The moment the heavy oak door to the Headmaster's office clicked shut behind Albert, a palpable shift occurred in the room. The silence, dense with ancient magic and stunned disbelief, shattered. The portraits lining the circular walls, which had been maintaining the pretense of being asleep—snoring softly and tilting their heads—suddenly sprang to vivid life.
The bald wizard in the portrait nearest Dumbledore, a former Headmaster named Everard, immediately leaned forward, his eyes wide.
"Albus, I must insist," Everard interjected, his voice surprisingly robust for a man of his age and artistic medium. "That child is profoundly… calculated. His discourse and strategy bear no resemblance whatsoever to a mere twelve-year-old. I've witnessed Wizengamot sessions where seasoned politicians demonstrated less nerve and foresight than Mr. Anderson just now."
Dumbledore, his half-moon spectacles catching the light, gently stroked the phoenix perched beside him. "Indeed, Everard. Mr. Anderson is intelligent, yes, but more importantly, he possesses a rare and highly developed sense of control. And, as you observed, immense self-confidence, bordering on certainty."
A curly-haired witch, Dilys Derwent, formerly a celebrated Headmistress and editor of The Daily Prophet, spoke next, her tone analytical.
"I agree. The certainty was the most troubling aspect. He wasn't improvising; he was executing a planned ultimatum. He understood the Gold Membership Card's worth to a Potions Master—a lifetime of access to rare components—and he knew Hertok's desperation would climb far higher than a thousand Galleons. He waited until Dagworth was politically cornered, and then he applied the pressure. That ten thousand Galleon figure was merely a psychological tool to force acceptance of the real terms: Accountability."
"He was calculating the cost of face versus the cost of money," Dumbledore confirmed, his gaze thoughtful. "And he priced Dagworth's honor very high indeed."
The most cantankerous of the assembled portraits, a bearded wizard in faded silver-green pajamas named Phineas Nigellus Black, sneered openly. "I maintain, I dislike him intensely."
"I am truly surprised, Phineas," Dilys challenged, her voice sharpening. "Why such aversion? Is it the Grffindor tie? The Muggle ancestry? Or perhaps the fact that he just outmaneuvered one of the most respected figures in the Potions community?"
"What did I just say?" Phineas yawned, attempting to feign disinterest and retreat from the conversation. He knew better than to engage in a prejudiced debate with Dilys or Dumbledore, as it always ended poorly for him.
Another old, frail-looking wizard, Armando Dippet, spoke up gently. "His magical power is undeniable, Albus. And his lineage, while Muggle on his father's side, is not ordinary. He bears no resemblance to the typical Muggle-born wizard, whose magical heritage is often deeply buried or dormant for generations."
"Armando is correct," Dumbledore said calmly, picking up a lemon drop from a nearby dish. "I looked into Mr. Anderson's genealogy last term. His immediate family are indeed Muggles, but his maternal grandfather was a Squib. If we trace that maternal line back a few centuries, we find a direct connection to the ancient Smith family."
A collective gasp swept through the portraits. Even Phineas Nigellus Black, despite his best efforts to look bored, opened his eyes wide. "The Smith family? Is that the famous line?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore confirmed with a solemn nod. "The line that goes back to the founders, Albus? The one that is said to hold the specific, arcane legacy of… her?"
"Yes, I believe so," Dumbledore replied, his voice barely above a murmur. "The Smith family, as you know, has historically been the source of an unusually high number of exceptionally gifted witches and wizards, often born outside the typical pure-blood circles, as the talent seems to manifest randomly and with intense power."
Dilys pondered this. "It's that unique inheritance method. It is why the Smith line is so mysterious—because the magic isn't guaranteed by blood purity; it's inherited through an almost innate, systemic genius, an unparalleled capacity for abstract logic and pattern recognition, which Rowena herself embodied."
Phineas, ever the cynic but also a man obsessed with ancient houses, reluctantly admitted, "The Smith family history is indeed far more complex and enduring than even the Black family's. They are notorious for producing these sporadic, dazzling geniuses. It's no great surprise then. The power was simply waiting for the right moment to express itself through the next host."
"This child, then," Everard mused, "is a direct magical descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw herself, inheriting that specific genius for synthesis and pattern-finding."
Dumbledore, allowing the gravity of the realization to settle, then brought up a more recent observation. "Mr. Anderson has already surpassed many of us in his theoretical research, particularly in Ancient Runes. Brod, in his letters, has not spared any praise. Albert's grasp of archaic magical writings has an almost innate intuition; he understands connections that scholars spend decades trying to unravel."
This was high praise indeed—too high for Phineas. "Albus is suggesting the child will be the next him?" Phineas scoffed, his voice dripping with acid sarcasm. "A Gryffindor filled with Ravenclaw's wisdom, Hufflepuff's loyalty, and Dumbledore's endless self-regard? I'll choke on my portrait ropes before I believe that!"
Dumbledore simply smiled faintly. "Phineas, I believe that Mr. Anderson is already, in terms of sheer intellectual and strategic capacity, far superior to me at his age. He does not yet bear the political scars, nor the burden of regret, but the engine is infinitely more powerful."
The criticism, though exaggerated, hit its mark, and Phineas's forced laughter was once again met with uncomfortable silence from the other historical figures.
The debate shifted back to the living world—the interconnected web of influence. Dumbledore nodded, recalling Dagworth's parting words about Brod's network. "Hertok was right, of course. Brod's influence is vast. He and his circle—wizards like Hertok, like McDougal, like the Unspeakables and Curse-Breakers who correspond with Albert—form a loose, vast organization of exceptional talent."
"And you are a member, Albus," Dilys stated flatly, cutting through the pleasantries. "You maintained correspondence and shared your research with them even before you left Hogwarts. That is the true entry requirement: demonstrable, unparalleled talent in a specific arcane field."
"It is," Dumbledore confirmed. "And when I joined the Wizengamot, I began to see the true, terrifying potential of that circle. They are all neutral experts. They take no official political stances. But if they ever collectively decided that the Minister for Magic, or the Head of a certain Department, was incompetent or a threat to the greater magical good, they wouldn't need a vote. They could, merely through the coordinated, overwhelming force of their collective, highly credible opinions, force that official's resignation or removal."
The portraits were silent, contemplating the terrifying reality of a shadow government composed entirely of Britain's most brilliant, influential, and intellectually demanding minds.
"It's a terrifying truth, Albus, because they never need to act. The threat of their combined disapproval is enough," Everard murmured.
"Exactly," Dumbledore replied. "And now, Albert Anderson—a twelve-year-old—is not only corresponding with them but is using their implicit power structure to settle a personal score with the Ministry."
The portraits returned to dissecting Albert's final threat to Hertok.
"He intends to unseat the Director of the Department for the Misuse of Magic," Everard worried aloud. "That is an aggressive, destabilizing act for a boy who claims to dislike politics."
"No, Everard, you misunderstand his core motive," Dumbledore corrected gently, his eyes bright. "He did not want to destabilize the Ministry; he wanted to establish a precedent. He was simply stating the mechanism available to Hertok Dagworth. Dagworth was the one who was truly threatening the Ministry by refusing to apologize; Albert was simply outlining the inevitable consequence of that stubborn refusal."
Dilys leaned forward, a grim, admiring look on her face. "He forced Dagworth to see that the cost of not apologizing—the political fallout of unseating a Ministry official—was exponentially higher than simply writing the letter. He gave Hertok the cheapest, most painless solution after first proving that he possessed the nuclear option. It wasn't about revenge; it was about the enforcement of accountability."
"The terrifying truth is that he can do it," Phineas grumbled, crossing his arms and looking away. "He possesses the raw talent to manipulate these power structures, and if he continues to correspond with the likes of Brod, he will soon have the influence as well. A single letter from Albert Anderson could soon carry the weight of a dozen Wizengamot votes."
"And yet," Dumbledore observed, gazing out the window at the now-darkened grounds,
"Mr. Anderson told Hertok he has no interest in these topics. His currency is knowledge, not power. He forced the apology not to gain influence, but because the Ministry's failure to acknowledge its mistake was an insult to logic and an impediment to his own systematic peace. The most terrifying people are those who wield immense power not for greed or glory, but merely to enforce their own quiet, unbending rules."
Dumbledore picked up another lemon drop, the silence of the portraits confirming that they, too, now understood the subtle, chilling threat Albert represented.
The boy was not a monster; he was a natural force of pure, ruthless, systematic genius. And the true terror was his complete indifference to the collateral damage of politics, provided his own demands for logical fairness were met.
The discussions continued long into the night, revolving around Albert's genetic predisposition to genius, his astounding strategic depth, and the true extent of the influence he was accumulating simply by being brilliant.
For the portraits, Albert was not merely a student; he was a living history lesson, the manifestation of a power long dormant in the world.