Saturday, July 26, 2003

The Return of Moaning Myrtle

Harry rounded the bend in a corridor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and found himself nearing the infamous girls' toilet that housed the entrance to the dreaded Chamber of Secrets-- which had since been emptied of horrors and converted into an enormous strip joint, The Witch's Tit, featuring a Fridays-only wizard band, Steel Brassiere.

"Oh, God... Oh, yes... Harder... Harder... Ohhhhh, Jeeeeesussssss..."

It was an unearthly moaning, and Harry knew at once that this was the voice of Moaning Myrtle, the ghostly girl who haunted the toilet cubicle in which she'd been killed decades ago. Harry sped up, passed the toilet, and decided to head to the Gryffindor common room.

But the moaning seemed to be following him. Harry slowed down, confused. Was Myrtle stalking him?

"Oooooh, I like it when you do that... oh, no... don't stop... please..."

Harry couldn't stand it. "Myrtle? Myrtle, is that you?"

Students were passing Harry, and Myrtle wouldn't stop moaning.

"It's better if I sit like this and rock... Oooooooooooohhhhh... God, that's so goooooood..."

Harry blushed. Students were staring at him and snickering. Why?

Was Myrtle's voice coming from--

"Myrtle!" Harry stage-whispered. "Are you by any chance... inside me?"

"Oh, hi, Harry," Myrtle gasped, before plunging into another series of low moans. "Why didn't you tell me you were so good?"

Harry whirled around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Myrtle, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Myrtle, I don't understand. Where are you?"

"I'm up your arse, Harry. I hope you don't mind."

Harry blanched. He was mortified. Moaning Myrtle was up his arse?

Harry broke into a run, fervently hoping no one had heard what Myrtle had said. "For God's sakes, why, Myrtle? What the hell are you doing in there?" Harry ran to a deserted corridor and stopped, panting.

"You should keep running, Harry. I really like that. It... well, it stimulates me," Myrtle cooed.

"Right, that's enough, Myrtle! I want to know what you're doing up my bum!"

"Oh, that." Myrtle giggled. "Harry, did you know that your meat-heavy diet has produced some delightfully enormous colon polyps? I'm having sex with them. Would you mind walking again? They move around, you see..."

Harry was furious. His hand clawed for his wand, but he realized in time that he'd never dare cast a spell at his own fundament. The memory of Alastor Moody's warning about wizards losing buttocks was too fresh in his mind.

But another idea came to him. A non-magical solution. Harry remembered that, in his fourth year, Myrtle had said she was occasionally flushed into the lake by unknowing students. If a toilet flush could propel her through metal pipes...

"Harry? Harry, what are you do-- Are you attacking me? What's that-- Oh, no! OH, THAT'S SIMPLY HORRIBLE!!"

Right there in the deserted corridor, Harry Potter had dropped his pants and was squeezing with all his might.

"No more than you deserve, Myrtle!" he cried, every ounce of his strength channeled into driving Myrtle out of his system.

And with a horrible, wet, exploding sound, Moaning Myrtle found herself propelled out of Harry's body, along with last evening's dinner, which seemed to have assumed a shape that was somewhere between flobberworm and basilisk. She wailed in despair.

"Ha ha!" shouted Harry in angry triumph, stench rising around him. "Take that, you rogering ectoplasmic deviant!"

But Harry's triumph was short-lived. As he did a half-nude victory jig, he suddenly realized that none other than Professor Snape was standing there, lip curled in grim satisfaction. Harry stopped dead, his manhood shriveling in fright, as Myrtle sank through the floor, unnoticed.

"So, Potter. It appears that even basic hygiene is beneath you. Fifty points from Gryffindor, and your name, face, and misdeed are to be posted in every House common room for the next five days. In the meantime, you are in detention, effective immediately. No, you may not put your pants back on. You will clean this mess up with the materials you have on hand."

Harry's lower lip trembled. "You mean... I have to clean up my own crap with my... my clothes?"

Snape smiled his most hateful smile. "I stand corrected, Potter. You may use only your tongue. Carry on." Snape bent over, picked up Harry's pants and underpants, turned on his heel and left.

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