CH28

She let out a mousey little giggle.

"It's true... I'm the youngest, newest ghost in Hogwarts. Myrtle Tetherwood. Eleven years old, died 1948 in this very bathroom. And you are?"

"Harry Potter, at your service."

"Hee hee, nice to meet you. What brings you to my little purgatory? I hope you aren't seriously sick, but if something should happen you are welcome to share my toilet." "Er... that's very...um, generous of you, but I'm not that sick. I just had a little chat with Snape is all."

"Oh him. Well, I guess that explains it. Every so often I get girls coming in here crying about 'that greasy, wretched man'. As if they know the meaning of wretched. If they had to put up with half of what I had to with Emily Hornby, then they wouldn't be such babies! I mean she the reason I died after all. But I got her back! I made sure her Hogwart years were the most miserable seven years of her life. Hee hee hee..." "Er... that's...um... Good for you. If you don't mind my asking, how did you die? Did Emily Hornby kill you?"

"Oh, no. I could beat her down in a real fight," she said. Harry frankly didn't think she looked like she could fight off a determined toddler. "No, I ran to the bathroom after she made fun of my glasses. When I finally stepped out I ran into a set of big yellow eyes, and then... I died."

He couldn't help but gape. There were things in the school that could kill you like that? Actually, now that he thought about it, it wasn't that odd. Voldemort was said to have office in one of the towers after all.

"Oh, that's awful."

"Isn't it? Hee hee. You better clean yourself up and go. Snape patrols the corridors for stray students after he finishes grading papers. He likes to give Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs detentions for lolly-gagging."

Taking her advice, he went to the set of sinks to wash out his mouth and cleanse his hands. He was curious to note that one of the sinks had a faucet designed to look like a snake. Remembering what Snape had said about magic statues, Harry whispered a little hello to it while Myrtle was busy rambling on about how awful it was being dead. To his amusement, the faucet hissed back:

"Could you please shut her up? Hee hee?"

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Saturday afternoon found Professor Snape climbing the stairs to the far Eastern tower. The first week of term, always one of the most stressful, had long worn away at his nerves. There would be so many detentions this week the Sleuw's wouldn't have to lifted a finger until the Monday after next.

He paused at one of the tower windows, looking out across the grounds to see a few of those students who had escaped punishment. Draco and Hermione were headed towards the lake, hand in hand. Following a ways behind was Potter. He was carrying a large basket with the help of one his new Slytherin girls, Natalie Cypher. Bringing up the rear was Clyde Houghton, sandwiched uncomfortable between Crabbe and Goyle, and Ron Weasley with a blanket under his arm trailing behind. Gryffindors and Slytherins out having a picnic together. If violence didn't break out, then Hogwarts would have one more miracle added to a long list of them. Shaking his head, Snape climbed the rest of the way up the tower until he came to a blank wall.

"Verdania," he said, tapping on of the stones. Nothing seemed to happen, but he moved forward anyway, passing through the wall with all the ease of a ghost.

"Cutting it close, aren't you, Professor?" Bellatrix chided, lounging comfortably on a chaise. Pettigew had pinioned himself almost out of view between a set of bookcases and tried to pretend he was invisible.

Their master sat behind a magnificent mahogany desk, scanning files while a quill hovered off to the side, making notes on the man's unspoken thoughts. He looked very much at ease in the school tower, and Snape couldn't help but think for the thousandth time that perhaps Voldemort had chosen Lestrange as headmistress because he knew he'd end up running the school anyway. "The dungeons are a bit further away than your office, Headmistress," he said dismissively, taking a seat in one of the reading chairs. "Besides, I saw something interesting on the way here that I thought relevant to our meeting."

Voldemort looked up from his papers, to show the man he had his attention.

"Potter is out on by the lake having a picnic..."

Bellatrix lest out a rude snort.

"...with some Slytherins." Now the woman looked stunned. She stood from her seat and stalked over to a telescope by the open window. She looked through it silently for a long time.

"Is that Draco?" she asked finally.

"Yes, and your niece Hermione Granger. She is Potter's best friend since they met in summer lessons. They're quite close I hear, and since Hermione is inseparable from Draco..."

"Interesting," said Voldemort, and the quill beside him was suddenly writing very quickly. "So he has not been taken in by Gryffindor's anti-Syltherin sentiment?" "I don't think Potter realizes he's suppose to dislike Slytherins," Pettigrew spoke, able to control his stutter with Nagini gone and Voldemort currently in a pleasant mood. "No one dares say anything bad about Slytherins in front of Granger, and even fewer talk to Potter... if he knows, he doesn't care."

"He's more interested with keeping peace with my goddaughter than proving he's another Gryffindor neophyte," Snape concluded.

"Draco encourages this?" Bellatrix asked, sounding disappointed. "Draco is like Potter, he's only interested in keeping Hermione happy. He's already a Slytherin prince, he doesn't feel the need to prove it to anyone. He keeps the other first years in line and off both Gryffindor's backs. Whether they will become friends or not is anyone's guess. Again it probably depends on Hermione."

"When did that little mudblood become such a player?" she grumbled, stalking back to her spot on the chaise. Snape turned an icy glare at her.

"Your niece is not a player. Potter and her have a genuine friendship, and Draco and her have always been close. You, 'Cissa, and Lucius were the same way."

Bellatrix sneered at him, but said nothing more. Voldemort looked amused with them both.

"I want you to talk with Draco, Severus," he said, "Encourage him to get along with Potter. Keeping an eye on him will be easier if he has friends in Slytherin."

"I will, my Lord."

"Now, all of you, tell me what you have gathered on the boy." Pettigrew went first, as he had the least to say. He confirmed mostly what they already knew. Potter's best friend was Granger. His second closest friend was Clyde Houghton. He was on the outs with most of his house because of the negative attention he'd brought to Gryffindor during the welcoming feast, but that was starting to die down. There were a few tidbits about his habits- the boy was almost miserly with his school supplies (although he spared up enough scrap paper to doodle rather unflattering pictures of Snape and Ronald Weasley), was usually quiet and reserved, and was the object of some affection for the Weasley twins (he suspected Fred had a thing for the younger boy). Nothing fantastical had happened in the first week, and any anti-Voldemort sentiments never went beyond vague grumblings. Once Pettigrew was done, he was allowed to leave, but with a newly assigned task and small bundle under his arm.

Bellatrix went next. Her information was limited to official documents, most of it involving Potter's life before he moved to England. He attended a German muggle primary school in Cologne, and received fair marks. He was not part of any teams, but there were several awards for art, including first place for a city wide competition. The Potters had settled as artists in a small studio apartment, and did fairly well for themselves. James Potter dealt mostly with clay sculpture and dabbled in glass and metalwork. Lily Potter was interested mostly in watercolors. There was no evidence of magic being used or even talked about in their house, although without access to German Wizarding records there was no way to be certain. There was nothing to suggest that Harry knew his parents were anything other than eccentric muggles. They were shot to death in their studio by a robber, who overdosed on heroine before he was ever caught. Their work had been auctioned off, and placed in their son's trust fund. It was all muggle money, but it put Harry in fairly good standing.

Or would have if the relatives he was living with hadn't been bleeding it out as fast as they could. Potter's relatives were as muggle as they came. His aunt was a housewife, his uncle sold drills, and his cousin was likely the biggest, stupidest boy in the county. There was no sign of a British education, although WYRA reports said he was fluent in English and competent in math and science.

"He was either home schooled, self-taught, or years ahead before he came to England. Despite his parents withholding his wizarding heritage, he did well in Timbal's summer lessons. He'll be no more handicapped than the other muggleborns, perhaps less with my niece lecturing in his ear twenty-four-seven."

"And how does Mr. Potter feel regarding his parent's death?Is he angry? Depressed? Does he still grieve?" Voldemort asked, schemes and manipulations flying across the parchment beside him.

"I don't know. There's no psychological records. He never went to a councilor, WYRA never reported any behavioral abnormalities, and he seems well adjusted."

"But one can't forget coming home to find their parents with their brains splattered across the living room," Snape said, his finger following the lip of his tea cup.

"What? Where did you find that information. It's not in the reports."