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Ghosts can't cry
"Sir Nicholas!" A certain bushy haired girl called out. It was his five hundredth Death day party, and he was busy attending to his guests. He was a bit annoyed; he was tired. After all, it had been a long day. Couldn't the girl be a bit more considerate? Well yes, he had invited her and her friends, but still…
"Sir Nicholas!" she cried again. "Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked politely, masking his true thoughts as he turned to face her. "Well, Sir Nicholas, you see Ron and Harry were busy with some other – er – guests and I was a bit bored. So I thought I'll speak to you. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Sir Nicholas?" she asked the last part quietly, and he wondered what anything could be so personal to him.
"Before that, Miss Granger, I request you to please call me Nick, hopefully without the – er – impolite prefix. And please do not, on any occasion, let it slip that I like to be called Nick. You see, though I correct people when they call me – er – Nick, and ask them to call me Sir Nicholas, I have grown quite fond of that name, and I repeat: without of course, the impolite prefix." He ended with a smile. "Though it seems quite appropriate," he added thoughtfully, with a small mock frown.
"Sure, Nick, and please call me Hermione." She replied. "So can I ask?" she again went back to her quiet voice which made him wonder all the more.
"Please be free to ask anything, my dear" he replied with a smile.
"Well Nick, erm, why did you choose this path when you could have chosen the other path?" she asked even more quietly.
"Oh…" What he expected was surely not this… it sure was personal. Still he could manage to answer her. He turned away from her, as memories of long ago flooded him.
"You needn't answer me if you don't want to." Hermione said hesitantly, but the curiosity was evident in her voice. "No, it's alright." Now he had that quiet voice too. It was unnerving really. It was probably infectious.
"I always kept my friends closer than my family. I loved them all too much. That, I think, was the problem. I was very loyal to them, standing by them whenever they needed me. When I died before them, I wasn't ready to, or should I say, brave enough to accept that I was dead. Imagine that, being a Gryffindor!" he paused, giving a harsh laugh. At least, that was it was meant to be, Hermione thought, since it sounded as if he was gasping for breath. But he's dead, she reminded herself. He continued, "I was scared to leave my friends behind. So I chose this path, thinking I could be with them forever, thinking they would choose this path too. But I was foolish; of course they didn't. They were true Gryffindors. And now, for five hundred years, I have been the unfortunate witness of their death and rebirth. I try to make them remember that I was once their dear friend. But they stare at me as if I were crazy, and a complete stranger to them. But I forget, I am a stranger to them. They have forgotten me…"
He shook his head and looked at her. Tears were streaming down her face. "Thank you Hermione, you have been wonderful. It has been a long time since I confided these – things – to anybody. Thank you." He smiled sadly. She returned a watery smile.
"Why don't you cry and let your feelings out someway?" Hermione asked, wanting him to feel better.
Only if she knew… "I have been trying the very same thing for the past five centuries. Unfortunately for me, I've been unsuccessful. You see Hermione, ghosts can't cry, my dear, ghosts can't cry." He smiled sadly again, his dead, grey eyes showing her the immense amount of pain they withheld.
She stood still for a moment, shell-shocked. She surely hadn't known that. Then she did something, which was more unexpected than her question. She stood on her tips and gave him a bone crushing hug. But of course, he reminded himself, he didn't have bones. She shivered, it was obviously cold. She let go a moment later, whispered an "I'm so sorry" and ran back into the crowd, the bushy brown hair bouncing behind her as she ran.
He stood, stunned. It had been five hundred years since he had felt arms around his neck. Well, he hadn't known till now that an eleven year old could do wonders. He was glad she had interrupted him. He couldn't tell her how grateful he was. He would, next time he met her.
He watched as she talked to Ron and Harry, telling them what had happened till now. A certain bushy haired girl had made his five hundredth death day anniversary unforgettable…
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