“Outta my way! Outta my way!” the boy shrieked. And before Draco could grasp the handle of the door to Professor McGonagall’s office, a scrawny but determined first-year had barreled over him and entered her office first. “Professor, come quick! Something terrible has happened! Professor Hagrid sent me to find you. He is on his way up to the hospital wing and wants you to find him straight away!”
Professor McGonagall jumped to her feet, an uninhibited determination on her face. Darting out of her office, she caught sight of Draco, who had been returning for the remainder of his detention but was now dusting himself off after his recent collision. “Draco, you may go now,” she quickly offered as she sped down the corridor toward the hospital wing.
It couldn’t have happened already, could it? Could Katie have already made it back to the castle and given the package to Dumbledore? No, there hasn’t been enough time. Or has there? And if he has touched the necklace, he wouldn’t be in the hospital wing. He’d be dead. Right? Maybe this has nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s something completely different. Or maybe the cursed necklace really worked.
Draco’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the small boy who had brought the message to Professor McGonagall. “Are you alright?” the boy asked with a nervous tone of concern in his voice.
Draco paused for a moment, willing himself away from the thoughts in his head and back into the doorway of Professor McGonagall’s office, where two bright eyes were staring up at him. “What? Yeah. Fine.” Draco mumbled as he tried to make sense of all that was happening.
“Sorry I ran into to you,” the boy apologized with a bit of trepidation and began to back away from the much larger sixth-year.
“Did Hagrid say what happened?” Draco asked brusquely.
“No. There wasn’t time. He was in a hurry to get the girl to the hospital wing.”
“Girl? What girl?” he drilled further.
“I don’t know. I mean, I saw Hagrid carrying her. But I didn’t see who she was. It all happened so quickly.”
“Carrying her? Was she dead?” The words came out of Draco’s mouth fiercely. From the moment he had released them, Draco wished he could take them back. The eerily odd question hung there in silence.
The boy seemed a bit taken aback either by the directness of the question or the sharpness of its delivery; so there he stood, his mouth agape as if words were wanting to come, his eyes wide on Draco.
Composing himself, Draco rephrased, “I mean, do you think she’ll be alright?”
“Hagrid was taking her to the hospital wing. That means she’s alive, right?”
“It must,” Draco added softly, with a hint of relief in his voice. The boy did not wait for another question. He turned and disappeared down the corridor. Draco stood, motionless, uncertain what had just happened and equally uncertain what the next few minutes and hours would bring. He had to learn more: who was hurt, how badly, and what seemed most important to Draco at the moment, whether the fault was his. Though all of his being wanted to run, to hide, to escape, to breathe, Draco forced himself to walk down the hallway towards the sounds of voices which were now beginning to reverberate throughout the castle.
His steps were even. He consciously thought through every movement he made, neither moving too hastily nor too slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself… not wanting to look like he was up to something … not wanting to look like he was scared … not wanting anyone to know the truths hidden within him. As he walked steadily onward, passing chattering groups of students, his ears began drinking the words around him.
“I saw Hagrid. He was running through the castle carrying a girl!”
“I heard she was attacked in Hogsmeade!”
“Who was she?”
“I think I’ve seen her play Quidditch.”
“She’s a Gryffindor, I think.”
“Did you hear? Someone was hexed in Hogsmeade!”
“A band of Death Eaters attacked Katie Bell!”
By the time Draco had crossed the length of the castle, he had overheard several versions of what transpired in Hogsmeade that morning, from the plausible to the inane; and there were enough pieces of truth amongst them for Draco to pull together what had happened. And when the sudden shock of the story would settle in the hours to come, everyone would eventually come to know that it was Katie Bell who had been hurt, cursed when she touched an opal necklace that had come into her possession in Hogsmeade. What no one would know, however … what they could not know was that Draco was to blame, that he had all but handed her the cursed necklace himself. What no one would know was the heavy weight Draco had been carrying and the fact that it had just grown tenfold inside him. The only thing that lessened the load which threatened to crush him was the fact that Katie hadn’t died, at least not yet.
Somewhere between the north end of the castle and the south, Draco’s careful, even steps had broken into a run, taking him past the gargoyles and suits of armor which lined the corridors of Hogwarts and whose watching eyes, it seemed, were all focused on him as he darted past in search of a place to find escape. Draco threw open the door to the boys’ bathroom on the deserted sixth floor corridor and ran to the furthest cubicle where his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the hard, stone floor.
As he leaned his back against the unyielding tile wall, Draco trembled, his elbows on the knees which could no longer bear his slim frame, his head buried in his hands, his steel gray eyes drowning in the flood of tears he could no longer contain. Draco wept in quiet seclusion while the rest of the castle was busying themselves with their attempts to sort out the details of the incident that transpired on what should have been an uneventful fall day in the village of Hogsmeade.
I didn’t mean to hurt her! I didn’t want her dead! The curse wasn’t meant for her! What went wrong? She must have touched it. And Dumbledore is still alive. How could I have made such a ridiculous mistake? The Dark Lord is counting on me. He’s waiting. He’s STILL waiting. And now the necklace is gone, and that bloody Vanishing Cabinet is still broken, and …
The voice in Draco’s head was silenced with the high-pitched sigh of a girl. Startled, he lifted his head to find the girl who had made the sound sitting atop the toilet in the same tiny cubicle where he sat. Surely his eyes were fooling him. He brought his hands back to his eyes and rubbed away the tears which were obviously blurring his vision. Blinking a few times, he opened his eyes wide and looked up again.
“You’re not seeing things. I’m really here,” said the girl.
“This isn’t the girls’ bathroom,” Draco put forth, more as a question than a fact. After all, he had been focused on other things when he had pushed the door open and dashed inside.
“I know. I get bored. I need a change of scenery from time to time.”
Draco sighed heavily. As she spoke, Draco began to notice that the girl sitting next to him wasn’t a solid form. “Are you a ghost?” he asked.
“Yes,” she stated very matter-of-factly. “Why are you crying?”
Draco hesitated as he tried to sort out an answer. The truth was that he was not sure whether the tears he was shedding were for Katie Bell, who lay in the hospital wing seriously injured or even near death, or for himself, afraid to face the certain punishment that would come from his failure to carry out the commands of his Master.
“It’s nothing,” he finally answered.
“People don’t just cry for nothing. There’s always a something when you cry. I should know.” The girl let out a moan, the sound of which was almost painful to Draco’s ears, and she floated up towards the ceiling, performed an extravagant loop-de-loop, and returned to her sitting position on the toilet next to Draco.
“Who are you?” The question fell from his tongue before he could stop it. Did I seriously just ask her that? I’m sitting on the floor of the loo, having polite conversation with a ghost. I must be mad.
“Moaning Myrtle.”
“Come again?”
“Moaning Myrtle. I always chose to cry in the bathroom, too. I never really had anyone I could talk to either.”
Draco said nothing but nodded his head ever so slightly to indicate that he understood.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
“I don’t think so, Myrtle, but thanks.”
“You don’t like me either. No one ever did. Are you going to make fun of me now?”
Still seated on the floor, beside the toilet, Draco wasn’t in much of a position to be mocking anyone, and neither was he up to it. “No,” was all he could muster as he wiped the moisture from his cheeks once again.
“Everyone else did, especially that Olive Hornby. She was always such a bully. It’s partly her fault I died, you know.”
Draco wasn’t sure why he was being cordial to Myrtle. It was unlike him to waste his time talking to ghosts, particularly a homely one with glasses and significant self-esteem issues. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know who he was and, therefore, had no expectations of him. He didn’t have to act the part of the smooth Slytherin, the confident leader, the one who was always in control. He had nothing to prove to her. Neither did he fear her nor have to obey her. She was just Myrtle. And he found that on the floor of the boys’ bathroom at that very moment, he didn’t have to be anything to anybody, not to his classmates, nor his father, nor his new Master. He was just Draco.
As Myrtle droned on about Olive and her sad years at Hogwarts, Draco half-listened for a while, then regrouped his thoughts and attempted to compose himself. He got to his feet and stepped over to the sink where he noticed his reflection in the mirror. His blond fringe hung sloppily over his eyes which were red and swollen from the sudden rush of tears. His face looked thin. His complexion was colorless. If he didn’t know it was him standing there, he would have sworn he was looking at someone else.
Still examining his own reflection, Draco reached for the tap, allowing the cold water to fall into the sink in front of him. He removed his serpentine cufflinks, placed them safely in his pocket, and began rolling up his sleeves to splash some water on his face and rinse away the sticky saltiness that remained. As he leaned his head over to meet the coolness in his hands, he found himself no longer staring at the stranger in the mirror but at the familiar black serpent on his arm, whose unnerving eyes seemed to penetrate deeply inside of Draco. Draco closed his eyes and breathed fully. I’m a Death Eater, for god’s sake! I asked for this. One minor slip-up and I’m acting like a frightened, little schoolboy. What was I thinking? Running. Hiding. Crying. What a disgrace! The Dark Lord can’t see me behave this way. I’m better than this. I’m stronger. I’ve just got to keep working, stay focused. I can do this! Draco drew the water to his face and let all signs of his brief, weak moment wash down the drain in front of him.
“Hey, Myrtle,” began Draco as he dried his hands and face, “you’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”
“Not if you come back to visit me again,” Myrtle answered with a flirtatious smile and a girlish giggle.
“Fine then,” Draco reached for the door but paused just one moment longer and, looking directly at the peculiar ghost, added, “Thanks, Myrtle.”