Nicholas, or better known as Nearly headless nick- a nickname he didn't endorse, as it mocked the very tragedy that was his beheading- was a ghost. And as ghosts do, he got bored rather often. There wasn't much to do, of course, there were people most of the year- and Peeves, the school poltergeist who was nearly hated by all of the ghosts for being nuanced, always spiced things up- but what was there for a ghost to do?
Ghosts couldn't do magic- except for extremely powerful ones- but most (including Nicholas), couldn't do it.
He began to think back on the headless hunt. It wasn't fair that Patrick could do magic- even if it was very little- and he couldn't. Just one more thing that Patick was better at than him. He scowled, remembering their childhood together.
Why did he have to be the coward?
Nichloas thought back on it, remembering the past centuries.
Why did he have to be so absolutely pitiful that he made a fool of himself joining the headless hunt every year?
It was no wonder why his reputation was down the drain.
He grumbled quietly to himself.
Well then, he decided, I won't join this year.
He wasn't going to do it. He'll get rejected again, so what was the point? His deathday party, his- not bloody Patrick's! - party!
He'll just have to hold it in a different place, and he won't even invite Patrick- nor any other members of the headless hunt.
But what shall he do in his spare time?
He thought yet again, as an older ghost than him approached.
"Boy," droned on the ghost, "you're thinking too loud, let me rest, pretend, too, anyway."
"I'm not a boy," he huffed quietly, "I'm sorry, Mr Mycah- for my.. noise.."
"Ah," Mr Mycah looked unimpressed with his apology, "always such a fusser. In my days, we'd call you a skelpie-limmer."
Nicholas didn't particularly care too much for what that meant, as he couldn't possibly even be a fusser, as he was… he just couldn't think of a reason right now. But although he died young, he wasn't a bloody fusser, nor was he childish.
He left, as he didnt want to deal with the older ghost any longer than he had too.
He thought about a new life, without having to deal with the snickers behind his back, or having to be rejected every single year.
He breathed with lungs he didn't quite have, and grinned a gryffindorish (as he was the proud Hogwarts ghost of it) grin.