Arthur Belmont-Prince and The Cursed Mirror: Harry Potter Fanfiction

After what must've been the most brutal Quidditch practice ever invented—seriously, I'm pretty sure they invented new ways to torture us out there—I was ready to faceplant into the nearest pillow and sleep until someone poked me with a wand. But as fate, or rather Hogwarts, would have it, there was no rest for the wicked. Just as I was about to drift off into a blissful coma of exhaustion, a little nagging voice in the back of my head piped up. Trouble was afoot, and guess who was tagged to be the hero? That's right, me. Because, obviously, who needs sleep when you can be saving the world...again? Lucky, lucky me.

Here's my dilemma: I had no idea who needed saving, or where they were. My only clue? Track down the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw's very own ghost who could win a world championship in avoiding people. Just perfect. Nothing like a game of supernatural hide and seek at Hogwarts to cap off a day of dodging bludgers. Because, you know, a normal, ghost-free night is just too much to ask for.

Over the last week, I'd done everything but sing love songs under a balcony to catch the Grey Lady's eye. I'd basically set up camp in the library—much to Hermione's annoyance, since apparently she had dibs—and prowled Ravenclaw Tower so much I could navigate it blindfolded. I even tried to schmooze information out of the other ghosts, but no luck. The Grey Lady was like that last cookie you can't reach at the back of the shelf—always slipping away just when you think you've got her.

But just when I thought my quest was about to turn into another fruitless night, the game changed. As I slouched in the corner of the library, pretending to read a particularly snooze-worthy volume on ancient runes, something—or rather, someone—unexpected happened to turn up. Not the Grey Lady, but nearly as elusive and twice as cryptic: Moaning Myrtle. She floated through the wall, wearing a look that suggested she knew something juicy.

"Looking for the Grey Lady, are we?" she squeaked, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet. "She's not one to be found easily, but I know a thing or two about being ignored, you know."

Her eyes had that glint of mischievous knowledge. Apparently, Myrtle had been holding on to more than just her usual complaints about bathroom invasions and disrespect from the living.

"I might be persuaded to help," she continued, a smirk playing around her ethereal lips, "but it'll cost you."

What did a ghost want in exchange for information? Not like she could spend wizard gold. But knowing Myrtle, it would definitely be something that kept me from my much-needed sleep.

"Myrtle, I'm all ears," I said, trying to mask my exhaustion with a hint of enthusiasm. "What's the catch?"

Her ghostly chuckle filled the room, a sound that bounced off the ancient books and made a couple of nearby students glance nervously in our direction. "Oh, it's simple really," Myrtle replied. "I just want some company. Spend three nights here with me in the library—keeping me company, listening to my stories. Do that, and I'll tell you everything you need to know about finding the Grey Lady."

Three nights? That sounded like a prison sentence. But desperate times called for desperate measures. "Deal," I sighed, already regretting my quick decision. Myrtle beamed—or at least, as much as a sorrowful ghost could—and promised to start our 'sessions' that very night.

As promised, Myrtle wasn't a terrible storyteller, but after hearing about her endless woes and the grim realities of bathroom hauntings, I was beginning to feel like I might actually join her as a ghost if I had to endure much more. Still, I kept at it, clinging to the stubborn hope that somewhere in her endless moaning was a nugget of useful information about the Grey Lady. I mean, if listening to bathroom horror stories was the price I had to pay for a lead, then so be it.

By the second night of what I'd started calling the "Myrtle Chronicles" (catchy, right?), I was pretty sure I knew more about Hogwarts plumbing than the house-elves. I braced myself for another round of tragic monologues, but then Myrtle hit me with something unexpected. Just when I thought I was in for another story about someone flushing the wrong thing, she switched gears.

It started innocently enough, with the usual complaints about how nobody respects a ghost's personal space (especially in a bathroom), but then she got this faraway look in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, and I knew I was in for something different. Something that wasn't just about leaky pipes and clogged drains.

"You know," she began, her voice softer than usual, "nobody ever really asks me about what happened. I suppose they think it's too tragic or something, but honestly, it's just... my life—or, well, my death." She floated a bit closer, her ghostly form flickering slightly as if she was remembering something painful yet strangely comforting.

"When I was alive, I wasn't exactly... popular," she admitted with a small, sad smile. "I was the girl who always got teased, the one who sat alone in the back of the class, invisible to everyone except when they wanted to make fun of me. It was a nightmare, but nothing compared to what happened in my last year."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, not entirely sure where this was going but knowing I wasn't going to like it. Myrtle noticed and sighed, a sound that echoed like a breeze through a cold tunnel.

"So there I was," she continued, "crying my eyes out in the girls' bathroom—you know, where I spend most of my time now—when I heard someone come in. I thought it was Olive Hornby, back to tease me again. But when I looked up, it wasn't her."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes widening in a mixture of fear and fascination, as if she was reliving the moment. "It was this pair of enormous yellow eyes, staring at me from the sink. And before I could scream or run or do anything, there was this flash of green light, and... well, that was it. I was dead."

Myrtle floated lower, her form shimmering as if struggling to hold together. ""They say it was some kind of monster," Myrtle whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "But I never saw any creature. Just those eyes... cold, unblinking, like they were staring straight into my soul. And then—nothing. Just darkness."

I shuddered, trying to imagine what it must've been like, but my brain noped out of that idea pretty quickly. I mean, I've seen some creepy stuff at Hogwarts, but the thought of staring into a pair of killer eyes and then—poof—just being gone? Yeah, that was a level of nightmare fuel I wasn't ready for.

"Myrtle, that's... that's terrifying," I managed to say, my voice catching in my throat. "I can't even imagine."

She gave me a sad, almost defeated smile, like she was used to people not caring about her story. For a moment, she just floated there, as if pulling herself back together, before her usual ghostly pout returning as if to shield herself from the vulnerability she had just shown. "And then, of course, I was stuck here. I haunted Olive for a bit—served her right, really—but then I came back to Hogwarts. I guess I couldn't let go, not when my life ended like that. So now I'm here, telling my tale to anyone who'll listen. But... not many do."

She looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for some grand reaction, but all I could muster was a quiet, "That's... really awful, Myrtle. I'm sorry."

She shrugged, a movement that looked odd for a ghost, she drifted a bit closer, her form shimmering with a ghostly light. "And you know what the worst part is? The world keeps moving. New students come in with their living problems, and here I am, stuck rehashing my one terrible day like a broken record."

She drifted even closer, and I could see right through her—which, considering she's a ghost, wasn't much of an achievement but felt significant all the same. "But you, Arthur. You're different. You actually listened. Didn't just hear me out like some kind of polite obligation."

My chest tightened a bit. Sure, I needed information, but somewhere along the line, Myrtle's story had stopped being just a means to an end. It had become something... more, there was more to Moaning Myrtle than just the wailing, bathroom-haunting ghost everyone tried to avoid. There was a person—a lonely, tragic person—who just wanted someone to see her.

"Thanks, Myrtle. Not just for the information, but for trusting me with your story," I said, hoping my sincerity cut through the typical Hogwarts ghost-tales skepticism. "So, what do you say? Shall we maybe change up the routine? How about you haunt someone who deserves it, or better yet, help me with this Grey Lady business?"

For a moment, Myrtle just stared at me, her face a mixture of skepticism and surprise. I could practically see the gears turning in her ghostly mind, weighing the pros and cons of actually stepping out of her comfort zone—or, in her case, her bathroom stall.

"Fun?" she echoed, as if she was trying to remember what that word even meant. "You think shaking things up around here is going to be... fun?"

"Well," I shrugged, "it's got to be more exciting than hanging around in U-bends and scaring first-years, right?"

Myrtle's expression wavered, as if she couldn't decide whether to be offended or intrigued. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gave me a look that was part resigned, part... hopeful?

"Alright, Arthur," she sighed, but there was a spark of something new in her voice—determination, maybe. "A new chapter. But if this goes sideways, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough," I said, grinning despite myself. "Wouldn't want it any other way."

Myrtle huffed in that dramatic way only a ghost could pull off, but there was no missing the flicker of a genuine smile on her face. "Okay, let's do this. But if anyone asks, I was dragged into this under protest."

"Okay, Myrtle," I said, trying to channel my inner confident wizard instead of the exhausted student I actually was, "spill the beans. Where is she hiding?"

Myrtle floated closer, her eyes gleaming with that rare look ghosts get when they actually know something useful. "The Grey Lady has a secret spot she retreats to when she doesn't want to be found. It's behind the tapestry of the Lost Unicorn on the third floor. No one really pays attention to it, but I've seen her slip in there more times than I can count."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you're telling me this now because...?"

"Because," she said, giving me a look that was about as patient as Peeves in a prank shop, "you didn't ask the right ghost until now. Plus, no one ever listens to poor Myrtle. But you did." She paused, a little puffed up with pride. "So I thought I'd return the favor."

I had to admit, she had a point. "Alright, Myrtle. Lead the way."

We started down the hall, Myrtle floating alongside me, a little too chipper for someone who usually spent her time lamenting in the loo. "You know," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty corridors, "the Grey Lady isn't as cold as everyone thinks. She just doesn't have patience for people who don't actually care about what she has to say."

"And you're saying I do care?" I asked, sidestepping a trick step on the staircase.

"You did stick around, didn't you?" she shot back, floating effortlessly through the staircase while I stumbled slightly, remembering too late about that trick step. "That's more than most people."

"I'm just stubborn," I said, trying to play it off, but there was no denying that it felt kind of good to be noticed for something more than just my knack for getting into trouble.

Myrtle gave a little ghostly huff, as if my answer was about as satisfying as Nearly Headless Nick's attempts at impressing the Headless Hunt. "Stubborn, caring—same difference. Besides, if you're going to play hero, you might as well do it right."

"Hero? Me?" I scoffed, trying to brush off the idea, but it stuck with me, like a splinter I couldn't quite ignore. "I'm just a guy trying to survive his first year without getting his eyebrows burned off."

Myrtle chuckled—a sound that was surprisingly light, almost like she actually enjoyed the thought of me being a bit of a mess. "You're more than that, Arthur. But let's save the self-discovery for later. We've got a ghost to find."

Before I could respond, we rounded a corner and found ourselves in front of the tapestry Myrtle had mentioned—the one of the Lost Unicorn. It was one of those things you passed a hundred times and never really noticed, until suddenly it felt like it was hiding something much more important than a bunch of magical horses.

"This is the spot," Myrtle whispered, her voice dripping with the kind of excitement that only comes from knowing something nobody else does. "She's hiding right behind it."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're sure she's not going to bolt the second we open it?"

Myrtle rolled her eyes—well, as much as a ghost could. "She's a ghost, Arthur, not a rabbit. Besides, with me here, she'll at least hear you out before she decides to disappear."

"Right," I muttered, trying to ignore the fact that I was about to walk into a room with one of the most elusive spirits in Hogwarts. "Let's do this."

With a deep breath, I reached out, gently pulling the tapestry aside to reveal a small, ancient door. It creaked open with that ominous groan you'd expect from something that probably hadn't been touched in years.

Inside, the room was dim, the air thick with the scent of dust and forgotten memories. But there, floating in the center of it all, was the Grey Lady. She turned towards us, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, I wondered if she'd just vanish.

But instead, she stayed. Her eyes softened as she recognized Myrtle hovering beside me.

"You found me," she said, her voice like a distant echo, tinged with something that might have been surprise or even approval.

"Yeah," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "But only because Myrtle here knows all the best hiding spots."

The Grey Lady's gaze lingered on Myrtle, and for a moment, I thought I saw something like a smile flicker across her face. "Myrtle has always had a talent for finding things—especially things others overlook." Her tone was warmer than I expected. "It's been a long time since anyone truly listened to you, Myrtle."

**Author's Note:**

Hey there, awesome readers!

First off, I want to thank you for sticking with Arthur and Myrtle's adventure so far. Writing this story has been a blast, and I hope you're enjoying the twists and turns as much as I enjoy creating them.

If you've made it this far, it'd mean the world to me to hear what you think. Is the story heading in the right direction? Are the characters making you laugh, gasp, or maybe even cringe (in a good way, I hope)? Your feedback is like a warm butterbeer on a cold day—it keeps me going and helps me shape the story into something even better.

So, if you have a moment, drop a comment or a quick note to let me know your thoughts. What's working, what's not, or even just to say hi! I promise I read every word, and it really helps to know what you're loving or if there's something you think could use a tweak.

Thanks again for coming along on this journey with me. There's a lot more to come, and I'm excited to share it with you.