January 23rd, 1891 - Just Outside an Entrance to Wizarding London
The labour movement was, Kieran thought, sort of a drag in the winter - in the summer you could have festivals and outside drinking and sunshine. In the winter you wore layers and listened to people talk about the eight hour workday. The vibe was significantly less enjoyable. He kept breathing warm air into his gloves to warm up his fingers, which twinged painfully when he took notes.
The crowd was a mixture of muggles and wizards; they were close enough to one of Wizarding London's little nooks and crannies that it felt as if the magic spilled out, and the priorities of the wizarding working class and the muggle working class were not far off. The upper class had all the wealth and all the power, yes, and little adjustments in who got to vote could not change everything, yes, and just because the magical world did not have many factories did not mean that the workday issue was irrelevant.
Or so the theory went; he was still working on his lede.
He was here for work instead of for the Revs; he needed to get a story to copy before the full moon knocked him out for three days. Kieran hovered around the edge of the crowd, taking notes and blowing air into his gloves, until he noticed someone doing something similar - except, sans notebook. It took him a second to place him - knowing the rich and semi-relevant was part of his job - but finally he got it, and came up to him:
"Aaldenberg, right? From St. Mungo's."
Albert Aaldenberg
The crowd was a mixture of muggles and wizards; they were close enough to one of Wizarding London's little nooks and crannies that it felt as if the magic spilled out, and the priorities of the wizarding working class and the muggle working class were not far off. The upper class had all the wealth and all the power, yes, and little adjustments in who got to vote could not change everything, yes, and just because the magical world did not have many factories did not mean that the workday issue was irrelevant.
Or so the theory went; he was still working on his lede.
He was here for work instead of for the Revs; he needed to get a story to copy before the full moon knocked him out for three days. Kieran hovered around the edge of the crowd, taking notes and blowing air into his gloves, until he noticed someone doing something similar - except, sans notebook. It took him a second to place him - knowing the rich and semi-relevant was part of his job - but finally he got it, and came up to him:
"Aaldenberg, right? From St. Mungo's."