People Watching.

Chapter Nineteen.

Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a flurry of rumour about her disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their holiday break, because, of course, everyone thought that she had been attacked. So many students piled past to hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her curtain again and placed them around Hermione's bed, sparing her the shame of being seen with a furry face.
Harry, Ron, and (Y/n) always came to visit her each morning. When the new term started, the boys brought her each day's homework.

"If I'd sprouted whiskers, I'd take a break from the work," said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening.

"Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up," Hermione briskly insisted. Her spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. "I don't suppose you've got any new leads?" she added in a whisper so that Madam Pomfrey couldn't hear her.

"Nothing," Harry said gloomily.

"I was so sure it was Malfoy," said Ron, for about the hundredth time.

"What's that?" asked Harry, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermione's pillow.

"Just a get well card," Hermione said hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open and read aloud:

"To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Profesor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award."
Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.
"You sleep with this under your pillow?"
But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine.
"Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you've ever met, or what?" Ron said to Harry and (Y/n) as they left the infirmary and started up the stairs for their respective Towers. Snape had given them so much homework, Harry thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before he finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion (followed by (Y/n)'s answer) when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.

"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" asked Ron tensely.
They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

"—even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore—"
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.
Poking their heads around the corner, they found Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom wall.

"Now what's up with her?" Ron scoffed.

"Be nice, Ronald!" (Y/n) said.

"Let's go and see," said Harry, and holding their robes over their ankles, they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its Out of Order sign, ignored it as always, and entered.
Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet. (Y/n) lit her wand up.
"What's up, Myrtle?" Harry asked.