As usual, Myrtle sat on a broken toilet in the innermost stall of the girls' bathroom on the third floor, whimpering and sobbing. For fifty years, she had been lamenting the injustice of her fate and the relentless cruelty of Olive Hornby.
Suddenly, there was a soft knock on the door of her cubicle. She eyed it warily, wondering who could be so bold as to disturb her daily weeping.
"Hello? Is anyone in there? Are you alright?" a girl's voice asked hesitantly from outside the door. "You sound like you're not feeling well. Do you need help?"
"Who's out there?" Myrtle called, her sobs hitching as a flicker of curiosity stirred within her at the sound of such an unexpectedly kind voice.
For a very, very long time, no one had spoken to her so gently.
People kept their distance from her, afraid of being associated with the weeping, wretched Myrtle.
"I'm Hermione Granger. You can call me Hermione — that's what my friends call me." There was a note of genuine concern in the girl's voice. "Has someone been bullying you?"
Myrtle was taken aback.
Had this girl truly never heard of the famous Myrtle? The ugly, pitiful, and forlorn Moaning Myrtle who haunted the abandoned girls' bathroom on the third floor of Hogwarts? The one every student looked down upon, whom Olive Hornby never tired of mocking?
"Olive Hornby... she said I looked like a four-eyed dog with my glasses on..." Myrtle was touched by the genuine concern in Hermione's voice and said with a sob, "She mocked my glasses... and my spots... she's so mean!"
"Oh... she really shouldn't have said that." Hermione's voice carried through the door, edged with indignation. "I understand how that feels... I've been in a bad mood myself and hid in a bathroom more than once... Some people simply don't know how to speak to others properly."
Myrtle sobbed. "I just wish people wouldn't talk about me behind my back! I have feelings too! Even though..." She suddenly couldn't finish the sentence. She didn't want to admit that she was dead.
"Which house are you in?" Hermione asked, a hint of curiosity softening her voice. "You must not be in Gryffindor — I've never heard of an Olive Hornby in our house."
The house? Myrtle frantically searched through her distant memories and finally managed to dredge up the name.
"I'm from Ravenclaw... I think..." Her voice carried through the door, and she felt a small, warm flush of pleasure at being asked. For a brief moment, she felt like a living girl having a proper conversation through a door.
"I'm in Gryffindor." Hermione stood outside, eyeing the scratched, peeling wood with a worried frown. "Listen, I don't think Olive Hornby sounds like a good friend at all. You could always make new ones — the sort who don't cause you pain."
"No one wants to be my friend," Myrtle said sadly. "They all love to laugh at me and bully me... My life here has been nothing but sorrow."
"I could be your first friend. I haven't even had the chance to meet anyone from Ravenclaw yet." Hermione wrinkled her nose at the eerie floating candles, the grimy old mirror, and the damp stone floor. "This really isn't a very good place to talk, though. Why don't you come out? We could find somewhere else."
"Somewhere else?" Myrtle said with a surge of feeling. "I can't go anywhere else — I can only stay here..."
"Alright, don't be upset. We'll stay here and talk for a bit." Hermione sighed. "What's your name?"
Myrtle didn't want to give her real name. If she did, the girl might avoid her just as the other students did.
And then she would be stuck here alone again, bored and purposeless, with nothing to do but cry.
She coughed lightly. "Elizabeth. Call me Elizabeth."
Myrtle's full name was Myrtle Elizabeth Warren. Giving someone her middle name was hardly a deception.
She had stopped crying. The ghost drifted up through the ceiling of the stall, peering down curiously at the girl called Hermione Granger.
She was clutching several thick books to her chest, with a thick mane of long brown hair, a fair complexion with rosy cheeks, and bright brown eyes that were creased with a concern she hadn't even tried to hide — concern for the mysterious Elizabeth behind the door.
This girl clearly loved reading. Myrtle felt an immediate warmth toward her.
"It's lovely to meet you, Elizabeth. Some people make fun of my front teeth too, and if we let those things get to us, it'll never end. Nobody's perfect." Hermione smiled at Elizabeth behind the door, completely unaware that a ghost was peering down at her through the gap above the stall.
"You're right," Myrtle agreed, feeling a little shy. Sharing such small, personal confessions was an entirely new experience for her.
There is a particular kind of trust that forms between girls when one is willing to tell the other about the things she has been ridiculed for — to show the marks left behind. It was the quiet beginning of friendship, and Myrtle had never had the chance to experience it before.
From the moment she had arrived at Hogwarts until now, she had never made a single friend.
Everyone had laughed at her. Not one person had shown her kindness. Yet this girl was willing to talk to her, and even to be her friend.
If only I had met her sooner —
"It's lovely to meet you too, Hermione." Myrtle sniffed, her voice lifting with something she almost didn't recognise as happiness. "I'd very much like to be your friend."
"That's wonderful." Hermione noticed the change in her tone and let out a small breath of relief. "Are you feeling better? I have to get to class soon — shall I stay a little longer?"
"Go to class," Myrtle said, sounding almost cheerful. "Come and chat with me again when you have time."
"Of course." Hermione's voice carried a small note of puzzlement. She still didn't quite understand why they'd had to meet here, in such a dark and gloomy place.
But time was short; her next class was about to begin. Hermione quickly said goodbye to the mysterious Elizabeth and hurried out of the abandoned girls' bathroom.
Just as Myrtle, for once not weeping, quietly savoured the memory of her very first conversation with a friend — footsteps sounded again outside her stall.
Several boys had come in, by the sound of it. How rude! This was a girls' bathroom!
Myrtle drifted upward and peered out — two identical red-haired boys and a boy with platinum-blond hair.
All three were rather handsome. The realisation made her uncharacteristically shy, and she found herself too flustered to scold them.
Were they here to talk to her as well? A fleeting fantasy danced through her mind. Instead of rushing out and shouting, she shyly and silently eavesdropped.
Clearly, neither the Weasley twins nor Draco had any idea they were being watched by a ghost.
"Give it a try." The Weasley twins produced a box of custard creams with theatrical mystery, exchanged a knowing look, and held it out to Draco.
Draco accepted the biscuit but regarded the twins with clear suspicion. "Before I try it, you might tell me why you've dragged me here."
This had all happened right after the Easter holidays. Draco had been unceremoniously kidnapped by the Weasley twins and hauled to the abandoned girls' bathroom on the third floor without a word of explanation.
If he recalled correctly, this was Moaning Myrtle's territory.
"We need somewhere discreet," Fred said with a wink. "These aren't ordinary biscuits."
"Eating one has rather... unusual consequences," George added with a wicked grin. "You'll want to be standing in front of a mirror, or you might miss the show."
Draco studied the box with narrowed eyes. "You honestly think I'd eat something of unknown origin without any precautions?"
Fred shrugged. "I seem to remember someone saying they appreciated our sense of humour."
"This was your idea, in a way," George said with a smile. "We've spent quite a while working on it."
Draco rolled his eyes and plucked a custard cream from the box, popping it into his mouth.
Bang! A large canary blinked back at him from the mirror. The Weasley twins dissolved into helpless laughter.
Even a full minute later, when Draco had shed his feathers and returned to his usual form, the twins were still doubled over, clutching their stomachs.
Draco made every effort to look unimpressed, but couldn't quite master his expression and settled for glaring at them.
"Dad never dreamed we'd turn a Malfoy into a canary," Fred said to George with great solemnity, barely keeping his face straight.
Draco abandoned all pretence of composure. His cheeks puffed out indignantly. "Why couldn't you have simply told me what those were?"
"We wanted to make sure you could truly appreciate our sense of humour," Fred said, clapping him on the shoulder. "And see whether you're genuinely interested in going into business with us."
"Oh, don't be so serious," George added. "You're so young, and you always look like you're attending a funeral. You'll frighten all the girls off."
"We went easy on you, mind you. You haven't tried Nosebleed Nougat yet," Fred said cheerfully.
"Impressively efficient," Draco said with a sniff. "So. What's your verdict on the partnership?"
"We're in, obviously," Fred said, shrugging.
"Mum and Dad are going to be absolutely stunned when they find out," George remarked, with a tone that suggested this was half the appeal.
"Please do keep it a secret," Draco said, in a tone of exaggerated distress. "My dear father would have my legs."
"Right." "Right," the twins said together, sounding faintly disappointed.
Just as they were about to get into the particulars of the arrangement, Draco casually flicked his gaze toward the last stall. "Hello, Myrtle. A kind soul like you wouldn't begrudge us a bit of privacy, would you?"
He had heard rustling from that cubicle some time ago — and, unmistakably, a poorly suppressed giggle at the precise moment he had transformed into a canary.
A scan of the room had confirmed it: the pale, silvery flicker of Myrtle's face through the gap above the last stall door.
The twins glanced toward the bathroom stall in surprise. A startled shriek pierced the air, and then something plunged into the toilet, sending water splashing in all directions.
"She's easily startled," Draco remarked lightly, turning back to the twins with a wave of his wand.
A magically binding agreement materialised on the air and settled neatly between them.
The agreement stipulated that Draco Malfoy, as Party A, would invest two thousand Galleons into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, granting him majority ownership at a fifty-one percent stake. The Weasley twins, as Party B, would hold the remaining forty-nine percent and serve as joint managers, responsible for product development, procurement, production, and sales. Profits would be divided equally between the two parties. Party B was bound by strict confidentiality regarding Party A's role as majority shareholder.
A dense collection of supplementary clauses followed, covering several rolls of parchment. All three of them skimmed through without finding any cause for objection and quickly signed.
"We're working on some new things —" Fred began.
"— some of them still experimental," George continued.
"We want to test them on students first —"
"— or sell by post owl, if we can get the logistics sorted."
"Put an advertisement in the Daily Prophet —"
"— they run Owl Order adverts every other week."
Draco was gradually adapting to the twins' habit of finishing each other's thoughts mid-sentence.
"Taking it step by step makes sense. You still have your studies to think about," he said. "In short — let's build steadily, and I trust your judgement."
Draco shot a cautious glance at the last stall to make sure Myrtle hadn't resurfaced, then drew a heavy money pouch from his dragonhide bag and set it on the sink. It was full to the brim with Galleons.
"Wicked!" Fred's eyes went straight to the bag. "An Undetectable Extension Charm! That must hold a fortune inside."
Draco gave a lazy, satisfied smirk and handed the pouch over. "Several dozen square metres, in fact — roomy enough to live in. Once the shop turns a profit, I'll see about getting each of you one."