Title: Positivity

Disclaimer: This is fanfiction. I earn nothing from this, not even a smug sense of self-satisfaction.

Pairings: None

Rating: T for mild swearing? I don't know, I just like to play it safe when it comes to this site.

Warnings: Vague discussion of the afterlife, boys punching each other. I don't think I bashed Catholicism here, but I'm not 100% confident of that.

Summary: The Fat Friar has never regretted his decision to become a ghost, because he knows his good work never ends.

Word Count: 2,566

Prompts: freak, Dialogue: "Is that too much to ask?"

Author's Note: This is my entry for Round 1 of the playoffs of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. Yes, we Falcons made it! I don't know how far into the playoffs we'll go, but as long as we're here, we will kick arse!

My prompt this round was to write about a ghost. I chose the Fat Friar because 1) Hufflepuff pride, 2) I adore him, 3) I was raised a Catholic, so why not. Also, I wanted to be able to sneak in my dad's theory about ghosts and the afterlife, and the Friar seemed to be the appropriate mouthpiece.

This isn't a very action-packed piece, but I'm hoping someone out there will enjoy it, anyway.

Also, my apologies for not updating any of my WIPs/writing my Christmas present to Princess-Warrior 17/writing any new stories in the past month or so. Between finals and dealing with holiday festivities with my family (*shudder*), I've been really busy. I'll get back on track soon, starting with that really, really late gift.

Until then, I wish you all a great year. :)

The Fat Friar floated along the Grand Staircase, humming his favourite hymn to himself. He didn't always float, of course—it depended on his mood. When he felt determined and purposeful, he preferred to walk briskly, and when he wanted to present himself as relaxed and easy-going, he strolled. Today, though, he was letting his mind run free, not caring so much about his feet as he cared about his head and the beautiful music running through it.

In fact, he was just reaching the chorus of his song when he overheard a commotion on the flight of stairs below him. Swivelling, he caught sight of two boys tussling—and one of them looked like he was going to fall down the steps any moment now.

"Boys!" They ignored him, so he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted louder. "Boys! What on Earth are you doing?"

As he drew nearer, the two boys jerked apart to look at him with wide eyes, and the Fat Friar realised that they weren't mere boys after all—they were two eighth year Hufflepuffs: Ernie Macmillan and Zacharias Smith.

"Friar," Macmillan rushed to explain, patting his hair back into place. "This isn't what it looks like! I was just explaining to Zacharias here why humility is an important trait."

"Hah! You, humble? You're the most pompous arse I know," sneered Smith.

"At least I am not a cowardly traitor! Where were you when the DA needed you? Trampling over first years on the way out, that's where!"

Smith drew back his fist to punch Macmillan, but Macmillan was faster, socking him right in the nose, causing the other boy to yell out and clutch at his face.

The exaggerated movement caused Smith to tilt further backward and misplace his footing. He yelped, but Macmillan quickly grabbed his robes and pulled Smith towards himself before he could actually fall. The two of them collapsed onto the floor of the landing, groaning.

The Friar walked over to them, smiling and shaking his head at their prone bodies. "Is this any way for two Hufflepuffs to behave?"

Whimpering, Macmillan argued, "But Friar! He's an unrepentant traitor!" Smith swatted at Macmillan's head, but Macmillan rolled away. "See how he insists on fighting me, even now?"

The Friar wagged his finger. "Be that as it may, it is not our job to judge our fellow men or dole out punishment! Did Jesus punish Judas when he sold him out for thirty silver coins?"

Macmillan stared back blankly at him. "Why would anyone sell a person for thirty Sickles? That's not even two Galleons!"

The Fat Friar quirked his lips resignedly; these students never understood Biblical references. Honestly, what was Binns teaching them all?

"Why don't you go cool off…preferably in Professor Sprout's office? I am sure she would be quite interested to hear what ails you."

Macmillan's eyes widened, but he complied with the implied order, getting up and rushing off. Although the Fat Friar had maintained a pleasant demeanour throughout the entire conversation, there was no doubt that he would report everything to Professor Spout as soon as possible, for the Friar kept no secrets.

As Macmillan retreated, the Fat Friar turned to look at Smith, whose nose was bleeding profusely.

"Oh dear. I think you should go to the infirmary before meeting with Professor Sprout," clucked the Friar.

Smith scowled and silently raised his wand to his nose. With a couple of well-placed taps, his nose healed itself and the blood vanished.

The Friar chuckled and clasped his hands together. "Marvellous! Why, you're almost as good at healing as I used to be when I was alive!"

"Oh, sod off, you fat freak," growled Smith. He trounced off down the stairs.

The smile slid off the Friar's face, and he frowned for the first time in nearly a century. It felt very unpleasant, and he usually avoided frowning if he could help it, but at this moment he could not help it—the insult had hit him like a punch to his belly.

He walked briskly after Smith, unwilling to let this unpleasantness go.

"Listen here! That was quite uncalled for! One would think that a wizard like you would not go around calling people freaks!"

Smith halted mid-step and turned around to face him.

"What do you mean, a wizard like me? Are you calling me abnormal?"

"Certainly not!" He held out his arms beseechingly. "I just meant that as a wizard, you should be more sensitive about such terminology. For centuries, Muggles have been freely calling our people freaks, even murdering them without remorse at various points in history. To them, we are all abnormal."

Smith rolled his eyes and resumed walking. "Save the history lessons for Binns, Friar. He may do a shite job at it, but at least that's his job."

The Friar kept up with him. "Tell me, Mr Smith, why are you so unhappy? This is your eighth year here, and I have yet to see you crack a genuine smile."

Smith let out an explosive sigh, but he was already at the desired floor, so there wasn't much more walking he could possibly do.

"Can you just leave me alone and let me face Professor Sprout in peace? Is that too much to ask?"

"I asked you a simple question, young man. Was that too much to ask?"

Smith moved towards a stone bench on a balcony and plopped onto it. "If I humour you, do you promise to come with me to Professor Sprout's office so she doesn't yell at me about showing up later than Macmillan?"

"Of course. It's the least I can do." The Friar had regained his smile by this point, and Smith seemed to grow more annoyed at the sight.

"Fine."

The Fat Friar sat down next to him. "Now…tell me all about it, Mr Smith. Why have you been such an unhappy young man?"

Smith stared out at the night sky, although the Friar doubted he was really looking at it. Had he been truly looking at the sky, he would have at least smiled a little, for the sky was clear tonight, and the stars shone more brilliantly than ever. As it was, Smith continued to frown.

"I don't belong here," Smith muttered at last.

"In Hogwarts? Well, I know it is rather strange to be back here and taking an extra year, but finishing your education is very important—"

"No, no, I mean, in Hufflepuff. I was probably just shoved here because there was nowhere else for me to go." He scuffed his shoe against the stone floor, as if to emphasise his point.

The Friar raised his eyebrows. "Ah. I see. And why do you think that, Mr Smith?"

Smith snorted. "If you had arrived earlier, you'd have heard that tosser sum it up quite nicely. I'm not loyal enough for any of them. I'm not particularly hardworking, although I suppose I do finish all my homework. I'm also not very patient."

"I can see that last bit, young man, what with you running off like that."

Smith rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm sorry, but talking to a dead man is not how I like to spend my evenings. Nor is dreading a meeting with the Head of House."

The Friar chuckled. "So you would prefer to get punched by your classmate instead?"

"Hah. No, I'd prefer to be the one doing the punching, but I guess my fighting skills are a bit rusty, what with my being a 'coward' and all."

The Friar turned to look at Smith, but he was still staring stubbornly in the direction of the night sky. "Do you feel that you are a coward, Mr Smith?"

"Everyone else does."

"And you?"

Smith did not answer for a moment, his face freezing into pensiveness. Then he shrugged and turned to look the Friar in the eye. "I'm a practical guy, Friar. I don't fight battles I know I'll lose. Macmillan's plausible, but You-Know-Who? I had no wish to become like you just yet."

The Friar grinned. "Like me? Why not? Being able to walk through walls is pretty fun."

Smith quirked his lips. "That may be, but I'll pass for now, thanks. How'd you become a ghost, anyway?"

The Friar sighed, and his smile slipped for the second time. He was on a frowning roll tonight. "Let's just say the Church decided to excommunicate me out of existence. I don't fancy going into details."

"Why'd they do that? Did you go on a shagging spree?"

The look of horror on the Friar's face must have been quite a sight, for Smith surprised him with a genuine laugh.

"No, young man, I've never 'shagged.' Perish the thought. I was quite happy with food and drink; I had no other sort of appetite to sate."

"Then what was it? What was so horrible that they had to end you?"

The Friar pursed his lips and looked at the sky, where a star winked at him encouragingly. "I healed people."

Smith snorted beside him. "I thought people would like being healed."

"Yes, well, they don't like it so much when you heal with a stick and a few murmured words. Muggles can be rather particular about method, you see."

"Ah." The sound fell to the barely-lit floor and lingered.

The Friar turned to look at Smith, but the young man was looking at the floor and chewing his bottom lip, probably agonising over what one could even say to such a revelation.

"One of the last words I ever heard before my death was 'freak' or something like it, which is why I'm not so fond of that term."

Smith looked up at him, the corners of his mouth tugged down. "I'm sorry about earlier, then."

"Do not fret about it. I forgave my persecutors, so forgiving you is child's play."

Smith's lips gave a wry twist. "You're a good Hufflepuff, aren't you? Loyal to your morals after all this time."

The Friar shrugged and said nothing to that.

"Have you ever met God, Friar?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Not in the sense that I am meeting you right now, Mr Smith. I met Him through the Bible, and I've met Him through the results of His actions, rather like one meets the wind through the swaying of the trees."

"Isn't the fact that you're a ghost just proof that Heaven and Hell don't exist?"

He laughed. "No, my child, not necessarily. You see, I am not all here."

Smith raised an eyebrow. "Surely not. Your body's gone, after all."

"No, I mean, this form that you see right now is not my soul. Not in the Christian sense, anyway. I am simply an imprint I chose to leave behind, one that can interact with people but isn't truly alive. I've made new memories to an extent and have even adapted my speech to match the vernacular, but there are moments where I feel truly timeless and placeless. Non-existent. As if I could just vanish any second now. I am sure my soul would not feel like that, wherever it's gone. A soul is a powerful thing, able to move mountains if necessary."

"Uh huh." Smith drummed his fingers on his knee. "Tell me, why'd you decide to leave an imprint behind? Why not just let all of you come home to God or whatever?"

The Friar reached out, intending to pat Smith's head, but he pulled his hand back, remembering that it would only bring him discomfort. "I have more work to do, young man. Although I can no longer heal in this form, I can still give advice and spiritual guidance, as well as provide a smiling, welcoming face to all students who need positivity in their lives. Such as you, Mr Smith."

Smith rolled his eyes. "Quite frankly, your smiling face does nothing for me."

"Perhaps not, but it doesn't hurt you, either."

"Fair enough." Smith kicked gently at the empty space in front of his leg. "You're the perfect representative of Hufflepuff, aren't you? Kind and welcoming. Makes me feel even more out of place, sometimes."

"You could change that if you smile once in a while."

"Hah! No thanks. The one time I ever tried to smile, the first years ran away in terror, thinking I was going to do something to them."

The Friar guffawed. "Now that is quite an image."

"What am I doing here, Friar? I have no noble goal like you. Am I meant to be the punching bag of twats like Macmillan?"

The Friar reached out and patted the air above Smith's shoulder. "Of course not. No one is meant to be a punching bag—we are all human beings. No, you are here to finish your education and become a useful member of society."

"And be a friendless outcast as I do so." Smith rested his chin on his hand, resigned to his friendless fate.

The Friar swatted fate away. "No, no. A useful and helpful person will always find friends. You seem pretty skilled with your healing spells, for one thing. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage."

Smith shrugged. "Everyone can use those spells—we all learned them in class."

"Oh, trust me, Mr Smith, I've seen plenty of students who've struggled with simple healing charms, as well as full-grown adults. A talent like yours is rare—all you did was tap your nose a couple of times and it was healed. Why, I haven't seen such ease since my own living days."

"So you want me to go around and heal people's cuts and scrapes?"

The Friar smiled widely and stretched out his arms. "It's a start, Mr Smith."

"You're completely crazy, you know that? And here I thought you were simply daft."

The Friar took no offense to such a statement, however, for he could see the frown lines fading in Smith's face, and he knew he had done his work well. He beamed at Smith, and the young man gave him a reluctant smile before standing up.

"Come on, Friar. We can continue this ridiculous conversation as we walk. Professor Sprout is probably livid by now, and I'd rather not have her sic her plants on me again."

As the Friar followed him, he started humming his favourite hymn again. Smith snorted, but he gradually joined in once he understood the tune, whistling an accompaniment.

No matter what Smith said, the Friar knew Smith would find his place of belonging eventually, and maybe he would even realise that he had already been there all along.

After all, even Macmillan, angry as he had been, had saved Smith from falling to his death. Hufflepuffs looked out for each other no matter what, and if Smith could just learn to smile a bit more, maybe the others would warm up to him and create good memories with him during this final year.

The Friar decided that his goal now was to ensure the young man smiled more often so that others could see his potential healing power, which might in turn make the world a slightly better place.

As always, the Fat Friar was glad he had chosen to leave a part of himself behind. He still had so much more good work to do.