Grim Spectre

You might think that taking refuge in the S-Bend of a toilet would be quite a come-down for one who had just become the first wizard ever to break out of Azkaban. You might also think that the ex-prisoner of Azkaban would find the S-Bend unbearably claustrophic; just like being in a prison cell, only far more cramped. But actually, Padfoot was finding it surprisingly peaceful. And peace was something he had definitely not had in all the last twelve years.

Maybe it was the feeling of security; the assurance that he was surely well hidden from Aurors, Hit Wizards and all the rest of it. Maybe it was the fact that he was in very good company down in the S-Bend of the toilet. And again, good company was something that had been severely lacking in the last twelve years. Or maybe it was the pleasure of giving such joy to such a kindred spirit in Moaning Myrtle. But Padfoot was taking tremendous relaxation from hiding in the S-Bend of Moaning Myrtle's toilet.

During the times when Moaning Myrtle was not around to share the S-Bend, Padfoot found it so calm, so peaceful, and so delightful. This was such utter bliss in comparison to twelve years of being surrounded by soul-sucking creatures that had never given him a moment's peace. He had been surprised to find that he had completely forgotten how to feel just plain relaxed.

The S-Bend may sound a little cramped and claustrophobic but Padfoot found it a most leisurely sanctuary to be. So much so that he would emit ghostly doggy sighs of content. The acoustics of the toilet bowl would amplify them to such eerieness that they were guaranteed to make people think that it was Moaning Myrtle.

Besides, residing in Moaning Myrtle's toilet felt almost like home - well, almost like the place that Padfoot had known for twelve years. It felt so dismal, so full of despair, of sobbing; a gloom of depression that never seemed to end. There were no rays of sun to break through the cloud of doom; only the cloud might thin sometimes to afford some relief.

Since it all felt like home, it all helped Padfoot to keep his mind on the job. The thought that he was innocent burned as indelibly on his mind as ever. It could not be taken away in this never-ending aura of misery that permeated Myrtle's toilet, just as it could not be taken away by the bowel of despair that was Azkaban. Now, of course, it was all compounded by the thought of getting the Rat...he just had to get the Rat...the dog snarled and bared his ghostly teeth whenever he thought of the Rat...

But it was not for another month or so yet that the Rat would return to Hogwarts. In the meantime, the spectral dog would enjoy the companionship of the tremendous kindred spirit it found in Moaning Myrtle.

Sharing your space with somebody was something Padfoot had long forgotten how to do. He had, of course, shared the Gryffindor dormitory with his friends (well, with one exception) when he was a pup. He had shared Mr Potter Snr with James when he ran away from Grimmauld Place (that place did not even deserve to be called "home"). But in Azkaban he had never shared with anybody - unless you counted sharing a cellblock with a score of Deatheaters and relatives who made absolutely the last company you wanted to share (excepting, of course, the Dementors). The only things he had shared his space with were a slop bucket, a filthy cot, and layers and layers of accrued squalor. So sharing a space again was a most peculiar, unnatural experience that took some time to re-acquaint himself with once more.

Mind you, the company certainly helped. He shared so much already with Moaning Myrtle. The perpetual torment of gloom and depression; of persecuting your tormentor who had brought you to this situation; being persecuted in turn by the Ministry...yes, they had so much in common, so why not have a common place to take sanctuary in?

When Moaning Myrtle was available to share the S-Bend with Padfoot, she now did this more for the companionship than for when she was feeling so utterly Moaning Myrtle. For in all of Moaning Myrtle's miserable life, there had hardly been anything that she had simply adored. But having her very own Grim was definitely something to adore. The most dreaded omen in the wizard world was all for her very own! Myrtle was not one for giving cuddles but she would hug her beloved Grim so inconsolably as she howled and moaned and sobbed with her effervescent melancholy. The Grim would howl along with her, to make the most Dismal Duet indeed.

Howling was something else Padfoot had to re-climatise himself with lately. In Azkaban all the prisoners eventually turned silent, except to shriek in their sleep. Whenever they did find their voices (assuming they still could) they spoke in croaks and rasps that denoted long abandonment of speech. Even when he sought refuge in Padfoot, the prisoner had stayed silent. So Padfoot's voice was as rusty as Sirius Black's. Those barks and howls carried a creakiness that made them all the creepier to any who might hear them. But the hitherto silenced prisoner of Azkaban was finding his voice again as he carried along with the tune of friendship with Moaning Myrtle.

Needless to say, the Grim gossip had already spread among the ghosts of Hogwarts. Already on the slimmest of edges with this Sirius Black business, the notion that they had a Grim in their midst on top of the potential of a mass murder was too much for them. Even Professor Binns sounded interesting for a change whenever he whispered about the Grim in his wheezy, drony voice that normally sent people to sleep.

"Oh, please, please, think of the lady!" Dear old Nearly Headless hushed Professor Binns so frantically. So fearful was he for the passing Grey Lady who looked almost white with terror.

The Bloody Baron found himself far more agreeable to his fellow ghosts who normally gave him a wide berth. But such was their dread of the Grim that they allowed him far more company than usual. For his part, the Bloody Baron was in deep consternation over the matter of the Grim, though he tacitly admired Sirius Black for his most unprecedented feat.

When Dumbledore was not inside his study, the Baron would quietly slip in to have a quiet chat with Phineas Nigellus.

"This must be a profound surprise to you, dear chap. Your great-great-grandson becoming the first to break out of Azkaban!" the Baron smiled heartily. He felt such companionship with Phineas. For one thing, they were both Slytherins. For Phineas had been the most unpopular Headmaster Hogwarts had ever had; the Bloody Baron was the most unpopular ghost Hogwarts had ever had. Joint unpopularity made such a close-knit bond.

Phineas sighed. "I always said he was worthless! So does his poor old mother."

"Now your worthless great-great-grandson is worth 10,000 Galleons!"

"Yes, that certainly is an increase in value, I must admit."

"What does his mother say?"

"Terrible! Absolutely terrible!" Phineas paled and groaned. "I have just left her portrait! She is simply outraged that it is her blood traitor son who boasts of such an honour. She cannot stop screaming that it was her beloved pureblood Bellatrix who should have had the honour of being the first to escape, and her blood traitor son deserved to rot in Azkaban, and more...it was most heartbreaking to hear her in such a state."

"What about that filthy little house-elf?"

"You mean Kreacher, my dear Baron?"

"Whatever. What is that house-elf doing to comfort his beloved Mistress in her time of need?"

Phineas flushed as if in embarrrassment and commented bitterly, "that wretched house-elf has only taken to his den, muttering some babble about the blood-traitor boy..."

It was the Bloody Baron's turn to flush - except that this time it was indignation. "That worthless little house-elf should have clothes! Fancy letting his Mistress down at a time like this!"

The ghosts had been too jumpy and tactful to speak of the matter of the Grim. Besides, Dumbledore already had enough on his plate with Sirius Black and Dementors on his hands. Some of the ghosts dared to joke that the Grim was not an omen of death this time, but an omen of the oncoming Dementors.

They would be all the more frightened if they had seen the normal human form of the Grim in their midst. But at this time, Sirius dared not assume his human form, not even when Myrtle was deep within the bowels of her toilet bowl. Besides, his Grim form was his safest protection right now. It made sure all prying ghostly eyes away.

There was still one problem. There was only one entity which would come near Myrtle's premises - cheeky, insolent (but under the circumstances you might say brave) little Peeves. Being chased off by a Grim had not deterred dear old Peeves for long. It was not long before he was back, and he made such sport of the Dismal Duet. This time, however, they took not the slightest notices of Peeves. Myrtle did not even stop to burst into trademark sobs at Peeves' typical jibes.

Now this really left Peeves...utterly peeved. The cheeky little poltergeist would puff and flush. He would bounce up and down with rage. He would rip the toilet seats and bang them against the toilet bowls in a frustrated fury to drown the cacophonic chorus the Dismal Duet.

But they simply would not stop. The dirges seemed to be howling louder and louder, as if they were openly mocking the impudent little Peeves.

And then the Grim started snarling right back at little Peeves. Ghostly howls and moans were unsettling enough when amplified by the toilet bowl. But the amplifications of ghostly snarls from the depths of the S-Bend were enough to send even the insolent Peeves spinning in fright.

It was all too much for poor little Peeves. Nobody was going to upstage him! And nobody was going to get away with scaring him like that!

So Peeves flushed the toilet.

"The Dismal Duo is down the drain! The Dismal Duo is down the drain!"

He bobbed and cackled in the triumph of revenge as he listened to the Dismal Duet got drowned and flushed away by the deluge down the toilet bowl.

So Padfoot and Myrtle found their chorus abruptly cut short as they were rudely flushed down the S-Bend and out into the far depths of the lake. At least there were no foul contents being flushed down along with them. All the same, it was a most startling and undignifying experience. All you were doing was just quietly minding your own business being melancholy - when some unfeeling person sends a torrent of water at you that sends you reeling through those horrible drainpipes. Padfoot felt that being flushed down the drain was not unlike travelling by Floo. The feeling of spinning through a whirl as you whizzed through the water, the assortment of drains, before finally gushing through the other end and spitting out into the lake felt rather like flying through the Floo network. The initial flush had taken him completely by surprise of course. But the journey had felt so exhiliarating! It was the best experience Padfoot had undertaken in a long, long time.

Myrtle, however, did not see it that way. She burst into those sobs of indignation that she always launched into when someone had bruised her senstivity. Poor Myrtle had been flushed away before, so many times. But she could never lose the shock, the indignation, the hurt, the outrage, of thoughtless people flushing poor miserable moping Moaning Myrtle away as if she were nothing more than a piece of sewage...

This was precisely what poor Myrtle howled aloud to her beloved Grim, now dog-paddling and floating in the pure, delightful sensation of water. And then Myrtle collapsed and erupted into the loudest, heart-breaking sobs and moans.

The Grim stopped paddling around and glided over to comfort poor Myrtle. He licked and licked at his poor miserable companion, as if to catch every single tear as it fell down Myrtle's face. He licked so frantically, so desperately. But nothing seemed to stop Myrtle's torrents of tearfulness this time - not even her beloved Grim.

They had been so preoccupied that they had failed to notice that they had drifted to close to the Grindylows waiting in the reeds. And Myrtle knew all too well what Grindylows did when she went too near them...

The little horned beasts were out to strike. Myrtle's agonising sobs abruptly transfigured into shrieks of terror as she ran in full flight from the onrushing demons. But as always, they were too fast for her. The little monsters swiftly gained on her. Normally Myrtle would retreat back into the drain and glide swiftly back through the drainpipes. But this time the Grindylows had anticipated her, and they had cut her off. When poor little Myrtle reached the entrance to the drain, there was a wall of Grindylows firmly entrenched across it. The pursuing Grindylows came up behind, and they cackled evilly as they now encircled poor, whimpering Moaning Myrtle...

All of a sudden, their cackling was silenced as the Grim burst through their ranks. It snarled, it growled, it flexed its ghostly hacks and ghostly saliva drooled menacingly from its jaws as it set itself against the ghastly Grindylows and their poor helpless victim. It did not move. It did not snap or bite. It merely floated between them and Myrtle, making it most clear what would happen to them if they dared to go any nearer his companion...

It was now the Grindylows' turn to shriek and fly in terror. The inky dark water churned into a pearly white froth as the Grindylows stirred up such a wake in their haste to fly back to their reeds.

Myrtle was all over her beloved Grim. She just hugged and hugged her wonderful rescuer. For once she was shedding tears of joy as she embraced and cuddled her dear Grim in the most intense and overwhelming burst of joy and gratitude she had ever felt.

"I love you! I love you! Oh thank you, thank you so much!" Dear Myrtle wept over and over. Her fabulous Grim licked up her tears once again, only this time in acknowledgement of her thankfulness.

Myrtle was now deeply indebted to her Grim.

This also meant, though she little knew it, that Moaning Myrtle now had a Wizard's Debt to pay to Sirius Black.