Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 26: The Girl Who Died
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 13:57:30 +0000 UTCThe first time I saw the castle is still fresh in my mind. The towers rose above the foggy lake like a dream, and the windows glowed gold against the purple dusk. I was both excited and scared, and my heart was racing. The kind of nerves that make your fingers shake and your stomach turn, like you're not sure if you're about to get to a magical place or be eaten whole by it.
There were people on the boat talking to each other. Laughter. People were shocked by the tentacles in the water and the floating lanterns, and they gasped as they looked up at the castle. I tried to smile and join in, but no one acknowledged me. I don't think they even noticed me.
I had cleaned my glasses three times before we got there. It didn't work. They fogged up again as soon as we got into the Great Hall. The Sorting Hat was perched on a stool above us, and it seemed alive and incredibly intelligent. I wanted to hide under my robes..
Some students laughed when they heard my name, "Myrtle Warren." I don't know why. It might have been my hair. Or how I almost fell on my way to the chair. Or maybe they just knew, like how some animals can tell when you're weak.
When I put the Hat on my head, it said something to itself. It said something about "a tricky one" and "so much fear." It stopped for a second, and I felt like everyone at school was looking at me and judging me and waiting for it to pick the right path.
"Ravenclaw!" it finally said.
I didn't know what to think. Was I relieved? What about proud? But mostly, I just did not want to feel alone.
I sat at the Ravenclaw table next to girls whose hair and posture were perfect, and their hands were neatly folded on their laps. They looked like pictures from the books I used to read, the ones with brave girls who always had friends. They all ignored me. They didn't even ask me for my name.
I worked really hard when classes started. I read ahead in all my books. I even raised my hand, even though my voice shook. I memorized whole chapters before class. But every time I spoke, someone laughed or rolled their eyes.
They said my answers were "too eager," my voice was "too squeaky," and my wand movements were "too stiff."
And then there were the things that people said that were mean.
"She looks like a frog with glasses on."
"I bet she drifts off with a thesaurus."
"Why don't you try to become invisible?" one girl even wrote on a note on my desk."It might work for you."
I did that.
I didn't talk unless someone asked me to. I stayed away from the common room when it was busy. I took the long way to the library to avoid the group of fourth-years who always made me drop my books on purpose. I cried when I felt too lonely. In the bathroom, on the stairs, and in quiet places behind statues.
They called me Moaning Myrtle before I died.
And I really didn't like that name.
But I didn't hate it nearly as much as I hated how real it seemed.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------
It began with little things.
I tried not to laugh when I answered a question in class. Someone told a joke in the hallway as I walked by. A sharp look, a pull on one's own nose, or widening of the eyes behind fake glasses. None of it was loud enough to get people's attention, and it wasn't mean enough to report.
But it got bigger, like water filling in cracks.
By the end of my first term, the girls in my dorm had turned me into a game. My laugh sounded like a kettle screaming, and my posture looked like a broom that had lost its air. And of course, my name. Myrtle. They always said it with a twist in their mouths, as if the word itself tasted bad.
But Olive Hornby was the smartest of them all.
Nice. Well-liked. The kind of girl who could trip over her own charm and get a round of applause.
She never hurt me, swore at me, or touched my hair. But she didn't have to.
What she said made everything work out.
"Myrtle, your robes look like they were ironed with a boot."
"Are those spots? Or is your face just trying to look like you?"
"I bet even the ghosts stay away from her. That's too sad."
Everyone laughed every time she said something loud enough for everyone to hear but quiet enough that a professor wouldn't notice. Some because they are cruel. Most of the time, out of fear. Olive had that kind of strength. The kind that turned smart girls into cowards.
And I did. I tried, Merlin. I told myself to be strong. I studied harder, talked less, and tried to fit in.
But they didn't stop when they went home for the holidays.
That's why I hid.
In library corners, behind stacks of old herbology books, where the light barely reached. In empty classrooms, where chalk dust floated like snow, the silence was nice. But most of the time, I stayed in the bathroom.
The one on the second floor.
It wasn't anything special. Not then. It's just a little too drafty, constantly leaking, and the pipes are a bit of a curse.
But it was calm.
Not one laugh. No looking in mirrors.
No Olive.
I would sit in the back stall and cry, first quietly and then louder when I was sure no one else was there. I told myself that the sounds were friends and that if I cried hard enough, someone—anyone—would hear me and care.
No, they didn't.
And after a while, I lost hope.
I didn't say anything unless a teacher told me to. I stopped raising my hand and looking people in the eye.
As a quiet Ravenclaw with good grades and no friends, I went unnoticed by the teachers.
The students thought I was funny.
I was fading away.
I would sometimes wonder what it would be like if I just vanished.
I never thought I was so close to finding out.
—------------------------------------------------------------------
I used to dream of going to Hogwarts.
I was a little girl living in a small apartment with parents who didn't know how to deal with a daughter who broke teacups when she cried. I thought Hogwarts would make everything better.
The letters said they would be great. The books talked about stairs that moved and candles that floated.
I hoped that someone would notice me there.
Don't just look at me. Don't just put up with me. But look at me—Myrtle, the one with the stutter, the thick glasses, the one who cried too easily and laughed too late. I thought about friends. Kind ones. Smart ones. People who would know what it was like to feel too much.
But Hogwarts wasn't like the books said it would be.
And magic... didn't help at all.
If anything, it made me feel smaller.
Everyone else seemed to know where they fit in. The Gryffindors with their stories and confidence, the Hufflepuffs in their cozy little groups, and the Slytherins, who were very cold, all acted like they belonged.
And then there were the Ravenclaws. My home? My people?
They talked fast and answered even quicker. Their jokes flew like arrows, and I was always too slow to get out of the way. They didn't mean to be mean all the time, but being smart can hurt more than curses.
People would laugh at me when I said "Dissendium" wrong or make fun of me when I confused a porcupine quill with a hedgehog spine. I would cry without warning.
They finally stopped making fun of me.
Because I had already done it for them.
And that made things worse.
People talked about my crying.
They said I was whining, always complaining, always hiding, always holding on to shadows, and sniffing like a little kid.
They said it quietly before I got there. They laughed when I left. I hated myself for still caring.
But I did care.
It hurt in places I didn't know had names because I cared so much.
No one wrote me letters. No one wanted to sit next to me. No one noticed when I missed meals or spent hours in the second-floor bathroom, where I could cry without being embarrassed.
And after a while, Hogwarts didn't feel like home anymore.
It became a hallway with no doors.
There were a lot of people in the castle, but none of them noticed the girl who was crying.
I kept hoping that someone would. Just one person. A friend. A single nice thing.
It never came.
Not until I died.
Not until now.
—------------------------------------------------
I shouldn't have been crying again.
I told myself that no one would care if I dropped my books as I ran up the stairs, holding them tightly to my chest. When I stumbled around the corner, my satchel fell off my shoulder. It was hard to see through the tears that were making my glasses foggy.
Olive Hornby had found me again.
"Please don't flood the floor this time," she said in that singsong voice, right in front of everyone. "There she goes, moaning Myrtle." Her laughter was sharp, mean, and always too loud.
Everyone laughed.
I don't even remember what I said back. It was something small and stupid, and it didn't matter.
It didn't matter at all.
So I ran to the one place where no one ever came after me.
The second floor has the girls' bathroom.
My safe place.
My prison.
I slammed the stall door shut and curled up on the toilet seat, chin to knees, and cried as quietly as I could. My glasses were already streaked with salt when they fell down my nose.
And then I heard it. Not footsteps. Not laughing.
A voice.
Not much. Just hissing. That's odd.
It wasn't like English. I had never heard a language like that before. It moved through the air like old, cold oil.
I couldn't breathe. The crying slowed down, and I stopped moving.
Someone was in the bathroom.
I got up, wiped my eyes with my sleeve, and quietly walked to the door.
"Who's there?"I asked, trying to sound brave, but it came out shaky instead.
Nobody answered.
The room was quiet now.
I put my hand on the edge of the stall and stepped out.
And then I saw them.
Eyes.
Big. Bright. Yellow like candlelight, but not right. Not warm. Not a person.
From the sink, they looked right at me.
I didn't even have time to scream.
Things changed in the world. My chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe.
And everything came to a halt.
I didn't trip.
I didn't move.
I just... didn't exist anymore.
No pain. No warning.
A lot of confusion.
Why?
Why me?
What was that?
What did I do?
That was the last thing on my mind. No big question. No good ones.
Just a few, scared questions that only people like me would ask.
And then there was no sound.
I wish someone had come to get me.
I wish someone had missed me sooner.
But all I got was a cold.
And last but not least...
The groaning.
—-------------------------------------------------------------
I thought it would feel different.
Death.
I thought it might be warm or quiet, or even peaceful, like going to sleep under a blanket of stars.
But it wasn't.
It was cold. Sharp. Echoing.
And I woke up where I had died.
In that stall.
In that bathroom.
At first, I didn't get it. I floated, dazed and weightless—lighter than breath but heavier than ever with confusion. My hands went through the door. My voice didn't bounce back like it used to. And no one... saw me.
Days passed. It could take weeks. It was hard to say.
The students, teachers, and people who walked in with careless steps and red faces finally noticed, but they didn't scream in fear.
Even after I died, I was still a joke. I thought I had finally escaped the endless pain of being bullied at school.
The name stuck to the tile like mould.
Myrtle the whiner.
Like that was all I had ever been.
They still stayed away from me and whispered as I walked by. The girls stopped going to the bathroom altogether. It became mine, but not in a way that made me feel safe, like a home, more like a coffin made of tiles and echoes.
There was no one next to me.
Nobody said my name softly.
And I stayed there anyway. I hadn't moved on yet. A small, hurt part of me thought I might still be important.
I searched for Olive.
I made her afraid.
For years, I was like a shadow that she couldn't shake off. I rattled pipes, slammed books, and screamed at mirrors. I thought it would make her feel bad and help me feel better.
But it didn't work.
She grew up, but I didn't.
And the pain never went away.
Because revenge is just another way to hurt someone.
And all I really wanted was for people to notice me.
Not as a joke. Not as a joke.
As Myrtle.
Just Myrtle.
—---------------------------------------------------------
It was a Tuesday or maybe a Thursday. When you had been dead for as long as I had, days blurred together like steam on a mirror.
The bathroom was still mine. It was quiet, damp, and full of the kind of loneliness that settled into the grout. I floated above the sinks, making lazy circles in the air and pretending I didn't care that no one came here anymore. I pretended I liked it that way.
No, I didn't.
The door then slowly opened.
I hid in the shadows and waited for another student to come and make fun of, challenge, or hex the "moaning menace." It happened a lot. They would laugh, scream, or throw things.
I got ready to cry my best. Something sharp. Something sharp enough to scare them away and remind them that this is my land.
But then... Voices. Not very high. Nervous. Not making fun of.
A girl said, "Myrtle?"
I looked outside.
A girl with wild hair, sharp eyes, and a furrowed brow. A boy with messy hair, shaky hands, and a scar from lightning.
I didn't know who they were. They might have been in their fourth year, but the way they talked made me stop in my tracks.
Like I was a real person.
When I showed myself, I thought they would flinch, laugh, and whisper behind their hands. They didn't.
They greeted me.
Not "Hey, Myrtle, go cry in the pipes."
Not "Isn't she sad?"
Hello.
It had been a long time since anyone said hello.
Then they asked me questions. Good ones. Interesting ones. They listened when I talked, even when I got too excited or my voice shook or cracked or went too high. They didn't roll their eyes or walk away.
They stayed. They saw me. Not as a joke. Not like a ghost. Like Myrtle.
I don't think they knew what they had done. To them, it was just a conversation, another piece of information in their search for truth, danger, or whatever else brave people did.
But to me?
It was everything.
I hadn't felt warm since my body had gotten cold.
And something profound inside me, something I had long since forgotten, came back to life.
Hope.
I really hoped that I wouldn't have to be a ghost crying in a bathroom that no one else could remember.
I might still matter.
I might have already done it.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But then she asked in a soft voice that made you feel like you might not be broken just for answering. The girl with the bright eyes.
"What happened, Myrtle?"
And then, out of nowhere, I remembered.
I remembered everything.
I could feel the tears stinging behind my glasses. Olive's voice was mean, sharp, and full of laughter. I ran blindly and stupidly to hide, and my feet slapped against the tile.
To cry where no one could hear me.
The second-floor girls' bathroom. Now it's mine.
But at the time, I thought it was just a place where no one would find me.
I told them what I could remember.
The voice. Not English or Latin. It sounded old, hissed, and curled up under the stall door like smoke.
And then the eyes. Big, shiny, and yellow. I hadn't even yelled. Nothing but fear, confusion, and cold.
And then...
Nothing.
Even in death, my voice broke as I told it. I floated lower, closer to the sink where I had once stood, where my body had fallen. I could still feel it—the cold burst in my chest and the snap of life leaving me.
They were paying attention.
They paid attention to me.
And then the boy did something impossible. He looked at the sink for a long time and spoke. Not to me. Not to her. To the sink.
I heard the words. They were hissing and slithering sounds that didn't sound real. The way snakes talk. The sink moved, too.
Moved.
Opened.
The stone sank and turned like a flower opening up in the dark.
I shook.
Not because it was cold; I had long since forgotten what it was like to be warm or cold.
But from memory.
That place.
That first line. That was the last thing I saw. And now it was open again.
Like a cut that had never healed.
They looked down into the dark.
And I, who had waited so long for someone to hear my death, finally happened.
Not to get back at someone.
But for freedom.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The mouth of the stone opened wide, and the tunnel that led to the Chamber of Secrets looked like the throat of an old god. Hermione hesitated, Harry steadied himself, and Myrtle, even though she was a ghost, felt her very essence pulse with fear.
Of course, she had followed them. She couldn't help it. This was where her story ended, with the pages ripped out too early and too violently. And now they were going back into it, into her ending.
One by one, they disappeared into the dark. She hovered at the edge of the tunnel, shaking. Fear coursed through her body, cold and suffocating. It wasn't pain that scared her; it was memory.
She still went.
She floated down the same path their bodies took as they slid down into the dark and stone, into the past she had tried to scream away for decades.
The tunnels yawned before her—huge, old, and full of secrets. Slime stuck to the walls like cobwebs of sins that had been forgotten. Water dripped in a clockwork pattern, echoing through the empty bones of the place. And the silence... the silence was loud.
Harry was in front, and Hermione was right behind him. Myrtle floated behind them, no longer moaning, just listening. Every turn of the passage and every new echo felt like a heartbeat too close to her death.
After that, the air changed.
A low, dry, and loud hiss. The sound of something too heavy scraping.
The basilisk.
It was real once more.
Myrtle stopped moving. Her body shook violently, as if invisible hands were pulling her back to the bathroom floor, where she had taken her last breath. Her arms and legs didn't shake, but something inside her did.
The beast moved in front of me, and its huge coils looked like mountains waking up.
She put her ghostly hands over her eyes.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't see it.
Not again.
But then things changed.
The basilisk didn't hiss or hit.
It came to a stop.
Harry's voice in Parseltongue filled the Chamber like a prayer. It was soft, careful, and respectful.
And Myrtle, who was still hovering and hiding, felt it deep down. The air changed again, not with magic, but with attention. The basilisk was staring at her.
She slowly let go of her hands, but not because she was brave. She had to.
And she opened her eyes.
The basilisk was getting closer, but not quickly or hungrily.
Gently.
It still had its eyes closed and its tongue flicked softly, like it was tasting something to remember instead of food.
She should have yelled and run away, but she didn't. She couldn't.
Because she saw something that couldn't be true in its big, serious face.
Regret and kindness.For what had already happened. What had been lost.
And in that impossible moment, Myrtle—Moaning Myrtle, the joke, the ghost, the forgotten casualty—felt something she had never felt before in all the time she had spent haunting those tiles and sinks.
A connection. Not to Harry. Not to Hermione. Not even to the Chamber.
To the basilisk. To Thessareth.
The thing that killed her wasn't a monster at all.
It was a sword made to protect, a servant, and a child.
And for some reason, it was sad.
She floated there, looking straight into the snake's closed eyes.
There were no words.
But things changed.
She wasn't the same girl who died.
And for the first time in fifty years...
She was part of something.
