Grim Spectre

Grim Spectre 04

Disaster had struck the Grim friendship in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. Myrtle had just seen her beloved Grim for what it really was.

Sirius had only assumed his human form briefly in order to think more clearly about how to get the Rat. It was mere days now until the new term - the time when the Rat would return to Hogwarts. The pressure was mounting on Sirius' ravaged, furtive mind as to how to get the Rat.

Somewhere, instinct prompted him to fumble within his robes for that newspaper clipping. The original had long since been washed away on the North Sea along with his body. But just as the ragged man still wore his chains, or the Knight still had the arrow sticking out of his head, so did Sirius have a ghost of the clipping deep within his robes. Ghost though it was, it was visibly creased and grubby-thumbed from where Sirius had clasped the earthly counterpart virtually every waking moment in Azkaban since the day he got it. And there it was again - the mocking, tormenting, obsessive sight of the Rat perching amiably on the oblivious boy's shoulder...

It would be the same instant that Myrtle emerged from her toilet in search of her beloved Grim. She had been looking on in utter shock to see her Grim assuming the unmistakable form of a wizard ghost.

Moments of stone-faced, speechless disbelief passed as she stared at her former Grim staring at some ghostly piece of newspaper as if it were Olive Hornby...

At least she did not realise who the wizard ghost was - the infamous Azkaban fugitive that had everyone in Hogwarts worried and frightened.

Eventually the spell had to dissolve as the cold, cruel reality broke in. She had discovered that her beloved Grim, the most dreaded omen in the wizard world, was nothing more than a pup. The most joyful illusions she had ever held in her entire life and afterwards, had now been cruelly dashed into cruel, mocking pieces of devastation. Her heart was broken. And when you break Moaning Myrtle's heart...well, you can imagine.

Sirius stood frozen in horror, both at the discovery and at that unbearable expression on Moaning Myrtle's face.

She howled. And howled. The look of shock, betrayal and anguish on her face was simply appalling. If anybody could see it, none could bear to look at it. Sirius could not bear to look at it, but he could not move. He just stood there, utterly frozen and staring at her agape.

The screams of anguish chopped through Myrtle's howling. "You're not a Grim! You're not a Grim! You're not a Grim! I never want to speak to you agaaaaiinnn!!""

And with that deep, disappointed, betrayed and anguished howl, Moaning Myrtle plunged far down the toilet bowl. A huge, indignant huff of water splashed right up the bowl and right through Sirius' ghostly face. Sirius could hear her sobbing and sobbing from her favourite S-Bend deep beneath the depths.

As he listened on, that overwhelming guilt slammed into him again, just as it had done for the last twelve years. That unbearable, relentless all-too-familiar guilt that he had betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort by making the Rat the Secret-Keeper. He had thought he had been so damned clever, thinking he had thrown Voldemort right off-track. But instead his bright idea had turned James and Lily over to Voldemort just as assuredly as if he had betrayed them himself.

Now he was feeling such guilt over Moaning Myrtle; the all-too-familiar, irrational, one-tracked shame that he had betrayed the innocent by his own stupidity. She had been overwhelmed, flattered and overjoyed at having the infamous Grim, most dreaded omen of death in the wizard, for her very own companion. But now she had found out that her beloved companion was not a Grim at all. Worse, he had used that guise to win her confidence and win refuge with her. He had used her - well, almost. He really did care for her. He saw so much of himself in the despondent, gloomy, little ghostly Miss.

But he definitely had broken her very heart...

His own ghostly tears splashed down as her sobs continued to pound his very ears. Yes, she had every reason to be angry with him. He slumped down beside the toilet bowl, his head buried in his arms.

For about two days they passed in the same way. Sirius hid glumly in the toilet cubicle consumed with his guilt, his shame and his grief over a broken friendship. He was too ashamed to dive down into the S-Bend of another toilet. Anyway, he preferred the four walls that seemed to enclose him whenever he closed the depilidated door of the cubicle. It felt almost like his old cell where four stone walls encircled him day and night. As time went on they had been his constant companions. When Sirius finally escaped, he had never thought he would miss them. But he did in an odd sort of way. Sure, they had been disgustingly filthy with dirt, fungus, blood, vermin, dripping and all the other nameless layers of squalor that Azkaban accumulates. They had born the constant reminders of others' imprisonment as well as his own; years - or maybe even centuries - of etchings and scratchings. They may have been trapping him, they may have been claustrophic, and they may have been loathed by every corner of his soul. For all that, they had become a measure of support, of companionship and of consistency. So without them Sirius had felt like a skinned rabbit - naked, vulnerable and raw.

So now Sirius had turned to the cubicle as a new measure of support. Already he was making his etchings with a piece of broken tile left behind from Peeves' rampages. On one wall of the cubicle Sirius had started marking another calendar with tally marks. On another he had scratched, as he had done that first unforgettable night in Azkaban:

I am Sirius Black. I am innocent.

Then there was another, to remind him of what he had scoured into the wall of his cell the day that Fudge had given him that fateful newspaper that told him where to find the Rat:

Get the Rat!

And to underline his point, Sirius had scratched a huge, deep sketch of a Rat and ripped a great big "X" through it.

But he didn't spend much time on artistic endeavours across the walls of the cubicle. For the most part he slid into the apathy of depression, only raising his hand to tick off another day on the wall.

All Myrtle would do was continue to howl and sob in the S-Bend. She never emerged even once these days. Already a gloomy and depressing place those howls and sobs made this dismal toilet feel like Azkaban all the more; but not quite. In Azkaban the cries, moans, sobs, groans, screams of despair, broken sleep, the ceaseless depletion of all happiness and endless torture of the blackest memories all seemed to blend into eachother until they were hardly distinguishable any more. After so many years in Azkaban, only the points of interest chopped through, such as the imprisoned Deatheaters calling out for Peter Pettigrew's blood or listening in to new prisoners' cries in the desperate hope of anything that might lead to Peter, or snippets of any news of the outside world.

But that was not the case here. All you could hear were howls and sobs of melancholy drifting eerily from the depths of the toilet and echoing even more horribly around the bathroom walls. No screams, shrieks or cries that might tell you something. And unlike the meaningless melancholy of Azkaban, the melancholy of Moaning Myrtle cut and pierced Sirius to the very core - for it was all directed straight at him. It pounded and compounded his guilt further and further. He could have moved away to a hiding place where he would not hear that wailing anymore. But he didn't. He just sat there and took it in utter resignation, a deserved punishment.

It was up to dear old Peeves to take a hand once more. It had been quite an unusual length of days for Peeves to drop by, but here he was yet again. He was bouncing up and down above the howling cistern and tormenting it even more as he shouted down the depths:

"Moaning Myrtle's so Grim! Moaning Myrtle's lost her Grim and doesn't know where to find it!"

He cackled viciously as he heard the frightened, anguished howl of protest responding from the depths. He stuck his head right down the toilet and shouted even more loudly than before:

"Moaning Myrtle's lost her Grim! Moaning Myrtle's so Grim!"

You could barely hear the obstreperous ghastly taunts for they were almost indistinguishable from the howling depths. And now Peeves realised that his moment had at last come. Moaning Myrtle had lost her Grim, so now:

"Moaning Myrtle's down the drain! Moaning Myrtle's down the drain!"

The howl now turned into a pleading, anguished shriek of protest. But this only served to spur Peeves into his final act of spiteful victory. He removed his head from the toilet and with a glow of cackling, ultimate, evil triumph, he reached for the flushing mechanism -

"YEEEEK! Let me go, you stinky old Grim! Let me go!"

Myrtle was most surprised to hear that it was now Peeves who was howling and moaning. She lifted her despondent head out of the toilet.

And then her normally despondent face broke out into one of her extremely rare roars of laughter. It was the kind of laughter she produced when she took perverse pleasure in others' misfortune. On this occasion, however it was perverse pleasure compounded with the deliciously sweet taste of revenge. Now it was Moaning Myrtle's turn to roll and bob up and down in the air.

Her Grim had Peeves firmly in its grip and it was shaking the extremely puffed and angry Peeves to and fro like a dog playing with a toy. Peeves chattered indignantly and whooped in terror as the Grim now swung him back and forth. The Grim's tail wagged delightfully as the now extremely peeved Peeves continued to sway back and forth in its jaws like a rag doll. All his curses and yells were drowned by Myrtle's rollicking, cackling laughter rebounding off the walls of the bathroom.

Now Myrtle just had to double over with laughter. The Grim's eyes gleamed and its tail wagged excitedly as something even more mischievous flashed through its mind. The Grim brought the furious little Peeves over to Myrtle and dropped him in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. The hitherto flushed Peeves now paled in terror as he saw the Grim raise its head towards the flushing mechanism -

The loudest shriek this bathroom had ever known shot out like a cannonball as Peeves leapt right out of the toilet. He high-tailed out the door at a far spanking pace than last time, leaving dashes of toilet water splattering in his wake. Gales of Moaning Myrtle's laughter floated gloriously down the corridor after him. If any ghost had heard her then, they would have turned extremely pearly pale and wonder if Moaning Myrtle had gone insane.

Myrtle just rolled and rolled about with laughter, clutching her sides that would have been aching had she been alive. The Grim licked and licked her, and wagged and wagged its tail. It couldn't stop. It rolled about in the air in unison with Moaning Myrtle, licking and licking her, whichever way she rolled in laughter.

But no matter how hard Myrte would laugh and laugh, eventually she would have to stop. When she did, the Grim just stared at her in mid-air, waiting for the verdict. Only a short while ago she had been shunning the same Grim because she was heartbroken that it was not really a Grim. What would she say now?

All Myrtle could do right now was stare back at the Grim, not knowing which way to turn. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to say. She didn't even know what to feel. She stared and stared at the Grim in a confused, stupid way.

The Grim understood. There was only one thing it could do. It would have change back to its human form and see what she would do now.

So the Grim gingerly backed away slightly and transformed back into the ghostly form of the ragged skeleton of a wizard. It was the most tentative transformation that Sirius had ever done. He hesitated to meet Myrtle's eye. But when he heard no response from her, it was too unbearable not to.

Frantically, nervously, he raised his eyes to meet hers.

Those eyes behind those thick pearly glasses were still as bulbous as a toad's. But her mouth was wobbling and mouthing, as if she was trying to say something but no words would form.

Sirius racked his barely coherent mind for something to say. There was only one thing that leapt to mind, although it sounded utterly stupid.

"Hello, Myrtle." His voice sounded so low, croaky and derelict.

At least it finally finally prompted something from Moaning Myrtle.

"H-h-hello." Her voice sounded so low, meek and delicate.

He would have to think of something further. "We had a good laugh, didn't we?"

Her stupified face broke into a grin as the memory came back. Her hesitant voice dissolved into giggles and her ghostly form shook with laughter again.

Laughing was something Sirius had been long out of practice with, but now he thought it was prudent to go along with the flow. His rusty vocal cords were now forced into strained, raspy chortles that sounded just like they were - long since forgotten what true laughter is. There was only two kinds of laughter that Sirius could remember in Azkaban. The first was that horrible, infamous, laugh he had burst into that fateful day when the Rat blew up that Muggle street. To this day, Sirius had no idea why he had burst out into that ghastly cackle, althoug it was one of the most horrible memories that he had been forced to relive over and over for twelve years. The other was that mocking, taunting, sadistic laughter he kept hearing from those Azkaban guards - especially when they...did things...

For the first time in twelve years there was a totally different kind of laughter for Sirius. It may be miles out of practice, but at least it had the support of intermingling with the laughter of one who was normally as depressed as an Azkaban prisoner that mirth and merriment were totally beyond her - unless it was at someone else's expense. For a long, long time, they just laughed and laughed together...totally oblivious that they had started hugging eachother and wouldn't stop embracing eachother as they rolled and rolled around in the air, chortling and cackling.

It hit them like a thunderclap when they realised what they were doing.

Hugging eachother?

Moaning Myrtle actually embracing?!?

This was hilarious! Simply, unbelievably hilarious!

They shrieked and then fell upon themselves again in utterly uproarious laughter. Sirius' laughter was still rusty and creaky but it was remembering its old mischievous, hearty schoolboy skill now...

A long, long time had to pass before the last vestiges of the laughter were swallowed up by the dour bathroom walls. Sirius was shaking like a jelly and utterly dazed. All the laughter, the esctacy and the excitement had been just too much for a poor battered soul from Azkaban who hadn't known a flicker of happiness for twelve years. As for Myrtle, tears were running down her face. Now that in itself was not unusual for Moaning Myrtle. What was unusual was that these were tears of joy...

*~*~*

It was approaching midnight before either of them could muster enough composure to speak to one another. Myrtle still did not comprehend that it was none other than the infamous fugitive that everyone was looking for who was floating in front of her. But she was no longer angry or crushed that he was not a Grim after all. Instead, she was intrigued; intrigued to know more about this strange ragged wizard ghost...

It had been years since Sirius had dared to trust, or confide in anyone. He had been let down so badly by Barty Crouch, by the wizard justice system, by Peter Pettigrew - and by himself - that daring to trust someone was something so difficult for him to do. The last time he had dared to trust anyone with something so important - namely the Rat - had only ended up like...this. But now he was far beyond that stage with Moaning Myrtle. She had seen too much now...besides, she wasn't running off and bringing in the Dementors or something. And there was so much of her in himself, and him in her...

It was a hesitant, grating, difficult, step to undertake, daring to confide...but he had to take the plunge...

"Er...You know Olive Hornby?"

Her face flushed a vivid grey. Whether it was anger, hate or torment he could not tell; but it looked like she was on the verge of tears again.

"I'm like you. I'm trying to get someone, like you wanted to get Olive Hornby."

Her entire countenance instantly changed into an enormous, beaming, devilish grin. She was at all attention.

Sirius pulled the newspaper clipping from his robes once more. As Myrtle peered over, Sirius pointed to the Rat on the boy's shoulder.

Myrtle nodded in recognition. "I've seen that rat."

"Yeah, well, he's not a rat." Sirius spat. "He's a Deatheater!"

Myrtle abruptly stopped picking her spot. "A Deatheater?"

"Yes, and he's an Animagus. Just like me!" To reinforce his point, Sirius jumped into his own Animagus form and then shot back again.

"But who is he?"

"Peter Pettigrew!"

"Peter Pettigrew? You mean the boy who used to come in here sometimes with the werewolf, James Potter and Sirius Black and - OH!" Myrtle's face lit in horrified recognition. "You! You're Sirius Black! You're the one everybody's talking about!"

Sirius stared at her, open-mouthed and stricken. He was far too horror-struck to even think what to do now.

Myrtle was now shaking like a jelly. Her voice was whimpering. "You're the man who escaped from Azkaban! You're the mass killer!" Her voice was wobbling, as if she were about to burst into yet another flood of tears. She floated backwards, as if trying to back away from him.

Sirius suddenly found his voice at last. "Well, you know who I am now. Why don't you go and tell everyone? Go on! Why don't you?" He glared at her wildly as if he were openly daring her to go out and turn him in.

Myrtle just continued to stare back at him. But now her gaze was shifting to wide-eyed and terrified to cross-eyed and confused. Unknowingly, she had stopped retreating backwards and just drifted in bewildered hesitation. It looked as if she was torn between terror and something else.

The truth was, Myrtle had found that her mind was caught in some bizarre paradox that was beyond explanation. There was something stopping her just rushing away in a panic from the infamous mass murderer - yet she couldn't even fathom what it was. It was utter torture to her poor, confused, battered mind. The usual tears started to well at the feeling of being tortured, but instead of her usual howling, Myrtle's mouth just flapped and fluttered, but no sound was coming...

Sirius just hovered in front of her, waiting in mounting anxiety.

Myrtle couldn't stand it anymore. Uttering a piercing, tortured shriek, she plunged headlong back into her usual toilet. Sirius set himself down right beside it. He continued to sit there, never moving or uttering a sound. He could only wait and wait in the most awful silence. What would she decide? Would she turn him in? Why wasn't she turning him in?

It was yet another eternity before Myrtle's head poked out of the toilet once again. It was a most tentative head this time. She was no longer crying but her eyes were bulging with the look that the frightened uncertainty that not knowing what to expect gives them.

Sirius stared back at her, his own eyes bulging in the same uncertainty. His mouth quivered, as if they were trying to demand, "Well?" But no sound was forthcoming.

Myrtle began to stammer. "You-you saved me."

Sirius was now seized with wild hope.

"You sa-saved me from the Grindylows!" Myrtle's voice mounted in excitement as she kept on gabbling. "You saved me from Peeves! You've saved me from Peeves so many times! You've been so nice to me! Nobody's ever been so nice to me! You make me laugh! You're so much fun!"

Myrtle just couldn't stop bobbing up and down. Yes, that was it! She was indebted to Sirius Black! For the first time ever, Moaning Myrtle had a Wizard's Debt to pay!

Myrtle was positively gushing now as she was overcome with the feeling of feeling so honoured. Wasn't this just so flattering? Moaning Myrtle with a Wizard's Debt!

Never, never, before, had Moaning Myrtle been indebted to anybody. After all, who could she possibly be indebted to? Nobody would ever step in to help the likes of poor, miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle. Throughout her lifetime, everybody either gave Myrtle the widest berth possible, or they would tease her relentlessly about her funny glasses, her perpetual moaning, or her spotty face until she fled from them and retreated into the toilet. But nobody had ever stepped in to help Myrtle in any way.

Until now.

Myrtle now drew up close beside Sirius. If this "mass murderer" had bothered to step in to save Moaning Myrtle, he couldn't be all that bad.

Sirius, now overwhelmed with profound relief, huddled down close to dear Myrtle.

*~*~*

Words did not come easy to Sirius after twelve years of Azkaban. In Azkaban they all went silent, except when they cried out in their sleep. Besides, they had nobody to make conversation with, except for the wizard guards or the odd inspection from the Ministry. Some even forgot how to speak at all. They had been reduced to hollow, mute shells of their former selves. Sirius was lucky enough not to be one of them. But after years of being rendered mute, forming conversation was as rusty and creaky as his voice.

It was fortunate that Sirius was such a kindred spirit with Moaning Myrtle. They they both understood that now. There was a taciturn, instinctive telepathy between them. Sirius could make the logistics of his long, unspeakable ordeal in the Fortress of Azkaban so comprehensible to Moaning Myrtle without the need for any spoken words.

For the perpetual misery-boots, the subject of Azkaban was a riveting one. It seemed as if Myrtle had been born under a Dementor, the way she always carried on. So it was fascinating to hear about what life was like in the ultimate pit of miserable, moping moaning. Myrtle sat spellbound and wide-eyed as Sirius struggled to find the words to put his ordeal into comprehensible words. It was not easy. No words could ever properly describe what Sirius had been through in these past twelve years. But the bond between them was so strong that Myrtle understood all-too-well. Her spellbound face looked even more miserable than ever.

Her face lit up, however, as Sirius found the words to comprehend why he had never gone mad - by clinging to the thought of innocence, which the Dementors could never take away - and retreating to his Animagus form. Myrtle could certainly relate to the latter. She was no Animagus, but she retreated to her toilet when her eternal misery grew particularly unbearable. However, combatting a bottomless pit of despair by clinging to a non-happy thought which could not be taken away was totally new to her.

Myrtle screwed up her spotty face to try it. She racked her mind trying to find a thought that she could cling onto...but it was no use. All her usual thoughts were of gloom and misery. There was not a single non-happy thought that she could use as a weapon against her constat misery. Her face now screwed up in anguish yet again.

Sirius seized her tightly to stop her plunging back down into the toilet for yet another tantrum of tears. Desperately, he reminded her that he needed to get the Rat, and he needed her help.

"Just like when you were after Olive Hornby, remember? I want to get the Rat like you want to get Olive Hornby!"

Ah. Now here was a non-happy thought that her well of misery couldn't drown - the thought of revenge!

Now it was coming back. Myrtle was remembering how delicious the thought of getting Olive Hornby was. The obsession of revenge had become so consuming that her usual quagmire of gloom had retreated. But once the Ministry had put an end to it, the quagmire of misery swallowed her up again.

Now here was another thought of revenge. Yes, it was doing the trick alright. All thoughts of gloom had vanished abruptly from Myrtle's ghostly head. She leaned forward excitedly, to hear how and why it was so imperative to get the Rat...