Travel is more than just movement; it's an emotional reset. The sheer change in scenery, atmosphere, and routine acts like a powerful mental tonic, offering a rare chance to truly disconnect the mind and relax the body. For Albert, a summer holiday in France wasn't just a new location—it was a meticulously planned, novel experience orchestrated entirely around his unique linguistic talent.
Herbert and Daisy Anderson, seasoned travelers who adored exploring the world, had settled on France for one crucial, simplifying reason: Albert speaks French.
International travel, especially for a Muggle family, is often tangled by language barriers, travel agency schedules, and the sheer inertia of sticking to tourist traps. By selecting a country where their eldest son could converse fluently and confidently, Herb and Daisy effectively eliminated all the logistical headaches.
They could be adventurous, flexible, and completely independent, navigating the country purely on their own whim. Who needed a local guide or an expensive tour bus when you had your own remarkably polished, twelve-year-old translator?
The couple claimed the trip was to "further immerse Albert in the language," a commendable educational goal. But the genuine, underlying thrill was the sheer convenience and the immense parental pride they derived from it.
The very moment the plane landed and Albert stepped up to the customs counter, the show began.
"Bonjour, monsieur. Vos passeports, s'il vous plaît," Albert requested politely, handing over the family's documents.
The French customs officer, a stern man with an impeccably trimmed mustache, initially looked bored. Then, he looked down at the documents, then at the English boy who had just spoken flawless, accented French, then back to the parents standing awkwardly behind him.
Herb and Daisy exchanged a silent, smug look.
The subsequent interaction—Albert calmly translating a detailed question about their itinerary, navigating a minor query about declared goods, and smoothly wishing the officer a good day—left the man visibly stunned, his practiced Parisian cool momentarily shattered.
Seeing the looks of genuine shock and amused surprise on the faces of the French locals—whether they were customs agents, waiters, or museum staff—was the greatest reward for Herb and Daisy. It deeply satisfied their pride to know their son, already a Hogwarts champion, possessed this entirely Muggle, and yet equally astonishing, skill.
The initial days were a whirlwind of iconic sights. The Anderson family traversed Paris, ticking off every famous landmark. They strolled down the magnificent Champs-Élysées, marveling at the endless, glittering shops, posed awkwardly (Herb) and perfectly (Daisy) in front of the massive Arc de Triomphe, and took a leisurely boat ride along the misty Seine River.
"Hold still, Herb! You look like you're waiting for a bus, not standing in front of a thousand-year-old cathedral!" Daisy would instruct, squinting through her camera lens.
"Why do we need so many photos?" Nia whined, trying to adjust her shirt for the twentieth time.
"Because," Albert explained, adjusting his own pose with a seasoned ease, "I have promised myself that I will select the best ones and use a charm to turn them into moving magical photographs when we get back. We need variety for the animation cycles." That piece of information instantly motivated Nia to strike a few dozen dramatic, artistic poses.
After the cultural blitz of the capital, the second part of the vacation began: pure, unadulterated relaxation on the Basque coast. They had booked a delightful small cottage near a sweeping, sandy beach, trading the noise of the city for the rhythmic roar of the Atlantic.
The days melted into a blissful routine of sea breeze, warm sun, and the delicious inactivity of sunbathing. For Albert, however, inactivity wasn't the goal. He had grown up landlocked, rarely enjoying anything beyond a chlorinated public pool. Now, having taught himself to swim expertly, the ocean was an irresistible call.
His favorite activities quickly became swimming and surfing. He'd borrowed a board from a friendly local surf shack and was in the water every morning and afternoon. He spent hours riding the waves, sharing small talk and jokes with the local surfers.
This constant immersion in casual, rapid-fire French was better than any classroom. His fluency sharpened from technically correct to naturally expressive, and soon he was able to handle complex conversations, arguments, and even local slang with ease.
Albert's presence became a minor curiosity on the beach. To the romantically inclined French locals, this polite, friendly English boy who spoke French like a native and expertly handled the local break was an anomaly—a charming, unexpected mystery that made him effortlessly popular.
One sweltering afternoon, Albert had just returned from a long session in the water, his hair slicked back and his skin glistening, reaching for the chilled juice on the small table under the umbrella.
"Albert, Albert! Help! Sunscreen emergency!" Nia appeared in front of him, looking panicked, a thick bottle of lotion and a towel clutched in her hands. She had abandoned her half-finished sandcastle, which was now slowly collapsing under the incoming tide.
Albert took a slow sip of his juice. "Why not ask Mum? Isn't that her job?" He took the towel and began drying himself off.
"They're in a deep diplomatic exchange," Nia muttered darkly, pointing toward their parents.
Herb and Daisy were engaged in animated conversation with a young French couple sharing the neighboring stretch of shade. They were gesticulating, nodding earnestly, and clearly deep into a conversation about something mutually fascinating—and completely forgetting their children.
"Honestly, the nerve," Albert sighed dramatically, though he found the situation typical.
"Exactly! So unreliable!" Nia agreed emphatically.
"Alright, come here." Albert sighed, taking the sunscreen. "Lie still on the lounger. We don't want you burnt to a crisp." He began the careful, deliberate process of applying the lotion to Nia's arms, back, and shoulders, ensuring even coverage against the brutal summer sun.
"Albert, are there magical schools here in France, too?" Nia asked, her eyes squinting in the pleasant sun, her mind clearly wandering.
"There are, yes," Albert confirmed, massaging the lotion onto her shoulder blades. "Europe has three major ones. You know about Hogwarts in Britain. Then there's Beauxbatons Academy of Magic right here in France, a beautiful palace nestled somewhere in the Pyrenees, or so the legends go. And the third is Durmstrang Institute, up in the far North of Scandinavia."
"How do you know all that, Albert?" Nia asked, momentarily lifting her head.
"The Hogwarts library has quite extensive records on the matter. The relationships between the three schools, while sometimes competitive, have always been historically significant. They form the backbone of European magical education. There are entire books dedicated to the history of the Triwizard Tournament, for instance, which revolves around those three institutions."
"So, why haven't we seen anything magical since we arrived?" Nia wondered, lowering her head back down. "Not a single eccentric old witch or a floating newspaper?"
"Because the magical world is incredibly good at keeping itself hidden from ordinary people," Albert explained, capping the lotion bottle. "Wizards and Muggles have virtually no interaction unless it's absolutely necessary. Now, you're all set."
He stood up, but paused, noticing the young French couple from the next umbrella glancing their way with slightly perplexed smiles. They had obviously overheard the conversation about "Magic Academy" and "Durmstrang."
Daisy caught their look and laughed lightly. "Don't mind that! She's very involved in reading fantasy novels, you see."
Albert, seizing the moment to defuse the situation, smiled politely and nodded to the couple. "It's a story I'm working on, actually. I'm planning to write a book for myself about the European magical schools. A story about magic."
The couple's expressions shifted from mild confusion to wide-eyed astonishment. They clearly hadn't expected the young boy to be so articulate, let alone a budding author.
"A book?" the young woman, who introduced herself as Claudine, exclaimed. "That is remarkable! How old are you, mon petit?"
"Almost twelve," Albert replied in perfect French.
Herb, taking this as his cue, puffed up with pride. "We are very supportive of him in that, just as we support his French studies!" He then launched into a prolonged, unnecessarily detailed explanation of Albert's language acquisition, becoming increasingly insistent that Albert should give a formal, complex demonstration of his French skills for the couple's benefit.
Albert felt a sudden, familiar wave of embarrassment wash over him. His cheeks flushed slightly, and he muttered a quick excuse, grabbing his juice bottle and practically fleeing the conversation.
"Why aren't you sunbathing anymore?" Albert asked Nia, who had abandoned the lounger and was following him.
"I'm going to help you with your sunscreen this time," Nia declared, seizing the bottle from his hand with a determined expression.
"No, that's quite alright, I can handle it," Albert tried to demur, knowing Nia's application skills involved sticky, uneven patches. Just as he was about to snatch the bottle back, a voice, smooth and lightly accented, reached his ear.
"Alors, beau gosse," a cheerful voice called out. "Hey, handsome, can I help you put on your sunscreen? You missed a spot on your shoulder."
Albert looked up. Three young women, all in brightly colored swimsuits and carrying surfboards, were smiling invitingly at him. They were local surfers he'd often talked to in the water, ranging in age from late teens to early twenties.
"Non, merci beaucoup," Albert politely declined, giving them a friendly wave. "But I'll be back out later. Let's catch a few waves together then, yes?"
"Oh, quel dommage!" one of them sighed dramatically, and they walked away laughing, trading amused French commentary on the "polite English boy" as they headed down the beach.
"You see? He's absolutely fluent in French!" Herb exclaimed to the now completely convinced young French couple, who were nodding vigorously. The earlier skepticism had been obliterated by the casual, confident exchange.
"Who were they?" Nia asked, her voice low and slightly wary, watching the retreating figures.
"Just friends I surf with," Albert said casually, taking the sunscreen bottle from Nia before she could misuse it.
Nia crossed her arms, assessing his tall, slender frame, which had been toned by the year of Quidditch and now the rigorous surfing. "So, you like that type? Tall, older, sun-tanned…" she muttered under her breath. "Well, I'll still grow up, you know."
"Alright, Nia, stop being ridiculous and go sit down," Albert laughed, ruffling her hair.
"Let me put the sunscreen on you, Albert!" Nia insisted, seizing the bottle again, her expression shifting from sibling rivalry to determined helpfulness.
"Fine, fine," Albert relented, allowing her to clumsily smear a patch on his back before he was forced to step in and take over. Eventually, Daisy, noticing the increasingly sticky and uneven application, walked over, shook her head, and expertly helped Albert ensure he was properly covered.
The family reunited later that evening at a quiet bistro, ready for dinner. The waiter had just set down a steaming bowl of traditional French fish soup (Bouillabaisse) in front of Albert.
"Where's Dad?" Albert asked, looking around the small table.
"He went to collect the tickets," Daisy said, stirring her soup.
"Tickets for what?" Albert frowned. He'd hoped for a late-night movie—something contemporary and French.
"The opera, dear."
Albert stopped eating. "The opera house? Which one? Please don't say the Palais Garnier. I don't think I can appreciate that much intellectual stimulation."
"No, not the Palais," Daisy reassured him. "The Bastille Opera House—the modern one. Herb said we absolutely shouldn't miss it, as it's a crucial cultural experience while we're in France."
Albert rubbed his temples. "The tickets there must have been outrageously expensive, Mum. It's the second-largest opera house in France."
"Well, actually, it wasn't too bad," Daisy replied, smiling mysteriously. "Herb was very clever. He spent the whole morning researching budget options, and it turns out this vacation is coming in significantly under budget, which allowed for the splurge."
"Under budget?" Albert asked, genuinely surprised. "Since when?"
"Since your father took my suggestion and booked an apartment with a kitchen instead of relying solely on restaurant meals," Daisy explained. "We've been preparing simple breakfasts and a few dinners ourselves. It makes a huge difference. Besides, your dad's been wanting to go for years. He actually took a tour of the Bastille Opera House before he even came back with the tickets."
"So, you're saying he reserved the tickets, knowing they're non-refundable, before even asking us?" Albert asked, a theatrical tone of disbelief entering his voice.
"Well, how could I miss a performance at a major French opera house while we're here?" Herb announced cheerfully, sliding back into his seat, a small, official envelope tucked into his shirt pocket.
Albert just sighed, taking up his spoon with exaggerated resignation. "Fine. Do what makes you happy, Dad. I suppose it beats watching you try to speak French at the ticket office."
He then looked at Nia. "Do you like opera, Nia?"
Nia wrinkled her nose, genuinely unsure. "I don't know. I've never seen one. Is it any good?"
"It's very… loud, and very long, and everyone sings their emotions instead of just speaking them like a normal person," Albert explained with a slight grimace. "I'd still much rather go see that new French action film I saw posters for. But alas, we are held captive by the non-refundable reservations."
Herb laughed heartily, completely ignoring his son's feigned disinterest. "Nonsense, Albert! It's a spectacular event, and you'll thank me for the cultural enrichment. We'll even find a way to make it fun."
Albert just gave his father a look that plainly said, 'I highly doubt that,' and returned to his fish soup, already resigned to an evening of musical misery, wondering if Dumbledore ever used the Bastille Opera House for secret Ministry meetings.
Albert had a quiet realization as he finished his soup. His parents' decision to choose France, and his resulting popularity on the beach, were subtle but potent anchors in the Muggle world. While he was surfing and translating, he wasn't practicing forbidden magic. It was the best kind of non-magical confinement: voluntary and engaging.
Herb, sensing Albert's mood, leaned in. "Look, son, I know you're not thrilled about the opera. But think of it this way: it's an education in cultural camouflage. A highly visible, highly Muggle activity that keeps you on the right side of the Statute of Secrecy while you're abroad, without us having to constantly remind you."
Albert nodded slowly. He hadn't thought of it in those terms. His parents weren't just showing him off; they were strategically providing him with acceptable, all-consuming Muggle distractions.
"Fine," Albert said, putting down his spoon. "But you owe me a trip to that science museum near the city when we get back. The one with the robotics exhibit."
"Deal," Herb agreed, relieved, shaking Albert's hand across the table. "Now, about this Bastille Opera House. It's a fascinating structure—all glass and sleek lines, very modern. It actually uses incredibly complex automated stage systems. I heard the entire floor of the stage can be moved and rearranged in minutes. It's an engineering marvel."
Albert's interest finally piqued. Automated stage systems? That sounds like complex mechanical design—a perfect Muggle parallel to certain charms.
"Automated systems, you say?" Albert mused. "Perhaps it won't be entirely boring after all. I should probably pay closer attention to the sets."
"That's the spirit!" Daisy smiled, happy to see Albert engage. "Plus, think of the people-watching! You might see a French Ministry of Magic official in the audience, Albert. You never know!"
Albert smirked at his mother's fantasy. "I doubt they'd risk it, Mum. But if I see anyone looking suspiciously elegant and whispering about dragons, I'll let you know."
The conversation turned back to the engineering details of the opera house, a subject Herb and Albert could genuinely bond over, leaving Nia to finish her soup and wonder aloud if anyone would sing about a wizarding school named Beauxbatons.