther Rae, delicately plaiting her long blonde hair.
“I didn’t have ti-” She began to answer but was cut off as Esther finished her hair and ran gracefully over to her sister, Edith, to squabble over lipstick.
“I had a weird dream last night,” she declared loudly, hoping to get someone’s attention. They all ignored her. “I think it was prophesising something. I think it was my death.”
Esther rolled her eyes, Edith tutted and Olive gave a loud groan.
“For Merlins sake, Gloomy! Cheer up for once in your pathetic little life. Come on, hurry up, you’re going to be late for History of Magic… and we all know how much you luuuuurrrve Professor Binns!”
The other girls laughed and whistled and Olive jumped onto Myrtle’s bed, snatched her glasses of her face and roughly shoved them on her face.
“Hey, give them back! I can’t see, give them back! Be careful, they’re delicate!” Myrtle reached up at Olive’s blurry figure, but Olive simply dodged her clawing fingers. She wiggled her hips and patted her shoulder length, chestnut brown hair. Myrtle knew that she had her usual cheeky smirk on her face.
“Oh! Professor Binns! Maybe you could be my ray of happiness! Nope, no… not even my one true love can make me smile!” As the other girls roared with mirth, Myrtle felt the all too familiar sting in the corners of her dull hazel eyes. She flushed Gryffindor red with shame and anger.
“It’s not true! Give them back!” The laughter continued as Olive started to waddle round the room like a penguin.
“I had a funny dream “ SWEET MERLIN, I’M GOING TO DIE! Oh well, at least I will be reunited with my dearest Binns! But wait, these glasses are weighing my soul down! Esther! Edith! Help me! These glasses are so-”
That was it. Myrtle couldn’t take it any longer. Years of bullying had taught her to ignore them, but teasing her about her poor sight was too much.
“OLIVE, YOU VICIOUS HAG! GIVE THEM TO ME!” The girls fell silent, though smirks were still evident on their faces.
“Ooooh, fine, Miss Glum! No need to use that sort of language with me. You could have just asked.”
“I did,” Myrtle coldly informed her as Olive handed her the glasses.
The corners of Olive’s mouth twitched and her eyes glinted. “Just one little word of advice, Moaning Myrtle. Get some new glasses… or wear a paper bag over your head!”
Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and slowly changed into her robes; salty tears wet her cheeks. She could still hear the girls whispering and sniggering. When she had changed, she shuffled out of the dorm and headed towards the History of Magic classroom. Her head was bowed and she watched her feet.
History of Magic was her favorite. It was the only lesson she was good at because it demanded little or no thinking. Copying notes and occasionally reading between the lines of a source was all that was required. As a result, it was the only lesson she got good grades in. She’d been told that she could be good at Herbology if she put her mind to it. However she didn’t want to touch plants, dig in soil or, Merlin forbid, squeeze out bubotuber pus.
She found herself walking past her beloved classroom with its ancient portraits of better times, when being ugly didn’t matter. No one would dare tease or humiliate her, for fear of being cast into hell. She found her short, chubby legs taking her to her usual haunt, a solitary lavatory. It was mostly overlooked by students, and forgotten about by teachers. She wouldn’t be found here. Locked into in a cubicle, she flipped the seat down and sat on the lid. Alone, she hugged her knees and wailed miserably.
She was sick of it! She was sick of the laughter and jokes. Who cared whether she loved history? What did it matter if she wore glasses? So what if she didn’t have time to wash her hair? People teased her because she never smiled. They were the reason. It had started in her first year. She’d been terrified. She’d lived in the country her entire life and had no siblings. She was not used to school, other children or such a large place. Her father had been ill for most of the year. She had never been very trusting, and so, had made no friends.
She tried to smile when she was around others, but her natural expression was very serious. Soon, people stopped saying, “Cheer up, it might never happen!” and started to say “Smile for once, Gloomy guts!” Instead her face became more disconsolate. Before long she was miserable.
Most of all, she hated Olive Hornbury and Esther Rae. Olive was a sarcastic little hag. She’d teased Myrtle from day one, and yet everyone loved her because she was funny, bubbly and confident. Esther was little better. She was nice to your face, but if someone more popular or attractive was nearby, you no longer existed. She was vain and talked regularly about people she claimed were her friends, yet was still so popular. How? What made people gaze admiringly at these girls as they sat on the desks, flirting outrageously with the boys? They would talk animatedly while their slender legs swung gently, their expensive shoes hanging from the very tips of their toes.
They were pretty. That was the only thing Myrtle could think of. People were disgusted by the sight of her, as if they’d catch some awful disease. She wasn’t pretty. She was squat, spotty and bespectacled. No one attempted to befriend her. Everyone just saw her as the miserable and ugly loner who spent her life reading books about History and was “in love” with Professor Binns.
But that’s what you are, whispered a nasty little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Olive. What other qualities have you got? None, that’s why no one likes you. You’re a boring, disgusting, pathetic little whiner who can’t go one day with bursting into tears!”
She felt angry that no one believed her about that dream. It had seemed so real. Normally in dreams she had no fear. She wouldn’t cry, and she couldn’t make decisions in dreams; she’d just turn left instead of right without really knowing why, whereas in this dream she decided where to run, and had reasons to. It had scared her. What if it had shown her own grisly death?
Don’t be silly, Myrtle,she told herself, Today, you’re going to sneak down to Hogsmead and buy some make up. You’re going to be confident and bubbly, like Olive. When some one makes a catty remark, you’re going to say something witty back. You’re going to change.
Myrtle heard the door of the lavatory open and someone enter. She cried a little louder, hoping that they’d hear her and go away. Whoever had come in started to speak. She stopped sobbing for a moment to listen. They were talking in a funny language she’d never heard before, drawing out each “s” and “z” in a sibilant fashion. It reminded her of her dream. Suddenly she realised that it was a boy. Boys weren’t allowed in here!
“Hey! I don’t know who you are, but this is a girl’s loo!” She cried out indignantly. The hissing voice continued.
“Did you hear me? Find your own lavatory!” When the boy ignored Myrtle once again she stood up. She wasn’t going to stand for this anymore. She was not a rug for people to walk all over and she was determined to stand up for herself! She threw back the lock and swung open the door forcefully.
“I said, find your own toi “ oh!”
The last thing she saw was a pair of bright yellow eyes.