It is common knowledge, of course, that a ghost cannot feel. Being a non-corporeal being, the specter is incapable of experiencing the sensation of physical touch. Any attempt will result in a hand, or a foot, or what have you, traveling straight through.
To the living human, the "touch" of a ghost resembles walking through an icy waterfall. It chills one to the bone. I have been told that this is because a ghost is physically made of "the absence of life." Life is warmth, and death is cold. When the two combine, you might expect for the warm to become colder, and the cold to become warmer. However, cold simply wins. I suppose that is because cold is the stronger force. After all, cold is death, and no man can escape death.
All this being said, there is one misconception I would like to dispel. A ghost may not be able to feel, but that does not mean a ghost does not have feelings. Emotions are eternal, and reside with us throughout the rest of our existence. Sir Nicholas is perpetually indignant, insulted by his refusal by the members of the Headless Hunt. The Friar is constantly hungry, with only his ghostly tankard of ale to sate him. I never quite know what the Baron is thinking, but he always has a scowl on his face.
As for me, I died in fear, which would explain my shy, scared nature. I wasn't like this in life. In fact, I was quite outspoken in my youth, particularly toward my mother. She was selfish, in my opinion, hiding her treasured diadem from the world. And she always said it would be the death of her. Little did she know that she was correct—well, mostly.
I was the death of her.
It doesn't matter now. Both she and I have been dead for centuries, and only I was cursed to continue roaming this godforsaken earth for eternity. Cursed by my own petty fears.
But I digress. This does prove that ghosts have feelings. But I think the misconception stems from the fact that a ghost's feelings do not change. I have been timid and afraid for more than a thousand years, and it has never abated, never grown, never been replaced by anything else. It will never be replaced.
So I hide. I briefly appear for each welcome feast, and occasionally, I might accidentally run into a student who is more curious than he or she ought to be, particularly those in search of that wretched diadem. But for the greater part, I avoid the Hogwarts population, living and dead alike.
The first student to accept my fear, and continue to search for me despite it, was Luna. She was so very kind. I couldn't help but be afraid, but she repeatedly assured me that she only wanted company, and not the diadem. I believed her, and often conversed with her. She was the first person from whom I did not run (or fly) away.
Harry Potter was a bit more insistent and frantic than Luna. Of course, at the time, the great war was raging around—and in—the castle. And his purpose for seeking the diadem was to rid the world of its rot once and for all. Once again, I found myself believing, trusting a mortal, and I revealed its hiding place. And because of Harry Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was also destroyed forever.
After that, I returned to the shadows and the hidden corridors. Few people sought me out, and those that did were only curious about what had happened to the diadem. I would only tell them it was gone, and then quickly fly away, finding another hiding place.
Such was the norm, and the very welcome norm, for I don't know how many years.
Then he came along.
A/N: This... is going to be interesting. I'm not sure where this story will take me. Stay tuned, and we'll find out together! :)