He didn't wear his robes that day. It was too hot – the sun creating that all too familiar musky scent throughout London and Diagon Alley. It was all very unfortunate, how the Muggles couldn't take care of their rubbish. Albus saw the numerous tin cans that lined the neighborhood streets, their empty crisp bags and spoiled vegetables baking in the intense heat.

Sometimes he just couldn't believe his father had once lived as a Muggle – incompetent and dumb, going about life without knowledge of the wizardry world. It was quite preposterous, if you asked Albus, but he would never say that to his father. Magical folk were suppose to be kind, loving – understanding to their Muggle friends. What crap.

He licked his dry lips and fumbled with his white shirt, pulling down the hem past the pockets of his jeans, trying to conceal his wand. He wore jeans and pulled at the fabric around his thighs when no one was looking, longing for his trousers that happened to be lying wrinkled on his bathroom floor. Thick anxiety coursed through him, his chest tightening around each breath of air. He choked on his own saliva.

The park was crowded with loud Muggles and their bratty children, and he was relieved when he spotted Scorpius sitting on a wooden bench, waiting for him. The man looked like a pedophile to say the least, wearing heavy black robes that fell to his shins and revealed trousers of the same colour. His shoes were well-shined, unscratched, and Albus knew he had Apparated into the park. His hair had grown since the last time they met, and it perpetuated the pedophile appearance.

“You are a right fucker for Apparating here. The Muggles aren't blind, you know.” He felt his tone was too aggravated, but Scorpius appeared unaffected, shrugging lazily with one shoulder.

“They can't touch me.”