You'd been in London exactly four days. Your room at the Leaky Cauldron was small, the bed sagged in the middle, and the only thing you'd managed to acquire was a growing sense of desperation.

You paused outside Flourish & Blotts, scanning the window display without really seeing it. No job. No flat. No plan. Just the heavy weight of your mother's urn tucked into your beaded bag, and the unfamiliar currency weighing down your pocket.

A few feet away, a tall figure in immaculate black robes stopped mid-stride. So abruptly that a harried witch bumped into him, muttered an apology, and kept walking.

He didn't notice.

He had silver-blond hair. An expensive, tailored cut. A signet ring on his finger that glinted as he curled his hand into a fist.

He looked like he'd just been struck by lightning.

And he was staring at you.