"Ugh. Humans."
Both girls jumped as a translucent figure floated up through the porcelain of the nearest sink, water dripping spectrally from her pigtails. She looked at them with an expression of profound annoyance.
"Sorry, Myrtle," Shya said quickly, catching her breath. "We didn't mean to intrude on your… aquatic abode. There was… an eight-legged situation."
Myrtle peered closer, her large, magnified eyes blinking behind her glasses. "You're Ravenclaws," she observed, her tone shifting from annoyed to contemplative. "The clever ones. And much prettier than the other girl who comes in here."
Talora, finally finding her voice, whispered, "What's wrong with this bathroom? It feels… sad."
"Everything's wrong with it!" Myrtle wailed, gesturing dramatically. "It's where I died! No one cares about that. They just use it for their sneaking about." She floated closer, her voice trembling with a fresh wave of self-pity. "It's always been this way. Even when I was alive… there was Olive Hornby. She used to tease me about my glasses. 'Four-eyed Myrtle,' she'd say. She and her friends would follow me, laughing… Oh, it was dreadful!"
Shya saw an opening and took it, her voice dripping with shared indignation.
"Some people are just vile, Myrtle. They see someone unique, someone with style, and their tiny little brains can't process it. They have to try and tear it down. For the record," she added, leaning in confidentially, "I think your glasses are terribly chic. Very French intellectual. This Olive woman clearly had no taste."
Myrtle preened, touching her frames. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely," Talora chimed in, her sincerity genuine. "They're vintage. A statement. She was definitely just jealous."
Myrtle's expression softened into something like gratitude. "You're the first ones who've ever said that. The ones now… they're no better." Her face clouded over again. "Like that Granger girl."
Shya's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. "Don't even get me started on Granger."
"You know her?" Myrtle asked, intrigued.
"Know her? She's an insufferable swot who acts like she invented reading," Shya scoffed, folding her arms. "Always has her hand up in class, always whispering the answer to Potter. Thinks she's better than everyone just because she can memorize a textbook."
Myrtle nodded vigorously, a kindred spirit in grievance. "Yes! Exactly! Her and her friends—Potter and Weasley. They've been in here for weeks, clanking bottles, whispering. Brewing some nasty potion in a stall. They think I don't notice! Never a 'hello, Myrtle.' Never a 'you look lovely today, Myrtle.' Just 'oh, not her again.' Rude!"
"Typical," Shya sneered. "No vision. No appreciation for the… local ambiance.
***
"You're not like them," Myrtle whispered, her voice losing its usual whine and becoming almost tender. "You're… stronger. Prettier. You actually see things." She drifted closer, her translucent form glimmering in the dim light. "The others just see a crying girl or an annoying ghost. You see… me."
Shya, for once, was speechless, disarmed by the raw honesty. Talora gave Myrtle a small, genuine smile. "It must be very lonely," she said softly.
Myrtle's lower lip trembled. "It is. It always has been. Even before… well, you know." She gestured vaguely at the bathroom. "The other girls… Olive Hornby and her lot… they were so cruel. They'd steal my books, hide my glasses… They made me feel like I was nothing. Like I was invisible." Her voice cracked. "And then, the one day I decided to stand up for myself, to stop hiding and tell someone to leave me alone… it was the last thing I ever did."
She floated over to the end stall, her form seeming to grow paler. "I was crying in here. I heard a boy's voice outside, speaking in a strange, hissing language. I was so tired of being pushed around. I swung the door open to yell at him to go away…" She paused, and the silence in the bathroom was heavier than any water. "I didn't see a boy. I just saw… great, big, yellow eyes. Right over there." She pointed a shimmering finger toward the row of sinks. "And then… nothing. It was all over."
The air in the bathroom went deathly cold. Talora had brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror and pity.
Shya's mind, however, was connecting the terrible dots with razor-sharp clarity. "Yellow eyes," she repeated, her gaze snapping to the ornate taps and the network of pipes visible beneath them. "In the pipes. So it doesn't walk the corridors. It moves through the plumbing."
Myrtle gave a slow, solemn nod, looking at them as if they had just passed a sacred test. "See? Clever Ravenclaws. I knew you'd understand. You'll figure it out."
"Thank you for trusting us, Myrtle," Talora said, her voice thick with emotion.
"You're welcome," Myrtle said, a fragile smile touching her lips. "You can come back and visit. Anytime." And with a final, soft splash, she vanished back into the U-bend.
The moment she was gone, the gravity of her confession crashed down on them. They stared at each other, the dripping silence now sounding like a countdown.
"Bob," Talora whispered, her face pale. "We are in so far over our heads."
"I know," Shya replied, her earlier bravado completely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp fear. "Let's go. Now. Before whatever has those eyes comes back for an encore."
***
The door to the Haven burst open with a force that made the enchanted candles flicker. Shya and Talora stood panting in the doorway, their hair wild and faces pale with terror.
"Spiders!" Shya gasped, stumbling inside and slamming the door shut. "A river of them! Marching right out of the castle!"
Talora, visibly shaking, sank onto the nearest pile of cushions. "They were… they were running from something."
The cozy atmosphere shattered. Cassian was on his feet in an instant, while Roman, Padma, Mandy, and Lisa stared, frozen.
"Running from what?" Cassian asked, his voice low.
"We didn't stick around to ask!" Shya snapped, her voice trembling. She began to pace. "We hid in the second-floor girls' loo. Myrtle was there—and she told us everything."
The story spilled out in a chaotic jumble: the Polyjuice potion, the hissing voice, the yellow eyes in the sink.
"A hissing language?" Padma repeated, her quill already in hand. "Harry Potter spoke Parseltongue at the Dueling Club."
"And it moves through the pipes," Talora whispered, her voice small. "It could be anywhere."
A heavy, terrified silence filled the room. Almost instinctively, the group drew closer together. Mandy moved to sit beside Talora, putting a comforting arm around her. Lisa and Padma huddled on the same sofa, while Roman stood, uncharacteristically quiet, his usual bravado gone.
It was then that Cassian went perfectly still, the color draining from his face.
"Kreacher," he commanded.
With a loud crack, the house-elf appeared. "The master calls, and Kreacher comes, though his knees ache and his ears pop—"
"The Compendium of Ancient Magical Creatures. Now."
Kreacher vanished and reappeared, grumbling under his breath, heaving a massive, dust-coated tome onto the table.
As Cassian moved to the book, the group instinctively closed in around him, a tight knot of fear and anticipation. Talora reached out and gripped Shya's hand tightly. They watched, barely breathing, as Cassian's long fingers carefully turned the brittle pages, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
He stopped. His finger landed on a terrifying, serpentine illustration. The group leaned in as one, their shoulders touching, drawing comfort from the contact as they stared down at the monstrous image.
"The Basilisk," Cassian murmured, his voice grim. "The King of Serpents. A gaze that kills… but if seen indirectly, it petrifies. Its voice commands snakes. It is the mortal enemy of spiders."
He looked up, meeting the circle of terrified faces surrounding him.
"The Chamber of Secrets," he said. "It's not just a story."