The flurry of owls he had been both addressing and ignoring over the past several days had kept Albus in his own family home, directing things beginning to arrive from his office and speaking with Professor McGonagall about matters of school business.
Now, he had matters of more important business to attend to.
One moment the three young wizards had been arguing amongst themselves in an empty house, and the next he stood there near the table, laughing quietly as the crack of apparation faded in the air.
In his whole and uninjured hand he held a small box, and once he had arrived in the room he sat it at the end of the table. His withered hand was kept carefully tucked within his robes, and he would not let Harry see that the dead skin that had started as only a finger had now blackened his whole hand, and the larger portion of his arm.
"Ah. You're all here, I see. Good, good. Mr. Weasley, does your mother happen to have any hot chocolate?"