(no subject)
He's mumbling at first, panting a little under his breath as he steps in. It's pouring out there and he's utterly drenched, his grimy old clothes clinging close to his skinny frame, months-uncut dark hair plastered to his skull. He carries a beat-up backpack, water slicking over it and pooling on the floor behind him. His sneakers squeak as he walks, squeak as he turns. He's not sick exactly, but he's got shadows under his eyes and his ribs are a little too prominent under his wet t-shirt; he hasn't been fed in a few days, and before that not for a few days. He's a boy, about sixteen.
"I need-- somewhere to stay, tonight. Please. It's raining really hard out there. I can try to pay it back if you want me to. I just need something to sleep under, and maybe some way to dry my clothes off. My name is Castor. Help, please?"
Typist: Castor will not say who his parents are if asked, and he will pretend not to know anyone related to them, but he is Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange's son, currently living on the streets. He's a squib.
"I need-- somewhere to stay, tonight. Please. It's raining really hard out there. I can try to pay it back if you want me to. I just need something to sleep under, and maybe some way to dry my clothes off. My name is Castor. Help, please?"
Typist: Castor will not say who his parents are if asked, and he will pretend not to know anyone related to them, but he is Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange's son, currently living on the streets. He's a squib.