Moaning
Harry Potter, R, ~1,250 words. Voyeur!Myrtle, Harry/Draco. Warning: underage masturbation and sex.
Myrtle died a virgin.
This is probably a good thing, Myrtle thinks. She was only fourteen when she died, and a whiny, unattractive fourteen-year-old at that. If she had managed to get laid, she's sure that it would have gone terribly, not least because anyone who was willing would have been either incredibly inexperienced or incredibly cruel.
Now, Myrtle is either sixty-eight or fourteen, and she has never had an orgasm.
She doesn't regret not having had sex, but she regrets not touching herself while she had the chance. Fourteen is too young to explore sexuality with others, but it's a perfectly acceptable age to explore it alone.
When she was alive, Myrtle thought that ghosts lived in some mysterious other dimension, and the smoky wisps she saw around the castle were merely shadows leaking into this universe. She discovered when she woke up after meeting the basilisk's gaze that this is not the case. The smoky wisps are all there is of a ghost. They are insubstantial, to themselves as well as to the world, and they do not have a home elsewhere.
When she tries to touch, her hands pass through her own body as easily as they pass through walls or through the living.
She must be physically able to orgasm. Her nerves are not dysfunctional. She can think, and she can see and hear, and when she lurks in the prefects' bathroom to watch the students, she can feel excitement growing inside. She doesn't know whether being aroused by naked sixteen-year-olds is perverted because she's too young or because she's too old, but she knows that it happens. It follows logically that she should be able to climax.
She's come close twice. She doesn't know how close, because she doesn't know what it feels like to come.
The first time, she was watching Harry in the prefects' bathroom. Myrtle is possibly the only person in the wizarding world who developed a crush on Harry Potter without knowing who he was. She figured it out quickly, of course--she hadn't been asleep during Voldemort's downfall, and the scar wasn't exactly hidden away--but she liked him before she knew.
She was sixty-six then, or perhaps fourteen. He was fourteen, either exactly right or far too young for her. It didn't matter. The nuances of morality had long since fallen away for Myrtle since consequences had vanished. No one could punish her for spying on teenagers, and she enjoyed it, so she did it. She particularly enjoyed spying on this teenager. She'd been doing it off and on for some time, but she'd never caught him naked, and she'd certainly never caught him glistening wet and covered in soap suds.
He was competing in the Triwizard Tournament that year, and he'd brought the golden egg along. She knew he'd turn his attention to it before long, but now he was swimming laps, cutting lines through the foam. Myrtle had been feeling warm since he'd taken off his clothes, but watching his lithe body stretch and contract as he swam did something else to her, and when he floated on his back and she caught a few glimpses of slick pink through the bubbles, something within her began to rise toward a crescendo...
...and then he reached for the egg and opened it, and the wailing screech of merspeak ruined everything.
The second time was with a different boy, a Slytherin boy, blonde and thin and afraid. He never told her what he was afraid of, but she knew it had something to do with the war everyone said was coming, and it had something to do with the boy who let loose the basilisk that killed her.
She didn't ask Draco about it. She listened to him talk in vague, uncertain terms about his duty and his fear, and she told him stories about being at school with Tom Riddle. It helped him, she thought, to shape Voldemort in his mind as human. It eased some of the terror to know who Tom had been.
She didn't seek out to observe him secretly, as she had sought out Harry. What she had with Harry was a silly unrequited crush, which he tolerated because she was helpful to him once in a while. What she had with Draco was friendship, and she wasn't going to risk losing his trust.
Myrtle was sixty-seven, or maybe fourteen, and she thought she might be growing up.
It truly was an accident, when she stumbled in on him masturbating in her bathroom. She could almost blame him; he should have known she would be around. She should have left quietly, but she couldn't. She'd forgotten that consequences existed, that he would be furious if he knew she'd seen. She could only back slowly into the wall far enough that he wouldn't see her if he opened his eyes, and lose herself in the image of him.
When he came, his face relaxed completely, and he was beautiful. It was the first time she'd ever seen him without lines in his brow.
Myrtle was about to come too, almost there, almost, when he opened his eyes, and all the misery was back in his face. She realized suddenly how selfish she was, how utterly horrible she was being by doing this. Before she could change her mind, she wafted further into the wall, giving him time to clean up before she came out to talk to him as usual.
Her birthday came and went, and now she is sixty-eight, or possibly fourteen. Harry and Draco are sixteen. She tries not to watch them, but she can't stop. The two of them are the most passionate, gorgeous things she's ever seen. When she catches them together in the prefects' bathroom, kissing like they're trying to suffocate each other, she is helpless. She can't move. She's stuck in the faucet, the one that dispenses tiny white bubbles that smell of French vanilla, and she knows she'll never be able to smell French vanilla again without feeling nonexistent blood pumping through veins she doesn't have.
They're fully dressed, both of them, but it doesn't matter. Imagining what's going on under their robes might be even better than seeing it. Draco is shoving Harry up against the wall, and Harry's arms are wound around his neck so tightly that they're turning white. They slide to the floor and Harry rolls on top, crushing his body against Draco's. Their hips are rubbing together hard. Harry's mouth moves to Draco's neck, sucking and biting, and Draco turns his face toward Myrtle and moans.
Myrtle comes.
It feels like nothing she's ever felt before, and it scrambles her mind so thoroughly that she oozes out of the faucet and into the room before she realizes it. Draco sees her, of course. Looking right at her like that, he can't miss her. Astonishingly, he does not yell, and he does not throw Harry off, and he does not glare. He smiles.
It's the smile that does it, not the orgasm. Myrtle is sure of it. The orgasm was lovely, but the smile means something. It means that she's not just a creepy dead kid, always on the sidelines of everything. It means that her existence isn't nothing. He knows she can see him being happy, and he's letting her know that he doesn't mind.
Myrtle smiles back, and she dissipates into the vanilla-scented steam.
She is sixty-eight, or fourteen, and she is resting in peace.
Myrtle died a virgin.
This is probably a good thing, Myrtle thinks. She was only fourteen when she died, and a whiny, unattractive fourteen-year-old at that. If she had managed to get laid, she's sure that it would have gone terribly, not least because anyone who was willing would have been either incredibly inexperienced or incredibly cruel.
Now, Myrtle is either sixty-eight or fourteen, and she has never had an orgasm.
She doesn't regret not having had sex, but she regrets not touching herself while she had the chance. Fourteen is too young to explore sexuality with others, but it's a perfectly acceptable age to explore it alone.
When she was alive, Myrtle thought that ghosts lived in some mysterious other dimension, and the smoky wisps she saw around the castle were merely shadows leaking into this universe. She discovered when she woke up after meeting the basilisk's gaze that this is not the case. The smoky wisps are all there is of a ghost. They are insubstantial, to themselves as well as to the world, and they do not have a home elsewhere.
When she tries to touch, her hands pass through her own body as easily as they pass through walls or through the living.
She must be physically able to orgasm. Her nerves are not dysfunctional. She can think, and she can see and hear, and when she lurks in the prefects' bathroom to watch the students, she can feel excitement growing inside. She doesn't know whether being aroused by naked sixteen-year-olds is perverted because she's too young or because she's too old, but she knows that it happens. It follows logically that she should be able to climax.
She's come close twice. She doesn't know how close, because she doesn't know what it feels like to come.
The first time, she was watching Harry in the prefects' bathroom. Myrtle is possibly the only person in the wizarding world who developed a crush on Harry Potter without knowing who he was. She figured it out quickly, of course--she hadn't been asleep during Voldemort's downfall, and the scar wasn't exactly hidden away--but she liked him before she knew.
She was sixty-six then, or perhaps fourteen. He was fourteen, either exactly right or far too young for her. It didn't matter. The nuances of morality had long since fallen away for Myrtle since consequences had vanished. No one could punish her for spying on teenagers, and she enjoyed it, so she did it. She particularly enjoyed spying on this teenager. She'd been doing it off and on for some time, but she'd never caught him naked, and she'd certainly never caught him glistening wet and covered in soap suds.
He was competing in the Triwizard Tournament that year, and he'd brought the golden egg along. She knew he'd turn his attention to it before long, but now he was swimming laps, cutting lines through the foam. Myrtle had been feeling warm since he'd taken off his clothes, but watching his lithe body stretch and contract as he swam did something else to her, and when he floated on his back and she caught a few glimpses of slick pink through the bubbles, something within her began to rise toward a crescendo...
...and then he reached for the egg and opened it, and the wailing screech of merspeak ruined everything.
The second time was with a different boy, a Slytherin boy, blonde and thin and afraid. He never told her what he was afraid of, but she knew it had something to do with the war everyone said was coming, and it had something to do with the boy who let loose the basilisk that killed her.
She didn't ask Draco about it. She listened to him talk in vague, uncertain terms about his duty and his fear, and she told him stories about being at school with Tom Riddle. It helped him, she thought, to shape Voldemort in his mind as human. It eased some of the terror to know who Tom had been.
She didn't seek out to observe him secretly, as she had sought out Harry. What she had with Harry was a silly unrequited crush, which he tolerated because she was helpful to him once in a while. What she had with Draco was friendship, and she wasn't going to risk losing his trust.
Myrtle was sixty-seven, or maybe fourteen, and she thought she might be growing up.
It truly was an accident, when she stumbled in on him masturbating in her bathroom. She could almost blame him; he should have known she would be around. She should have left quietly, but she couldn't. She'd forgotten that consequences existed, that he would be furious if he knew she'd seen. She could only back slowly into the wall far enough that he wouldn't see her if he opened his eyes, and lose herself in the image of him.
When he came, his face relaxed completely, and he was beautiful. It was the first time she'd ever seen him without lines in his brow.
Myrtle was about to come too, almost there, almost, when he opened his eyes, and all the misery was back in his face. She realized suddenly how selfish she was, how utterly horrible she was being by doing this. Before she could change her mind, she wafted further into the wall, giving him time to clean up before she came out to talk to him as usual.
Her birthday came and went, and now she is sixty-eight, or possibly fourteen. Harry and Draco are sixteen. She tries not to watch them, but she can't stop. The two of them are the most passionate, gorgeous things she's ever seen. When she catches them together in the prefects' bathroom, kissing like they're trying to suffocate each other, she is helpless. She can't move. She's stuck in the faucet, the one that dispenses tiny white bubbles that smell of French vanilla, and she knows she'll never be able to smell French vanilla again without feeling nonexistent blood pumping through veins she doesn't have.
They're fully dressed, both of them, but it doesn't matter. Imagining what's going on under their robes might be even better than seeing it. Draco is shoving Harry up against the wall, and Harry's arms are wound around his neck so tightly that they're turning white. They slide to the floor and Harry rolls on top, crushing his body against Draco's. Their hips are rubbing together hard. Harry's mouth moves to Draco's neck, sucking and biting, and Draco turns his face toward Myrtle and moans.
Myrtle comes.
It feels like nothing she's ever felt before, and it scrambles her mind so thoroughly that she oozes out of the faucet and into the room before she realizes it. Draco sees her, of course. Looking right at her like that, he can't miss her. Astonishingly, he does not yell, and he does not throw Harry off, and he does not glare. He smiles.
It's the smile that does it, not the orgasm. Myrtle is sure of it. The orgasm was lovely, but the smile means something. It means that she's not just a creepy dead kid, always on the sidelines of everything. It means that her existence isn't nothing. He knows she can see him being happy, and he's letting her know that he doesn't mind.
Myrtle smiles back, and she dissipates into the vanilla-scented steam.
She is sixty-eight, or fourteen, and she is resting in peace.