Myrtle was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The basilisk had been released, the body had been found and Hagrid had even been wrongly expelled for the crime. Young Myrtle was as dead as a doornail.
Well, probably even deader than a doornail for, as Professor McGonagall would tell you, a doornail can sometimes be a temporarily transfigured dormouse. Although if it is, it is probably not a good idea to nail it into your door. But I digress. The most important thing is, Myrtle was dead. That must be distinctly understood, or nothing that follows will make any sense whatsoever.
In life, Myrtle had been a pupil at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This school currently numbered among its teaching staff one Severus Snape, a Potions master. Snape was well-known and much talked about in the wizarding community, owing to his central role in the defeat of the Dark wizard Voldemort over a decade earlier, and his miraculous survival from being bitten by Voldemort’s snake in the climactic battle of the war.
Following his recovery, Snape had resigned from his temporary position as Headmaster of Hogwarts and had returned to his old job in the Potions classroom. Many had been surprised at his action, and some even more so by his decision not to apply for the vacant, and now no longer cursed, Defence Against the Dark Arts post, but Snape had never been known for taking the expected choice.
Oh, but he was a hard-nosed hand at the grindstone, Snape, a miserable, vicious, sarcastic, bitter old terror! Sharp and cruel as a knife, solitary, secret and as elusive as the bat that he resembled. The cold went with him wherever he went and warmed his heart not a bit. No wind or weather, cold or heat affected the darkness of his countenance, the sallow colour of his face, or the greasiness of his hair. And above all things he hated Christmas.
On this particular December in which our story takes place, the school term had ended a week before Christmas. Snape had been in a particularly bad mood the final day of term and had set all his students a four-yard essay to be completed over the holidays. “But sir, it’s Christmas,” one brave, disappointed soul had replied.
“Then you may write your essay on the back of wrapping paper, if you wish,” had been Snape’s sarcastic response.
He was obliged to attend the end-of-term feast that evening and had been disappointed to find himself seated next to an ebullient Professor Flitwick. All the teachers were wearing paper hats except Snape, who had refused to put his on, just as he had refused to read out the terrible joke that had been inside his cracker. “Come on, Severus, where’s your Christmas spirit?” asked Flitwick.
“Bah, humbug!” was all Snape replied.
“Don’t be so miserable, Severus, it’s the season of goodwill!”
“Goodwill, my foot. What is Christmas but a tacky, over-commercialised excuse to forget how cold and horrible it is in the middle of winter? If I could have my way, every idiot who goes around saying ‘Merry Christmas’ would be transfigured into a turkey, roasted by dragon fire and served with a dozen sprouts shoved up his…”
“Severus, please! Christmas is a truly magical time of the year. Even the Muggles recognise this. And yes, it may be gaudy and commercial, but it is the one time of the year that brings people together. Tell you what, why don’t you come round to my house on Christmas Day and share Christmas with my family. It would save you from being alone and you wouldn’t have to cook.”
Snape could think of nothing worse, and used his previous interrupted expression to explain to Flitwick exactly where he could place his invitation.
With term over, Snape returned to his home on Spinner’s End. However, he was obliged to go to Diagon Alley on Christmas Eve to purchase supplies. The shops were all brightly decorated with lights and tinsel, and the street was thronged with last-minute shoppers and Christmas revellers, but Snape paid attention to none of it as he silently went about his business.
Emerging from a potions supply store, he ran into the last person he could possibly want to meet: Harry Potter. Snape observed that he still had the same smug, cheery expression that he had always had in his school years, the expression that spoke of insolence and defiance. “Merry Christmas, Professor!” he said brightly.
“Humbug!” replied Snape. The possibility of hearing Potter boast about his achievements once more was about the only thing Snape thought he could hate more than Christmas. Potter was now an Auror, and heading for a high-flying career, no doubt trading on the prestige attached to his name.
But Potter did not begin to boast. Instead he turned to introduce the people alongside him. “Professor, you remember my wife Ginny, I’m sure,” he said, indicating a red-haired woman who returned Snape’s dark glare with one of her own, “but I don’t think you’ve met my children in person before. This is James,” he pointed out a grinning seven-year-old boy who, annoyingly to Snape, looked exactly like his father, “young Lily,” a four-year-old girl who clung tightly to her mother’s hand, “and this is Tiny Albus, as we call him.”
Tiny Albus hobbled out from behind his brother. Although only a little younger than James, he was much smaller and thinner and he walked with a noticeable limp, supporting himself with a small stick like an old man. He gazed up at Snape in awe, but Snape had to quickly turn his face away. Those eyes…
“The Healers at St Mungo’s don’t know what’s wrong with him,” explained Potter, “but he’s a fighter, like his parents and his grandparents before him. He’ll be all right.” But there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Anyway, don’t let us detain you any longer, Professor. Merry Christmas, and a happy new year.” Snape did not reply, but hurried away quickly. He could not bear to be around Potter for any length of time. After all these years, his loathing of Potter had not lessened one bit. And there was something about that little son of his that really unnerved Snape.
Snape left Diagon Alley and Apparated back to Spinner’s End. It was a small, grimy street in a large, grimy city, but Snape liked it. It was quiet, peaceful and above all, anonymous. Here, secluded amongst the Muggles, Snape could truly be alone.
Now it must be said at this point that, despite having spent over forty years in the magical world, Snape was probably least given to believe in the fantastic than any other wizard. So you can imagine his surprise when, upon reaching his front door, he looked into his door knocker and saw, not the usual brass arrangement, but the face of a young girl.
She was not a pretty girl, unless you meant “pretty ugly” or “pretty miserable”. Her lank hair was tied up in ponytails, her face was covered in pimples and she wore large, thick round glasses. The face was just there for a moment, and then it was gone. Snape quickly regained his composure and entered the house. The vision had been nothing; he could think of at least a dozen rational magical explanations for what he had seen.
Still, he thought it prudent to search the house in case it had been a deliberate prank by some vindictive student or Christmas joker, and there were others lying in wait. Snape hated pranks. He simply couldn’t see the point of them, or why anyone would find them enjoyable.
After having satisfied himself that the house was empty and free of unwanted magical traces, Snape settled down in the kitchen for an evening meal. For a Potions master, Snape was a surprisingly poor cook, and usually preferred to eat pre-packaged or easy to cook meals. Eating was an unfortunate physical necessity, so whatever took up the least of his time was best.
When he had finished his meal, he returned to the sitting room, took a book on Sleeping Potions off one of the shelves and sat down in his favourite armchair to read. This was his routine every evening, and Christmas Eve would be no different. The image of the girl on his door knocker had completely left his thoughts
He had barely got halfway through the first chapter, however, when there was a cold blast of wind right through the house, which chilled Snape to the bone. He looked up to see which was the offending window he had left open, but they all were shut. It must have come from some other part of the house, thought Snape, but he never opened any other windows.
He was about to get up to investigate, when he heard a hideous sound of wailing coming from upstairs, from his bathroom. Snape sat, confused and apprehensive, as the wailing and crying drew closer, coming down the stairs. As he drew his wand, a figure burst into the room. It was translucent and shimmering, an apparition in silvery-grey. And its wailing was quite real.
“Oh, poor Myrtle,” sobbed the ghost. “Poor, poor, sad Myrtle, always being ordered about. Nobody wants to listen to me, no, it’s always ‘Myrtle, do this; Myrtle, do that; Myrtle, go talk to grumpy old Snape.’ I’m sick of it, do you hear, SICK OF IT!” she screamed.
Snape was quite startled, for he knew that ghosts didn’t come barging into the houses of people they had no connection to. In most cases, they couldn’t; they were tied to a particular location. He recognised the ghost’s face as the one that had appeared on his door knocker. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.
“Oh, isn’t that typical,” moaned the ghost. “Nobody cares about Myrtle, nobody knows who Myrtle is, not even Mr-Potions-Master-I’ve-been-at-Hogwarts-all-my-life. Everybody forgets about Myrtle.”
“Myrtle?” said Snape. “Hang on, aren’t you that ghost that haunts that bathroom at Hogwarts? The one that got killed by the Dark Lord’s basilisk?”
“Oh yes, that’s how everybody knows me: how I died. Nobody cared about me before I got killed and nobody did afterwards. No, it’s ‘Myrtle, tell us how you died. Was it horrible? Did you suffer? What did you feel?’ It was awful, all right? Happy?” She burst into tears again
Snape stared at the ghost with a mixture of confusion and wry amusement. She was clearly, to use a technical term, stark staring bonkers. “How did you get in here?” he asked.
“Through your toilet. It could really do with a clean,” she replied. “I’ve been sent.”
“Sent? By whom?”
Myrtle did not answer. “I have to tell you that you, Severus Snape, are in danger. From yourself. You are mean-spirited, miserable, unfeeling towards your fellow man, and have misused the time given to you. A dark fate awaits you beyond the veil if you do not turn back from this path. You have been warned.”
Snape suddenly felt quite cold. Myrtle’s voice and manner had suddenly changed to something far more serious and grave. “What do you mean? What gives you the right to talk to me like that?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger, don’t blame me,” she said, back to her old self again. “Apparently, you have one chance to save yourself. You will be haunted by three spirits…”
“You don’t still use words like haunted?” interrupted Snape with a smirk. “This is the twenty-first century.”
“Shut up!” snapped Myrtle. “I’m talking. You will be haunted by three spirits. Without their help, you cannot hope to be saved. Expect the first tomorrow morning at one a.m. There, I’ve done my job. I’m off.” And with a final wail Myrtle flew off back up the stairs again. There was a loud splash from the toilet, and then all was quiet once more.
Sitting alone again in the sitting room, Snape’s mind ran back over everything the crazy ghost had said. It was ridiculous. Warnings from beyond? Three spirits come to mend his ways? It was ridiculous. Who did she think he was, some credulous fool? “Bah,” he muttered. “Humbug.”