He scrunched his nose to the onslaught of smells. It was bitter, stale and made his head spin simply from the aroma. He scanned his eyes over the stone alleyway, spotting the deviances that brought upon the un-Godly stench. There was almost a dozen slumped in the alley. He felt it was ill-fit to be drunk, behind a place of prayer.
He shook he head, moving about, collecting the half empty bottles filled with chartreuse liquid commonly associated with Goblin Scotch. “AWAKEN!” he yelled, arousing them all from their drunken slumber. Those that didn’t wake to his voice were nudged awake by his boot. “Inside there is hot water for washing and food.”
“’Ello, Frai’e,” slurred a man, accepting the Friar’s hand to help him to his feet. “Good man, yer are.”
“And a drunk man, are you,” replied the Fat Friar with a sorrowful sigh. “Mr. Watson, you ought to cease drinking yourself into a slumber.”
“Dear, Frai’e, it is ze only source of comfet I ’ave,” exclaimed Mr. Watson, his face twisting with pain.
The Friar felt a wave of worry for his old school comrade. “Why do you say such things?”
The foul-smelling man choked on a sob before announcing, “My wife is with child again. Friar, we cannot have another child lost, our hearts cannot take such an act.”
The Friar understood his plight. Mrs. Watson had had three still-born children already, the last almost killing Mrs. Watson. He clamped his hand on Mr. Watson’s shoulder as tears streaked the soon-to-be father’s grubby face, cutting salty paths through the grime. “I shall pray for her and the child. If you wish, I will also visit your house often and bless it!” He could see his friend’s mood altering so he led him inside to the bathing room. “Now, clean yourself; we shall converse after, when food has replaced the Goblin Scotch.”
Mr. Watson nodded, walking off before the Friar went to help with the buffet, knowing his friend would find him when he was clean and sober.
“I wish to take your offer, dear Friar,” he admitted, getting a friendly smile and a nod. “You are certainly the kindest Hufflepuff I have had the pleasure of being acquainted with.
“Such high compliments, thank you,” spoke the Friar, plucking a grape from the bunch on the table. “You, my friend, must stand tall and once again be a brave Gryffindor and have faith in Godric that your wife and child will see through this.”
“With you to guide me, I will prevail.”
“You all know I am willing to provide a listening ear or helping hand,” reminded the Friar, in a travelling voice. “Now eat, so that I will not be sending you home still affected by the lubricant. Also, do deliver my congratulations to Mrs. Watson, as well as food. She is eating for two.”
“Thank you, and will we be seeing you tomorrow for blessings?”
“Certainly,” assured the Friar before moving off to help another.
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He was never very fond of the Smith family even if they were descendents of Helga Hufflepuff. Unfortunately, he had to go to this annoyingly extravagant wedding, a Friar’s duty and all. He knew from his time as Clementine Smith’s prefect that the younger man had an air of over-indulgence, so he was certain that it would be a suffocating event with much lace and frills. He was never a fan of such insufferable affairs. However, he was obligated to go, as were any invited to the wedding of someone so high in the wizarding world.
Realising there was no escape, he walked out of his chambers and made his way down the hall, towards the chapel. His feet stopped moving when his eyes landed on the holy room. He had been right about the lace and the frill but his imagination could never have thought of this. There was yellow everywhere: sunflowers, buttercups and daffodils.
Refraining from grimacing, the Fat Friar smiled and greeted anyone he passed. He sighed with happiness when he saw Mr. Watson, for he had become accustomed to the other man’s company, as well as the company of Mrs. Watson. He walked over to the couple, clamping his friend on the shoulder and inquiring about Mrs. Watson’s health.
She was well into her pregnancy, almost at full term, which was obvious in her violet gown. However, she had been fairing well, much better than the last pregnancies and they all had high hopes.
“Do you like the décor?” laughed Mr. Watson, gesturing to all the yellow. “The Smiths have embraced their heritage.”
“I believe it is more flaunting then embracing,” corrected the Friar with a quant smile. “But I must confess that I find it quite alarming.”
“Mrs. Watson loves the daffodils.”
“Shush,” scolded the said brunette with a kind smile. “I only commented that the other name of daffodils in female form, Narcissa, would be a lovely name for a girl.”
“And I remarked that we may as well call her daffodil, for it is the same,” joked the married man. “I have no fondness for that name.”
Before the conversation could continue they were called to be seated. The three sat towards the back, coincidently with a large vase of daffodils at the end of the aisle, next to Mrs. Watson. The orchestra started and they turned to watch the bride glide through the doors in a garment with enough fabric to make several.
“Oh,” gasped Mrs. Watson, a pained expression covering her face.
“I know the dress is ghastly but endure, darling,” whispered Mr. Watson with a cheeky smile.
“Arr,” she screamed softly, a hand flying to her stomach.
“Are you well?” the Friar questioned.
“The... baby... is... coming!” she gasped, jumping to her feet, blindly walking towards the aisle. She knocked the vase to the ground, covering the passing bride in daffodils, making the woman shriek with anger.
“Darling, I now like Narcissa! Come, dear Friar, I am to be a father.”
They rushed Mrs. Watson out of the chapel, through the reception area, knocking into one of the house-elves who was carrying bowls of soup. They made it out of the church before Mrs. Watson collapsed, screaming in pain.
“How do we get to St Mungo’s?” Mr. Watson asked in a panicked voice.
“We follow the east road and when we come to a fork in the road with a brick wall, we take it!” explained the Friar in a hurried voice, pulling the lady to her feet. “We must hurry, the contractions are close together.”
They ran, having no other means of transporting a pregnant woman. They had no Floo survive near them, Apparating was dangerous for the child and they didn’t have time to strap horses to the carriage.
They were five minutes away when Mrs. Watson staggered from the two men’s grips, hurrying to the wall to slide down it to the ground. “I... cannot!” she gasped out, holding her stomach and biting back a scream. “I...it is... coming.”
“What?!” yelped Mr. Watson, rushing to his wife’s side. “Darling, we are so close, can you not make it?”
In reply, she simply shook her head, her face scrunched up against the pain.
“It is alright, Mr. Watson,” assured the Friar, coming over to assist. “I do have training to deliver a child. You must run to St Mungo’s and tell them of our dilemma, I will remain here and deliver your child if need be.”
Mr. Watson nodded in agreement before rushing off, giving his wife a kiss on the forehead and a ‘good luck,’ before leaving.
“May I?” asked the Friar, gesturing towards the hem on her dress. When he received consent, he lifted it so he could see how far along she was. The baby was ready to be born. “Very well, Mrs. Watson, I need you to do as I instruct you. When the pain reaches its peak, I need you to push.”
With a scream of pain, she complied. Between each spike of pain in which she had to push, she concentrated on breathing.
“Everything is going well, Mrs. Watson,” assured the Friar, calming the nerves he knew were running through the woman. “There do not seem to be complications. Thank Merlin.”
With one last push, a tiny, crying baby fell into the Friar’s waiting hands. He stared in wonder, seeing as this was the first child he had ever delivered. He never expected it to be so tiny.
“It is a boy,” gasped the Friar, looking up at the mother, a tear in his eye. “Here, Mrs. Watson, you have a son.”
He handed the little baby to the new mother as Mr. Watson come racing around the corner with two people behind him. “I missed the birth?” he yelped, a look of disappointment on his face. It quickly vanished to be replaced with a smile when his son gave a whine. “Friar, thank you. I will name him Benedick, after you.”
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“Dear Friar,
It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. Firstly, I would like for you to understand and remember that I am truly sorry to extend this information to you. I felt that you should be one of the first to hear of my tragic news. You are one of my closest friends, I often reminisce of our days at Hogwarts in which you, Mr. Watson and myself would cause mischief with the teachers and see who was bravest by testing how far into the Forbidden Forest one of us would venture. I truly still believe you are a Gryffindor at heart, my friend, for you went the furthest of us all in the end.
Humble Friar, I have avoided the inevitable revealing of my unpleasant information. I, unfortunately, have been sentenced to death. I had merely tried to straighten Lady Grieve’s teeth, but mistakenly turned them to wax. I tried to right my wrong but I was never truly talented in Transfiguration. I do not wish to go into the horrific details of the proceedings; I will only leave you with this knowledge, and some final parting words. I valued yours and Mr. Watson’s friendships greatly and I hope to meet you again on the other side, though I do confess, I am frightened of that particular unknown adventure. Mr. Watson and yourself made Hogwarts the most enjoyable experience of my life and I often find myself wishing to return to those simpler times.
Do not fret, my friend, if I avoid the afterlife by staying attached to the earth, I can at least join the Headless Hunt; you know of my longing for such an event. I am sorry to leave you with this grief.
Sincerely,
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington.”
The letter was held tight in the Friar’s hand, his face pale, with a sickly grey tinge. He stared at the parchment in horror, tears bristling in his eyes as he took in the full extent of the meaning. His friend, one of his closest was to die by execution. He understood the subtle meaning behind the Headless Hunt reference. The method of execution was decapitation.
He would deeply miss his dear friend, who he had plans to see him the following week. He himself often reminisced of their days at Hogwarts, more so since young Benedick had been born. Nicholas had actually been travelling to see the offspring of their friend.
He put the letter on his desk, frowning down at it. He then pulled a blank piece of parchment towards him, as well as an inkwell and a brush. He then looked out the window, his inked quill hovering over the page. He was angered to see a clear night sky. With the sorrow he felt in his heart, he believed there should have been a thunderstorm raging, but alas, there was not.
He looked back to his parchment to find it had a small ink stain on it from a drop from the quill. Enraged by such a thing, he dropped the quill on the desk, ignoring the pleasant tinge it made on contact. He then scrunched up the offensive piece of writing material and threw it in the fire. He then started on a new piece, making many drafts before it contained the perfect last words he could find to give to his friend.
“Dear Nicholas,
Firstly, I find I must make comment on your unusual need to apologise in situations that do not warrant an apology. You are not at fault for the grief I feel. If you did not give me so many years of loyal friendship, I would not have such fond memories of my youth. I felt lonely outside my common room, but you, along with Mr. Watson, made me feel welcome within the rest of Hogwarts. Perhaps I am a Gryffindor to some extent, but you, my dear friend, have an aspect of Hufflepuff. You are loyal to the end, and because of the constant loyalty you have given me, I will promise you this: if you are unable to step into the unknown of the afterlife, then I too, will not leave this realm. You are my friend, and I will meet you again in any way possible.
Until we meet again, my friend.
Sincerely,
Friar Benedick.”
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He was walking slowly, noticing the effects his presence had on the snow. It was crunched under his weight, melted slightly from his natural body-heat, and reshaped by the form of his feet. The snow before him was untouched and he felt slightly stricken by the idea of tainting such a dazzling beauty.
It was as he thought over this that he spotted Mr. Watson, walking towards him with young Master Benedick, who was quickly becoming a charming gentleman, now two and twenty. They both waved, alerting the Friar to their desire to converse. He went to wave back, to show the same, but then felt tightness in his chest. His arm went numb and he tumbled to the unharmed snow. He saw Mr. Watson and young Master Watson rush towards him, panic on their faces.
The pain stopped shortly after he landed, and even though he was lying in the snow, he was pleasantly warm. Truthfully, he felt fine, so he found his feet. To his surprise, upon finding his feet, he lost his body. He stood, hovering over his lifeless body, watching as the two Watson men turned him over, tears in their eyes.
As he went to say something to them, to heal their pain, he was whisked away, arriving in a location clouded with mist. He looked around frantically before hearing a chuckled that made him jump.
“I almost scared you to death,” joked the voice, laughing again. “My dear Friar Benedick, you really are a Hufflepuff to the end.” Out of the shadows walked Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, or at least the silhouette of him. “You have followed your promise.”
“Nicholas,” gasped the Friar before comprehension came to him. “I am deceased!”
“Yes, you are,” admitted the almost decapitated man, a sad smile on his face. “You still have the option to leave, to the other side.” He gestured around, indicating the other, unknown side of death. “This is only a place that allows us to commune, so as to allow you to decide. You are not held by your promise. It gave me comfort when it was needed most, but now, you may do as you wish with a clear conscience.”
The Friar contemplated his answer before speaking. “I wish to return to our happiest time, I wish to return to Hogwarts with my friend at my side. To be a ghost of Hogwarts.”
“But Friar,” stammered Nicholas, his head wobbling when he stepped forward. “You are a religious man; do you not understand what you would be declining?”
“I do,” promised the larger man. “But a promise is a promise, and heaven, or whatever the mystery of the here-after is, will never be truly as grand without my friend. I do not have anyone else who will truly desire me and me alone, through those gates; no wife, no children, only my friends. You are my friend, and I want to spend my afterlife with those I care for. To Hogwarts!”