I've been asked many times over about the story of my death. I've told the abbreviated version of it before, but avoided any unpleasant details. It was gruesome and heart breaking and I've always felt uncomfortable talking about it. If it hadn't been for Lady Grieve, I might not have had to tell it at all.

Lady Grieve was a spectacularly beautiful lady. I had seen her many times in court, but was always too shy to speak with her. I was frequently entranced by her eyes which shone like the brightest emeralds and the onyx black curls that cascaded down her back contrasting brilliantly against her porcelain skin. Everything about her was perfection.

I knew that a man like me would never have a chance with a lady like her, but it was my sincerest hope that one day she might notice me and perhaps even speak with me. A word or two from her and I thought I might be able to die a happy man.

On the day that ended my life, I happened upon Lady Grieve walking through the park. I noticed her immediately and was enraptured by her luminescent glow. She looked up and met my eyes. Quickly, I glanced away. I couldn't bring myself to hold her gaze.

When she stopped to talk to me, my heart began to beat rapidly and my hands became slick with sweat. I could hardly maintain my composure. I tried to think of something witty to say, but everything sounded ridiculous in my head, so I maintained my silence.

"Good sir," she said, "I've had an unfortunate accident that's left my teeth quite crooked. Could you kindly fix them for me?"

It certainly wasn't what I'd expected her to say and I had to pause momentarily to grasp the words properly. Once they'd registered, I said "Why, yes. I believe I can," a bit more confidently than I actually felt.

"Oh, thank goodness. I was worried I'd be left a mess permanently," she replied with a sweet smile.

In retrospect, I should've told her that my transfiguration work was abysmal, but I wanted so badly to impress her. I raised my wand, pointing it directly at her mouth and whispered, "Mordices Derectus."

At first, it seemed that everything had gone according to plan. Her teeth were certainly straight, but within seconds a large tusk began to grow in the center of her top row.

"What did you do to me?" shrieked Lady Grieve.

"I-I-I- I don't know," I bumbled like a fool.

A fury swept over Lady Grieve and the once beautiful woman looked a fright. Her pale skin was splotchy and red and her eyes were pressed into mere slits. As the tusk kept growing, she screamed, "I'll have your head for this!"

Unfortunately, she wasn't joking.

A few hours later I was arrested. My jailer stripped me of my wand and threw me into a dungeon cell that was impossibly small.

I spent that evening crying and begging for forgiveness. I promised a million times over that I would repair any damage that had been done, but the jailer refused to listen.

It was well past midnight when despair took me. Finally, I lay down on the pile of straw in the corner of my cell and sobbed until I fell asleep.

In the morning, I was roughly shaken awake by calloused hands. At first, I admit that I thought it was all a dream, but the reality of it all quickly became apparent.

"Priest's here to talk to you," my jailer spat.

I sat up instantly. Surely, the Priest was visiting to take my confession and allow me to leave or so I thought.

Instead of offering me absolution, the Priest asked if I had any last words. I sat gaping at him, too dumbfounded to speak. I couldn't fathom why I would possibly need to say any last words. I hadn't murdered anyone. In fact, my only crime had been an accident.

The Priest left as quickly as he came and my jailer returned. I found myself shoved to my feet and dragged to the gallows.

A sea of people surrounded the platform. It looked as if they were prepared for a festive occasion. Little children and women dotted the crowd and many of them chanted for blood. A sickness came over me causing me to spew the contents of my stomach on the ground. Several of the women jumped back in disgust trying to avoid the splattering droplets.

As we reached the stairs my legs gave out. The executioner stood just above them, hooded in a black cloak with an axe in hand. No sight had ever caused me more fear.

The mob pressed me forward, not caring that I couldn't walk. My flesh was scrapped and bruised as my knees and hands were slammed into the stairs.

Once I reached the platform, I was forced to kneel before the chopping block. Tears streamed from my eyes and I began to wretch once more. Reaching out, I grasped at the executioner's robes, begging him for my life. My words were met with silence.

The next few moments passed in a blur, but soon I found myself doubled over with iron wrapped around my wrists; a puddle of bile and tears pooled beneath me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the executioner raise the axe. A loud whistling sound pierced the air as the axe swung towards my neck. The first strike was the worst. The axe was dull and it cut only deep enough to stop the movement to the rest of my body.

It took the executioner fifteen more whacks before I finally fell unconscious and a total of forty five before I died. Even then, my head stubbornly refused to detach from my body. One by one, the blood stained crowd began to leave, horror etched across their faces. My death had been meant to be clean and easy, but it had devolved quickly into a bloody butchery.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the strangest sensation. A ripping feeling occurred as my soul parted from my corpse. For a moment, I floated above my body staring down at the carnage. Although I was staring at my own partially removed head, I felt oddly unaffected by it all. There was almost a sense of peace.

After staring at my body for a moment or two, my soul began to drift. I was yanked from this world into a sort of limbo. I was suspended in a middle ground with two doors in front of me. I'm not quite sure how, but I knew that the door on my left would take me back to life on earth and the door on my right would take me into the unknown.

Every instinct that I had told me I should take the door on the right and continue on to the unknown, but truthfully, I was afraid. I had no idea what was beyond that door and surprises had always been uncomfortable for me. Instead, I chose to return to my previous life knowing that I would only be a shell of my former self.

Stepping through the left door, I felt as if I passed through the tiniest of tubes. My body smashed and compressed all around me and what was left was the thinnest, emptiest version of me. Instantly, I knew that it was a mistake to return to my past life, but it was too late. I would have to live out eternity as a ghost.

Staying at the castle that I had once called home seemed to be out of the question. I couldn't bear the idea of facing anyone who knew of my stupidity, particularly Lady Grieve.

Wracking my brain, I tried to think of somewhere that I would feel safe and perhaps even happy. The only location that came to mind was Hogwarts. My school years had been spent there as a child and it had provided me with quite a bit of enjoyment. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, my soul was transported there.

I've whittled away at time by haunting the hallways. I've found something of a family in all of the students, professors, and other ghosts, but part of me still wonders if I shouldn't have just allowed myself to move on. I've been here now for a little over five hundred years and I still have the rest of eternity to go.

Hi there!

This story was originally posted on HPFF for merlins beard's Ghost Story Challenge where it won 1st place. The prompt was to write about a character's moments leading up to death and why they decided to become a ghost. I've always thought Sir Nicolas' story was fascinating, so I figured this would be a good opportunity to explore it.

As always, feedback is much appreciated, so don't be afraid of leaving a comment below.

Thank you for reading!

~Kaitlin/TreacleTart