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alt_terryThat kid, Dudders, has been watching me. I couldn't quite tell how old he was, because he ducked out of sight whenever I came anywhere near him. And his hair is long and tangled and filthy, so it was hard to see his face.
But last night I was taking the chamber pot down to empty because the git had sicked up in it again (the liquor shipment had just come in). And on my way round a corner, I suddenly came face to face with him unexpectedly, back behind the rubbish bins. I froze, and he flattened down warily like a cat at first, and then slowly straightened up a bit when he realised I'd spotted him.
We stared at each other for a long moment. 'You're the Master's tidbit,' he said finally, and I finally figured it out: he must be close to my age. His voice sounded creaky, like he doesn't use it much.
I frowned. 'You can call him the Master if you like. But I'm Terry.'
He straightened up more. 'Is that right? What do you call him?'
'I call him 'Master' to his face. And 'the git' behind his back.'
He liked that, I could tell, though he was trying not to smile, sort of. 'Yeah, he is a git.'
'I heard you're called Dudders.'
Now it was his turn to frown. 'Dudley.'
I'd wondered if he was a muggleborn, too, but he's a muggle. We sat down in the dirt, cautiously, and traded little bits of information about ourselves. He grew up in a town called Little Whinging, in Surrey, but he got separated from his parents in the panics when they were fleeing the fall of London. They'd been heading north, because they'd heard a rumour that there might be a hole in the wards past York. He thinks his dad got either killed or taken for a sleeper. He has no idea where his mum is. They put him in the camp at Lincoln and he just happened to be up on the duty roster when Master arrived and they got the order to staff the castle. And then he got stuck here when the fidelius charm went up.
I heard the git bellowing for me then so I had to leave. But I hope the next time I see him he won't be quite so quick to duck out of sight.
It's nice to have someone around who might become a friend.
But last night I was taking the chamber pot down to empty because the git had sicked up in it again (the liquor shipment had just come in). And on my way round a corner, I suddenly came face to face with him unexpectedly, back behind the rubbish bins. I froze, and he flattened down warily like a cat at first, and then slowly straightened up a bit when he realised I'd spotted him.
We stared at each other for a long moment. 'You're the Master's tidbit,' he said finally, and I finally figured it out: he must be close to my age. His voice sounded creaky, like he doesn't use it much.
I frowned. 'You can call him the Master if you like. But I'm Terry.'
He straightened up more. 'Is that right? What do you call him?'
'I call him 'Master' to his face. And 'the git' behind his back.'
He liked that, I could tell, though he was trying not to smile, sort of. 'Yeah, he is a git.'
'I heard you're called Dudders.'
Now it was his turn to frown. 'Dudley.'
I'd wondered if he was a muggleborn, too, but he's a muggle. We sat down in the dirt, cautiously, and traded little bits of information about ourselves. He grew up in a town called Little Whinging, in Surrey, but he got separated from his parents in the panics when they were fleeing the fall of London. They'd been heading north, because they'd heard a rumour that there might be a hole in the wards past York. He thinks his dad got either killed or taken for a sleeper. He has no idea where his mum is. They put him in the camp at Lincoln and he just happened to be up on the duty roster when Master arrived and they got the order to staff the castle. And then he got stuck here when the fidelius charm went up.
I heard the git bellowing for me then so I had to leave. But I hope the next time I see him he won't be quite so quick to duck out of sight.
It's nice to have someone around who might become a friend.