When Harry was a few months from his thirteenth birthday, his life set him apart from most other children his age. While others his age might have been preparing for Hogwarts without much forethought, Harry had spent the past two years under a more intense lens. His magic, powerful and unpredictable, had required constant guidance and control. But now, as he approached the age when most wizards began their magical education in earnest, the silver band that had dampened his magic for so long was finally coming off.
The decision had not been made lightly. Andromeda, Ted, and even Dumbledore weighed the risks and benefits, finally deciding that Harry needed to learn to control his magic without the band's help. After all, he couldn't wear it forever. He had to face his power head-on.
It was a crisp, sunny afternoon when Andromeda and Ted gathered in the living room. Dumbledore sat serenely in one of the armchairs, his blue eyes twinkling kindly behind half-moon spectacles.
"Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle yet filled with the gravity of the situation.
Harry swallowed hard, glancing down at the silver band around his wrist. It had been a part of him for so long that the thought of taking it off felt exciting and terrifying. He nodded.
With a careful, deliberate motion, Andromeda approached Harry, her wand raised. "This won't hurt," she reassured him. "But once the band is off, you'll need to focus. Don't let the magic overwhelm you."
Harry nodded again, feeling the familiar stir of his magic beneath his skin, waiting to be set free. Andromeda muttered an incantation under her breath, and with a soft click, the silver band unlocked and fell into her hand.
For a moment, nothing happened. Harry looked at his bare wrist, feeling the cool air where the band had once been. But then, slowly, he felt—the magic. It was as if a dam had been released. His magic, carefully contained for years, surged forward, eager to break free. The room seemed to shimmer with energy, and the air around him started vibrating, rippling with the raw power of his magic.
"Breathe, Harry," Dumbledore instructed, his voice steady and calm from across the room. "Let it flow, but remember—you control the magic, not the other way around."
Harry closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He could feel the surge of magic coursing through him, raw and untamed, like a wild river swelling after a storm. Its energy roared within him, eager to break free. But instead of resisting it, Harry focused inward, guiding the torrent with calm intention. Gradually, the tension in the air dissipated, and the magic, once wild and chaotic, responded to his will—settling into a steady, controlled rhythm.
When he opened his eyes again, the room was still. Nothing had been broken. No accidental spells had gone off. The magic was there, but it was quiet, waiting for him to decide when and how to use it.
Dumbledore smiled. "Well done, Harry. The first step in mastering your magic is learning not to fear it."
Over the next several weeks, Harry began having lessons with Dumbledore once a week, focused entirely on retraining his magic control. The headmaster was a patient and insightful teacher, guiding Harry through various techniques to calm his mind and stop magical outbursts before they could escalate.
One afternoon, Harry struggled with a particularly difficult exercise during one of their lessons. Dumbledore had asked him to levitate and spin a quill. It seemed easy enough, but Harry's unrestrained and powerful magic flared at unexpected times, sending the quill flying across the room.
Harry groaned in frustration, clenching his fists as he stared at the quill now embedded in the far wall.
Dumbledore, however, remained calm, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Control isn't about suppressing your power, Harry. It's about understanding it. Magic is a living force— that responds to your emotions and thoughts. When you're frustrated, it reacts accordingly."
Harry sighed, feeling the weight of his impatience. "It's just... hard. I was able to do this before, but sometimes it feels like the magic has a mind of its own."
Dumbledore nodded as he watched Harry rub his wrist where the magic-damping band had once been. "Magic is deeply connected to who we are. It reflects us and amplifies us. The key is not to fight it but to listen—to work with it."
Harry flexed his body, a strange sensation running through him. Without the band, his magic felt raw and unrestrained—almost too loud, like stepping into a room filled with voices all speaking at once.
Dumbledore observed him carefully. "The band you have worn has quieted your magic to you, dulling its presence. Now that it is gone, you must learn to hear it clearly, to distinguish its your magic from the noise."
Harry furrowed his brow. "I thought magic was just... there. Something you controlled."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "That is a common misconception. Many believe magic is simply a tool to wield, a force to be tamed. But magic is not meant to be silenced or shouted over. It is a conversation. Now, without the band suppressing it, you must learn to truly listen."
Harry took a steadying breath, feeling the magic stir beneath his skin, restless and waiting.
"Let's try again," Dumbledore said, stepping back. "But this time, don't focus on forcing the magic to obey. Focus on hearing it."
Harry took a deep breath, centring himself. He stretched out his hand, his thoughts calmer now. Slowly, the quill lifted from the table, floating gently toward him. There was no burst of energy, no wild explosion, just a steady, controlled flow of magic.
Dumbledore smiled approvingly. "Much better."
As Harry's lessons progressed, so did his understanding of the magical world. Ted and Andromeda, always keen to expand Harry's horizons, had planned a trip to France that summer—a chance for Harry to explore magical cultures beyond the borders of Britain.
###
From the moment they arrived in Paris, Harry was captivated. The magical community in France was familiar and strange, filled with customs and traditions that seemed foreign to what he had grown up knowing. Magical shops lined the narrow cobblestone streets, filled with artefacts, books, and potions that Harry had never seen before.
On one particular afternoon, Ted took Harry to a magical bookstore near the Place des Sorciers, the French equivalent of Diagon Alley. The small, dusty store tucked between a wand shop and a bakery was filled with ancient tomes on magical theory, potions, and the history of wizardkind.
Harry's eyes widened as he scanned the shelves, his fingers brushing the spines of old, leather-bound books. "These are amazing," he murmured, pulling out a book titled Le guide du monde magique.
Ted smiled, watching Harry's excitement. "The French magical community has a long and rich history. You'll find that their approach to magic differs from what we're used to in Britain."
As Harry flipped through the book's pages, he noticed something odd. Some of the terms for non-magical people differed from those he used to. Instead of "Muggle," the French wizards used the term Non-Maj, which seemed less derogatory.
"What does Non-Maj mean?" Harry asked, frowning slightly.
Ted raised an eyebrow. "Ah, that's the term they use in America for non-magical people. It's a more neutral term than 'Muggle.'"
Harry's brow furrowed. "Why do we call them 'Muggles' in Britain? It sounds... I don't know... a bit dismissive."
Ted's expression grew thoughtful. "It's an old term, Harry. Some say it was used to distinguish magical folk from non-magical ones, but it does carry a certain... superiority. The French, and even the Americans, prefer 'Non-Magique' or 'No-Maj.' It's seen as more neutral."
Harry chewed on that thought for a moment. The more he explored the magical world, the more he began questioning why things were the way they were. Why were people like Ted called "Muggle-borns" instead of just wizards? Why was magic divided into categories like "light" and "dark," when all magic was, at its core, just magic?
These questions weighed heavily on Harry's mind as they wandered the streets of Paris. The more he saw, the more he realized how limited his understanding of magic had been. In France, wizards didn't seem as bound by the same strict rules that governed British magic. The shops sold potions and artefacts that would have been deemed "dark" in Britain, but here, they were simply tools—neither good nor evil on their own.
Later that day, as they visited a small potion shop near the Seine, Harry was captivated by the variety of available ingredients. Some were familiar—like dragon's blood and phoenix feathers—but others were completely foreign. Some potions promised to enhance magical abilities, heal wounds that a wand couldn't mend, and even calm wild magic surges.
As they left the shop, Harry turned to Ted, his mind buzzing with questions. "Why do people in Britain separate magic into 'light' and 'dark'? It doesn't seem that way here."
Ted smiled, his eyes flashing with pride at Harry's curiosity. "That's a very good question, Harry. In Britain, there's a long history of fear surrounding certain types of magic. People believe some magic is inherently evil, but that's not always true. In France, they see magic as impartial—it's the intent behind it that matters, not magic itself."
Harry nodded slowly, absorbing Ted's words.
As they continued their journey through France, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that there was so much more to magic than what he had been taught. The world was vast, filled with different cultures, ideas, and ways of understanding magic. And for the first time, Harry realized that the magical world wasn't as black and white as he had once believed.
It was complex, just like the magic inside him.
The trip to France had been more than just a break from the familiarity of Britain; it had opened Harry's eyes to the diversity of magic and the world beyond the tiny bubble he had grown up in. His questions grew sharper, his curiosity more intense. Magic wasn't just something to be mastered—it was something to be understood, questioned, and sometimes even challenged.
One afternoon, as Harry and Ted wandered through a narrow street lined with magical shops, Harry's gaze landed on a small bookshop tucked between two towering buildings. The sign above the door read Les Livres du Monde. Harry could see rows of bookshelves packed tightly together through the dusty window, ancient tomes leaning precariously against one another.
"I want to go in there," Harry said, his voice filled with quiet determination.
Ted nodded, following Harry inside. The shop was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and leather. As they stepped inside, a bell above the door tinkled, and a tall, thin man appeared from behind the counter, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity.
"Bienvenue," the man said in a low voice. "How may I assist you today?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. He had come here on impulse, drawn by curiosity. But now, standing amid so much magical knowledge, he felt a little lost.
Ted, sensing Harry's uncertainty, stepped forward with a warm smile. "We're just browsing. My nephew here has developed quite an interest in magical theory."
The man nodded, his gaze lingering on Harry momentarily before disappearing into the back of the shop, leaving them to explore. Harry wandered through the narrow aisles, his fingers trailing over the spines of books on everything from ancient magical history to alchemical practices. But one section, in particular, caught his eye—Les Magies Étrangères, a collection of books on foreign magical practices.
One book stood out among the others, its cover a deep shade of blue with silver lettering. Harry pulled it from the shelf, intrigued by the title: Les Fondements de la Magie Sans Baguette—The Foundations of Wandless Magic.
His heart skipped a beat. He had been practising wandless magic with Dumbledore's guidance, but this book seemed to offer something more—a deeper understanding of the power that came from magic without a wand's constraints.
Ted noticed Harry's interest and smiled. "That's a good one," he said, his voice low. "The French have a rich tradition of wandless magic, especially in the countryside. It's a more fluid form of magic, more about instinct than incantations."
Harry nodded, already flipping through the pages. The text was dense, filled with diagrams and detailed descriptions of how to channel magic through the body and focus it without a wand. It was far more advanced than anything he had learned so far, but he felt a strange connection to it, as though this was the kind of magic he had been waiting for.
Just as Harry became fully engrossed, Ted touched his shoulder, his tone shifting slightly. "Harry, I need to run a quick errand. It won't take long—just a few minutes."
Harry looked up, a bit startled out of his focus. "Okay."
Ted's expression grew more serious. "I know you're curious, but I need you to stay here until I return, alright? Don't leave the shop, not even for a moment."
Harry blinked, sensing the importance in Ted's voice. "Yeah, I'll stay here."
Ted smiled, relieved. "Good lad. I'll be back soon."
As Ted left, Harry lost himself once again in the book's pages. Time slipped away, and the quiet atmosphere of the shop allowed him to dive deeper into the book's complex theories. It felt like this was the kind of magic he had been waiting for, which resonated with him on a deeper level.
Suddenly, the sound of a polite cough broke his concentration. He looked up to see the tall, thin shopkeeper standing nearby, his expression kind but firm.
"Pardon, Monsieur," the shopkeeper said softly, a slight French accent colouring his words. "But we do not encourage... too much reading without buying. If you want to continue, perhaps you might consider purchasing the book, oui?"
Harry blinked, embarrassed as he realized how long he had been standing there. "Oh! I'm so sorry," he said quickly, snapping the book shut. "I'll buy it."
The shopkeeper's stern look softened into a smile. "No harm done, young Monsieur. It is an excellent choice."
Harry handed over the money, excited as the shopkeeper carefully wrapped the book in parchment. He clutched it tightly and turned to leave the shop, his mind still buzzing with the new magical knowledge he had glimpsed.
As he stepped out into the bustling street, a thrill of excitement surged through him. He had his book, a window into a world of magic he never imagined. Without thinking, he began strolling, the magical marketplace of Paris, Le Marché Magique, beckoning him deeper into its vibrant heart.
Harry forgot Ted's warning.
The further he wandered, the more he marveled at the strange and wonderful things the market offered. Street performers conjured animals out of thin air, while potion stalls emitted colorful wisps of smoke. The noise and energy around him was intoxicating.
After what felt like only a few minutes, a cold realization hit him—he had no idea where he was. Panic started to bubble up in his chest. He spun around, scanning the crowds, but there was no sign of Ted or Andromeda.
His heart hammered in his chest. What was he thinking? Ted had explicitly told him not to leave the shop, and now he was completely lost. He glanced around frantically, feeling smaller with each passing moment.
"Looking for someone?"