It's claustrophobic, passers-by bumping against your shoulders like a bad game of dodgems. The air is muggy with smog and thick with the usual city bustle but you realise there's a bit of a mob gathering around the cusp of Chelsea Park.

Second Salem. Another one of their ludicrous, but dangerous, protests. To the muggles, it doesn't seem to mean much, thankfully the days of fingers being pointed at the magically gifted have mostly passed, but that doesn't make you feel much safer.

You push through the crowd, trying to squeeze towards your apartment block. Then a yellowish slip of paper pops into your line of vision and you look up and see the owner of the hand. A young man not dissimilar in age to you, tall and gaunt, almost ghostly. Ebony hair cut short, the back and sides buzzed almost to the skin and a scruffy black hat sits snug on his head. His dark clothes are just an inch too short, clearly hand-me-downs, and for the briefest of seconds, you meet his gaze before his doe brown eyes dart away. He's clearly anxious, shoulders hunched and head ducked low, like he's trying to shrink himself away into non-existence.

Out of sympathy, you reach for the propaganda and your fingertips accidently brush against his chilled knuckles. A sharp gasp rips from your through, a cold rush of energy rippling through your blood like lightning through your veins. Magic. Strong magic. The kind you expect from a respected wizarding family brimming with power, not an orphan boy taken in by an anti-magic church.

The young man's timid gaze locks with yours like a deer in headlights, his stuttering breath evidence that sure enough, he felt the same spark as you. Though, he doesn't seem to quite understand what it means...