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General Information
Character Name:
Gruffudd Pryce
Age:
11
Date of Birth:
June 11 1911
Blood Status:
Muggleborn
Residence:
Hogwarts Castle
Family:
Mum lives in Cardiff. Dad died in the war. I got my two little sisters too, but you don't care about them.
Personality & House Preference
Personality:
Please stop asking me to sit down. No. I think better like this. Do you have any food?
Don't tell me what to do. I'm eleven. What's more, I grew up the man of my house and I'm not gonna let some magic git tell me that doesn't count anymore. Of course it still counts.
Stop talking over me. I'm right. Listen when I talk.
Whatever. I spend heaps of time alone. It's fine. People get in the way, mostly. Mum said it would be different here with 'people like me' but you all look like the same blockheads as told me what to do back home.
You're not better than me. I'll prove it.
History:
Big deal. Loads of kids grew up poor. Not like the rich folks in the castle. They can do whatever they like by waving around sticks. They have so much cloth that their clothes hang on the ground. It was different where Gruff was from. He had never had a shirt that hadn't started life as a flour sack.
It wasn't his mother's fault. It was her husband's. The fool had gone away and gotten himself killed in some stupid war against the Germans. He'd gone away and left a woman to raise four children.
Most men in the street had signed up together. All men but one on Gruff's street came home from the war. People said it was a lucky street to live on. A woman who lost her job at the factory can't afford to live on lucky streets, so the Pryce lot moved to servant quarters in the big house nine streets down. Gruff's mum works at a rich-person house now. Auntie Megan isn't Gruff's real auntie but mum said she liked to be called that. It's on account of Auntie Megan and Uncle Pete that they didn't starve. Mum said so.
Gruff had to have his letters and his numbers. Mum said so. Gruff thought learning how to work engines would help him a lot more. Gruff wanted to learn boxing more than any book subjects. Boxing and engines would be more important than anything from a book. A man, even a little one with thin arms and a hairless chin, knows these things. Yet he had done as he was bid. Unfair and unworthy as the lessons were, Gruff forced his shaking eyes over the stupid letters and the schoolteacher who hated his guts was forced to acknowledge his progress. If only he could get through one lesson without backtalking. If only he could understand that blah blah blah blah blah. Men who become schoolteachers just liked to feel big about themselves by making kids small.
When Gruff was eight, he started dusting things. Stuff that was already dusty or dirty went dust more than clean stuff. That was his theory, at least. Gruff didn't get a lot of opportunities to touch clean things. It started with a stick, then a bible, then a citrus fruit that had rolled under the table. Dust, dust, dust. In time, Gruff came to accept that only his little sisters would accept truthfulness. I-don't-know received lighter rebuke and softer reprimand than it-really-did-turn-to-dust.
The truth had come out though. Truth could be bad. Sometimes a lie is better. Gruff wished the letter had been a lie.
He liked it at Auntie Megan and Uncle Pete's. In the days prior to the letter's arrival, Gruff had walked around to some of the factories and had begun to think about where he would ask for work when he was big enough. He wanted to stay with his mum. It had never once mattered what Gruff wanted.
House Preference:
Slytherin or Ravenclaw preferred
Year Preference:
1st
Prompt Response:
How was he supposed to know that a hippogriff was real and a pipplestiff was fake? They were all so damn smug. Like growing up being told stuff about broomsticks made you better than people who learned normal stuff.
In the drippy magic castle, flying broomsticks were normal.
"Shh, shh! He's coming in."
Gruff hung his head. In two weeks, the pattern had become familiar. Mudblood, mudblood. Is it true you people sleep on piles of straw? Chew on this taffy, it's perfectly safe. Mudblood, mudblood.
The grown ups didn't care. Most of them got the same curl in their lip when he spoke. At best, he was a nuisance in class. All the magic-born kids knew that you weren't supposed to hold the potion bottles so tight. All the magic-born kids could remember which end of a wand to hold. None of them still had magic accidents in the middle of the night.
Gruff slid into his seat. There were elves, real fairytale elves, who made the food. In the magic castle, it was safe to eat fairy food. What did it matter? He was already spirited away to fairy-land and stuck here for good.
He stared at the pumpkin pile before him. He took a wedge. He willed his red ears not to catch the barbs that floated over his head. Mudblood, mudblood.
"Bet you a sickle that your mumma couldn't-"
Gruff's pumpkin wedge sailed masterfully. He'd only been halflooking. Halflistening. The impressive parabolic arc ended at precisely the heart of the heartless fourth year girl.
Gruff's wand, a useless shard of wood and animal-parts, clung to the inside of his pocket, then leapt with gusto from his grip and clattered on the floor. The thing was insane, and Gruff again questioned if it had a mind of its own. In contrast, the wand of the devil-girl, the witch, was not so disobedient. Gruff looked at the elegant wand and then at its demonic wielder.
"Don't talk about my mum," he spat.
Miscellaneous
Other Characters
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