The morning sun in the Alps didn't just rise; it shattered against the ice, turning the entire mountain range into a blinding display of diamonds. Inside the Anderson suite, the atmosphere was a bit more grounded.
Herbert was already dressed in his heavy knits, checking the buckles on his snow boots when a sharp, insistent knocking rattled the door. He opened it to find Nia standing there, already geared up in her parka, looking like she hadn't slept a wink.
"Morning, sunshine," Herbert chuckled, stepping back to let her in. "You're up early. I thought the mountain air was supposed to make teenagers sleep until noon."
"Albert told me to make sure you lot were moving by eight," Nia said, crossing her arms and pouting. "He's obsessed with the 'schedule.' Honestly, sometimes I think he's more of a parent than you two are. He treates me like I'm still five years old."
Daisy emerged from the kitchenette, carrying a steaming mug of tea. She leaned down to press a kiss to Nia's forehead. "You'll always be our little girl, Nia. No matter how many languages Albert learns or how many fancy schools he goes to. Speaking of which, where is the mastermind?"
"He took the 'Fat One' for a walk," Nia grumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the balcony. "Said Tom needed to experience the 'pristine Alpine wilderness' before the crowds woke up. Probably just wanted to find a quiet place to do... whatever it is he does."
Nia's eyes drifted toward the window. There was a quiet, sharp pang of jealousy in her chest. She saw the way her parents looked at Albert—with a mix of awe and a strange, subtle distance. When Albert was eleven, he was already navigating the world like an adult. Now that Nia was approaching that age, she felt the weight of being the "normal" child.
"Don't worry, Nia," Herbert said, sensing the shift in her mood. "Once you start at Eton, you'll be the one with the big stories. Nobody there will treat you like a child."
"I don't want to go to Eton," Nia whispered. "I want to go to Hogwarts. I want a cat that fits in a magic box and a stick that makes things fly."
Daisy and Herbert exchanged a look—the kind of silent communication parents have when they're worried about the same thing. They had noticed the gap widening. Albert was becoming a citizen of a world they couldn't enter. His letters were filled with names they didn't know and logic that didn't apply to their lives. They loved him, but they were losing him to a reality that operated on different laws. The last thing they wanted was for Nia to disappear into that world too.
"The letters haven't even gone out yet, honey," Daisy said, her voice soft but certain. "Albert hasn't even got his second-year notice. Let's just enjoy the snow, alright? French breakfast is waiting downstairs, and I hear the croissants are legendary."
"I'm going to find Albert," Nia said, turning on her heel. "He promised to show me how to stay upright on skis today."
While the rest of the resort was still waking up to the smell of coffee and toasted bread, Albert was knee-deep in a snowdrift a mile north of the town.
"Tom, for the love of Merlin, move your tail!" Albert called out, sounding genuinely exasperated.
The chubby cat was currently having the time of his life. Despite his girth, Tom was surprisingly agile when he wanted to be. He was pouncing on shadows and chasing imaginary mice through the powder, his thick fur keeping him perfectly insulated. Every time Albert got close enough to grab the leash, Tom would let out a playful chirp and dash another ten yards away.
"You're a menace," Albert muttered, adjust his scarf. "If a hawk picks you up, I'm not casting a Levitation Charm. I'll just tell Nia you moved to a farm."
Suddenly, Tom stopped. His ears swiveled back, and his entire body went rigid. With a terrified "Mrow!", the cat bolted back toward Albert, diving between his legs and trying to bury his face in Albert's snow boots. Because Tom was essentially a sphere with legs, the "hiding" attempt was a spectacular failure; his entire rear end was still sticking out, wiggling with fear.
Albert burst out laughing. "What? Did you see a particularly scary pinecone?"
He reached down to scoop up the trembling feline, but as he straightened his back, he realized Tom wasn't overreacting. Someone was there.
The sound of skis cutting through the crusty snow echoed through the trees. A figure glided out from the shadows of the pines, stopping with a graceful, effortless spray of powder just a few meters away.
The woman—or girl, really—took off her tinted goggles, shaking out a mane of silver-blonde hair that seemed to catch more light than the sun itself. Albert recognized her immediately. She was the one from the café the night before. Up close, the "Veela effect" was like a physical pressure against his forehead. It was a dizzying, sweet hum that tempted the mind to stop thinking and start worshiping.
Albert felt the briefest moment of lightheadedness, a mental fog that tried to settle over his thoughts. He tightened his grip on Tom and focused on the cold air in his lungs, using his Occlumency-lite training to shove the sensation aside.
"Pardon," the girl said, her voice melodic and smooth as honey. "I think I have frightened your... very large cat, Monsieur Anderson."
Albert blinked. He hadn't expected her to speak to him, let alone know his name. "Do we have a history I've forgotten?" he asked, his French coming out perfectly standard and crisp. "I'm fairly certain I'd remember meeting someone who skis in the deep woods before breakfast."
The girl smiled, a confident, dazzling expression that would have sent any other eleven-year-old boy into a stammering fit. "We have not met, no. But your reputation precedes you. You are quite a celebrity in certain circles, Albert Anderson."
She stepped closer, her movements fluid. "My name is Fleur Delacour. It is a pleasure to finally see the 'British Prodigy' in the flesh."
"Celebrity?" Albert raised an eyebrow, his mind racing. He knew the name Delacour. He'd heard it mentioned in passing by Claude, his contact in the French Alchemical society. "Ah. You must be the niece of the 'Kind Mr. Delacour' that Claude is always complaining—I mean, talking about."
Fleur laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "Uncle Claude is a very serious man. He thinks you are a once-in-a-generation genius. He told my father that you have the eyes of someone who has already lived a lifetime. Seeing you now, I think he might be right. Most boys your age are currently staring at me like I'm a particularly tasty dessert. You, however, seem more concerned with your cat's dignity."
"Tom has very little dignity to begin with," Albert said, glancing down at the cat, who was finally beginning to relax. "And while I appreciate the flattery, I'm just a student on holiday. I wasn't aware the French magical community kept tabs on British first-years."
"We keep tabs on talent," Fleur countered. She looked him over with a discerning eye. "You recognized me immediately. And your French... it's better than mine, I think. Where did you learn to speak like a Parisian diplomat?"
"Books and boredom," Albert said simply. "It's a useful combination."
"Welcome to France, then," Fleur said, and for a second, she let her innate charm flare. The air around her seemed to shimmer, and the scent of spring flowers suddenly filled the frozen woods. It was an intentional "test," a playful nudge to see if he was truly as composed as he looked.
Albert felt the "hit" of the magic—a warm, golden wave of attraction. He didn't look away, but he didn't lean in either. He simply checked his pocket watch.
"It's a beautiful country," Albert said, his tone remaining perfectly polite and neutral. "But I'm afraid I have to cut this short. My family is likely wondering if I've been eaten by a mountain troll. My sister is particularly fond of breakfast, and I'd hate to be the reason she misses the croissants."
He turned to leave, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "A word of advice, Mademoiselle Delacour? You might want to dial it back a bit when you're near the town. I heard several long-term relationships ended in shouting matches at the café last night because of your 'stroll' past the window. It's a bit messy for a holiday resort, don't you think?"
Fleur's smile didn't falter, but a spark of genuine pique flashed in her eyes. "An unpleasant man," she murmured to herself as she watched him walk away.
She had spent her whole life being the center of the universe. To have a boy—a younger boy at that—treat her like a mild inconvenience was a new and altogether irritating experience. She had purposely revealed her charm to rattle him, to see the "prodigy" crumble like the rest. Instead, he'd checked his watch and told her she was being "messy."
Albert, meanwhile, trudged back toward the hotel with Tom tucked under his arm.
"Delacour," he whispered. The Veela bloodline was truly a cheat code for social interaction. He acknowledged that Fleur was probably the most beautiful girl he would ever meet, but he also knew that getting involved with a Veela was like playing with high-voltage wires—thrilling, but likely to end in a blackout.
He thought of the poor tourists in town, still reeling from the "Delacour effect." He had no desire to be another victim of her mischievous nature. He was here for the snow, the family, and the quiet. The French "celebrity" could keep her forest; Albert had a breakfast to catch.
As he reached the hotel doors, Nia was already waiting, tapping her foot. "Took you long enough! Did Tom find a hidden civilization or something?"
"Something like that," Albert said, handing her the cat. "Let's go eat. I've had enough 'magic' for one morning."