Moaning Myrtle.
The fire crackled low, throwing long shadows across the walls of the little house. Teeth had shifted slightly in its sleep, its massive arms still curled protectively around Harry, as though ensuring he wouldn’t disappear. Harry, half-lounging against it, lazily flicked a small ember from the edge of his sleeve, unbothered.
Tom, seated across from him, was watching him like one might study a puzzle—half-amused, half-calculating, waiting for Harry to do something unexpected.
Harry exhaled through his nose, voice almost absent. "I have a friend at Hogwarts."
Tom raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. "You have *many* friends, Harry. Whether you realize it or not."
Harry hummed, his eyes half-lidded, like he wasn’t entirely there. "I meant Myrtle."
Tom blinked. "*Myrtle?*"
"The ghost," Harry clarified, as though it were obvious. "She likes to cry. Talks about death a lot. But she’s quiet when she’s not wallowing, and she listens."
Tom gave him a long, slow look. Then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like Harry had given him a headache. "Honestly, you need to *higher* your standards, Harry."
Harry smirked, lazy and sharp. "Not everyone can be as charming as *you,* Tommy."
Tom’s eye twitched. "I will *strangle* you."
"Please," Harry drawled, stretching slightly. "At least buy me dinner first."
Tom looked about two seconds away from cursing him into next week.
Teeth, still half-asleep, made a low, contented rumble, pulling Harry closer like an overgrown, nightmarish cat.
Harry just smiled.