The following few days were a masterclass in gravitational physics, courtesy of Nia. Albert made a conscious effort to avoid the northern woods; he had no desire for another "impromptu" meeting with the silver-haired hurricane that was Fleur Delacour. Instead, he dedicated his time to his sister's skiing education, though the results were disastrous.
The practice slope next to the town became the siblings' permanent residence. Nia's progress was less of a linear improvement and more of a series of spectacular tumbles. She had a unique talent for losing her balance at the exact moment she reached a respectable speed, inevitably panicking and grabbing the nearest solid object—which was almost always Albert.
They spent more time rolling in the powder than gliding over it. On more than one occasion, they ended up as a tangled heap of limbs and fiberglass at the bottom of the hill, looking like a discarded pile of laundry.
"We're doing it again, aren't we?" Nia whispered, her face half-buried in a snowbank after their tenth fall of the morning. She reached a gloved hand out to Albert, silently demanding to be hauled up.
Albert sighed, brushing a thick layer of frost off his sleeves before grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. "I think the mountain has a personal vendetta against you, Nia. Either that, or I'm the world's worst instructor."
"You definitely think I'm a hopeless case," Nia pouted, wiping snow from her goggles. "I saw that look. You're ready to give up and leave me to freeze here."
"I don't think you're hopeless, I think you're impatient," Albert countered, trying to sound encouraging. "Balance isn't something you can memorize from a textbook. It's like riding a bike or ice skating; your body has to find the rhythm. You can't force the snow to cooperate; you have to go with it."
"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. "You look like you're standing on a flat floor even when you're moving."
Albert didn't have the heart to tell her that his "natural" balance was actually a result of dumping a handful of experience points into a level-one Skiing skill the night they arrived. He wasn't a pro; he was just cheating through the system. Even then, knowing how to do it didn't mean he knew how to explain it to someone else. He was realizing that being a genius often made you a terrible teacher—you couldn't understand why people struggled with things that seemed self-evident.
By midday, the experiment in sibling-led education came to an abrupt end. Herbert and Daisy returned from the higher peaks, looking invigorated and remarkably snow-free. They watched from a distance as Albert and Nia performed another synchronized face-plant.
"I give up," Albert announced, skating over to his father with a look of mock despair. "I'm officially retiring from the teaching profession. I've been at this for three days, and her only progress is learning how to fall in more creative ways."
Herbert laughed, clapping his son on the shoulder. "Move aside, Professor. Let a veteran handle this."
It was a humbling moment for Albert. Within thirty minutes of Daisy taking over the lesson, Nia was actually making turns. She wasn't winning any Olympic medals, but she was staying upright. Albert watched from the sidelines, feeling a strange mix of pride and genuine annoyance at his own incompetence.
"I guess some things just require a mother's touch," Albert muttered, watching Nia wave triumphantly as she successfully navigated a gentle curve.
"To celebrate Nia's survival and Albert's retirement," Herbert announced with a grin, "I'm taking us back to that French bistro we found yesterday. The one with the duck confit. I think we've earned it."
They gathered their gear and headed toward the hotel's main street. Even Tom joined the excursion, tucked away in his enchanted travel box, likely dreaming of the scraps he'd inevitably be fed under the table.
The restaurant was one of those quintessentially French places that felt like it had been carved out of the mountain itself—low ceilings, heavy stone walls, and the intoxicating smell of garlic and red wine. Authentic French cuisine was a far cry from the "continental" versions found in London; it was richer, heavier, and significantly more expensive.
As they were halfway through their appetizers, a shadow fell over their table.
"Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Anderson. I suppose the mountains aren't big enough for the both of us."
Albert looked up, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. Fleur Delacour was standing there, looking effortlessly chic in a cream-colored sweater. Behind her, a casually dressed couple was being shown to a nearby table.
The Anderson family froze. Daisy and Herbert stared at the young woman with the kind of stunned silence people usually reserve for spotting a rare bird of paradise in their backyard. Nia, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes, recognizing the silver-haired "witch" from the forest.
"The food here is worth the trek," Albert said, his voice dropping into that neutral, polite tone he used for people he didn't quite trust yet. "I see you've brought reinforcements."
Fleur gestured to the couple behind her. "My parents. We heard the chef here studied in Lyon."
Before Albert could respond, the man behind Fleur—a tall, handsome gentleman with a jovial expression and an air of relaxed authority—stepped forward.
"Ah! You must be the young Mr. Anderson!" he exclaimed. His English was heavily accented, thick with the soft vowels of southern France. He reached out to shake Albert's hand with surprising enthusiasm. "Please, excuse my intrusion. I am Delacour. I have heard so much about you from my friend Claude. He speaks of you as if you are the reincarnation of Nicolas Flamel himself!"
"You're very kind, Monsieur Delacour," Albert replied, switching seamlessly into French to save the man from struggling with his English. "Claude tends to exaggerate. I'm just a student with a hobby for potions."
"Exaggerate? Ha!" Delacour laughed, pulling a chair from a neighboring table and leaning on it, much to the silent amusement of his wife and the visible irritation of Fleur. "Claude doesn't have the imagination to exaggerate. He told me you recognized the properties of a moonstone infusion before you'd even passed your first year! Even Hertok Dagworth mentioned you in his last letter."
Albert felt a tingle at the back of his neck. The mention of Hertok—Professor Dagworth-Liversidge—confirmed that his "fame" wasn't just local gossip. He was being discussed by the heavyweights of the European alchemical circles.
"I've known Hertok for years," Delacour continued, ignoring the fact that his own family was waiting for him to sit down. "He thinks you're the next Dumbledore. Though personally, I hope you're a bit more fun at parties than Albus. Tell me, is it true you're working with Damocles Belby on that werewolf project?"
The table went quiet. Daisy and Herbert looked lost, while Nia's eyes flitted between Albert and the talkative Frenchman.
"I'm aware of the research," Albert said cautiously. "But curing lycanthropy isn't like fixing a cold. It's a deep-seated magical curse. Most researchers are looking for an inhibitor—something to keep the mind intact during the change. A full reversal is... well, it's optimistic."
"Optimistic! I like that," Delacour winked. "He's a realist! You see, Louise?" he teased, nudging Fleur (who apparently used the name Louise in the Muggle world). "He's not just a genius, he's sensible. If you were a few years older, Albert, I'd be inviting you to the manor to court my daughter. She needs someone who won't just fall over when she looks at them."
Fleur rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Papa, please. You're embarrassing everyone, including the cat."
Indeed, Tom had poked his head out of the box, sniffing the air for duck fat.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur," Albert said, trying to steer the conversation back to safety. "I believe Mr. Dagworth's interest in Mr. Belby is more about mentorship. Another Order of Merlin doesn't mean much to a man like Hertok, but for Damocles, it would change his life. It's good to see the established masters supporting the new generation."