Most tourists who manage to get to Paris—the true first-timers—usually prioritize the Arc de Triomphe, a selfie by the Seine, and definitely a chance to sample the legendary foie gras or a proper bowl of French onion soup. So, Albert was still scratching his head over why Herb had chosen to cap off their splendid French adventure with a trip to the opera.
Perhaps it was the abundance of money left in the holiday fund, or maybe Herb viewed it as a once-in-a-lifetime cultural flex. Whatever the reason, Albert wasn't making a fuss. He accepted that sometimes, adults just did things.
The Anderson family drove toward the Bastille Opera House, ready to trade the salty air of the Basque coast for the rarefied air of Parisian culture before their flight back to England.
The building itself was undeniably impressive: a massive, modern structure of glass and polished steel, a stark contrast to the baroque grandeur Albert might have expected from a famous opera venue.
The opera Herb had secured tickets for was none other than Gounod's adaptation of "Romeo and Juliet." Albert knew the story well, having watched various Muggle movie versions in his previous life. But opera? That was completely foreign territory.
With Albert acting as their seamlessly professional translator, Herb successfully collected the pre-booked tickets from the box office.
Passing through the automated turnstiles and into the main foyer of the Bastille Opera, they were among the last trickle of people arriving. Most of the audience was already settled. The family followed a well-dressed attendant down the main aisle of the massive seating area, the plush red velvet swallowing the sounds of their footsteps.
They quickly found their row. There were five seats reserved, and four of them were for the Anderson family. The fifth empty seat, right next to Nia, indicated that one spectator, perhaps chronically late, still hadn't shown up.
To Albert's immediate right sat a very elegant, elderly French couple with silver hair. Noticing Albert's observant gaze, the woman turned and offered a gracious, gentle smile. Albert returned the courtesy with a polite nod, then focused on the program leaflet provided by the opera house.
The brochure was, naturally, entirely in French. He quickly skimmed the summary, then began whispering the essential details to his family.
Herb and Daisy had seen a different production of Romeo and Juliet years ago back in London, but Albert noted that the French adaptation's focus seemed to be on a particularly "light, elegant, and romantic style," emphasizing the beauty of the music over the political feud.
He kept the inevitable, depressing conclusion of the tragedy to himself; spoiling the full dramatic impact for Nia, who was experiencing the story for the first time, wouldn't be very fun.
Just as the family lapsed into hushed, polite murmurs about the set design—Herb was still going on about the hydraulic stage he'd read about—the latecomer finally arrived.
The man was middle-aged, perhaps in his late fifties, dressed in an expensive but somewhat rumpled dark suit. He slid into the empty seat next to Nia just as the house lights dimmed. He exchanged a few quiet, rushed words with the elderly couple to Albert's right, who seemed to know him, before the bell signaled the start of the performance.
The vast theater fell into an immediate, heavy silence. The house lights vanished, plunging the audience into complete darkness, leaving only the immense stage bathed in dramatic light.
"Wow. That's an entrance," Albert murmured quietly, immediately captivated by the theater's atmosphere. He focused his attention forward.
Knowing nothing about opera, Albert quickly realized that it was essentially a play performed entirely through song and musical numbers. The first act, "Capulet House," where Romeo and Juliet meet and fall instantly in love despite their families' hatred, was surprisingly impressive.
The staging was elaborate, and the sheer vocal power of the performers was astounding. It's definitely a cut above the famous but rather repetitive concerts of Celestina Warbeck, he thought, making a mental comparison to the wizarding world's premier musical star.
When the curtain fell for the first intermission, Albert glanced around. Daisy and Herb were entirely engrossed, their faces lit up with enjoyment. Nia, however, was trying to subtly cover a very wide yawn with her hand.
Totally bored, Albert concluded, hiding a smile. That was completely understandable for a ten-year-old dragged to a four-hour French opera.
The middle-aged man next to Nia was also a study in detachment. He didn't seem to be watching the performance at all; his eyes were fixed vaguely on the ceiling, and he appeared to be lost in deep, detached thought, utterly uninterested in the glamorous show unfolding before him.
"Their voices are absolutely insane!" Nia suddenly declared, her boredom vanishing momentarily as she spoke at a volume slightly too loud for a French theater.
Albert managed to stifle his chuckle. "Yes, Nia. Operatic tenors and sopranos train for years. They have to hit some incredibly high notes."
During the break, Albert quickly translated the general plot points of the first act for Nia, using the time between the curtains to catch her up.
"So, enemies, instant love, very dramatic," Nia summarized. "I can already tell they aren't going to end up together."
"And why is that?" Albert challenged, amused.
"Because if they came together, it wouldn't be a story, it would just be a wedding. To make it a tragedy, someone has to mess it up," she stated with simple, childish logic.
The second act began, and Albert was distracted by the complex stage automation. He noted how silently the massive sets—a garden outside Juliet's bedroom—were maneuvered. Herb had been right; the sheer Muggle engineering behind the shifting stage floors and towering backdrops was far more intriguing to him than the star-crossed declarations of love.
The opera continued its inexorable, tragic course. Romeo kills Tybalt and is exiled. The plan for Juliet to fake her death goes horribly wrong because, as Nia wisely surmised, the crucial message-delivery system—a friar's messenger—was disastrously delayed. This resulted in Romeo, assuming Juliet was dead, taking poison in the heart-wrenching fifth act. Juliet then awakens to find him dying and, embracing her fate, stabs herself to join him.
As the curtain slowly fell to thunderous applause, the room lights came up.
"Well? How was the cultural experience?" Herb asked, smiling brightly, looking invigorated.
"It was… extremely loud, and very long," Albert replied, stretching his legs. "But the set changes were a work of genius, Dad. Truly remarkable engineering."
"Where is Nia?" Daisy asked, realizing Nia wasn't immediately next to her.
"She's right here, Mum. I think she's still shell-shocked by the ending." Albert glanced at the empty seat next to where Nia had been sitting. Wait a second. The middle-aged man is gone. Albert hadn't even noticed him leave. He must have slipped out during the final act, utterly abandoning the performance.
"Nia, come on, darling. We're leaving now. Hold Albert's hand, stay close," Daisy instructed, frowning at her distraction.
"Yes, follow the flow of the crowd. No rushing," Herb reminded them, ever the cautious parent.
As they began slowly moving up the aisle, Nia suddenly piped up, clutching something. "Albert, do you really think Romeo and Juliet would have been together if the messenger hadn't been late?"
"No," Albert stated calmly, without hesitation.
Nia tilted her head. "But why? If the letter got there, he wouldn't have drunk the poison!"
"Because their fate wasn't controlled by a messenger; it was controlled by the author," Albert explained, in a highly analytical tone. "If that messenger had arrived, Shakespeare would have simply delayed him with a different tragic accident. The author's need for tragedy is always stronger than a character's desire for happiness."
"Ahem! Albert means that they are merely characters in a play, Nia. Their destinies were simply predetermined by the story, not by real life," Herb quickly interjected, trying to soften the harsh, literary cynicism.
"Well, if it were real life, they absolutely would have made it work," Daisy assured her daughter, shooting a mildly annoyed look at her son and husband for ruining the romantic atmosphere.
"Nia, what are you clutching so tightly?" Albert quickly changed the subject, pointing to the object in her hand.
"Oh, right! I was just about to give this to Dad." Nia handed a small, flat object to Herb. "The man next to me must have dropped it when he left."
Herb took the object, then froze. "What… is this?"
It was a small, elegant card, slightly larger than a credit card. It wasn't merely colored gold; it was strikingly, impossibly heavy. It was made of real, solid gold.
"Gold?" Albert's eyebrows shot up. He took the item from his stunned father, weighing it in his palm. It was ridiculously, unnecessarily opulent. Stamped on its face was an emblem—a mortar and pestle—and some elegantly inscribed runes surrounding a phrase that looked vaguely familiar, confirming it was a magical artifact.
The world of the super-rich is truly incomprehensible, he thought, momentarily stunned by the sheer extravagance of using actual precious metal for a membership card.
Then, just as he was turning the card over, it happened.
His hand, which was gripping the card, was suddenly, powerfully yanked sideways and downwards. It was a sharp, focused pull, as if an invisible rope had been tied to the gold card and someone was trying to winch it away.
Albert, whose instincts were finely tuned after a year of magical surprises, reacted with instantaneous, visceral strength. He clamped down hard, focusing his own magical will.
The protective bracelet he wore under his sleeve—a carefully charmed piece of goblin-silver—flashed with a faint, sudden chill, acting like an emergency brake against the hostile magic. The invisible force wavered, battling the counter-charm, before snapping back to nothing.
It was the unmistakable feeling of a badly aimed Summoning Charm (Accio). Someone nearby, likely the middle-aged man who had just disappeared, had realized his mistake and had tried to summon the card back—probably from his car or his home—and Albert had been directly in the line of fire.
"What in the blazes just happened?" Herb demanded, his voice hushed but strained. He had clearly seen the small, heavy card try to escape Albert's grip.
"A wizard just used a spell to summon this object," Albert explained, his voice low and tight with irritation. "A careless one, too. That bastard almost yanked it out of my hand."
"A spell? That man next to Nia was a wizard?" Daisy whispered, her eyes wide with sudden alarm.
"Most likely," Albert confirmed, turning the gold card over carefully. "But let's not discuss that here." He was already annoyed at the breach of the Statute of Secrecy, however minor and accidental. His focus was on the card's inscription.
Daisy's immediate concern was entirely practical. "Should we return this, then? Give it to the staff at the Bastille Opera? I don't want some unknown wizard showing up at our door demanding his precious gold card back."
Albert, however, was studying the engraved runes with intense concentration, tracing the elegant script with his thumb. "Don't worry, Mum, we are definitely not giving this to the opera staff."
He had identified the familiar, potent runes of Abjuration and Location Charm woven subtly into the metal. Then, he read the name embossed just above the pestle emblem: "Extraordinary Pharmacists Association."
"This confirms it," Albert muttered. "This is a magical membership token, and a highly expensive one. The fact that he tried to Accio it means he realized it was gone and is probably already panicking."
"But why would we keep it?" Herb asked, baffled.
"Because," Albert explained, his face hardening slightly, "that 'bastard,' as I called him, just used a powerful Summoning Charm that directly targeted me, a minor, in a Muggle-filled theater. Even if he did it accidentally from a distance, it's a form of unwanted magical attack. If I return it, there's no guarantee he won't accuse me of stealing it, or that I won't get a Ministry warning owl just for being the target of his clumsy magic."
He slipped the card into his own pocket, the material cold against his skin. "I've been wrongly accused enough this year. We'll hold onto this until the owner can come forward through proper, less aggressive channels. My protective charm did its job, but I'm not rewarding his sloppy spellwork."
Albert paused, allowing his family to process the revelation of a magical object made of real, solid gold, carelessly lost in a Muggle opera house. "And seriously, are all these pharmacists that rich? They literally used gold for a membership card. Some wizards clearly have way too much money to spend on vanity."