Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of Harry Potter. The story I tell here is not part of J.K. Rowling's story canon (which is far better than anything I could write). I'm only borrowing some of her characters to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.

AN: I found this chapter on my iPad. I'd written it a couple of years back and forgotten about it. I figured I'd post it just to prove I'm alive. The other six chapters are only outlined (Years 1 thru 7, including this first) and center around the Hogwarts Ghosts improving Harry's situation such that there's a much happier ending than in canon. It's fairly easy writing so I'll follow up with another chapter when I have a spare day or two.

Pairings: No romance until toward the end, and even then it won't be graphic. I don't write harem or slash.

Cross posted on AO3.

Ghosts (Or How Nearly Headless Nick Saved Britain): Year One

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington was wandering outside a corridor near Gryffindor Tower when he heard a muffled exclamation. He floated down the corridor to investigate. There, sitting in a small alcove which overlooked one of Hogwarts' many small courtyards, was Harry Potter.

The First Year student had just slammed shut his History of Magic textbook. He looked more than a bit disgruntled.

"I say, are you alright there, Mr. Potter," asked Sir Nicholas congenially.

He took his responsibilities as Gryffindor Tower's resident ghost seriously. He was not only one of the oldest residents of Hogwarts Castle, he was also a true belted knight. As a gentleman, he had a duty to look after the young lads and lasses that wore scarlet and gold.

Harry jumped a bit, startled. Seeing who it was, he settled down quickly, to Sir Nicholas' pleasure. Many of the children were a bit nervous when around him, finding his partially decapitated state off putting.

Harry was obviously made of sterner stuff. He would have made a fine squire.

"I'm fine, Nick," the boy responded, looking despondently at his History text. "I'm just having a hard time with History. Professor Binns marked my last assignment 'Poor', so I'm trying to improve my grade. I'm not doing so well."

Sir Nicholas suppressed a flash of irritation at being addressed so familiarly. It wasn't the worst thing he'd been called in his long unlife. Harry Potter was actually one of the nicer of the young people who spoke with him. At least he never used that hated nickname 'Nearly Headless Nick' when addressing him.

So instead of giving vent to his frustration, he instead nodded in understanding, making sure that the motion and direction of his nod would not dislodge his head from his shoulders. The boy was already of an overly dour disposition. It would have been unbecoming of a wizard of his standing to make light of the situation.

One he understood all too well.

He'd long been an advocate of exorcising Professor Binns. As a Hogwarts' ghost, he was most concerned with the proper education of its students, after ensuring their safety, of course. Binns gave the rest of his ghostly peers a bad name.

"Ah, yes," he drawled, as he scrambled to articulate an honest response. As a knight, gossip was beneath him, as was speaking poorly of others behind their backs. For that same reason, he abhorred lies. Well, nothing for it, he thought. Gryffindors charge forward. "Cuthbert's teaching style does leave a bit to be desired, but he is a wealth of knowledge."

That should do it, he thought smugly. Honor was preserved and the truth spoken.

Seeing the glum face of the Potter boy nod in defeated acceptance, he realized his error. Neither good manners nor truth were solutions to the boy's predicament. He needed some useful advice. It wouldn't do for the lad to give up on History. It was a significant portion of his Hogwarts' education, after all.

"Have you thought about seeking out a tutor? Haven't I seen you in the company of Ms. Granger? She seems like a very bright young lady. I'm confident she takes excellent notes."

He was pleased to see Harry smile briefly at the mention of his friend's name, before it vanished again. "Hermione is helping Ron with his Transfiguration homework and I didn't want to be a bother. She spends so much time helping us that I wanted to see if I could get a passing grade in at least one class on my own." He smiled wryly. "I don't think that's going to happen."

Sir Nicholas hummed as he gathered his thoughts. While he tried to keep his eye on all his young charges, there were so many that he frequently contented himself with making sure that all major body parts remained attached. He'd had an excellent track record in keeping them more or less in one piece, if he said so himself.

Not so excellent in ensuring the adequacies of their studies. He and the other House Ghosts had failed to convince Headmaster Dumbledore to remove Professor Binns. The budget necessary to hire a replacement was apparently lacking.

Still, he tried to pay attention to their individual needs and report any problems to Professor McGonagall as their Head of House. And while the middle aged Scottish witch meant well, she was overburdened with not one, not two, but three full time jobs. She simply lacked the time to pay her cubs the individual attention each of them needed.

Some succeeded despite that lack of support. Despite the sheer number of young people housed in his tower, it had become evident very early that Ms. Granger was most diligent in her studies. But like Professor McGonagall, young Ms. Granger's striving for excellence as a student left little time for her to be tutoring her fellow students.

Especially multiple students in multiple subjects, if what the lad was saying was true. Her free time would be considerably lessened if one of them happened to be the youngest Weasley boy. While he was far from stupid, Sir Nicholas had noticed that the redheaded boy was lazy and singularly unfocused on anything that wasn't food, chess, Quidditch, or Exploding Snap.

Hermione Granger was a credit to Gryffindor as her difficult quest to keep Ronald Weasley's grades up proved time and again. As was Mr. Potter, who was chivalrous enough not to want to take advantage of a young lady's time. Just as importantly, he was brave enough to undertake the daunting task of passing History on his own, despite being handicapped by his Professor.

Well then, he reasoned, another tutor would have to be found. And he knew just the wizard for the job.

"I'll do it," he announced grandly, placing a hand on his chest where his heart had once beat.

To his dismay, young Mr. Potter looked confused. "Do what?"

"Tutor you, of course," he responded, resting his other hand on the hilt of his arming sword as he puffed out his chest and tilted his chin into the air.

Not too far, mind. He didn't want his head to flop to the side. It would be undignified.

The poor boy was obviously exhausted as his eyes began to blink rapidly. Sir Nicholas sympathized. It was getting rather late. Curfew was approaching and the little ones needed their rest.

"Err, thank you?" the scruffy young wizard ventured, eyes growing a bit wet as he still rapidly blinked as if he were trying to process what was being said. "But can you? Is it allowed?"

"Of course it is," he said, sniffing dismissively. "And as the ghostly gentleman of Gryffindor, it is my duty to succor those of its students in need of aid."

A bit of hope began to show in the Potter boy's eyes. Good. At least Binns hadn't yet extinguished his desire to do well in the class. At least not yet.

Not ever, he vowed. Not if he, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, a true Knight of the Garter, had anything to say about it.

The boy looked down doubtfully at his oversized book. "Are you sure, sir? I wouldn't want to impose."

Nicholas had to resist preening when the boy used his actual title. Too many students over the last couple of centuries had forgotten it. The politer students, like Harry Potter, called him simply 'Nick'. The less polite students, the gossips, tale-bearers, and mischief makers, had taken to calling him 'Nearly Headless Nick.'

Disgraceful manners. The Potter boy's use of his well-earned style was a refreshing change.

He'd spent years training with lance and sword. His skill and dedication had even been recognized when the King himself had knighted him on the Field of Bosworth for his many deeds of valor.

If only his skill with his wand had matched his skill with sword and lance, he mourned. Or even his next two best subjects, History and Runes. He might have kept his head and not lost it due to Lady Grieve's complaints about his shoddy Charm work.

It was not his best moment, accidentally disfiguring the King's mistress. Even if his spell was well-intentioned, a temporary mistake soon set to rights, His Majesty had taken it ill and had his head removed from his shoulders.

Or mostly removed his head from his shoulders, he thought with a touch of resentment. If the executioner had made a proper job of it, he'd at least be consorting with his social peers and riding with the Headless Hunt.

His thoughts had obviously wandered, he noticed as he snapped out of his musings. Young Potter's expression had grown concerned with the long silence his thoughts had engendered.

"I'd venture you'd have a hard time finding a better one," he hurriedly reassured the boy. "After all, I did quite well in History as a student. As for the rest, I've lived, err. . .," he coughed to cover up his faux paux, "experienced it, I mean."

He moved over to the ledge that the young lad had been previously perched on. Parchment, inkpot and quill were scattered about. "Tell me what you are working on and we'll see what we can do about it."

The next several hours passed in a delightful haze. Harry, he found, had a keen and curious mind, even if it was a bit dulled from non-use.

"And that was how Yardley Platt died," he announced contentedly. "I knew the wizard personally, you see, and never was there a more despicable excuse for a man. His death at the hands of the Goblins was justice, though it did unfortunately serve as the casus belli of the Eleventh Goblin War. What Professor Binns would describe as a rebellion, though it was more a vigilante action followed by an armed response on the part of the Wizard's Council. The Council was, of course, the governing organization which preceded the Wizengamot. . .".

Harry, he saw, was scribbling hurriedly with his quill. That caused him to frown. No one had shown the poor boy how to use a quill properly.

"Harry, relax your grip. You don't want to crack the spine of the quill," he suggested. "Make sure the nib is angled slightly to your left. Straight up and down will cause thicker lines and increased blotting."

"Sorry, Sir Nick," Harry apologized as he hurriedly shifted the angle of his quill.

He couldn't stop himself from beaming. He'd steadily reinforced his status as a true belted knight to the Potter boy and he, gradually enough, had picked up on the fact that use of his title was common courtesy. He really was a polite young man.

On the other hand, the lad's grip on the quill was still a bit too tight, but Sir Nicholas let it slide. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Harry had taken that step. It was only a matter of time before his quillmanship reached an acceptable standard.

"I think that's enough for tonight." Seeing Harry nod in agreement as he began to pack his school bag, "I'm available next Saturday as the sun rises if you'd like to continue," he offered.

The scruffy boy's face lit up. "That would be brilliant, Sir Nick. How can I ever repay you?" he asked excitedly.

He struck another dramatic pose, one that had wooed many a fair lady and impressed many a fine gentleman in his time as a courtier in King Henry's court. "Read the first six chapters of your text between now and then," seeing the boy's face fall again, he hurriedly continued, "not for comprehension. Read it as if you were reading a storybook. We'll go over the details when we meet again."

Harry nodded, still a bit glum. That didn't stop him from asking, "How do you know what's in the book, Sir Nick? I didn't think ghosts could move things."

He didn't mind the intrusiveness of the boy's question. He had existed as a ghost for over five centuries. He'd long put behind him any upset to references about his undead state. Besides, it was natural for the little ones to be curious.

"Walk with me back to your dormitory, Harry, and I will tell you," he responded jovially as he moved the boy back towards Gryffindor Tower. "First, ghosts can affect the material world in certain small ways, such as turning a page. Second, Professor Bagshot taught here for many years. Muggle Studies, though her primary interest was History. She frequently interviewed me and the others, and was fond of reading chapters of her textbooks out loud, asking for our opinions and seeking advice and information. I'd venture to say . . .".

Sir Nicholas greatly enjoyed his evening with young Harry. He hoped it had benefited the boy and he'd find a love of History before old Binns stamped it out of him.

HNHNSB

Harry was bedridden but propped up on his pillows in the Hospital Wing. He'd seemed comfortable, despite spending the night here recovering after his battle with the traitor Quirrel.

Sir Nicholas had been outraged when he'd heard. The lad had even gone to a Professor for help but had been turned away. That it had been his Head of House, a Gryffindor, made the shame burn even hotter.

He vowed to keep a closer eye on the boy. The professors had failed the boy once by not properly safeguarding the Philosopher's Stone. He, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, would not allow the boy to be endangered again.

Which was why he was now blended into the stone of the castle. As a ghost he'd long been able to pass through walls and floors. A century or two back he'd discovered that he could rest within the confines of walls, the better to remain unseen.

He hadn't had much opportunity to use the trick. It mostly proved useful to surprise amorous young people who grew too accustomed to using the same broom closet.

Not that he was opposed to young love - far from it. But it should first be preceded by a courtship of some sort, preferably a written betrothal agreement enforced via magic. The youth of today and their unfortunate impetuosity in affairs of the heart would result in tragedy, nine times out of ten, he was sure.

Now though, he used it to monitor young Harry without Hogwarts' staff being aware that he was doing so. He was glad that he had. What he had heard was infuriating.

Headmaster Dumbledore had planned all of it. He hadn't come out and directly said so to the young boy, but he didn't need to. Pulling the wool over on an eleven year old's eyes was child's play. Not so a knight and courtier of over five centuries experience.

The problem was that he didn't know what to do about it. As a Hogwarts' ghost, he was bound to obey the Headmaster. While his Gryffindor heart demanded that he confront the elderly archmage, it didn't take a Slytherin-esque mind to realize that would only end in disaster.

No, it was better to remain silent. Observe and aid Harry when and how he could, rather than risk being forbidden from aiding the boy.

He was rather pleased to see the boy was reading a history book other than the school text. He thought Maximus' 'A Brief History of the Roman-Druidic Wars' was riveting, a belief young Potter seemed to share.

Cuthbert Binns had failed to crush Harry's interest in History. He counted that a small victory.

He was pulled out from his rambling thoughts, when Harry unexpectedly asked, "Sir Nick, are you going to come out?"

Safe within the confines of his thick stone walls, Sir Nicholas blinked slowly. Had he heard correctly? Did the boy know he was here, watching? How?

He stayed stationary for a few moments. Perhaps his ears had played tricks on him, lost as he had been in his musings.

"Sir Nick?" Harry asked again. "You don't need to hide."

The Gryffindor Ghost sighed as he stepped forward. He would have to evaluate the efficacy of his trick if a First Year could detect his presence.

"Hello, lad," Sir Nicholas offered warmly, pretending that he hadn't been caught spying on the boy. That wasn't fair, he chastised himself. He was guarding the lad, not spying on him.

"It's good to see you, Sir Nick." He gestured around himself. "I'm sorry it's not in our alcove so we could study together a bit more."

"Never mind that," he said, dismissing the apology brusquely. He would admit, if pressed, that he rather enjoyed his weekly tutoring sessions with the boy. But that paled in comparison with his desire to ensure his continued good health. "You just listen to Madam Pomfrey and get well soon. You'll have plenty of time for studying and magic over the summer."

The boy carefully marked his place with a bookmark he knew Ms. Granger had given him. It was a piece of red cloth, with the young lady's address and phone number picked out in gold lettering. Not that Sir Nicholas knew for certain what a phone was, he just remembered Harry excitedly mentioning it when he'd discovered it in the Quidditch book the young lady had given him for Christmas.

His place safeguarded, the boy looked up at him. "Magic? Over the summer? I thought we weren't allowed. The Ministry's Trace would get me in trouble."

"It depends on the magic. The Ministry can't track everything," he scoffed dismissively. "Do you know how many children suffer from night terrors or are just scared of the dark or like reading under their covers when they should be sleeping? The Aurors would never get any rest if they tracked every Lumos Charm cast by a child who was out of bed to use the bathroom or get a glass of water in the middle of the night. The same holds true for simple cleaning and grooming charms. Keep it small and the Trace will never register the use of your wand."

Harry blinked rapidly, as if he was having trouble following. "So I can use my wand?"

"Of course. Just be careful what spells you cast with it. I'll ask some of the other ghosts what spells they'd recommend." He hummed in contemplation for just a moment. "Lord Dunbar should know. In his mortal days he assisted the Ministry in setting up the enchantments which constitute the Trace."

Relief shone in the boy's eyes. Nicholas wondered what they were teaching young witches and wizards nowadays, if they didn't even know the basics of the Trace.

He pushed the thought aside. He needed to focus on protecting Harry - or more correctly, teaching him to protect himself - without attracting the attention of the Headmaster.

As a ghost, there was not much he could do to influence the physical world. But as a knight, he knew one sure method of self-defense.

Whether it was an archmage or dragon, three feet of good quality steel passed through the body was a wonderful deterrent. And while he would be a poor tutor in wandwork, he was an accomplished swordsman, if he said so himself.

How to broach the subject without traumatizing the poor boy? As brave as young Harry was, he was still a child not yet twelve.

Nothing for it, he decided after a moment's contemplation. Gryffindors charge ahead.

"You need lessons in self-defense," he announced bluntly. "You survived because of pure dumb luck. While your bravery is a credit to your House, Godric Gryffindor was a skilled warrior above all."

To his delight, Harry didn't flinch. Instead, he rubbed his hands through his hair and looked embarrassed. "I know," he admitted. "But I'm not much good with magic and Quirrell was much larger than I am. Everyone is larger than I am," he concluded, shame-faced.

Sir Nicholas eyed the boy critically. It was true that he was very much on the short and scrawny side but nothing that regular helpings of a proper British roast wouldn't soon set right. He'd have to ensure the lad was eating properly, now that he thought about it.

What was even more concerning was the boy's scruffiness. A proper gentleman always appeared his best. Well, he could fix that too, with a bit of effort.

"Size is overrated," he stated authoritatively. And he was an authority on the subject. More than one giant and troll had fallen to his lance and sword, something he had in common with the boy if the stories he'd heard about a troll in the bathroom were true. And how that happened he didn't know. Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in Britain. "What matters in a duel is the courage burning in your heart, the lightness of your feet, the suppleness of your wrist, and the sharp edge of your steel." He considered matters for a moment, testing his logic. "Unless it's a matter of fisticuffs, brawling like some ill-bred lout. Then size matters," he admitted. "But so does skill and courage. You have courage aplenty. I'll provide you with the skills."

"How?" Harry asked skeptically, his eyes beginning to droop due to his obvious tiredness.

"Lessons, of course," Sir Nicholas replied, puffing out his chest as he freed his ghostly blade from its scabbard. He was pleased to see the brave boy's eyes spring open at his sudden action as his hand involuntarily reached for his wand. Good. Situational awareness went a long way to ensuring survival. "I'll demonstrate the movement and you'll copy me. Like so," he said as he demonstrated a rather brilliant textbook thrust.

Harry blinked as he set his wand aside, looking a bit abashed. "Swords? How would swords help me? It's not like I can carry one around here or at the Dursleys."

Sir Nick couldn't help but frown. He was a true knight, not some jumped up fop, and he wasn't used to having his word questioned. Still, Harry had proven himself a brave and intelligent lad and had earned a bit of leeway.

Instead of a lecture on respect due one's betters, he struck a knightly pose and stared down his nose at the boy. "Hogwarts has swords, spears and axes aplenty. They literally decorate every hallway. You don't need to carry one on your person to quickly get your hands on a weapon the next time you face mortal peril. And when you're with your muggle relatives, you can practice with any old stick. The movements are the same, whether it's a piece of wood or good English steel."

It warmed his ghostly heart to see the lad's eyes begin to shine brightly as he considered his words. The boy struggled to sit upright and then, to his alarm, swung his feet out of his hospital bed.

"What are you doing, Harry?" he exclaimed, as he returned his sword to his scabbard before rushing forward to press the boy back into bed.

Of course, it was a wasted effort. His hands ineffectually passed through Harry before he pulled back, trying to hide his embarrassed blush. Five hundred years and he still forgot himself on occasion. It was humiliating.

"It's only two weeks until the end of term and if you are offering lessons, we'd best get started," the small boy replied bravely as he stood on wobbly feet, shrugging off the chill of the grave that the living inevitably felt when they came into contact with their ghostly companions.

Sir Nicholas couldn't help but beam as his embarrassment faded away. Young Mr. Potter was a proper Englishman with a heart of oak. A few more brave souls such as he, and they'd have shown the French what was what back in his day.

Still, the boy needed to recover before he could train properly. No sense in overdoing it. "Back to bed with you," he ordered proudly, making a shooing motion. "Trust me. I was a rather accomplished knight and I know you'll make a fine squire. But not if you injure yourself if you start practicing too soon. Madam Pomfrey will have you right as rain in no time." He exerted the small fragment of what was left of his magic to the fullest and caused it to ruffle the boy's hair affectionately. "We'll start tomorrow evening, but not for too long, mind you. You still have your exams."

Harry didn't need to be encouraged over much to crawl back into his hospital bed. The poor boy was obviously spent, physically and magically. After only a few more words, he fell into an exhausted sleep and Sir Nicholas took his leave.

As he floated down the halls of Hogwarts, he considered options. He couldn't confront Dumbledore directly, but he could properly prepare young Harry for the worst that life might throw at him. He'd been in a war or three during his breathing days and had a fairly good idea of the horrors that might face his young squire.

He made a face. Not only would he have to get a list of low-powered spells that Harry could practice in the muggle world without setting off the Trace, he'd have to see about training Harry in more than just knightly combat and gentlemanly decorum.

He'd been a courtier long enough to learn that not all duels were honorable. Many battles were fought in the dark alleys and in the dead of night.

Good men, brave and true, had died in more than one cowardly ambuscade. He'd be damned before he let such a talented squire fall prey to the plots and deceptions that surrounded him.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to recruit the dirtiest, sneakiest, most dishonorable fighter he knew to aid in training his squire.

With a sigh, he redirected his path toward the Hufflepuff dormitory. He wondered what that gluttonous churl, that despicable cad and unrepentant degenerate, the Fat Friar, would demand as compensation for his services.

End Year One