Matt can almost feel the contact, unmade as it is. Ghost of a ghost, the note that strikes without the two parts touching. He breathes out on a sigh that's almost a laugh--though it becomes one when Harry conjures that flicker of fire.

It's an essential element, and Matt's heard that a lot of practitioners have affinities for one of the big four over the others. Fire, air, water, earth. Still, he feels a little frisson of a possible kindred spirit.

"Matt Jamison." Nobody gets Harcourt for free. Matt looks up at Harry, attention caught by the scar at his lips. His own face bears a scar of its own: faint and thin, a hairline thing arcing across his left cheek, pulsing dimly with demonic residue. "Witch."

He takes his hand and shakes, brisk but pleased. He rarely gets to cast with another magic user, and it sure as hell hasn't happened here. As far as he knows, he's been the only one stuck in this manor for a long time. So he can't help beaming as he confirms:

"Let's."