A/N - HP Wiki has this to say about him - 'Edgar Cloggs was a ghost who has been hanging around the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts for as long as anyone can remember. He was willing to help the Quidditch teams of Hogwarts practise.'
'I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.'
– Eric Roth
.oOo.
He sped up, willing his broom to go even faster as he attempted to catch up to the opposing teams chaser. He swerved, avoiding the beater looking at him with an expression he didn't particularly care to name. He had to do this – he knew he could do this – after all, he wasn't known as the best chaser the country had ever seen for nothing. Even if it was mostly a title that he himself used. That didn't matter; he knew he was the best – his team had remained undefeated ever since he had joined them seven years ago. Straight out of Hogwarts. And he was catching up to the chaser.
Only…
He didn't see the beater smirk behind his back. He didn't see the beater take a swing at the bludger. And he certainly didn't see the bludger heading straight for the back of his skull.
It made contact with a sickening crunch – a crunch that he wasn't conscious to hear – propelling him from his broom with the force of it. Spectators were screaming – panicking; yelling; crying. He landed face-up on the pitch, blood pooling around his head. Mostly, those who were paying enough attention to think about it were thankful that he hadn't landed face-down.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He was slightly dazed and he didn't feel quite connected to his body, but at least he wasn't in pain. But... how could that be? His skull had been cracked open. By all accounts he should be bleeding out on the floor. He brought a hand to the back of his head, gingerly touching where he'd been hit. He couldn't feel anything.
Literally.
He wasn't even sure he was touching his head. It was where his head should have been. He was pretty sure it was his head, but it just didn't feel right. He supposed he must have been injured after all; perhaps he had some serious head trauma that was making him feel like this. Like he wasn't entirely there and that everything in the world had shifted ever so slightly – not so much as to cause any damage, but enough to leave him with a slight sense of unease.
Only then did he look down.
And he regretted that action immediately.
At his feet – or, rather, around his feet – was him... or his body. And... no. Just no. He didn't want to die; he wasn't ready to die – though it would only be in hindsight that he would realise that this was probably why he was still here – there was so much he had wanted to do.
He'd always thought that he would get a chance to go back to being a keeper one day, but there wasn't just that. He'd wanted to travel the world – most people did it as soon as they had graduated from Hogwarts, but he'd begun playing Quidditch professionally almost straight away. He thought he'd have a family of his own one day; he'd planned to visit his sister, to finally meet his three-year-old nephew (or was he four now?). There was so much he had wanted to do, and he hadn't done any of it.
Quidditch had become his life.
He looked up at the stands; a lot of people were staring at him with varying expressions of horror on their faces, but the majority had turned their attention back to the game that had continued regardless of his…
He could feel the anger building. He had literally given his life for this sport and they couldn't even pause in their game long enough to remove his body from the pitch. Two medi-wizards were carrying him off on a stretcher as the players continued overhead. And wasn't that just lovely. His own teammates cared more about their precious sport than him. They didn't even so much as glance in his direction as his body was taken out of sight.
He felt the anger subsiding, only to be replaced with self-pity and a vague sense of denial and loss. He didn't know what to do with himself. What was the correct protocol for this situation? What does one do on the event of their death?
He followed the stretcher.
.oOo.
His funeral was largely unimpressive – closed casket, mourners dressed all in black; the usual affair. He watched from a small balcony, hidden from the guests, unwilling to show himself to his family. His mother openly sobbing, his sister clutching onto her husband and child – who was definitely older than four, and how had that happened?)
He left before it was over.
He spent several years roaming around the country; largely lost, but he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world.
It was nearly ten years after his death that he first heard news about his family. His mother and sister were living in Surrey, but his nephew was in his fifth year at Hogwarts. He still wasn't sure he wanted to see his family again after all these years – they'd probably moved on, and it wouldn't be fair on them to reappear so suddenly – but his nephew... Well, the boy wouldn't recognise him. They'd never met. And a simple check in couldn't do any harm.
So that is exactly what he did.
.oOo.
He found the boy playing Quidditch.
He almost laughed.
He hated the sport now, but there wasn't any harm in staying and watching for a little while. Just a few minutes, and then he would leave. He could forget it had ever happened and go back to how he had been before.
An hour later and he stepped slowly onto the pitch. One of the boys – the seeker, he noticed absently – slowed down to watch him warily, bringing his broom closer to the ground to get a better look. He made eye contact with the boy and began to speak.
A few pointers wouldn't hurt anyone.