Palette

The girls’ bathroom on the first floor was closed after the incident. Headmaster Dippet who was deeply ashamed that something like that could happen in Hogwarts chose this very word to refer to the death of Myrtle Warren. The incident. Somehow it felt deeply unsatisfying and offensive at the same time. Incidents happened in the Potions class where one of the nitwits that for some reasons were even accepted to Hogwarts managed to blow up a cauldron. What happened in that bathroom was not a mere incident, it was a real tragedy, and Tom heard Dumbledore saying just that to professor Slughorn. “A tragedy, Horace… and we should be ashamed not only because something of that sort happened in Hogwarts.” “You don’t want to imply that all of us, the teachers, share collective responsibility for the fate of the girl, do you, Albus?” “There is no such thing as a collective responsibility, Horace. It’s just a fancy tagname for the dilution of responsibility.” Albus, Tom thought. Someone actually had the balls to call him by his name… that was even more fascinating than the uneasiness in the voice of professor Slughorn. “So what are you saying, then, my dear friend?” “You know what I am saying, Horace… the words we choose matter. An incident is something one tries to cover up. And isn’t that what is actually happening here?” There was a long silence, far too long for Tom to feel comfortable eavesdropping. And so he left quietly. He didn’t like the word incident but he agreed completely with Dumbledore, it was a tragedy. A tragedy that this stupid four-eyed Muggle-born ruined his plans for good. She was useful in the end in her death more than she could have ever been in her worthless life but that didn’t feel like a victory. He had to get at least anything from that mistake — her mistake, not his! — and it was like trying to play poker with a dead hand. He managed but barely. The floor in the bathroom was wet and a little slippery closer to the stalls. Tom let the door get closed and walked several steps into the bathroom. He knew that was a stupid thing to do, a careless thing… he could easily get caught here. But I am doing nothing wrong, Tom thought. It was true. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t even trespassing, really, because he was a prefect. If caught, he would say that he heard someone in there and decided to check because, as everybody knows, this bathroom was closed. And it was his duty as a prefect to check. The row of sinks under the mirror looked unused but not really clean. There was a dirty rag on one of the sinks and several dead flies under it. The mirror was large and dim. Tom went closer and saw his reflection, tall and handsome. And pale. He looked paler than usual in this mirror, and he frowned trying to decide whether it was his imagination or lack of the proper lighting. There were several candles burning in their holders, and a small bouquet of white flowers near the stall where Myrtle’s body was found. The flowers didn’t look very fresh and they were strangely fitting for this bathroom that didn’t look very fresh either. Tom closed his eyes for a moment when a sudden wave of regret swept over him and dragged into the ocean of guilt. “I am sorry,” Tom said quietly in the stale air of the bathroom. He wasn’t lying. He was sorry because he had involuntarily let his great ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, down. He was sorry because Basilisk had to sleep again, coiled in the dark and oddly comforting cave of the statue’s mouth, and he was sorry because he didn’t have any idea when and whether he would ever get another chance to pick it all up from the place he had to stop at. And then his pale reflection started to change. Tom felt his heart missing a beat… he grasped his wand ready to attack or defend himself, and that terrible mirror was showing his fine features melting and… “Are you sorry for me, Tom?” his reflection split in two, and then a ghost, silvery-pale emerged from the mirror. It was Myrtle. That stupid cow Myrtle who just had to ruin everything. That unworthy Mudblood who has almost given him a heart-attack right now. That annoying piece of work that had the audacity to look shy right now and still have this coy half-smile on her lips! “Oh… I didn’t realise I wasn’t alone in here,” he finally replied, looking at the reason for his failure, who couldn’t even stay properly dead once and for all. Not an incident. A disappointment. “I am very sorry, Myrtle.” “I believe you,” she nodded and gestured at the flowers. “You know, she brought them.” “Who?” “Olive Hornby. The one who made me cry in the bathroom the night it happened,” Myrtle came closer and Tom had to make an effort not to move away from her. “She said she was sorry… can you believe that? She was bullying the hell out of me, and now I am dead, and she brought these flowers just to look good! To make everyone forget that she… she was the reason I died!” Tom nodded. “What do you think of that, Tom? Huh?” “I think she is a bitch,” Tom smiled politely and Myrtle giggled, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, Tom! I have never heard you swear before!” “There’s always a first time for everything,” Tom replied and headed to the door. “Will you come again?” she called, but Tom pretended he didn’t hear that.