The world outside the villa had transformed into a blindingly white landscape. The storm from the previous night had left behind a heavy, silent blanket of snow that now shimmered with a million tiny fractals under the morning sun.
Knoll, a House-elf with a particularly business-like demeanor, was currently busy in the courtyard. With short, rhythmic stabs of its spindly fingers, the elf directed a stream of magic that carved a perfectly straight path through the drifts, tossing the excess snow into neat, vertical walls on either side. It looked less like a walkway and more like a trench designed for a very small, very organized army.
Inside the warmth of the villa, Albert had traded his comfortable traveling clothes for a set of formal wizarding robes. The fabric was a deep, midnight blue, heavy enough to hang with a certain dignity but light enough to not feel restrictive. He sat in a high-backed armchair in the study, a book on basic transmutational geometry resting on his lap. While he appeared relaxed, his ears were finely tuned to the sounds of the front hall.
He'd be lying if he said his pulse wasn't racing just a bit faster than usual. This wasn't just a social call; it was an gathering of the minds that had defined the last century of magical theory.
He didn't have to wait long. The first arrival was announced by the heavy thud of a cane and the raspy, rhythmic breathing of a man who had seen too many winters. Through the slightly ajar door of the study, Albert watched an incredibly ancient wizard, leaning heavily on a House-elf, hobble toward the Great Hall.
"...Younger generation has no respect for the sun," the old man grumbled, his voice like dry parchment rubbing together. "Can't even manage to show up before the dew dries. In my day, we'd have been halfway through a lead-to-gold demonstration by now."
"Oh, stow it, Grawley. Your pocket watch has been running five minutes fast since the Great War, and I suspect you do it just so you can complain about everyone else's tardiness," another voice called out. This newcomer sounded slightly more robust, though his hair was just as white. He stepped into view, checking a heavy gold watch of his own. "The clock hasn't even struck the hour. You're just eager for the tea."
Within the next twenty minutes, the trickle of arrivals became a steady stream. As if following a synchronized script, several figures appeared at the edge of the wards and were guided in by the elves. Albert closed his book, took a deep breath to center himself, and stood up. He adjusted the hem of his robes and made his way toward the Great Hall.
Even before he reached the heavy oak doors, the sheer volume of the conversation inside hit him. It wasn't the dignified, whispered scholarly debate he had imagined. It sounded more like a crowded pub at the end of a long Friday night.
"The numbers are thinning, aren't they?" a voice boomed, thick with a Northern accent. "Half the chairs are empty compared to the Paris meet."
"And where's Nicolas? Still hiding away in Devon? You'd think with six centuries under his belt, he'd have learned to appreciate a good party," another responded, followed by a chorus of dry, wheezing chuckles.
"Don't hold your breath. Last I heard from Albus, Nicolas has grown quite fond of his privacy. Or perhaps Perenelle has finally put her foot down about his travel habits."
"Speaking of Albus... where is the Headmaster? He's usually the first one to start the debates."
"Busy, I expect. He sent a rather polite owl saying he had 'pressing matters of state and school' to attend to. Translation: he's likely chasing some dark wizard or trying to convince the Ministry that common sense exists."
Albert paused just outside the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the cool stone wall. He wasn't in a hurry to interrupt. There was a wealth of information to be gathered just by eavesdropping on the unfiltered banter of legends.
"What about Gerber Smith?" a loud, abrasive voice asked. "He's usually never late when there's a chance to show off his latest trinkets."
"Still in transit, probably. Or perhaps he's realized his latest project was a dead end."
"If we keep losing members at this rate," a lower, more melancholic voice complained, "we won't even have enough for a game of Bridge next year, let alone an Alchemy summit."
"It's the lack of fresh blood," someone grunted. "The youth today... they want instant results. They want to wave a wand once and have a finished potion. Proper Alchemy requires patience, sweat, and a tolerance for being exploded at least once a month. Hogwarts doesn't even offer it as a core subject anymore."
"Would you want to teach it? Dealing with a hundred teenagers who can't tell a crucible from a cauldron? I'd rather go back to the front lines of the Grindelwald conflict."
"Well, Bard said he brought a newcomer today. A 'surprise,' he called it."
That voice belonged to a thin man wearing a monocle and heavy dragon-hide gloves—Yellon Balder, a legendary metalworker whose work with silver was rumored to be enchanted at a molecular level.
"I hope it's better than the last 'surprise' Gerber brought," a stocky, bald man scoffed. This was Gobarot. Even Albert felt a slight jolt of recognition at that name. Gobarot's Third Law of Antidotes was a staple of every Potions textbook in the world. "The boy couldn't even identify a base transmutation. It was a waste of a good afternoon."
"Now, now, Gobarot. Let's not be so cynical," another old wizard, who looked like he was made entirely of wrinkles, chided gently. This was Tofoldi, a man known for his optimism and his longevity. "It's good to see someone new, regardless of their skill level. It reminds us that the world is still turning."
"You only say that because you're older than the trees, Tofoldi," someone muttered. "Your bones are probably held together by sheer optimism and a bit of Sticking Charm."
Tofoldi laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a sidewalk. "Drink your milk, Tols. It's good for the calcium. Nicolas told me once that the secret to a long life isn't just the Stone; it's making sure you don't crumble like a dry biscuit when you fall out of bed."
"I'm not drinking milk with sugar like Dumbledore," the man named Tols snapped. "At my age, my stomach doesn't appreciate the extra sweetness. How Albus can eat those lemon drops by the handful and still function is one of the great mysteries of the magical world."
"He doesn't consider himself old," Tofoldi smiled. "In his mind, he's still that boy who wanted to change the world. A bit of sugar keeps the spirit young, even if the teeth are fake."
Outside, Albert's face twitched. He felt like he had just stumbled into a retirement home for the most dangerous and brilliant minds in Europe. To hear Nicolas Flamel—the man who had conquered death—being discussed in terms of osteoporosis was surreal. And the image of Dumbledore's sugar addiction being a point of scholarly debate was almost too much to handle.
"Why are you lurking in the shadows like a Slytherin?" Professor Broad's voice came from behind him, accompanied by a warm, knowing smile.
"I found the pre-show more entertaining than the main event," Albert admitted, stepping away from the wall. "They're much... louder than I expected."
"They're old, Albert. Half of them are hard of hearing, and the other half are just glad someone is still around to argue with. Shall we?"
Only nine people had gathered in the Great Hall, seated in a semi-circle of comfortable chairs. As Albert walked in behind Professor Broad, the room fell into a sudden, expectant silence. Nine pairs of eyes—some clouded by age, others sharp as razors—landed on him.
"Albert, take a seat over there," Broad said, gesturing to a chair right next to him, positioned almost at the center of the arc.
"Bard, don't tell me... this is the 'Anderson' you've been raving about?" Gobarot asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in Albert's youthful face.
Albert didn't flinch. He sat down with a composed, fluid motion, offering a polite, respectful nod to the room. "Good morning, gentlemen."
In the corner, two of the older wizards began whispering to each other in rapid-fire French, clearly thinking the 'English boy' wouldn't understand.
"He's practically a babe in arms. Does he even have his license yet? Bard has finally lost his mind. We're babysitting instead of debating."
Albert turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto the speakers. He responded in flawless, Parisian-accented French, his voice smooth and conversational.
"I'll admit I'm a few decades behind in terms of gray hair," Albert said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "But I've always found that knowledge doesn't much care for the date on one's birth certificate, wouldn't you agree?"
The two wizards froze. One of them actually dropped his spoon into his tea with a soft clink. They looked at each other, then back at Albert, the skepticism in their eyes being rapidly replaced by a wary respect.
"French?" one of them asked, switching back to English with a heavy accent.
"British by birth," Albert replied, his English crisp and effortless. "But I believe in being prepared for any conversation."
"Well," the old man said, looking at Professor Broad with a grunt of approval. "He's certainly a genius in linguistics, if nothing else. Let's see if his brain is as sharp as his tongue."
Albert leaned back slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. The game was on.