AN: Written for Cheeky Slytherin Lass' Halloween Drabble Competition. There are 449 words not including the Author's note. My word was 'ghost'. The tune is my own. I do not own Harry Potter.
…
It had started out like any other day: meeting with the other members of His Royal Highness King Henry VII, signing letters, and other duties of a courtier. And then it had gone downhill that evening.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington took a stroll in the park like he always did, admiring the changing foliage and thinking about the new day's arrival. The night was a little gusty and the air was chill as he walked down the paved path and began to sing a tune.
"Where has the night gone? I'm gonna get along, until the sun comes up. To see my way home, that's where I'm gonna go."
He continued to hum as heels clicked on the stone. "Oh, good evening Lady Grieve."
"Sir Nicholas." The woman's dark evening dress swayed as she curtsied. Sir Nicholas had always thought that her name was odd-Grieve; something usually associated with death and mourning. Lady Grieve's dark hair was still in her high up-do, the moonlight reflecting on her pretty, pale face.
"I have a proposition for you Sir Nicholas," she said, her hands clasped in front of her.
"Yes?"
"I've heard that you can…fix… things."
"Fix things Lady?"
Lady Grieve looked around cautiously. "With…magic."
Sir Nicholas was slightly taken aback. No one really asked him straight-out to use magic although everyone knew he was a wizard. "Well…what do you want me to fix?"
She looked embarrassed. "My teeth, Sir." She flashed him a crooked smile.
"I'd be happy to help." He tried to remember the spell that would help him fix her teeth. With a quick thought, he told her to smile wide. With the spell in mind, he watched her grow a tusk.
…
His execution was set for Hallow's Eve that morning, after Lady Grieve screamed and called him a monster, drawing attention to some late-night strollers. The spell had backfired; had been long forgotten since his days in school.
On the chopping bock, Sir Nicholas bawled like a small child. He did not wish to die, hoped he could still live on. It was a mistake. He was no monster. He was a Gryffindor-brave, strong. He could get no final words out other than, 'Sorry,' as the axe came down on his neck. The pain was instantaneous, the words in his mind: I don't want to die!
Suddenly, white light surrounded him and he felt weightless. A voice floated in the air, light, wispy. Death? No. "Don't be afraid," it said.
"What's happened? Where I am? What am I?" Sir Nicholas asked, suddenly in a panic-his entire body was now glowing.
"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," the voice addressed. "Due to your wishes, you are now a ghost."
…
AN: Tada!