Where the Lost Children Are

All children, except one, grow up.

She is forever stuck in that awkward stage between late childhood and early adolescence that everyone else is so happy to forget once it's behind them.

She's trapped. Trapped in the silvery outline of a plump, clumsy body that she hated even when it was solid, trapped in the confines of a thirteen year-old mind that will never get a chance to mature, trapped in the gloomy darkness of abandoned bathrooms and pipes filled with dirty water.

Time passes differently when you are a ghost. After the first few years, when the novelty wears off and you're slowly letting go of your attachment to the world of the living, the boundaries between present, past, and future are starting to fade. Ghosts exist in the ever-present now; it's the only thing that makes sense to them. It takes something alive to make them aware of the passing of seconds, hours, and days again; only through the living can they manage to tell past and future apart. However, it's rare for a living creature to pique their interest in such a way.

To Myrtle, it has only happened with two people in fifty years.

The first one was the black-haired boy with his brilliantly green eyes behind the ugly glasses. He was different from all the others who made fun of her, mocked her pathetic existence in S-bends and lead pipes, and dubbed her with the nickname she hates so much. He did not laugh like his red-haired companion, and neither did he talk about her as if she weren't there like the bossy girl that was with them. Even if he didn't keep his promise to visit her from time to time, she remembers him for the way he talked to her - as if she were important, as if she mattered.

The second one is - different.

He walks into the boys' bathroom when she's just about to leave through the sink. He leans against the wall, and then slides down to sit on the cold tiles of the floor; it looks as if his legs were collapsing under his weight all of a sudden. His face is white as a sheet, and when he draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, Myrtle can see how his hands are shaking. His face disappears behind a veil of silver-blond hair when he rests his forehead on his knees. He hasn't noticed her.

After a moment, his shoulders are shaking, too.

Torn between hesitation and sudden curiosity, Myrtle floats closer. She isn't sure if he is crying; she's seen girls cry in her bathroom plenty of times, but the boys she's caught at it were usually a lot smaller. This one is tall and gangly, almost a man grown.

Being invisible is for a ghost what being silent is for a living person - easy for some, impossible for others. Myrtle is quite good at it when she has to. She settles on the floor next to him, careful not to make a sound.

He's really crying.

He's very quiet about it; unlike the little girls who come to her bathroom to cry, unlike herself when she's upset. There are no sobs or wails to be heard, nothing but his uneven, ragged breathing.

Someone knocks at the door.

His head jerks up, and now she can see the tears that are streaming down his cheeks. He doesn't get up, though, and she's surprised for a moment that he's not worried about the person who is outside walking in and seeing him. She knows that boys usually don't want to be found crying.

Then the person outside starts rattling the doorknob, and she realizes he must have spelled it shut when he entered although she never heard him say a spell. She is a little awed at that; few students manage wordless spells, and she has never met anyone who uses them when he doesn't need to.

A voice from the other side of the door interrupts her thoughts. "Draco? Are you in there?"

He - Draco? - leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes; Myrtle thinks he looks very, very tired. "Go away, Greg." His voice is firm; no-one would be able to guess he's been crying a moment ago.

There is a brief moment of silence, and then the voice outside the door says, "Right." Myrtle listens to the sound of retreating footsteps and is glad this Greg person has stopped bothering Draco. Has he been mean to him? Myrtle knows from her own experience how mean boys can be. Did this Greg - his voice had sounded so ugly and brutal - do something that made Draco lock himself up in the bathroom? It has happened to her many times when she was alive, and her heart goes out to the blond boy next to her.

Whatever they did to him, it must have been pretty bad. The tears have stopped, but he hasn't opened his eyes again, and his hands are balled into fists in his lap.

Myrtle desperately wants to know what's the matter with him, but she can't bring herself to speak. She remains at his side, invisible; only in her mind, she reaches out towards him.

I'm here. You're not alone. Is this why you're locking yourself in when you need to cry - because you don't have anyone to talk to? I know how it is, believe me.

Are she sharp lines between his brows softening a bit? He doesn't seem to clench his fists as tightly as he did a moment ago, and Myrtle feels a strange thrill going through her. Did he feel her presence somehow? Some of the living can be surprisingly perceptive when it comes to ghosts.

Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. All your secrets are safe with me. You look like you're carrying a weight that's too heavy for you to bear. Let me help you.

Without opening his eyes, he lifts his hand to wipe away the tears from his face. He takes a deep, shaking breath, and Myrtle is sure that she can see the tension in his shoulders and neck ease a bit. She's barely able to control her excitement; she has made him feel better. She, ugly, stupid Myrtle, who no-one likes and no-one wants to be friends with, has helped this boy who is so beautiful with his fine, narrow hands and silvery hair and pale skin. She has stopped his tears, she has eased his suffering. He has trusted her with his weakness, his pain, his hurt feelings, he has accepted the help she has offered. She matters to him.

He opens his eyes - silvery grey, and still striking although they're swollen and bloodshot. When he gets up and walks over to the sink, she floats along, staying as close to him as possible so he'll know she won't abandon him. She watches him wash his face and then look into the mirror with an expression that is a lot less miserable than before. He narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders, and when he turns towards the door, his steps are firm and confident.

She has done this for him, she has given him his strength back. He will not forget it, and neither will she.

Will you come back and see me?

She doesn't dare say it aloud, but she doesn't doubt any longer that he can feel what she's trying to tell him, and when he hesitates for a moment before opening the door, she knows that she was right. She thinks back to the few words he has spoken and tries to imagine how his voice would sound if he answered. It would be different from before when he sent the nasty boy away; it would be soft and clear and friendly, and he would tell her, "I will - I promise."

When the door falls shut behind him, she is convinced that she has heard him say it.

Myrtle presses her hands to her chest; if she still had a heart, she's sure it would be beating loud enough for the whole school to hear now. There will be no going back to her own bathroom for her. She needs to stay here where he can find her. He trusts her, and she will not disappoint him.

He will be back like he's promised to. It may take him a while, but sooner or later, when they're bullying him again, or when he's feeling lonely again, he'll remember that there's this place where someone is waiting for him. Someone who listens, and cares, and understands.

One day, it will happen; she knows it will. He'll be sitting here again, crying like the first time, and then she'll have the courage she needs.

On that day, he'll look up with red-rimmed eyes and see her before him, and he'll read sympathy and compassion and reassurance in her face when she smiles at him and asks gently,

"Boy, why are you crying?"

FIN