A boy, no older than 17, is standing in front of a brand new town. He has been standing there for a while now. He will stand there for quite a while more. He has done this every night since the town was created and people moved in.
He is contemplating, just like every other night, whether he should gaurd the town with wards even though his friends agreed against it. They are too trusting. They are peacefully asleep in their beds, he checked. He does that every night before he stands here. He has to make sure they are still here, still alright, still breathing.
The muggles have taken Salem by storm. Burnt everyone, witch or not. Some were even muggles, picking mint for their evening meals. They didn't care. The people here think they are safe, that they still have time because Salem feels like worlds away to them.
They forget that there has already been witch killings in England, in Scotland, in Ireland. They forget that muggles are muggles no matter where they live. So the boy stands there watching, waiting, for the time when wards are too late and fire burns the sky.