The boys' bathroom on the seventh floor was tucked behind an elegant marble staircase, away from the usual rush of Hogwarts life. Most students ignored it, preferring the restrooms closer to the common rooms. But for Draco Malfoy, it had become a quiet place to hide.
Sunlight usually poured in through the tall windows, making patterns on the polished floor. On sunny days, the room felt almost cheerful—warm, alive with distant voices and laughter. But today was nothing like that. Rain tapped steadily against the glass; the world outside was blurred and grey.
Draco stood at the sink, staring at his reflection. The pale boy in the mirror looked unfamiliar. His white-blond hair, normally neat and proud, hung limply over his eyes. The sharp sneer he used as a shield was gone. He looked tired. Hollow.
He had worn the Malfoy name like armour for years—bragging, taunting, trying so hard to be who his family expected. But here, alone in this quiet, he felt it slipping away. The pride. The certainty. The strength he pretended to have.
"Why can't I just be normal?" he whispered.
The words echoed softly around the tiled room. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head like he could toss the thought away. But it stayed.
Draco turned and slid down the cold wall, curling into himself on the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them close to his chest. The cold stone pressed into him, but he hardly noticed.
He hadn't felt like himself in weeks.
The burden he carried—the task he'd been given—was eating him alive. Once, he'd walked these halls with confidence. He'd smirked at other students, insulted them, and lifted his chin high. Now, he felt like a ghost. A pale shadow of the boy he used to be.
His hands were shaking. He dug his fingers into his arms, trying to ground himself. A sob broke from his throat, and then another. He pressed his face into his robes, hoping to hide from the noise of his own despair.
The worst part was the fear.
He saw the Dark Lord's face whenever he closed his eyes—those cold, red eyes, the soft but deadly voice. The wand, the orders, the threat beneath every word. Draco had thought it would be simple. Just a mission. Something he could do to prove himself. To make his family proud.
But it wasn't simple.
Every day, the weight grew heavier. He could barely breathe under it.
He remembered the night at dinner, his Aunt Bellatrix Lestrange leaning in, eyes wild. "You must do this for your family, Draco," she had said, like it was a gift. Like it wasn't a curse.
He'd nodded then. What choice did he have?
Now, in this lonely stall, that moment haunted him.
He had mocked Potter and his friends for years—called them names, laughed at their struggles. But now he understood something he never had before. They had fought back. They had stood up for what they believed in.
Draco had never done that.
He had followed. Obeyed. Pretended he was strong.
Now all that was left was the fear.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to his knees. He wished he could disappear into the floor, vanish from the castle, from the world. He didn't want to be this person anymore. He didn't want the task, or the name, or the lies.
He just wanted to be free.
But freedom felt so far away.
No one can know.
He repeated it like a spell, whispering the words into the crook of his arm, as if they could protect him. The words gave him something to hold onto. Something small. But it slipped through his fingers every time.
His chest tightened, like he couldn't breathe right. Like the walls were pressing in. The weight of everything—his task, his family, the way his world had turned on its head—was unbearable. The darkness inside him was growing louder and closer, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it out.
He came here to escape. This bathroom had become the one place where he could fall apart without anyone watching. Or so he thought.
He didn't notice the faint shimmer of a ghost at first.
She was there, tucked in the shadows of a stall—silent, still, and watching. Not with judgement, but with something closer to understanding. Myrtle had seen him before. She'd seen the cracks. The way his shoulders curled in on themselves. The way he sat was like he was trying to disappear.
There was something familiar in his pain. Something that reminded her of who she used to be before everything fell apart.
Myrtle had once longed to be seen, to be heard. Now she floated unseen through her afterlife, a silent observer of the living. But Draco… he wasn't like the others. His sorrow wasn't loud. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.
And for some reason, it made her brave.
She drifted toward him slowly, unsure. She hadn't spoken to anyone like this in a long time. Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Are you feeling alright?"
Draco flinched. The sound sliced through his thoughts. He looked up fast, heart thudding, his breath catching in his throat. A ghost hovered in front of him—soft edges, cloudy glasses, eyes full of… something he didn't recognise right away.
Was this real? Had he finally snapped? The tears still clung to his lashes, and everything looked blurry.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, shrinking back a little. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Her voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't cold. It was… careful. Kind. That startled him more than her presence.
Draco stared at her. He didn't want to feel anything—he didn't deserve to—but something in the way she looked at him made it hard to turn away.
Still, panic kicked in. He shot up from the bench, the sudden movement a shield, a reflex. He rushed toward the door, just needing to get away. But his fingers paused on the handle.
He stood there, frozen, because for the first time in weeks, someone had looked at him like he wasn't a monster.
"Please don't go," Myrtle said softly. "You look like someone who needs… someone who understands."
Draco didn't turn around, but he didn't move either.
"I'm Myrtle Warren," she added. Her voice trembled with something small but sincere.
He didn't know why he hadn't left. Maybe because she didn't ask him what was wrong. Maybe because she already seemed to know.
And in that still, broken moment, Draco realised something terrifying.
He didn't want to be alone anymore.
"I know who you are," Draco said flatly, his voice sharp and cold. Too cold, maybe. But it was easier that way. "You're the ghost that haunts the girls' bathroom. I'm not in the mood for conversation. Especially not with the dead." The words echoed off the tiles, clipped and bitter. He didn't mean to sound so harsh, but lately, everything came out that way.
"Oh, well excuse me," Myrtle huffed, floating back with dramatic flair, her arms crossed like she'd been insulted at a dinner party. "Next time I'll wear a name tag and a halo."
He gave a tired sigh. "Didn't mean for you to take it personally."
"Well, I always do," she snapped, sticking her transparent nose in the air. "It's kind of my thing."
Draco turned toward her, irritation bubbling up again. "Did you really not mean to intrude?"
Myrtle blinked at him, then flipped upside down mid-air in a lazy spin. "Define intrude. I mean, I do live in the plumbing."
He stared at her, deadpan.
"I'm just saying!" she added, straightening up and brushing off invisible dust from her ghostly skirt. "You're the one sitting in my bathroom, sulking like a lovesick toad."
That earned a glare, but Draco didn't rise to the bait. He was too tired. Too raw. He didn't even know why he was still standing here, talking to a ghost who spent her afterlife crying about boys and toilets.
But then she softened, her voice lowering. "You know, I get it. Being ignored. Being… unwanted."
Draco looked away. Something in her tone caught him off guard. "What would you know about being alone?"
"Uh, I died in a toilet," she said, floating a little higher, her tone both tragic and oddly proud. "Trust me, no one's lining up to invite me to the afterlife party."
He almost smiled. Almost.
Myrtle floated closer, gently, as if afraid to scare him off. "I hear the whispers. The things people say when they think no one's listening. I hear you. You're not as invisible as you think."
His jaw clenched. He hated how her words got under his skin. "You think you understand? You don't."
"I do!" she wailed suddenly, bursting into sobs. "Don't tell me I don't understand! Loneliness was my whole life! And death!" She spun dramatically, flinging ghostly water everywhere like a possessed sprinkler. "Do you have any idea how it feels to float around for eternity with nothing but clogged pipes and Peeves for company?"
Draco winced as a misty droplet hit his face. "Could you not throw yourself a pity parade right now?"
"Why not?" she sobbed. "It's all I have!" Then she paused, blinked, and looked at him with sudden curiosity. "Are you throwing one too?"
He exhaled, long and slow. He didn't want to admit it—but maybe, yeah. Maybe he was.
"I'm just saying," she added with a sniff, dabbing her eyes with a soggy-looking ghost handkerchief. "Being dead doesn't mean I forgot what it's like to be alone. And honestly?" She floated back down to his level, her gaze surprisingly clear. "You look like you're drowning in it."
He didn't reply. Couldn't. The room was quiet again, just rain tapping softly against the window. The weight in his chest pressed heavier than ever.
Draco had always thought ghosts were background noise—annoying, harmless, and forgettable. But Myrtle wasn't forgettable. Not tonight. And it wasn't because of her moaning or melodrama. It was because she saw him.
That realisation dug deeper than he wanted. Maybe that was why he didn't leave. Why he stayed, sitting in the silence with the crying ghost he used to mock.
Because for the first time in weeks… he didn't feel completely alone.
Myrtle hovered just above the sink now, peering at Draco with a tilt of her head. Her silvery hair hung like wet seaweed, and her oversized glasses had slipped halfway down her translucent nose. "You know," she said after a long pause, "I always thought you were the brooding type. But I never realised you had such tragic cheekbones."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is that your idea of a compliment?"
"It's my idea of being observant," she said primly. "You're quite… aesthetically miserable. Like a statue carved by a very depressed artist."
He blinked. "Right."
"I mean it," she added, floating in lazy circles above him. "It's very romantic. All tortured and stormy. If I weren't dead, I'd probably swoon."
Draco let out a short laugh—more of a huff, really, but it surprised him anyway. "That's possibly the most disturbing thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Oh, you haven't heard my best lines yet," Myrtle said with a ghostly twirl. "I've had decades of practice. You'd be amazed how often boys come in here to cry when they think no one's watching."
"Great. That's comforting."
"I'm just saying, you're not the only one who hides in bathrooms," she said with an exaggerated shrug. "Though I do have the advantage of popping out of toilets when I want to make an entrance."
Draco gave her a sideways look. "Please don't."
"No promises," she said, grinning, before her smile faded just a little. "But really… You look like you're carrying something heavy. On the inside, I mean."
His gaze dropped to the floor. He didn't answer right away. There were too many things he couldn't say—not to her, not to anyone. The task. The fear. The pressure from his father's expectations and the knowledge that every step he took could unravel everything. The fear that it already had.
"I can't talk about it," he muttered.
"That's fine," Myrtle said, surprising him. "You don't have to. I'm dead, not nosy."
Draco looked at her.
"Okay, fine, I'm extremely nosy," she admitted quickly. "But I can keep secrets. You'd be amazed what people confess around here. I'm basically Hogwarts' worst-kept secret keeper."
"That doesn't sound reassuring."
"Then don't talk," she said, shrugging again. "Just sit. Brood. Glare. I'm excellent company for glaring types."
He looked at her properly this time. Myrtle, the tragic ghost of a bullied girl, spinning slowly above a sink like she'd practised floating dramatically in front of a mirror for years. She was ridiculous. She was emotional. She was… oddly comforting.
"Why are you being nice to me?" he asked finally.
She blinked. "Because you look like you need it."
He scoffed, but the sound didn't have much bite. "You don't even know me."
"I don't have to," she replied. "Lonely recognises lonely."
Something in his chest twisted at that. He hated how true it felt. How she could see something he worked so hard to hide.
"Besides," she added, floating upside-down now, her hair hanging like spectral curtains, "if you don't have a friend in the afterlife, who will make ghost jokes at your funeral?"
He snorted, despite himself. "You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?"
"Nope," Myrtle said brightly. "It's part of my ghostly charm."
He didn't respond—but he didn't leave either. He just sat there, letting her chatter fill the room like fog. It wasn't peace. It wasn't safety. But it was something.
And right now, something was more than he thought he deserved.
The faint swoosh of air told him she was near again. She hovered like some tragic chandelier of gloom, drifting closer with that weird mix of caution and curiosity she always wore when she wasn't wailing.
She moved slowly, like she was trying not to scare him. As if he had the energy to bolt. He was crumpled on the bathroom floor, the cold tile seeping through his robes. His breathing hitched. Everything hurt in places that weren't physical.
"Please," she said, almost shy, though her voice had that echoey persistence he usually found annoying. "Just tell me what's wrong."
He didn't want to look at her, but her glow lit up the shadows around him—soft, ghostly, and oddly comforting. Merlin, he must really be losing it.
"I feel weaker than I've ever felt, Myrtle," he muttered, words dragging out of him like they weighed tonnes. "I've messed up… badly." His throat tightened, and he blinked fast. Crying in front of a ghost. How far he'd fallen.
Myrtle, surprisingly, didn't gloat. "Everyone struggles, even the dramatic ones," she said, gently. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know."
He shook his head hard, pale hair sticking to his damp face. "You don't get it. I have to do this thing—for my family. They expect me to just… be this person. Follow orders. But with every step I take, I feel like I'm disappearing. Like I'm becoming someone I can't stand."
Her eyes softened. "Then don't let them win. You're not a puppet, Draco. You're… well, a very moody, brooding boy—but you're still a person. You can say no."
He gave a bitter laugh, too sharp to be amused. "Yeah, sure. I'll just 'say no'. Like that's ever worked for anyone in my situation. You think I can just walk away? They'll come after me. If I fail…" He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "If I fail, I lose everything."
He hadn't meant for things to go this far. The cursed necklace, the poisoned mead—he thought he could outsmart everyone, fix it cleanly. But now it all felt like a sick joke.
"I wanted to finish this without hurting anyone," he whispered.
Myrtle hovered closer, the air around her cooler, but not unpleasant. "Let me help," she said, voice softer now, less whiny than usual. "Tell me what's really going on."
Draco looked up, her blurry face coming into focus. He hesitated. "I can't," he said, the words sticking. "He'll kill me."
There. He'd said it. The thing he'd been too afraid to voice, even to himself.
Myrtle went still. "Who will?" she asked, suddenly serious, her voice tightening.
He couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. The fear closed in, pressing against his ribs. His whole body trembled, and the tears came again, hot and silent. He buried his face in his hands.
She hovered lower, watching him, looking oddly… maternal? No, that couldn't be right. Myrtle? Maternal?
"I wish I could hug you," she said, reaching out and letting her hand pass uselessly through his arm. "Stupid ghost arms." She sighed theatrically. "Not great for comfort, are they?"
Draco let out a soft, wet laugh through the tears. It surprised them both.
"You're going to be fine," she said, with a kind of shaky confidence that sounded more like hope than belief. "Whatever it is, it'll work out. You'll see. Maybe you'll even survive long enough to have grey hair one day."
He almost smiled. Almost.
And for a moment—just a moment—the weight didn't feel quite as crushing.
Draco drew in a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling too quickly. "I shouldn't have joined him," he said, the words tasting like rust. "It was a mistake. A bloody mistake. But what choice did I have?" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have become this… thing."
The tears came before he could stop them. He clenched his jaw, furious at himself—crying again, like some pathetic little boy.
Myrtle floated in, silent at first, her expression unusually gentle. "Everyone makes mistakes," she said quietly, like she wasn't the ghost who usually screamed at students for using the wrong toilet. "Even terrible ones. But you can still change the path you're on. I tried, once. It was difficult… but worth it."
Draco stared at the Dark Mark burnt into his forearm, the skin still oddly warm as if the magic never stopped seeping in. "I should've known better," he muttered. "I let people use me. I let them turn me into this. They laugh at me—mock me—and I just let them."
He expected Myrtle to mock him too. But she didn't.
"You need to stop apologising for existing," she said with a surprising firmness. "You're allowed to stand up for yourself. Set boundaries."
He raised an eyebrow, baffled. "Are you quoting a self-help book?" he asked dryly. "What's next—'Ten Steps to a Better Afterlife'?"
Myrtle crossed her arms—hovering about a foot off the ground—and gave him a look that could have curdled pumpkin juice. "I'm trying to help you, you arrogant twit."
He barked a short, humourless laugh. "Oh, great. Dead and judgemental. Just what I needed today."
"I died, Draco," she snapped, her voice pitching high with emotion. "In a bathroom. Killed by a monster no one believed existed. Forgive me if I actually know a thing or two about pain!"
He winced. She had a point. But admitting that felt like losing.
The silence that followed was awkward—just the sound of water dripping from a leaky pipe and Myrtle quietly sniffing to herself.
"Why do you always do that?" Draco asked, frowning at her. "Cry all the time."
Myrtle looked genuinely offended. "Excuse me?"
"You haunt a toilet and sob like it's your full-time job."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, and you're a shining example of emotional resilience? I've seen you bawling into a sink more than once, thank you very much."
Draco stiffened, face burning. "That's different."
"Because you're alive?" Myrtle shot back. "Please. You're about as emotionally stable as a wet sponge."
"I didn't ask for commentary," he growled, arms crossed so tightly it hurt.
"No, but you're in my bathroom," she said pointedly. "If you want privacy, go cry in the Forbidden Forest or something. The Acromantulas might offer less judgement."
He glared. "Right, because getting eaten alive would really improve my mood."
"Hey, it's more productive than sulking here!"
Draco groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Why do I even talk to you?"
"Because no one else will listen," Myrtle replied softly, almost smugly.
Draco didn't answer. He just sank back against the cold wall, arms wrapped around his knees. Because as irritating, weepy, and absolutely maddening as she was… she wasn't wrong.
And that stung worse than Mark ever did.
Myrtle came swooping down from her perch like some miserable bat with a martyr complex, drifting to a stop just inches from Draco's face. Her eyes shimmered with a ghostly glow—half tragic, half deranged. "It's not my fault you keep skulking around more than I can stand!" she shrieked, her voice slicing through the air and ricocheting off the cracked tiles.
Draco closed his eyes for half a second. Brilliant. A shouting match with a dead girl in a bathroom. Just what he needed to make this day more pathetic. He opened them again and glared at her translucent, watery form—sallow cheeks, tragic little pout. It was like arguing with grief incarnate. For a second, he couldn't believe this was real. Then again, most of his life didn't feel real anymore.
He gave up the glare with a sigh, his frustration bleeding out like steam from a cracked pipe. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away, too tired to meet her melodramatic gaze.
"I've got nowhere else to go," he muttered, voice thick with resentment. Not just at her—at the whole bloody situation. At himself.
That shut her up. Her expression changed, all the ghostly rage draining out and replaced with something softer, more… clingy. Wonderful.
"I know I'm not your first choice," Myrtle said in a quieter voice, drifting a little closer like he might vanish. "Not many people stick around to talk. They forget about me. No one misses me. But I'm here."
Of course you are, Draco thought bitterly. You're always here. Crying in a toilet, haunting your own death like it's the only thing that gives you purpose.
He didn't speak. His chest ached under the crushing weight of secrets and expectations. Myrtle settled delicately on the sink, her usual dramatic sigh echoing through the room.
"I used to hide too," she said, all tragic flair, eyes unfocused. "Hours and hours. No one noticed. No one cared. Honestly, they were probably relieved I wasn't around…"
Draco scoffed quietly but said nothing. Her words struck a chord, but he had no interest in letting her know that. He already had enough ghosts in his head.
"I just want out," he said under his breath. "I wish I could just disappear."
This wasn't some schoolyard prank or one of his father's empty boasts. This was real. And it was tearing him apart. The plan, the mission—it was all unravelling. He wasn't some hero or hardened servant of the Dark Lord. He was a boy with too many knives pointed at his back and one in his hand he didn't know how to use.
Myrtle tilted her head, hovering just out of reach. "What could've possibly made you think this was worth it?" she asked, ever so helpfully.
Draco gritted his teeth. "It was supposed to fix everything," he snapped, then quieter, "He returns, and we rise with him. My family's name—restored. I was ready to serve him, bringing glory back to Malfoy." The name tasted bitter now. "But then he tossed my father in Azkaban like rubbish. Called him a failure. Now I'm the one left to clean it up."
And the worst part? He knew the Dark Lord didn't expect success—he expected Draco to fall on his face. This was a test. Or a punishment.
"My whole family is hanging by a thread," he said, voice rising with panic. "And he's holding the scissors. I can't do this, and I have to. I'm stuck."
He could feel it unravelling—his nerves, his resolve, his stupid, crumbling plan. The idea of killing Dumbledore, once so black-and-white, now felt like stepping off a cliff with no bottom. And the guilt… the guilt was starting to rot him from the inside out.
"This is wrong," he said through clenched teeth. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. Dumbledore—the man people trusted, the one who stood between monsters and the rest of them—gone, just because He said so? It was monstrous.
Myrtle hovered closer, looking uncharacteristically serious. "You don't have to do what he says," she said gently. "You have a choice."
Draco barked out a laugh that sounded far too close to a sob. "A choice?" he echoed, bitter. "There's no choice when a madman's got a wand pointed at your mother's head." He looked away, jaw tight. "You don't understand."
"I can help," Myrtle offered, her ghostly eyes shining with some warped sense of hope. "Tell me who it is. Maybe Dumbledore can—"
"Were you dropped on your head before you died?" Draco snapped, venom slipping into every word. "It's a miracle I'm talking to you about this, let alone him."
He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, eyes narrowing. "And don't even think about telling Potter."
Myrtle gasped, as if he'd insulted her personally. "Harry Potter?" she squeaked, like the name burnt her ghostly throat.
Draco just glared at the floor, letting the silence smother them both. He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. That name was the last line, the final wall. Not even a sobbing bathroom ghost was getting past that.
Myrtle went all glassy-eyed, like she was starring in some tragic play only she could see. "I wouldn't worry about him," she said in that wispy voice of hers. "Harry's always been so sweet—not the type to pry—" Her tone sharpened like a broken violin string. "Unlike Peeves, who makes it his eternal mission to torture me."
Draco snorted, his expression screaming please stop talking. "You clearly don't know Potter," he said flatly. "He's been acting like a stalker with a saviour complex. I've caught him staring. A lot. He's definitely onto me."
He shivered at the memory of Snape's little warning: someone was getting suspicious. No more Quidditch, grades tanking, skipping out on tormenting Gryffindors—basically, Draco Malfoy was committing the ultimate crime: being boring. But whatever. Potter's suspicions could take a number. He had bigger issues than the Chosen One playing detective.
Myrtle watched him pace like she was observing a rare bird in distress. "What does he think you're doing?" she asked, looking way too interested for a dead girl.
Draco stopped mid-stride, eyes narrowing like he'd just smelt something foul. "He thinks he can ruin everything, as usual," he muttered. Then he kicked the floor—because subtlety was for Hufflepuffs.
"He always has to be the hero," Draco growled. "He thinks I'm just some side quest on his way to glory. I'm not letting him screw this up. Not this time."
Myrtle floated closer, nervously twisting her ghostly fingers. "I really don't think Harry would—"
"Oh, shut up, Mudblood," Draco snapped before he could stop himself, voice sharp as shattered ice. "You don't know anything. Just because you float around the plumbing doesn't mean you're suddenly a spy."
Myrtle recoiled like he'd slapped her, which—honestly—was impressive for someone without skin. "Oh, really?" she said, chin trembling but lifted like she was about to slap him. "Funny how quick you are to use the same insults people threw at me. I guess pain's only fun when you're the one dishing it out."
"Oh, don't cry again," Draco groaned, massaging his temples like he was one sob away from throwing himself out the nearest window. "I've got enough to deal with without you adding your tragic soundtrack."
Myrtle rose in the air like a furious soap bubble. "I was trying to help, you ungrateful little twit!" she shouted. "You looked lonely! I thought maybe you wanted someone to talk to instead of sulking in your corner of doom!"
"I might've wanted that if you didn't cry more than a bloody mandrake!" Draco shot back. "You're not helpful—you're an airborne puddle of emotion!"
"You don't have to be such a jerk!" Myrtle fired back. "I'm literally the only one not avoiding you like the bloody plague. You could try saying thank you for once in your life."
Draco opened his mouth, ready to launch a full-scale insult—but stopped. The words caught in his throat, tangled up with guilt and a tiny, infuriating bit of truth.
He looked down at the tile floor, all perfect little squares, mocking him with their neatness. "Grateful?" he muttered. "Grateful for ghost therapy?"
He dropped onto the edge of the bench like the world had personally offended him. He didn't want company—but that didn't mean he wanted to be alone, either. Not that he'd ever admit it. The silence hung heavy between them, as if the air was judging him.
And of course, Myrtle stayed—because, of course, she did.
"I know I've been a complete git," Draco muttered, voice low and grudging. "I couldn't help it. I've… hurt people."
"Including me!" Myrtle cut in, her voice shrill and overly dramatic, like she was desperate not to be overlooked.
Draco rolled his eyes, exasperation flaring again. "Yes, yes—and ghosts, apparently," he added dryly.
Myrtle let out a huff, but he noticed the faintest glimmer of satisfaction flicker across her pale face. She liked being included, even if it was in a complaint.
"I'm not usually like this," he continued, the edge in his voice softening. "Talking about what's going on in my head… It's not something I do."
"Why not?" she asked, perking up like he'd just handed her a diary with all the juicy bits.
He hesitated. "Because trusting people is bloody impossible right now," he said. "Everyone either mocks me or pretends to care until they can use me. It's safer to keep things to myself. Scheme alone. At least that way I know who to blame when things go wrong."
Snape came to mind immediately—clever, always ten steps ahead, always hiding something. Mentor? Maybe. Ally? Questionable. Snake? Definitely. Draco hated how unsure he was about him. One wrong move, and Snape could just hand him over like a package with a Dark Mark stamp.
"Let them talk," Myrtle said with sudden, unexpected calm. "People gossip to feel better about themselves. I wasted so much time crying about people's opinions. All those stupid little insults… and then, poof—"
She stopped. Her hands flailed vaguely, the rest of the sentence trailing into silence. Draco knew what she meant. She didn't need to say it.
Dead.
It hit him how weird it was to be having this conversation with someone who'd died. Someone who'd literally passed into another realm and was still hanging around in a bathroom. He stared at her, a flickering thought growing into something darker.
What's it like to die? Would it hurt? Would he just vanish, or would it be slow and horrible—drawn out by the Dark Lord's rage? Or worse, would he fail so badly they didn't even bother with a show?
A chill ran up his spine.
"What's it like?" He asked, barely louder than a breath. "Dying?"
Myrtle blinked, her usual theatrics dimming to something almost human. "Quiet," she said softly, floating closer. "Lonely. People see me, but I don't matter. I'm just… there. Watching. Thinking. A lot of time to think."
"Do you regret anything?" he asked, not sure why he cared but needing to hear something. Anything.
"Every single day," she answered without missing a beat. "But regret doesn't change anything. It keeps you stuck. You need to let it go, Draco. Don't end up like me—trapped in your own mess, scared of what people think. It's a waste of life. Or afterlife."
Her words hung in the air like steam—thin, invisible, but somehow lingering.
Could he let it go? Could he stop caring about the whispers, the pressure, and the endless expectations pressing down on him like stone?
"I just… I don't want to screw this up," he said finally, the word failure catching in his throat like a splinter. "Even if everyone already sees me that way."
"Everyone fails," Myrtle said firmly. "It's part of figuring out who you are. It's not the end of the world."
Easy for her to say, Draco thought. Her world had already ended. But even so… Something about the way she said it made it harder to dismiss.
He let out a dry laugh—barely a chuckle. "You're surprisingly decent at this whole ghost therapist thing."
"You wouldn't be the first tortured soul I've counselled," she said with a smirk. "Though you're definitely the best-looking."
Draco snorted, half-smiling despite himself. There was a strange comfort in her weird, clinging presence. He'd never admit it, but for once, someone had listened without judging. Without expecting anything.
Then, reality called him back like a cold splash of water.
He straightened suddenly, pushing off the stone bench. Time to return to Slytherin, to faces that either feared him, loathed him, or watched him with pity. He couldn't stay hidden forever.
The movement startled Myrtle, who'd been floating idly above a sink. "Oh!" she squeaked. "You're going already?"
"Yeah," he said. "Still technically a student, unfortunately."
Her face fell—sadness flickering across it like a ripple. "Will you come back?"
Draco shrugged. "Maybe." It came out too fast, too clipped, but the thought of making promises—even to a ghost—felt like a risk he couldn't afford.
He paused at the doorway, glancing back. "Don't tell anyone about this, yeah?"
"Your secret's safe with me." Myrtle raised her hand solemnly like she was swearing an oath in ghost court. "Scout's honour—or, well, Moaning Myrtle's honour."
Draco gave a brief nod. "Thanks."
Then he stepped out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft creak.
A pale ray of light filtered through the stained window, shining on the empty bench where a tired, angry, scared boy had sat just moments before.
THE END