requirement | dramione

0.22

november 10, 1996

It was Sunday. There wouldn't be anyone else on the second floor that morning. The  girl's bathroom was filled by the trickle of running faucets. 

When Draco came close enough, he realized that multiple sinks were quickly filling with water and close to their point of overflowing. He took towards them, closing them off with a flick of his wand and watching as the water began to recede. Then he turned towards the first row of toilets and pushed open each door to reveal an empty stall.

He progressed the the second row, pushing the doors until he came to the very last one. He shoved it gently and there she was. Myrtle was propped on the seat, crying into her hands. She looked sadder than usual and lacked her normal bounciness. 

Draco had begun to learn that she hardly ever cried silently.

"What are you on about today?" He asked. In his head he'd used a much kinder phrase, but his mouth had other plans. 

"Oh how could you not know!" She wailed out of her silence, startling him. Her head sagged against her shoulders and her eyes looked at him, morbid tears sprinkled down her cheeks.

"Know what?" 

"Today. Is my death day." She sniffled, wiping her ghost hand against her ghost nose before setting it back into her ghost lap. Her small feet dangled into the toilet bowl, swinging in her sadness. 

"Oh...." Draco muttered, pressing his palms into his thighs as he was completely unsure of himself. What was he supposed to say to a ghost? Myrtle sprang to life, making it obvious that he had in fact said the wrong thing.

"'OH?' I AM DEAD AND ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY IS 'OH'?" The young girl had left her seat on the toilet to scream into Draco's face. He grimaced.

"How did you die, then?" The boy crossed his arms over his chest, continuing to watch her. She floated over his head, landing upon a sink as she let out a sorrowful sigh.

"Oh, it was that stupid, slimy, Slytherin snake." The words sunk into Draco like a memory long forgotten that was resurfacing.  He felt his eyes widen. 

"You don't mean the basilisk, do you?"

Myrtle's gaze latched onto Draco in an instant, so ferocious it was as if the young girl was trying to cut him with her stare.

"You do! How did you know?" Draco pried, unwavering despite her scowl. Draco had studied the Hogwart's basilisk' attacks during his third year. No matter how well the Ministry had done to cover up the ordeal, he was able to string it together.  

"Oh," she sunk back as if she was defeated a bit, "That Gryffindor girl told me. Years ago, after the Chamber was opened for the second time. In this very toilet." Myrtle spoke slowly, as if she was under the impression that she was revealing the story to him. But Draco remembered the events that took place over the course of his second year at Hogwarts. He swallowed, hard.

"You're a mudblood then?" Shock twisted in his voice and displayed on his face. He'd held on to that piece of information all these years. The basilisk went after mudbloods. Like Salazar Slytherin's personal pet. Even as a schoolboy, Voldemort was after them. Myrtle wailed then, dropping her head back, before thrusting her fists to her sides.

"AND I DIED BECAUSE OF IT!" She was in Draco's face once more. "HE KILLED ME! Slytherin swine– that reckless boy."

Draco knew that she was referring to a name that had been long out of use. He'd overhead his grandfather, Cygnus, use it many years ago. Just before he died, just after the Chamber had been opened again. 

If Myrtle knew, that meant the Gryffindor knew. 

Clever girl.

That girl was everywhere. He swallowed, blinking the vision of her brown curls out of his head. Of course. 

"Hermione Granger told you?"

"Oh, yes. She told me everything that she learnt. Only a few years ago now." Myrtle was mumbling now, much calmer as she played with one pig tail. Draco's eyes sunk away from Myrtle, landing on a spot on the floor. 

He could almost see it now. The blood smeared against one of the castle walls. He, along with everyone from his year, just over twelve. And twelve-year-old Draco was ruthless. Learnt from the best. Young Malfoy pushed his way through the crowd of students, using elbows to pry open a path. Once he had emerged, he stared down the wall. 

"'Enemies of the heir beware'?" He read aloud, feeling the phrase as it left his mouth. Then, in a raised tone, "You'll be next, mudbloods!"The words left his mouth like bullets, flying towards a young girl with untamable brown hair who was perched next to the scene. 

He'd wanted it to hit the Gryffindor. Wanted it to hurt her. 

That was the year that Draco sought out to ruin Hermione Granger. And, for obvious reasons, Draco did so because his father demanded it. 

How ridiculous that seemed now.  

How he wished that he hadn't. 

Back in the present, Draco had bitten into his cheek. His chest suddenly heavy. His heart had dropped into his stomach, churning until he felt sick. After a minute, he returned his eyes to Myrtle. 

"You were a child." You won't ever get to grow up. Draco tried to bay his disappointment. 

Myrtle, for once in her ghostly-life, was quiet. She rose, then turned away from him. She drifted farther away, seeming to be transfixed on something that did not exist. Draco felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of being killed or, worse, doing the killing. Killing a girl. 

Myrtle was inconceivably and horridly annoying, that was true, but she was just a girl. Killed because of her lineage. How many years did she sit in here, without an explanation? Draco couldn't imagine how it felt to be stuck in the pipes of a school forever, killed without ever doing anyone harm. 

She didn't deserve to die for the blood she wasn't able to change.  

That was true. 

She didn't deserve to die for being muggle-born. 

That was true, no matter how many times the Dark Lord demanded against it. 

"You know..." The small ghost propped herself against a toilet stall, leaning her weight onto the thin wall. She looked distant and off in a daydream, "Muggle-born's really aren't all that bad. We have the same love for magic, maybe even more."

"It's not about love for magic...." His voice trailed away from him. Did he know what it was about? Was there anyway to defend the killing of a 14 year old school girl? 

"It's nothing to do with that. It's about..." He tried again, searched for the right word, so unsure. "Birthright." 

He knew the moment the word left his lips, his voice betrayed him. It was impossibly wrong and impossible for him to believe. No wizard, pureblood or adulterated, should be wished dead. Mudblood's could never amount to the glory of a  pureblood, but that did not mean they needed to be murdered. 

His stomach twisted into a new knot. 

He'd throw up right about now if he had eaten anything that weekend.