At the ripe old age of forty-eight Albus has little to worry about. His family's vaults mean he has little need to work and his various familial estates mean he always has a home. Having destroyed the menace Grindinwal as little more then a child means everyone - or near everyone is his friend, and as a prodigy men trip over themselves to gain his assistance on all manner of projects. So - he had money, respect, and if he chooses power…yet he sits in this backward bar bored out of his mind.
Rolling his unbecomingly sticky shot glass between his palms he sighs. Its probably just having broken up with Pamela (or was it Anna) last week. Just a little depression, a little angst totally in keeping with his reputation as an empty-headed little upstart. Probably just his mid-life crisis though it seems a bit early in his life for that. Besides it's really none of those things.
A rather happy drunk bumps him on his way to the head. For a second a copper-headed man replaces the morose brunette sitting there. Only a second but it's enough to have rewarded the ever-tenacious Rita Skitter. Sadly she seems to be glued to her surprisingly sturdy chair. She also seems to have been rendered mute. As the unsavory woman continues to struggle and grimace Albus stands, winks to the smirking barkeep and leaves with a wave toward Rita.
The sudden smack of fog-heavy air is enough to make him smile. Dense as it is there's no need to keep up his glamour. Reverting to a tall, slender red-head Albus steps off with a whistle - and is immediately nailed in the face by a rather crumpled copy of the Prophet. Snatching it off he's presented with the headline "Chosen one born?" Beneath is a picture of two smiling parents and a rather ugly thing that must be the newborn. The mother looks harried, her smile shaky and eyes shifty. Her husband merely smiles with an easy arrogance that's almost becoming.
Snorting and crumpling the paper up Britain's mad freelancer tosses it like an American basketball player. His lay-up is almost perfect except the missing part. Chuckling he walks over to pick up the trash and meets a pair of large impossibly dark eyes. Almost as an afterthought comes a pale face composed of a large, ruler straight nose - a mouth equal parts cruel and needy - and a high smooth brow. Strangely all he can focus on besides those strange eyes are a pair of jug ears valiantly fighting through a wash of stable hair.
With a hesitant smile Albus decides he doesn't miss Paula, could be Taylor, so much after all. And then the pale child - couldn't be more then twenty if that - blinks picks up the crumple paper and runs. "Wha-? Hey! Wait!" Forgetting for a moment that most people don't take well to shouting strangers who chase them - Albus jumps to the task of running down his new acquaintance.