Pygmalion

Pygmalion

A Harry/Myrtle Romance

by Dethryl

"That's just it, Myrtle, they've all gone crazy."

Harry Potter was a very confused fifteen year-old boy. In the month or so since he'd been back at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, his personal life had turned upside down. All of his friends had gone mental. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, his two best friends, were always together, giggling, and seemed to never want to be around him. Seamus Finnigan was always with Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas was always with Parvati's twin sister Padma, and even chubby, clumsy, awkward Neville Longbottom was keeping company with Lavender Brown. Harry didn't understand it at all. How could one summer holiday make all of his friends start acting like idiots? It wasn't just in his own Gryffindor House either; students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and even Slytherin had all gone nutters.

He had ground his teeth together until he could stand it no longer, fleeing the Tower, fleeing the living students, and finding himself in the girls' bathroom that held the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, which only Harry could open. (Voldemort could open it too, but he couldn't get inside the school!) He had stared long and hard at the entrance, wondering if it might not be the best thing to go into hiding until whatever had posessed the school faded, but his reflection had been interrupted by the resident ghost of that bathroom, Moaning Myrtle.

She'd always rather liked Harry, helping him out when she would help no other. She had even invited him to share her toilet in the event that he died whilst down in the Chamber for the first time, fighting the Heir of Slytherin. She was bi-polar, switching from sweet and nice to ugly and angry, then back again in a heartbeat. She was nice enough in her own way, and was always happy to listen to Harry.

"They're living people," Myrtle said derisively. "Of course they're crazy. It's not like being dead is any better though."

If there was one thing Myrtle loved to talk about, it was how much she hated being dead. He quickly moved to head that line of thought off.

"You're a good listener, Myrtle, thank you."

She smiled shyly. Though she was dead, Myrtle was also forever a young girl, and she was indeed sweet on Harry. His compliment would have made her blush to her roots, were she still capable of blushing.

* * *

"And they're forever having a go at each other," Harry said helplessly.

He was back in the second floor girls' bathroom, his friends having once again driven him to distraction. Ron and Hermione had been officially a couple for the last month, and ever since then had driven everyone around them crazy with their bickering. Their relationship was almost as bi-polar as Myrtle was. One minute the pair would be holding hands, making couple-faces at each other, and the next they'd be in a raised-voices, arm-waving row over something stupid.

Sometimes Ron started it, other times Hermione started it. She kept up her work on S.P.E.W., which Ron insisted on calling spew, despite frequent assurances from purebloods that house elves neither wanted nor could handle freedom. Ron would question her sharply about her whereabouts whenever she'd been out of his sight for more than thirty minutes, which she, as "a free woman," grew to detest.

"It won't last," Myrtle predicted. "Care to bet on how long it takes for one of them to kill the other?"

Morbid humour, but then he seldom got any other kind from Myrtle.

"Can you imagine them killing each other?" he asked. "Then they'd be stuck together in the afterlife, doomed to always irritate the other."

Myrtle giggled wickedly. "That sounds wonderful," she said breathily. Harry hadn't meant to be funny, but her sense of humour was rubbing off on him.

* * *

"I'm going to kill them both," Harry promised darkly. "Got any ideas?" he asked Myrtle.

He'd gotten rather fond of the second floor girls' bathroom, he reflected. It was the sole place of sanity in the torrent of angst, sappy romance, and raging hormones that seemed to fill the school wherever he went.

Ron and Hermione had been caught shagging in the common room by prefects on their return from the rounds of the castle. Instead of handling it in a mature fashion, neither was talking to the other, blaming the other for getting caught. Both parties were teased by their friends, but neither would ever put up with it, which only led to more teasing. Emotions in the Tower were highly charged, and Harry felt it was only a matter of time before the whole situation exploded.

"Lure them up to the Astronomy Tower and push them off?" Myrtle suggested brightly.

Harry laughed darkly. "Wonderful idea."

They sat together in silence for awhile, each taking comfort in the other person's presence.

"Harry?" Myrtle asked tentatively.

"Yes?" he replied absently.

"Why do you spend so much time here with me?"

There it was, the million Galleon question.

"I like you, Myrtle. You're not crazy like the rest of those folk out there. You've been a real friend to me this year."

That was not the answer she was looking for.

"Harry, I might be dead, but I'm still a girl," she began. He looked up at her, a hunted look coming into his eyes.

"We've spent so much time talking and being with each other..." she trailed off.

Harry's eyes were a bit wild now. Some hidden male sixth sense had kicked in, warning him to flight.

"IthinkIloveyou," she said hurridly, before she could change her mind.

Harry stared at her, dumbstruck. Absently, his shocked brain took notice of her, though she hadn't changed- couldn't change!- a bit since he'd first met her during his second year. Her long black hair was still done up in pigtails, neatly bound. Her eyes were a pale blue, washed out a bit because she was ghostly, but still pretty. Her face was slightly round, but she was a pleasant-enough sort of girl to look at. Then he shook his head, wondering what on earth he was thinking.

"Myrtle," he said, his voice cracking, "I'm not really sure how to say this, but-"

Her face screwed up and tears began to pour down her cheeks. "I know I'm dead!" she shrieked, half deafening him. "Does that mean I can't love anyways?" And she turned away from him, diving down the drain at one of the sinks, leaving him alone to listen to her sobs, which echoed off the walls.

Harry felt a wrench in his gut. He felt horrible now. Myrtle had been nothing but sweet to him since he'd sought refuge here, now he had rejected her sincere expression of love. His insides twisting, Harry wanted to die himself. What sort of person was he, anyway?

"Myrtle?" he said softly, hoping to make himself heard over her sobbing shrieks of misery.

"Myrtle, I'm sorry."

No answer.

"Myrtle, please come out of there, I feel foolish talking to a drain."

Slowly she oozed up out of the drain, her hair a mess, her face a fright. "Want to mock me some more," she said spitefully.

He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Myrtle, I didn't want to upset you, I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to say."

"Who said you had to say anything? I don't expect you to love me back. I'm dead afterall. I just wanted you to know that before I told you to not come here anymore."

"You want me to go?" Harry asked, taken aback. This bathroom was his only refuge.

"I hurt all over whenever I see you," she sniffed. "I love you and want you to hold me, but you can't, because you're alive and I'm dead. The dead can hurt too, you know."

If he could have, Harry would have taken her hand. "Myrtle, don't send me away. You are my friend."

"We can still be friends?" she said sadly. "Boys never mean that when they say it."

Her pain was almost palpable. Harry's stomach and heart were in knots, yet he didn't fully know why.

"Myrtle, I- I love you too." The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, but once he had spoken them, he knew them to be true.

Her whole demeanor turned hopeful. "Don't tease me, Harry. You're not a cruel boy."

"I'm not teasing," he said wonderously. "I mean it. I love you."

She stared at him for a second, making sure he was speaking truth. Then with a shriek of joy, she rushed at him, apparently intending to hug him with all her strength. She went careening through him instead, sending chills all down his body. Then she realized what had happened, and her face screwed up again, ready to bawl her eyes out.

"Myrtle!" he cried, but it was no use. Her emotions broke, and she was unreachable. He tried to calm her down, but was driven to leave or lose his hearing.

* * *

Harry had learned from Hermione that when one had questions, the best place to go was the library. Filled with the realization of his love for Myrtle, he was bound and determined to find some way for them to be together, short of dying himself. But what could be done?

Harry's only hope lay in the slim book of Greek myths that Hermione had brought back from her summer holiday in the Greek Isles. He'd decided to skip his Astronomy homework one night and had instead read that book cover to cover, searching for some fabulous mythical creature to use as his Animagus form.

He remembered the story of Pygmalion, who had seen so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor them, and resolved to live unmarried. He had been a sculptor, and had made a flawless statue of ivory, more beautiful than any living woman. Pygmalion had admired his own work, eventually falling in love with it. He had prayed to the gods to bring his statue woman to life, and Venus, the Goddess of Love, had granted his wish.

Harry had no skill with hammer and chisel, not that he knew of. He would not be carving a statue from ivory, but surely there must be a way to persevere. He found his answer in a book of obscure Charms. Checking out the book, he returned to the bathroom.

Praying that he was doing the right thing, he summoned into existence a pillar of rough ivory.

"Myrtle!" he called to her.

She came over to him, her face ravaged by her weeping. "What'd'you want, Harry?" she asked him petulantly.

"Look pretty for me?"

She perked at once, her polarity shifting once again. Instantly she was as attractive as the dead could get.

"Now hold it for a moment."

Harry held his wand in the proscribed manner and cast the Image Replication Charm, hoping that it would work for a ghostly source. Brilliant scarlet light flashed all around them as the spell did its work. When it had faded away, Harry rubbed his eyes to clear the after effects of the flash from his eyelids. He felt immensely drained from casting the unfamiliar spell, but it was worth it.

There before him stood a life-sized statue of Myrtle, every detail correct. The real Myrtle's face was filled with wonder. "Harry, what are you doing?"

"Helping," he answered. "I hope."

Now he had to attempt some of the most difficult Transfiguration he'd ever heard of: changing stone to flesh and blood. He changed his grip on his wand. He pointed it at the statue, bending every ounce of his willpower to the task. Shimmering ripples passed over the surface of the statue as Harry worked his magic.

Pain erupted in his skull, blinding him with whiteness. He collapsed to the floor, his wand falling from his fingers. Myrtle was at his side in an instant, though she could do nothing but watch.

Harry raised his head and gazed at his statue through pain-blurred eyes. The colour was no longer pale ivory, but black and flesh-tone. He'd done it.

Myrtle squealed as she flew around and around the flesh statue. "It looks just like me!" she said happily. "But what good is this," she asked, suddenly dejected. "I can't get inside that body."

Harry's hopes fell as well. Surely there was some spell somewhere, but his own magical energies were exhausted, and he didn't know the spell in any case, nor where to start looking.

"Harry? Harry, are you in there?"

Hermione. Wonderful. Just the person he wanted to deal with right now. His head ached, and if she was going to continue with more of her stupid whinging...

"What do you want?" he said rather ungraciously.

Hermione stepped back, taken by surprise at his rudeness. "What's bothering you?" she asked. "Good Lord, that's Myrtle!" she exclaimed, catching sight of the flesh statue.

"Not quite," Harry said, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Harry, this thing is flesh and bone," Hermione said, touching it with a tentative finger. "But it's not alive. What on earth are you up to?"

"Pygmalion," was all he said.

Hermione's eyes opened wide. She seemed to understand immediately. "Harry, you're crazy. You actually think the Greek gods are going to bring Myrtle back to life?"

"I was hoping for a spell of some sort that could do the deed."

"But why?" she asked imploringly. "Why put yourself through this? What's got you so wired up?"

Harry snapped. "Because I'm in love with her!"

Hermione put a hand to her face. "Oh, oh that's just lovely," she said, giving him a quick hug. She shifted her stance, becoming unhostile.

"There's got to be a way," she said absently, already combing her mental library. "We should go check the Restricted Section."

This was ludicrous. "Out!" he said firmly. "Go look if you feel you have to, but nobody asked you to barge in here and take charge."

Hermione looked hurt, but Harry gave her no quarter as he pushed her out into the hall, closing and locking the door behind her. He ignored her knocking on the thick English oak.

Harry fell to his knees before the statue. Myrtle knelt down next to him. She touched his face with a ghostly hand. "Harry, you did this for me?" she asked softly.

He nodded, too tired to speak.

"You really do love me," she whispered, not daring to believe it.

Harry nodded again, wishing he could do more. "But now I don't know what to do."

They stayed that way for many hours, until finally Harry drifted off to sleep. His dreams were strange, filled with human sacrifice, smoking altars, and much pomp and ceremony.

It was the festival of Venus, and he watched from the eyes of Pygmalion as he prayed to the gods to give him his lovely statue to wife. Harry shared in the joy when the sculptor had returned home to find his statue alive.

Harry woke suddenly, still caught in the mind of Pygmalion. He cried out, "Venus, Goddess of Love, hear this mortal plea. Goddess, who art capable of all things, I pray you, unite her soul and spirit with this body I have crafted! Give her to me to love, to cherish, to adore! For Love's sake!"

Then he came back to himself, and he shook off the dream. He got to his feet, stretching, feeling the muscles in his back and legs protest. He cocked his head. Something had changed.

His statue of flesh lay on the floor. The limbs had changed position. The chest was rising and falling gently. In the chill air of the bathroom, breath came forth as vapour. Harry's heart lurched. It couldn't be! He touched her, barely daring to hope. Her skin was warm. She was alive!

Head reeling, Harry knelt down and pressed his lips to hers, waking her with a kiss like some fairy tale Prince. Her lips parted slightly, then she was kissing him back with heated passion. Their lips broke apart and her eyes, her beautiful blue eyes, opened, gazing at him with absolute adoration.

"Harry," she said breathlessly. "I'm alive again!"

"Myrtle," he whispered. "I love you."

They embraced, each scarcely believing in the miracle that had brought them together. When at last they let each other go, tears were flowing freely from them both. It took some time for them to compose themselves, and when they did, Myrtle blushed rosily. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, for the blush ran from her cheeks to her neck, down to splash across her chest.

"Why didn't you conjure me any clothes?"

Finé