Myrtle doesn't have much of an afterlife and it sucks.
She was shoved to the side when she was alive and, now that she's dead, she's shoved into the toilet to wallow in her misery that nobody ever seems to understand, or, if they do, they're afraid her misery is contagious and steer clear of her as much as possible. That's how it was with Harry.
She sobs, watching her ghostly reflection in the bathroom mirror from her perch on the tank of the toilet. She never even got to kiss a boy before dying. It's entirely unfair.
Meeting Harry Potter in his second year was a high point of her afterlife. He'd solved the mystery of how she died and even avenged her death by killing the Basilisk that had murdered her, but then he ran away. They always do.
She stops sniffling when she remembers her next visit to Harry in the Prefects' bath. When she sees her reflection after this recollection she looks almost happy. He's not been back to the bath since then, but she can wait. When you're dead, you've got all the time in the world.
Nothing as exciting as this has ever happened to Myrtle since she died, but she's torn. It's not her fault that the poor boy she's so taken with – he understands feelings and tears, and talks to her every day – has been killed by the other boy she's fond of. Once she'd offered to share her toilet with Harry if he died, and while he didn't explicitly turn her down, she got the hint. But Draco. Maybe if he dies from this terrible wound, he'll wind up wanting revenge, and then they can haunt Harry together.
Oh dear. She could just scream. Her dreams of an afterlife with a new purpose are shattered when Snape comes in and heals Draco, then leads him out. It's not fair! She wails harder still while Harry stands in dumb silence, looking around at the wreck of a bathroom and all the blood he's spilled. Well, seeing him in shock isn't so bad. Perhaps he does have feelings after all. Perhaps he'll kill himself over his guilt and she'll convince him to stay with her forever.
The door slams against the stone wall as it's thrown open, and Snape stalks inside, moving as if he's gliding, his steps hidden by his robes. She ponders. He wouldn't make such a bad ghost either. He turns his sallow face towards her and spits the word. "Go."
Never mind him. He's just another bully. Myrtle's eyes swim with tears and she dives back into her toilet, shooting away as fast as possible to make a huge splash. Her momentum is greater than she'd thought, though, and she finds herself following a long pipe all the way to its end and bursting out in a geyser, the force of which turns on the taps of the Prefects' bathtub.
That's where she is. Hovering in the empty tub and watching as the taps fill it up. It's probably scented nicely, but she can't smell anything, and that makes her tears start up again. But after a few minutes, the taps turn off and she drops below the surface of the water, hovering on her back above the floor of the bath, looking up.
She wonders what it would have been like if she'd died by drowning. If she had made the choice to end her life, would she have chosen this bathtub to do it in? The ripples on the surface above her are pleasant to watch and the silence under the water is quite nice. And then she realises something. This tub had been empty until she popped through the drain – which means she can control some things in the tangible world if she wants to – if she focusses enough. She sits up, then rises until she's hovering over the surface, her toes an inch above the water.
She floats forward and back, watching the water, and finally – if she does it just right – she creates ripples in it. That makes her whole being squeal with a new feeling, a happy feeling. She turns to look at one of the taps, focusses on it and shoots forward directly inside, her transparent body going invisible as she bobs up and down inside the pipe, forcing the water pressure to change. The tap shoots a stream of steamy water into the pool without displacing her. She's found her element, and things are going to get interesting around here if she has anything to say about it.
Pansy Parkinson is one of them. Myrtle's mastered the ability to become invisible after spending several months experimenting with the taps and her newfound sense of self. She watches from inside a bubble tap that Pansy avoids using, knowing she won't be disturbed from here, but also giving her a front seat view of Pansy under the water.
Pansy fills the tub, strips off, and slips under the surface. She makes quite a show of getting clean, and spends long minutes rubbing soaps and oils onto her breasts. She sits on the stone bench set into the side of the tub and turns on one of the underwater jets, relaxes her back against it and trails her fingers down between her legs.
Myrtle frowns. She's never done that before, her mother had always told her it wasn't ladylike to touch herself, but watching Pansy throw that lesson aside as if she has no care for it in the world makes a sort of heat rise up inside Myrtle's mind. The way Pansy strokes and gasps, and then turns around on the bench so the jet hits her directly between her legs, releases a flood of feelings inside Myrtle. Hell, she may be dead, but that doesn't mean she can't have feelings. These are good feelings, too, none of the usual depression and jealousy.
Myrtle swoops out of the tap, looking down to make sure she's still invisible, and then floats over to get a better look at what Pansy's doing. She's gripping the edge of the bath hard, and under the water her thighs tremble, her hips rock, and Myrtle can see that the jet of flowing water right at Pansy's most sensitive area is what's making the girl pant and moan and finally tense up until Myrtle's afraid she's going to cry. But instead, Pansy turns around and slumps back against the jet, closes her eyes and her lips turn up in a contented smirk.
Myrtle wonders if water pressure from a jet would have the same effect on boys. She feels her cheeks go opaque at the thought and quietly retreats back up the bubble tap. She just may have to investigate the magic of water on the different sexes further. It gives her something to dwell on and, for quite a long time, Myrtle is content.
The reason she enjoys watching Blaise so much is that, like Pansy, he uses the bath to wank. After being dead for fifty-five years, Myrtle thinks it's only fair that she should be allowed to finally fulfil her sexual nature, despite not having a body – watching is better than never knowing what it's like.
Tonight though, as Blaise sinks into the bath, turns on the jet at his back and closes his eyes, Myrtle decides that watching just isn't enough anymore. She's aware that if she were to try to touch him, he'd know. It'd feel like she'd doused him in ice water. She doesn't want to freeze him and scare him off, she wants to see if she can get him hot and, in return, bask in the heat he leaves behind.
Invisible, she ducks under the water, positions herself on the floor beside his feet and waves her hand through the water in front of his bollocks, focussing her energy on creating a current. He's already half-hard, and she's thrilled when his cock grows longer, poking out of its foreskin from the small current she's sent at it. She hears him swear, but not in an off-putting tone, rather an I-want-more-of-that sort of way.
He lifts his hips off the bench and dips his balls into the current she's making. It only takes him a few long strokes and he's coming, shooting a cloud of white into the water and she watches it sink, landing right through her lap.
He just came on me!
It takes all her effort not to make a sound, to give her presence away, but in that moment, watching him come from her intervention, she thinks she may be close to figuring out how to have an orgasm herself.
Myrtle feels like dancing. It's only a matter of time before he returns to the Prefects' bath. Perhaps she may even use her skill of going invisible to her advantage and, while he sleeps, whisper the suggestion that he use the bath.
She returns to the bathtub to practice – might as well put the time the school is empty of students to good use.
A few minutes later, he aims his wand at several taps and fills the tub. Fortunately he doesn't use the bubble tap.
She watches him, a grin frozen on her lips as he strips off and slips into the water, glancing suspiciously at each tap as if checking to see if she's watching. The idea that he remembers she likes to watch makes her tremble with silent joy. He has no idea of what she's now capable of.
He seems to be satisfied he's alone, and rests his back on the sunken stone bench, interestingly not turning on the jet. He closes his eyes and rests the back of his head upon the edge of the tub.
She slips out from her tap and under the water, checking to make sure she's fully invisible. Her attention is on his lap as she glides towards him with a single-minded purpose. She drops to the floor beside his feet, and stares at his wrinkled cock as it hovers in the water, not doing anything remotely interesting. That's about to change.
Myrtle focusses her energy on the wall behind him and bends through it, increasing the pressure in the pipe that works the jet. She pulls back as the water starts moving, and is thrilled to witness Harry's small jump of surprise at the current of warm water shooting at his back. He seems to decide he likes it however, and doesn't try to turn it off, instead, relaxing back again and enjoying the sensation.
And now is her moment to shine. She moves her hands and arms through the water, forcing her will to create a current which she then directs at the base of his bollocks, alternating between speeding up and backing off until his cock starts to grow. His fingers clench into fists at his sides, though they don't move to take himself in hand, instead it's as if he's attributing the new current to the jet at his back.
She's well aware she can't actually touch him, but she wonders if she just gets closer, if she can't actually increase the effect of the water on him. She starts by reaching for his balls, about an inch from them, and making a tickling gesture in the water using her fingers. His balls tense, his cock growing harder, and she backs off, watching him relax again. She repeats the attempt, this time making a half circle with her hand about half an inch from his cock and moving it up and down his length, thrilled as a small flurry of white shoots out from the tip.
She backs off again, waiting to see if he'll take the bait and masturbate for her. His hands settle, fingers stretching out on the tops of his thighs, and then he drops them to his sides once more. It's almost as if he's reluctant to come.
She rises above the surface to look at his face. His eyes are still closed, his glasses off. It looks like he's planning to just wait for his erection to go back down.
That won't do at all. She submerges again, and gets close to his balls once more, creating currents of water right underneath them, stimulating him, and watching his stomach muscles flex, release, and flex again. She's so pleased with herself she could cackle, but she deliberately forces herself to remain silent, hidden.
She moves her hand back into position when she's sure he's not going to try to wank himself, and starts to jerk the water surrounding his cock again in an up-and-down gesture, nearly giving herself away as another burst of white shoots up and then sinks. She backs off a moment, and watches as he settles his hands once again on his thighs, and then he moves. She starts to pout, thinking he's going to get out of the bath, but then she realises he's only repositioning himself. He's kneeling on the bench, the jet hitting his balls directly from behind, and she understands. He wants to see if he can come without touching himself. This is too perfect.
Myrtle moves to the front, kneeling below him, rising up so her invisible face is level with his cock. She leans in until she's only an inch or so away and moves the water in front of it with her tongue, and again with her hands at the sides. She can hear his choked sobs echo through the water and see the shadows of the rippling waves on the walls and floor of the tub, caused by his trembling body. More spurts of white come shoot upwards from his dancing prick, large ones this time. They seem to expand as they rise and disseminate as they fall, showering her like confetti.
She moves back, thinking he must be finished, but the way his stomach muscles continue to flex makes her think he's not done this in a very long time. She thanks Merlin for her good fortune. She moves in again and repeats her invisible lapping and wanking, watching another large spurt disgorge into the water, accompanied by a desperate groan from above, distorted under the water.
How much come can one bloke hold? She's determined to find out, to milk him dry. She moves in close again, swearing the space between her thighs feels warm and slick, despite her bodiless status. The warmth increases, seeming to spread up throughout her entire being as she watches the slit of his cock dilate and contract until, she reaches a state of utter bliss – pure contentment – and sinks back away from him all the way to the bottom.
He finally takes his cock in his hand and pumps it a few more times, groaning loudly as another cloud of white is released into the water. It sinks slowly down on top of her, right through her. He squeezes the very tip of his cock, and then smoothes his foreskin back over it.
She watches through hazy eyes as he reclaims his seat on the bench, legs shaking, and settles down to relax once again. She wants more than anything to rest her head in his lap and watch his cock return to its usual wrinkled, shrunken state, but that's impossible. She has to be content to watch from where she's at.
She retreats to the bubble tap, peering out as he climbs out of the tub and Vanishes the water. He'll be back again. She's certain of it, and when he does return, she'll be ready.