An Abominable Day
Myrtle Warren was having an abominable day. Olive Hornby was the worst, just the worst. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t make fun of. Myrtle being a muggleborn. Myrtle’s glasses being unfashionable. Myrtle’s hair being a boring color. Myrtle’s face being a boring shape. Myrtle’s ability to cry with exactly zero warning even when she didn’t feel like crying. Myrtle’s whole self was what Olive Hornby had a problem with, when it came down to it.
And the rest of her housemates weren’t all that much nicer.
The day it happened, Myrtle Warren was crying in the second floor bathroom. She was just minding her own business, having a good hard cry, when she heard the noises. Oh, they were strange noises - bothersome noises. Scraping and hissing and more scraping and then footsteps.
“Who’s th-th-there?” she sniffled. Because really, couldn’t they do their weird noisemaking someplace else? Could they not hear that there was someone crying in here?
There was another hiss. So she turned the latch on the stall door. She’d give them a good scream or two, tell them to bug off already. It’d serve them right. Myrtle expected they’d make an appalled face when they saw how upset she was. It was really her most notable skill, making people appalled. Maybe if the person was appalled enough, they’d go tell Olive Hornby she was appalling for being so horrible and making her cry.
“No! No! Don’t open the door!”
Myrtle only had just enough time to recognise that something was very, very wrong. She knew there was something wrong because that was a boy shrieking at her, and boys didn’t have any proper business in a girls’ lavatory. But she didn’t quite recognise there was a problem in time to stop herself from opening the door. And then several things happened at once.
First, there was a big rush of hissing. Then there was an utterly blinding flash of light, just like somebody had brought the sun itself into the bathroom. Then Myrtle screamed, and the boy screamed, and Myrtle screamed again because Jesus Christ, that was a very large snake. And it was slithering down a great dark hole in the wall that had not been there when she came into the bathroom.
“Shut up! Oh, my god, shut up!” the boy yelled.
“What are you doing! That’s a snake!” Myrtle shrieked back at him. Only he didn’t tell her what he was doing. He pointed his wand at the bloody great hole in the wall and there was some more hissing and scraping and then the snake and the hole were gone.
Just… gone.
Myrtle stood there and stared at her puffy cry-faced reflection in the mirror that was now hanging perfectly peaceably on the wall where the hole and the snake had been. Like nothing whatsoever had happened.
She stared at her reflection. The boy stared at her. The bathroom was utterly silent for several seconds.
Then there was a cheerful cheeping sound. It originated from the floor.
Myrtle looked down. The boy looked down. There was a baby bird on the floor. It had pink skin and a golden beak and claws. It was sitting awkwardly in a pile of distinctly singed yellow feathers.
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!” it cried.
“You are kidding me,” said the boy flatly, staring at it. The chick paused in its litany and peered at him for a moment. Then it struggled to its awkwardly large feet and stumbled toward him.
“No,” he said.
“You’re Tom Riddle, aren’t you?” Myrtle took that moment to say. She thought so. She recognised him now. He was a prefect, two years ahead of her. Slytherin. Too bad he wasn’t in Ravenclaw. He was quite pretty and she’d never actually been close enough to say anything to him.
“Yes,” he confirmed without taking his eyes off the gangly creature stumbling laboriously across the floor toward him. He looked appalled.
“You just saved me from that giant snake,” Myrtle pointed out.
“Yes, I did,” he agreed. Then he took a step back from the chick. It made another adorable chirping noise and he scrunched his nose up in dismay.
“With a phoenix,” Myrtle added. “That’s a phoenix. That bird. I saw it. I see it now. Like Professor Dumbledore’s. Right?”
“It is,” Tom Riddle said. He didn’t sound all that happy about it. He took another step back.
“Where did you get it?” Myrtle asked interestedly. “Aren’t you going to pick it up?”
Only, he didn’t pick it up. He turned around and ran away. The bathroom door fell shut behind him with a bang.
“Huh,” Myrtle said.
“CHEEP! CHEEP! CHEEP!” the phoenix chick bawled.
“Oh, I know exactly what that feels like,” Myrtle said sympathetically. “Here. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.” She crouched down and picked up the tiny thing. It was so delicate. What did the snake do to it to make it turn into a chick like that? Phoenixes usually only did that if they got old or had a mortal injury. That was what the Care of Magical Creatures book said, anyway. She scooped it carefully into both hands. It was bigger than a baby chicken. Smaller than a baby goose, though, she thought. It was remarkably ugly.
“Come on. I’m taking you to Professor Dumbledore. He has a phoenix, too. He can tell me what to feed you,” Myrtle concluded. The chick immediately stopped cheeping and nestled into her hands, docile as a kitten. It kind of felt like holding a ball of flames, although it didn’t quite hurt her hands.
“And I can tell him that Tom Riddle saved me from that terrible snake. Did you see it? I only saw the back part, while it was leaving. Awful. Can you believe that thing is living in the wall? Yeaugh. Do you think that’s what’s been attacking people?”
She carried the phoenix chick to Professor Dumbledore and explained what she’d seen. He looked as appalled as Tom Riddle had.
It really was her best skill. If only Olive Hornby could appreciate it.