Since Colin's second year, the squid was often a time visited by the young boy. The squid only wished it were more because Colin actually enjoyed his company, and less because Colin had few other choices of friendship. It wasn't that way - no, not at first.
The squid tried to tell Colin his name - which is Alfred, in case you were wondering - and how much he loves sweet bread. Colin, however, found it rather difficult to make sense of the mess of bubbles that erupted from where he could only assume Alfred was located.
Colin grew to really liking the squid, and the way he could swish around and listen to him speak for hours on end. The squid must've listened because he mustered up all sorts of responses. Colin thought the one that exploded and bubbled and rustled about was a laugh, and the one where the water swayed softly was clearly a sigh.
After the war, Alfred was left with a tip missing to one of his tentacles. Colin's presence and his visits were no longer. Finally, the squid came to find that Colin hadn't come in over a year, and graduation was mere days away.
You'd think Colin would stop by and visit. You'd think he'd flash by with a hug or a loaf of bread in hand, but he didn't. Didn't come once, the boy. Didn't say 'bye', he didn't.
Alfred assumed the boy went on with his life, and wished he could say the same for himself. He wished he could hold a quill to write Colin a letter, but he could not, so he resigned to keep saving helpless little boys from drowning in the lake. He was good at that, he was, but Colin and the tip of his tentacle would not come back.