If the morning sessions were an academic marathon, the evening was a masterclass in social networking. Professor Broad's manor was currently hosting a gathering that felt like an "Elite Edition" of Horace Slughorn's Slug Club. While Slughorn collected talented students like rare stamps to trade for future favors, this group was the finished product—wizards who already held the keys to the kingdom's knowledge.
The House-elves had clearly outdone themselves. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the stone floors, the dining hall was flooded with the mouth-watering scents of a multi-course feast. Albert sat quietly, watching the silver platters float into place. It wasn't just the quantity that was impressive, but the variety.
Since France and Italy were the undisputed heavyweights of European culinary arts, the table was a battlefield of delicate sauces and rich, roasted meats. Albert found himself reaching for a portion of Bœuf Bourguignon that looked like it had been simmered for a week, while a nearby bowl of Risotto alla Milanese glowed with the vibrant yellow of high-grade saffron.
For a while, Albert played the role of the "Invisible Guest." He tucked into his meal with practiced grace, keeping his ears open and his mouth shut. In a room full of people who remembered the history books as "current events," the gossip was far more interesting than anything you could find in the Daily Prophet.
The conversation eventually drifted toward the shifting sands of the British Ministry of Magic.
"Fudge," one wizard muttered, swirling a glass of deep red wine. "The man is a glorified clerk who stumbled into a throne. If Barty Crouch hadn't been so... uncompromising, we'd be looking at a very different Ministry today."
"Crouch was his own worst enemy," another replied. "But let's be honest—Fudge didn't just 'get lucky.' He was the primary architect of the smear campaign. Using a man's son to destroy his career? It's a low blow, even for a politician."
Albert, who had been focused on a particularly stubborn piece of duck, felt the weight of the room's attention shift toward him. Professor Broad was looking at him with an unreadable expression.
"Mr. Anderson," the Professor said, his voice cutting through the clinking of silverware. "You've been remarkably quiet. What's your take on the Crouch affair? Do you think a father should be held accountable for the sins of the son?"
Albert set down his fork and took a slow sip of water, buying himself a second to frame the answer. He wasn't about to get caught in a political trap, but he wasn't going to give a hollow answer either.
"In any rational society," Albert began, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin, "Barty Crouch Senior should be judged on his own merits. His son's choices were exactly that—his own. It's a tragedy that personal failure was weaponized to erase decades of public service."
The wizards around the table exchanged looks. It was a diplomatic answer, but Albert wasn't done.
"However," he added, a slight edge to his voice, "rationality is a rare currency in the wizarding world. Most people don't want the truth; they want a narrative that makes them feel safe. If Harry Potter, the boy everyone calls a savior, stood up tomorrow and told the world that Voldemort was still out there, lurking in the shadows... what do you think would happen?"
The name caused a visible flinch in several of the guests. The air in the room seemed to chill by several degrees.
"They'd call him a liar," Albert answered his own question. "Or a madman. They would tear down their own hero just to keep their comfortable lie intact. Fudge knows this better than anyone. He doesn't lead; he manages the public's delusions."
Professor Broad leaned back, a small, satisfied smile on his face. "A cynical view for one so young, Albert, but unfortunately accurate. I'd advise you to keep those particular thoughts for this table only. People do not thank you for popping their bubbles."
"Duly noted, Professor," Albert shrugged, returning his attention to his plate.
Seeking to lighten the mood, Adolf shifted the topic to the continent. He spoke of the "growing rot" at Durmstrang Institute. Apparently, the new High Master, Igor Karkaroff, was turning the school into a breeding ground for dark ideology, leading to a mass exodus of students to Beauxbatons.
This led to a discussion about symbols—specifically the one some Durmstrang students had taken to carving into their desks.
"Grindelwald's Mark," Nelson said, tracing a shape in the air with his wand. A glowing triangle appeared, bisected by a circle and a vertical line. "The children think it's a badge of rebellion. They have no idea what it actually represents."
Albert looked at the glowing sigil, feigning a student's curiosity. "I've seen that in The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It's the sign of the Three Brothers, isn't it?"
"Precisely," Nelson nodded. "The Cloak, the Stone, and the Wand. The Deathly Hallows. In our circles, we don't view them as fairy tales. We view them as the ultimate alchemical achievement—objects that defy the natural laws of decay and death."
"And Grindelwald?" Albert asked.
"He was obsessed with them," Professor Broad explained. "Many believe he adopted the symbol because he actually found one of the items. It's a dangerous path to walk, looking for tools to conquer death. It usually ends in a shallow grave."
Albert smiled into his wine glass. He knew for a fact that Grindelwald had found the Elder Wand; he'd even lost it to Dumbledore in the world's most famous duel. But some secrets were better left unshared.
As the dessert course—a magnificent Mont Blanc with chestnut purée—was served, a wizard named Claude mentioned a friend of his, a Monsieur Delacour.
"He works for the Magical Garden in France," Claude said, looking at Albert. "They grow things there that shouldn't exist in nature. Rare ingredients, experimental hybrids. If you ever need high-end materials for your Alchemy, he's the man to know. His wife is a Veela, you know. Absolutely stunning family. Their daughter is at Beauxbatons—a real prodigy."
"Your French is quite good, Albert," Adolf joked. "Perhaps you should find a French pen pal. It's a good way to practice... your vocabulary."
Albert laughed off the suggestion, but the conversation took a more serious turn toward the end of the night. The older wizards began discussing Albert's background. Despite his talent, the elephant in the room was his lack of a "pure" lineage.
"It's refreshing to see a 'Ma Bo' with such a high ceiling," Smith remarked, ignoring the sharp look Professor Broad shot him.
"Ma Bo?" Albert tilted his head, the term unfamiliar to him. "Is that some sort of slang?"
"It's an archaic term, Mr. Anderson," Smith explained, his tone surprisingly warm. "Before the Statute of Secrecy in 1692, 'Ma Bo' was what we called wizards of Muggle descent. It roughly translates to 'Magic-Born' or 'Gifted from the Earth.' It was a term of high respect."
Professor Broad cleared his throat. "In those days, the prevailing theory was that magic in Muggle-borns was more 'pure' because it wasn't diluted by generations of inbreeding. People believed that when magic manifested in a non-magical family, it was nature's way of creating a masterpiece."
"Then the Statute happened," Adolf added sadly. "Wizards went into hiding, fear of Muggles grew, and the Pure-blood families began to consolidate power. The term 'Ma Bo' was buried under the slur 'Mudblood.' It's a shame. We lost a lot of perspective when we started valuing blood over brains."
Adolf looked around the table at his peers. "But you won't find that nonsense here. In the world of Alchemy, your blood doesn't make the potion stable. Your mind does. And frankly, Albert, your mind is more 'pure' than half the Wizengamot combined."
Albert felt a strange surge of warmth. In the halls of Hogwarts, his bloodline was a point of contention for some and a curiosity for others. But here, among the masters of the craft, he was simply a peer in training.
"I prefer 'Ma Bo' to the alternatives," Albert said with a grin. "It has a nice ring to it."
"It suits you," Broad agreed, raising his glass. "To the return of the Ma Bo. May your magic always be as sharp as your wit."
The table joined in the toast. As the evening wound down, Albert realized that he hadn't just gained knowledge and experience points today. He had gained a shield. With the backing of these men, the political games of Fudge or the blood-supremacy of the Malfoys would have a much harder time touching him.
He was no longer just a talented student. He was a recognized member of an ancient, international brotherhood. And as the House-elves cleared the last of the silver, Albert knew that his second year at Hogwarts was going to be very, very different from his first.