Omnia Mors Perimit

Myrtle Minna Hackensack had always been an odd creature - ask her eight siblings, they'd gladly confirm it. Born in 1927, her parents had been Mr Henry Hackensack, a salesman for automobile replacement parts and his wife Wilhelmina. She had been the seventh of nine children, five boys and four girls, none of them exceptional, neither in terms of sharpness nor looks, and only little Myrtle had given the impression to be an exception of the rule. Her exhausted parents of course had had little clue just how extraordinary one of their children might be; they had simply dismissed her to be an oddball - whiny and moody, and decidedly strange. Their other children had never caused them half as much inconveniences as Myrtle.

Her two younger brothers had been frightened of her - laughably enough; the others had bullied her even more, just to 'make her do it again', as her brother Roland had once pointed out, when questioned why he had forced his younger sibling into a broom cupboard and bolted the door. Well, as it was, Myrtle had done it again, namely freed herself after some struggles, and no one could have accounted how exactly, least herself. Somehow, the broom stick that had blocked the handles of the cupboard had splintered and given way to the frenzied girl, who had burst out with a slightly mad air, albeit her physical weakness.

When the explanation for this, and plenty of other weird things, had finally been delivered, Mr and Mrs Hackensack had been torn between relief and repulsion. A strange man had come to their house, introduced himself as 'Professor Kettleburn', asked them to send away the other children and sit down themselves, and perhaps, take a glass of brandy. What he had told them next was enough to make Mrs Hackensack, actually a teetotaller, drink three shots at once, and Mr Hackensack had nearly called for the police, to take care of this guy who must clearly have sprung from a mental asylum.

But after some more explanations, and proofs - that 'Professor' had taken out a piece of wood, waved with it, and made the furniture float in mid-air - it had begun to make sense, as much as a message like his could make sense, anyway. Myrtle, a witch? Mr Hackensack hadn't had the heart to speak it out aloud, but the term 'witch' had been used for Myrtle before, and not just once, though it of course hadn't referred to any possible magical talent. No, as a matter of fact, Myrtle's elder sisters had often groaned that somebody like Myrtle would have been burnt on the stakes two centuries earlier still, and even her own mother had sometimes referred to her like this - 'get Myrtle, the darn witch'.

Myrtle herself couldn't have believed it either, though after swallowing the message, she had quickly seen the advantages - she'd get away from her terrible siblings, away from the murky brick house, where she had to share a room with all her wicked sisters. She had thought she'd make a new start, up where she truly belonged, among her own kind rather than those brutes that had been her brothers. She had been in for a most cruel disappointment, because in fact, her life wasn't to change much, boarding school for wizards and witches or not. She still had had to share a room with four extremely rude girls, she had still been bullied and pushed around, and she hadn't become any more brilliant either.

Her Hufflepuff house mates had labelled her 'Moaning Myrtle' for her constant nagging - her sister Alice had once given her the name 'Murky Myrtle', and Myrtle herself had been determined to regard this as a first step forwards - from 'murky' to 'moaning' was a progress, wasn't it. Still, she had spent most of her spare time in a bathroom just to avoid her fellow students, and quite frequently, because she hadn't wanted them to see that she had been crying again. The bane of her existence in this school had been a girl named Olive Hornby, one year her senior and in Ravenclaw, but no matter what Myrtle had tried, she hadn't been able to escape Olive's snide remarks, and her companions' scornful laughter.

"You're a witch, Myrtle, aren't you?" Olive had smiled sweetly. "So why for Rowena's sake can't you even manage to get rid of those pimples? That's quite feeble, even for you, isn't it?"

Olive could talk! She had been very pretty, with silky blonde curls, a peachy skin where no blemish had ever been seen, and those big brown eyes that hadn't been obscured by thick glasses. She had been slender, graceful, smart and popular - in short, she had been everything that Myrtle had been not, and her favourite sport to pass away time had been picking on the unhappy Hufflepuff - possibly for similar reasons than this one's brother Roland back then. To 'make her do it again', just that Olive had meant the little tantrums that Myrtle had thrown before barricading herself in the bathroom once more.

Olive had gladly accepted to do detentions for pursuing her favourite hobby, and some of the other students had acted as if she had been some sort of martyr, as if it had been unfair that she should write lines for tormenting Moaning Myrtle. Others had just ignored the complaints, not at last the Hufflepuff Prefects, who had flatly refused to do anything at all about Myrtle's sorrows and laments. Instead they had advised her to 'get a grip, bloody hell', compelling her to spend just another afternoon in her residential cubicle, crying her eyes out with this gross injustice.

"Good heaven's, get out of there, Myrtle!" Her Head of House had sighed.

"No!"

"You make it only worse by pouting, you know -"

"I?! Make it worse?!" she has screeched, scandalised.

"Why do you even give them the satisfaction to see you like that -"

"I'm not! They don't see me, that's why I'm here!"

"Oh, you know what I mean! You're making a total nincompoop out of yourself like this!"

Professor Bones hadn't meant to pick some more on the already harassed girl, but frankly, he had occasionally lost his nerve, too. There had always been students who hadn't fitted in, who had had difficulties to socialise, who had suffered from the other children's jokes. But Myrtle had been worse, in every respect. One couldn't even have felt much pity or compassion for her sake, too complacent, too self-pitiful, too stroppy she had been. Professor Bones had given a heart-felt sigh and left at last, to have a word with that Prefect who had vexed Myrtle so badly. But this one had only shrugged and declared that he couldn't have helped it, and his Head of House had noticed that he had employed just the same words that had darted through his own head whenever dealing with 'Moaning Myrtle'.

He had been displeased with himself when realising that he had subconsciously adopted that nickname, too. But he couldn't have helped this either, like his Prefects, like the other students, like Myrtle herself, probably. She had been just unbearable, trying for everyone's patience, even the truly good-hearted, kind children hadn't managed to stay clear of random mockery. And then, suddenly, the girl had been found dead, in her bathroom -

But after the first terrible shock, Professor Bones couldn't have denied from himself some stings of relief. It had been horrendous, of course. A murder - the poor girl - her poor parents - a murder, for Merlin's sake! And naturally, he had given severe detentions to the students who had blurted out loud that there had been any number of good reasons to kill Myrtle off. Just - secretly, and feeling grave pangs of conscience - Professor Bones couldn't have suppressed another sigh, and the notion that there had been some sort of truth to his students' remarks.

Monstrous to say it, but - the world hadn't been worse off without Myrtle Hackensack, and once the culprit had been found out and expelled from school, the whole story had quickly been forgotten. Professor Bones had even suspected that the extremely mild punishment for the boy who had unleashed the monster to kill Myrtle had been due to the fact that nobody had been genuinely dismayed with her death. Not even her parents had been mourning much; they had come to the school, fetched the petrified corpse of their dead daughter in apparent indifference, and Myrtle's teachers had learnt that the Hackensacks had lost their second eldest son in the Great War of the muggles already, just like one of their daughters during a bombing night of the Blitz. Those deaths had seemed to affect them very strongly, and Professor Bones had surmised that they had simply been too worn-out to realise that they had lost yet another child, and that the true grief would have followed later.

Only Olive Hornby, the girl who had been responsible for Myrtle shutting herself away that awful day, had indeed been appalled. She hadn't liked the chubby Hufflepuff, no, but by no means had she wanted her to be truly harmed either. She had felt guilty, and most amazingly, it had been her to reprimand her fellow students now for continuing to joke about the dead girl. But it had been no good.

Myrtle had been too young to die, she hadn't been ready, not prepared to advance to the next stage - whatever that may be. However, her spirits had not gone further to their new destination like they should have, like they would have in 999 out of a thousand cases, and she had remained a ghost instead. 'Trust Moaning Myrtle to be obstinate even when facing her own death!' Professor Bones had thought, being confronted with yet more trouble. Myrtle had returned to the school in her new ghostly shape, and sworn revenge.

Oddly enough - and what else could Myrtle have been but odd, right? - she hadn't taken out her malcontent on the boy who had been responsible for her death, no. She had ventured to torment her old foe Olive Hornby instead, by every means that she could have thought of. She had darted out of toilets to give Olive a fright, had made them regurgitate when Olive was in the cubicle, had lingered in this one's dorm and assaulted the girl in her sleep. During the O.W.L. exams, the Deputy Headmaster Professor Dumbledore, her only advocate in life, had been forced to ban Myrtle from the Great Hall to prevent her from swishing around Olive's head, and only after she had also caused havoc on Olive's elder brother Nicolas' wedding - she had finally been condemned by a Ministerial decree to stop haunting the unhappy girl.

This had been another cause for serious upset for Myrtle, who had found it yet another act of injustice that she'd be prohibited to make her enemy's life as miserable as her own had been. Her temper had dropped some more, if that was possible, and for the next ten years, she had refused to come out of the U-bend that had become her new home. She had been as lonely and isolated as a ghost as she had been in life, unwilling to associate with the other ghosts, who had soon given up on her, and only Peeves, the Poltergeist, had refrained from the policy of friendly ignoring. He had pestered her in every possible way, gibing her, scorning her, inventing chants of mockery on 'Mucky, miserable, monotonous, misanthropic, mouldy, miffed, moody, moribund, moping, Moaning Myrtle', and Myrtle had retaliated by venting her mortification on the students who'd stumble into her bathroom accidentally.

For fifty years it had been like that; Professor Bones had retired, the Headmaster had died, Professor Dumbledore had been appointed to be his successor. Thousands of students had walked the school corridors, humming the tune of 'Moping, Moaning Myrtle' under their breath - the song had been something of an evergreen. The ghost of the fifteen year old girl had remained on her own, even Peeves had lost his verve to tease her in the course of time. She had resigned to a 'life' - well, she hadn't found a better term yet, but it wasn't for a lack of trying - of loneliness, and found herself to be very deep after all, because of her serious mulling on the nature of death and so on.

But one day, some students had strutted into her bathroom; a girl that Myrtle had known from sight, and much more scandalising, two boys! They had been up to no good, she had seen at once, brewing forbidden potions. But that had been none of her business, right? And in time, she had even begun to take some liking in one of those two boys - he had been called Harry, and had always tried to be nice to her, very much unlike his two friends. She had believed Harry to be her friend, or something close to it; she had even ventured to offer him to share her bathroom, if he had been to die - which had seemed likely enough.

Once again, Myrtle had been let down in her hopes. Harry hadn't died, nor returned after a while, although he had promised, and she had been alone again, utterly buried in her persistent depression, and hopeless that anything would ever change. By now, even she had become somewhat fed up with that state, fifty years had been a long time to dwell on the same matter, and she had thought she had been ready for another new beginning. And it had come, in the shape of another boy, one she had known by sight already.

It should be mentioned at this point that Myrtle had developed a hobby of her own, roughly twenty years ago. She had never told anyone - except Harry, who had abandoned her so shamelessly - but every now and then, she'd glide through her beloved pipes, and make an appearance in the Prefect's Bathroom. Clandestinely, of course! If Peeves had ever known about it... Anyway, she had occasionally gone up to the Fifth Floor, to take a glimpse at some of the more delectable male visitors; some handsome by nature, others trained by Quidditch exercise, and some chosen few blessed by both.

Yes, she had long known that boy, before he had known her, though she hadn't told him that. She had spent some pleasant evening observing him through the tap nozzle, thoroughly relishing her top choice view on a well-shaped chest, a luscious backside, distinct features and piercing grey eyes. He hadn't been the only good-looking boy in the castle, and she wouldn't have bothered for him more than for anyone else, hadn't he come to her bathroom one day, with a tired expression, drawn his wand and hexed the door shut behind him before slouching down onto the floor and burying his head in his arms.

She thought he had fallen asleep, for he didn't move, nor gave any sign of life or activity - for a short, blissful minute, she even nurtured the hope that he might have died on that spot there, and that she'd have a companion to roam the bathroom from now on. But no - Myrtle had some experience with death after all, and this one was decidedly alive, she could see him breathing, even if it was just flatly.

If he wasn't up to die, he had nothing to do there, and that's what she was up to tell him in her most vociferous manner. "Oi! What you think you're doing here?! This is the girls bathroom!"

He didn't even raise his head. "Is that so? Well, then you've just got to deal with it, haven't you?"

"Me?!" she shrieked in exasperation. "I am a girl! You -"

"You're a ghost, I dare say that's not quite the same, is it. Now if you leave me alone, I won't disturb you either, so why don't you just beat it?"

"Because this is my place, and you've got no business here!"

"Funny, I haven't noticed a sign outside - 'Insane ghosts only'."

She glared at him, but he hadn't got the kindness to look up to her, so her filthy looks were quite wasted. What should she do? She threatened to attack him - the living didn't like it to be touched by ghosts, finding it unpleasant and cold and disturbing. But he merely chuckled under his breath, fluttered his hand at her and murmured, "Go ahead then. I don't care."

"You won't like this!"

"No, possibly I won't, but mark my words, I've got worse problems than you. Now would you please leave me alone, I've got to think about something -"

"And you can't do that in your own place?!"

Now he did raise his head at last, giving her a scornful sneer, and snarled, "If I could, do you reckon I'd sit here - in the girl's bathroom - quarrelling around with a ghost?"

"Why can't you do it in your own place?"

"Because -" he began, before his expression suddenly changed; it looked as if a door had been closed inside him. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, get lost, will you!"

For a start - Myrtle wouldn't be chased out of her own bathroom. Then - she was pretty used to insolence, but this boy was strangely different from the other intruders before him. And last but not least - she had recognised him when he had looked at her, and she remembered that he was quite a dish. So she zoomed down, not to harass him, but speak to him with as much compassion in her voice as she could muster, "No, I won't leave, for this is my own place. But perhaps I can help you."

"I sincerely doubt that!"

"You should give it a try, at least!"

"I don't think so!"

Whenever people had come into her bathroom, wearing an expression like this, it had always been because they were heartbroken for someone - Myrtle had seen long rows of unhappy faces in her time!

"You've got trouble with that girlfriend of yours?" she asked, remembering that she had sometimes seen him in the Prefect's Bathroom with a girl, doing - well, forbidden things! She had no clue about the present regulations, but she was positive that this was still as strictly prohibited as it had been in her own time.

He frowned. "Why would you know that I have a girlfriend?"

"Seen you with her," she replied evasively. "And you shouldn't make yourself uneasy because of her, she's not worth it!"

He gave a swift, mirthless chuckle, and muttered, "If it consoles you - I can figure that out myself, and no, it's surely not because of her!"

Myrtle was surprised - he didn't wear that look because of a girl? How odd! "Your name's Draco, right?"

"Right. And you are Moaning Myrtle, glad we've covered that, so would you please, please, leave me alone now? I'd really -"

"If you want me to leave you alone, you've got to go yourself, for I will stay right where I am. What's your problem?"

"None of your business, for a start!"

"No, possibly not. Being dead, I've got just few problems myself, you know. Well, Peeves, obviously. And boys who think nothing of the rules and go into girl's bathrooms, and won't even leave after one points it out to them. But otherwise -"

Now he sniggered, not really happy, but somewhat amused. "Can I ask you something? Why does it bother you so much whether I'm here or not? I wouldn't talk to you, you would hardly notice my presence, so why can't you just give it a rest, eh?"

"Way of the world! People always pester other people, and this is my place to do so!"

"I sort of like your attitude," he smirked. "I've got to remember that one - 'way of the world, people pester other people' -"

"So who's pestering you then?"

He hesitated for some minutes, scrutinising her closely, with his head leant back against the wall, and his eyes narrowed. But then, he indeed started to talk to her, in a resigned voice, telling her that he was in trouble, though he was absolutely unwilling to specify what sort of trouble, that his friends were getting on his nerves, especially that girlfriend, and hinted that the rest of the world was even worse. Oh, she understood just too well!

"And that's why you rather hang around a closed down bathroom than go to your own dorm?"

"Precisely," he sighed, closing his eyes. "And if it hadn't been for you, I'd take a little nap, and could go on with my life, or what's left of it, anyway!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic! Look at me - you've got a life, for a start!"

"I've got a life yet," he replied darkly. She mistook his meaning; thinking he referred to human mortality in general, and that he was a kindred spirit, philosophising about the nature of life and death just like herself. To encourage such worthy reflections, she told him about her own findings, and although she didn't obtain the wished effect, he at least smiled genuinely for the first time since coming in.

"That's how you pass eternity?" he asked. "Now I see why you're so ill-tempered!"

"Better than being ill-tempered because of one's friends," she muttered, offended.

"I'm not ill-tempered because of them. They're just the reason why I'm here."

"So why are you ill-tempered?"

"Because the D-," he bit his lip, and his face became a tinge paler yet. "Because someone wants to kill my mother, and it's my fault when something happens to her. Satisfied now?"

The subject of killings had never failed to rouse Myrtle's interest, seeing that she had been killed herself. But as no one had ever cared much about her being murdered, and not a family person to begin with, she hadn't got a notion what he could mean. "Yeah - so?"

"So?!" He stared at her, aghast. "I'm talking about my mother, you insane nanny goat!"

"No reason to be rude," she snapped back. "My mother's dead, too, and do you hear me complaining?"

He gaped at her for a minute, before shutting his mouth again, shaking his head. "Evidently, you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, so -"

"Oh, I do know what you're talking about! In this entire castle, there's nobody who knows only half as much as I about death, and murder, and -"

"So? What do you know then! What would you do to kill somebody, uh?"

"Monsters," she answered smugly. "I have been murdered by a giant monster!"

He snorted. "Let's assume you've had no monster at hand then!"

"Plenty of other possibilities, aren't there? Sir Nicholas, for an instance, has been decapitated - well, almost, but it's sufficed to do him in anyway-"

"Very impractical though."

"The Bloody Baron has duelled a muggle with a sword and got stabbed -"

"Even more impractical!"

"The Grey Lady's been put in a wall without her wand by her relatives -"

"I couldn't even start elaborating on the countless reasons why that's really the coronation of all impracticability!"

"The Fat Friar's been poisoned with his own mead, that he's brewed for his -"

He gave a start, and his expression changed from scorn to excitement. He got to his feet with one energetic move, grinned at her and said, "Well, Myrtle, turns out you might be the true expert after all! See you!"

He sprinted out of the bathroom, and Myrtle didn't harbour any hope that he would ever come back. They never did, none of them. But this boy was different - he did return, and in time, their conversations became less distanced, and he began to - well, sort of confide in her. He would listen to her in return, pitied her for her wretched experiences with Olive Hornby, appeared revolted by the story of her own death, and as it should turn out, her killer seemed related to his own problems. She asked him many times over, but he never answered on that particular head - only muttering that he must never speak it out, and that he'd get into even worse trouble if he did tell someone. For the first time, both in life and death, Myrtle had a friend; she even stopped to peep on him in the Prefect's Bathroom, because friends wouldn't do something like that. She had never been so fond of a person before, looking forward to his visits and eager to please him in every way she could.