The air in the Great Hall, which had been thick with the scent of old parchment and expensive tea, shifted the moment the heavy doors creaked open once more. A man in a sturdy, sand-colored trench coat stepped in, shaking off the lingering chill of the Scottish Highlands.
"I'd be careful about underestimating him based on his age," a familiar, booming voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling.
Gerber Smith had arrived. He walked with the confident stride of a man who spent as much time in the field as he did in the laboratory. He nodded to Albert, a glint of genuine admiration in his eyes that hadn't been there during their last brief encounter.
"I've spent the better part of the last six months tracking Albert's contributions to various academic circles," Gerber continued, unbuttoning his coat and draping it over a nearby chair. "The boy hasn't just been dabbling. He's been publishing papers that would make most veterans in this room look like they were still playing with exploding cauldrons. His work on cross-species transfiguration theory alone is enough to make any self-proclaimed genius go home and rethink their life choices."
The old Frenchman who had been skeptical earlier tilted his head, a silver eyebrow raised in a sharp arc. "Including you, Gerber? You've never been one for humility."
Gerber let out a short, dry laugh as he sat down. "Especially me. I have the scars to prove that my early theories weren't half as refined as what this kid produces before breakfast."
Albert felt a slight heat rising to his neck. He wasn't exactly a stranger to praise, but being used as a benchmark for excellence by a wizard of Gerber Smith's standing was... intense. He reminded himself that while his "Genius" status was heavily bolstered by the system panel and his previous life's experiences, he still preferred to keep a low profile. It was much easier to operate when people weren't expecting you to turn lead into gold on your first try.
"So, young man," a wizard across the circle interjected, leaning forward so far that his beard nearly dipped into his neighbor's tea. "Since Gerber has painted you as the second coming of Merlin, tell us: what is your true specialty? Where does your heart lie when you aren't busy making the rest of us look incompetent?"
Albert took a moment. He didn't want to give a generic answer. He thought about the hours spent staring at the system's skill tree, the feeling of power humming through his fingertips when he traced lines of ancient power.
"If I had to pick a focus," Albert said, his voice dropping into a resonant, rhythmic cadence that seemed to vibrate in the air. "It would be the study of the Primordial Script—the Ancient Runes."
He didn't just say it; he spoke the final part of the sentence in the tongue itself. The sounds were guttural, sharp, and carried an inherent weight that modern English lacked. It wasn't just a language; it was a verbalization of intent.
The wizards who knew runes—and in this room, that was most of them—blinked in surprise. It wasn't just that he knew the words; it was the fluency. Most scholars spoke runes like a tourist reading a map. Albert spoke them like he had been born in a long-lost citadel of the Iron Age.
"Well," the old man with the monocle and the dragon-hide gloves spoke up, breaking the silence. "That is... quite the introduction. It has its place in Alchemy, certainly, though it's a bit more 'bookish' than what I prefer."
He stood up and approached Albert, extending a gloved hand. "Jeron Balder. I'm a metalsmith. You might have seen some of my work flying around at Hogwarts. I'm the one responsible for the modern Golden Snitch."
Albert's eyes widened slightly as he shook the man's hand. "The Snitch? It's an honor, Mr. Balder. I've read about the charms involved—how they're never supposed to be touched by human skin during the manufacturing process to ensure the 'flesh memory' remains untainted."
Balder's face lit up like a child's. "Precisely! Most people just think they're fast balls with wings. They don't realize the complexity of the sensory-binding enchantments. If there's a dispute on the pitch about who caught it, the Snitch is the only witness that can't be bribed. It knows exactly whose fingers brushed its casing first."
He leaned in closer, whispering with a conspiratorial wink. "Between us, I'm looking for an apprentice. Someone who doesn't mind getting their hands dirty and has a brain that can handle three-dimensional enchantment mapping. Think about it after you finish school. It's a lucrative trade, and you'll never be bored."
"Are you already trying to poach the talent, Balder?" a new voice chimed in.
Cella Harris stepped forward, looking much as he did in his letters, with a sharp, inquisitive gaze. He shook Albert's hand warmly. "We've corresponded quite a bit, Albert. It's good to see you in the flesh. Don't let Balder talk you into a life of making sports equipment. You have a mind for higher theoretical pursuits."
"I just think we hit it off," Balder retorted, though he was smiling.
The atmosphere began to settle into a comfortable, if still somewhat competitive, rhythm. More chairs were pulled in, and the group took their places. Cella Harris sat on Albert's left, while Gerber Smith took the seat on his right, effectively sandwiching the "newcomer" between two of the most respected men in the room.
"It's a shame the turnout is so poor this year," Harris remarked, his brow furrowed as he scanned the room. "The numbers are definitely dropping."
"Does it matter?" Professor Broad said, taking a sip of his tea. "Quality over quantity, Cella. Besides, we all know why some people stayed away."
"Nicolas, for one," Harris sighed. "He told me in Paris that he was looking forward to this. He had some new theories on the distillation of lunar light that he wanted to share."
"Can you blame him for being absent?" Gobarot grunted from across the way. "Not after the way we teased him last time about that 'fake' recipe he gave us for the Elixir. Honestly, Alchemists are the most suspicious lot on the planet."
"It wasn't just suspicion," Broad interrupted, his tone suddenly becoming much more serious. He lowered his voice, and the jovial energy in the room seemed to evaporate instantly. "Nicolas is dealing with... complications."
"What kind of complications could a man who's lived six centuries possibly have?" the skeptical Frenchman asked.
"The shadow of the past," Broad whispered. "The Dark Lord. You-Know-Who."
A collective shiver seemed to ripple through the group. For these wizards, some of whom had lived through three different dark uprisings, that name wasn't just a boogeyman story—it was a memory of blood and lost colleagues.
"But he's gone," one of the wizards said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Defeated ten years ago by that Potter boy. Even Dumbledore says he's a spirit at best."
"Dumbledore also says that a cornered spirit is the most dangerous kind," Broad countered. "He's convinced that Voldemort hasn't given up on returning. And if you were a ghost looking for a way back into a physical body, what's the first thing you'd go after?"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Cella Harris breathed, his face pale. "Good God. He's trying to steal the Stone."
Albert sat quietly, watching the realization dawn on them. It was fascinating to see the real-world reaction to the events he knew so well from the books. To these men, this wasn't a plot point; it was a terrifying security breach involving one of their oldest friends.
"Is he safe?" Harris asked urgently. "Nicolas isn't exactly a duelist."
"He's as safe as a man can be," Broad reassured him. "The Fidelius Charm is holding, and Dumbledore himself is the Secret-Keeper. Unless Albus decides to invite the Dark Lord over for tea, Nicolas's villa in Devon is more secure than Gringotts."
"I suppose that means poor Nicolas can't even go to the opera anymore," someone muttered, trying to lighten the mood. "He'll be bored to tears within a month."
"He always complained the Muggle performances were too long anyway," another chuckled weakly.
Professor Broad cleared his throat, a soft but commanding sound that brought the room back to order. He looked around at the assembled masters, then finally at Albert.
"The world outside might be turning dark, but inside these walls, we have work to do. We don't gather just to gossip about the dead or the dying. We gather to move the science forward."
Broad stood up, his eyes shining with anticipation. "Since we are all here, and the tea is still hot, let us begin. Who would like the floor first?"
Albert felt a sudden, cold jolt in his stomach. He looked at the eager faces of the masters, then back at Broad. Begin what? Nobody had given him a schedule. Nobody had mentioned a presentation. He had assumed this was a dinner and a few drinks, maybe a lecture from one of the older men. But the way everyone was looking at him—and the way Broad was subtly nodding in his direction—suggested that he was expected to do a lot more than just listen.
"What exactly are we beginning?" Albert whispered to Gerber, his heart starting to hammer against his ribs.