The soft voice startled Harry, and he turned to see a striking girl a few years older than him. Her silvery-blonde hair shimmered under the sun, and her blue eyes were warm and curious.
"I—uh—yes," Harry stammered, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "I got separated from my family."
She smiled gently. "Ah, do not worry. Zis place can be a maze if you are not familiar wiz it. Where did you last see zem?"
Harry racked his brain, trying to remember. "I think they were near the cafés, by the square."
"Come, zen," she said, her voice reassuring as she began to lead the way. "You should not be wandering alone, surtout today. It is far too crowded."
Harry followed her, still feeling the weight of embarrassment. He knew he shouldn't have left the shop, but the excitement of the market had swept him up. He couldn't help but steal glances at the girl as they walked. She moved with a natural grace, her confidence making her seem older than she was.
"You are English, oui?" she asked, glancing at him wiz a smile.
"Yes," Harry replied, still feeling a bit flustered. "I'm here on holiday with my family."
"Ah, I thought so," she said, nodding knowingly. "You look a little lost, like ze first-years at Beauxbatons when zey arrive. Always so nervous, so small—très mignon." She chuckled softly.
Harry blinked. "Beauxbatons? You go there?"
"Oui. Best school in all of Europe." She tossed her hair lightly as if it were a fact rather than a boast. "Well, maybe Durmstrang would argue, but zey are too serious, always brooding. At Beauxbatons, we have style."
Harry didn't know what to say to that. His only knowledge of wizarding schools beyond Hogwarts came from vague book mentions. "Is it different from Hogwarts?"
She tilted her head, considering. "Oh, très différent. We do not live in cold stone castles wiz damp dungeons. Beauxbatons is elegant, refined—like a proper palace. We dance, we study, we master ze magical arts wiz grace." She smiled playfully. "And, of course, we do not run around getting lost in markets."
Harry's face burned again, but he couldn't help but grin.
As they turned a corner, Harry spotted Andromeda and Ted up ahead. Ted looked frantic, his face pale as he searched the crowd. The moment Ted's eyes landed on Harry, relief and frustration washed over his face.
The girl smiled again as they approached the Tonks family. "Et voilà. Safe and sound."
"Thank you," Harry said earnestly, his cheeks flushing slightly as he met her gaze.
Before he could ask for her name, she gave him a small, mysterious smile and began to walk away.
"Attendez-Wait!" Harry called after her. "Quel est ton nom?-What's your name?"
She paused, glancing over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Peut-être when we will meet again, petit garçon," she said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd.
Harry stood there, watching her go, feeling both awed and bewildered. There was something about the girl that he couldn't quite explain, something that left a lasting impression on him.
"Thanks," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He was grateful, but the reality of his actions was starting to hit him.
Ted rushed toward Harry, his face a storm of emotions. "Harry!" he exclaimed, his voice tight with panic. "Where have you been? I told you to stay in the shop!"
"I'm sorry," Harry stammered, his guilt weighing heavily on him. "I didn't mean to leave. I just got—"
"You got carried away," Ted finished, his voice stern but his expression softening as he put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You gave us a scare."
"I'm sorry, Ted," Harry said, his eyes downcast.
Andromeda appeared by Ted's side, her arms crossed, but her expression was more concerned than angry. "We've been looking everywhere for you, Harry. You should know better than to wander off."
Harry nodded, feeling the full weight of their worry. "I won't do it again, I promise."
Ted sighed, his hand ruffling Harry's hair as the tension eased. "Just stay close next time, alright?"
Harry nodded again, clutching the book tighter. He was grateful for their concern, but a deep sense of regret had replaced the excitement he had felt earlier.
As they walked back through the marketplace, Harry glanced back once, hoping to catch another glimpse of the girl who had helped him. But she was gone, swallowed by the crowd as if she had never been there.
On the last few days of their trip, Harry started to reflect on his experiences. The French magical community, so different from what he knew in Britain, captivated him. Unlike the secretive nature of British wizards, the French had a subtler integration with the non-magical world. Harry marvelled at the openness, from the magical shops hidden in plain sight to the majestic obelisk that housed the French Ministry of Magic in the heart of Paris.
During their holiday, Harry made it a point to explore as much of the French magical world as possible. Unlike Britain's concealed hub, the Ministry was open to visitors, and Harry was fascinated by the free-flowing interaction between the French magical community and the No-Maj world. It seemed less divided, and more harmonious, something he hadn't experienced back home.
In the evening before going home, they dined at a magical café, Ted explained the differences in magical laws between France and Britain. "The French are much more open about magic," he said, his tone thoughtful. "They don't isolate themselves as much from No-Majs. There's a level of trust between the No-Maj government and the French Ministry of Magic that lets them coexist more openly than we do."
Harry listened, absorbing every word. He had always wondered why the magical world in Britain seemed so isolated from Muggles. Now, he saw that it didn't have to be that way. Different countries had different approaches to magic, and the idea that magical practices could vary so much intrigued him. The world of magic wasn't a monolith—it was vast and diverse, waiting to be explored.
As the holiday drew to a close, Harry felt a strange excitement bubbling inside him. His experiences in France—the French Ministry, the vibrant magical streets, and especially the mysterious girl he had met—had opened his eyes to just how vast the magical world truly was. Hogwarts, he realized, was only the beginning.
On the final evening in Paris, Harry sat by the window of their hotel, gazing out at the city's twinkling lights. His thoughts wandered back to the marketplace, the French Ministry, and the girl who had left such a deep impression on him. Her confidence, grace, and how she spoke about Beauxbatons—everything about her lingered in his mind. She embodied something more—a world of magic beyond Hogwarts and the British magical system.
A deep yearning stirred within him. There was so much more to discover, and for the first time, Harry felt an overwhelming desire to explore it all. The world of magic was far bigger than he had ever imagined.
With a quiet sigh, he turned away from the window, his heart heavy yet excited. Tomorrow, they would return to Britain. But now, Harry knew one thing for sure—his journey into the magical world was beginning.
Later that week, during one of his lessons with Dumbledore, Harry discussed what he had learned from Les Fondements de la Magie Sans Baguette—The Foundations of Wandless Magic. The book had opened his eyes to new possibilities, and his curiosity grew by the day.
"I've been reading about wandless magic," Harry said as they sat together in the quiet of the Tonks' house. "It feels different—more direct. I can't seem to direct my magic the way I do with a wand; it just happens when it wants to."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with understanding. "That is perfectly natural, Harry. Wandless magic is deeply tied to a wizard's magical core rather than relying on a wand for focus. It requires a level of self-awareness and mastery that many find difficult to achieve. In Britain, we have come to depend on wands. Still, worldwide—particularly in France, Africa, and South America—wandless magic is a common practice, seen as an intrinsic extension of oneself."
Harry frowned. "If it's so important, why don't more British wizards practice it?"
Dumbledore smiled, stroking his beard. "Wands act as a conduit, making magic easier to control and shape. Over time, wizards became accustomed to that ease and efficiency. Wandless magic, while more natural in some ways, is also far more difficult to refine. It demands greater discipline and a deeper understanding of one's magical core."
Harry tilted his head. "So, using a wand makes magic easier, but not necessarily better?"
"Precisely," Dumbledore said. "A wand is like a crutch—it helps us walk, but if we never learn to walk on our own, we may never realize our full potential."
Harry furrowed his brow. "You mentioned a magical core before. What exactly is that?"
Dumbledore's expression brightened. "Ah, yes. The mana core is an essential part of magical theory. Every magical being has a core—a wellspring of power within them. Though invisible and intangible, it is the source of all magical ability. As one grows and hones one's skills, the core strengthens. Some creatures have them but cannot consciously tap into them. Wizards, however, learn to channel their core's energy through spells, rituals, and enchantments."
Harry considered this. "Is that why some people can use magic and others can't? What about people like Ted, who are born to non-magical parents?"
Dumbledore's expression softened. "A wise question, Harry. Everyone has a core, but not all can access it. His core was naturally awakened for people like Ted, even though his parents' magic lay dormant. Some wizards believe in the purity of bloodlines, but in truth, magic is not bound by lineage—it exists in all living things, though not all can wield it."
Harry scowled. "Then why do people look down on Muggle-borns? It doesn't seem fair."
Dumbledore sighed, a glimmer of sadness behind his twinkle. "Fear, Harry. Fear of the unknown, fear of losing power. Labels like Muggle-born create unnecessary divisions. Magic does not discriminate, but people do. The world is flawed, but those who question its injustices—people like you—are the ones who can change it."
Harry clenched his fists, a surge of determination filling him. "Then maybe it's time someone did."
Dumbledore smiled. "Indeed, my boy. Indeed."
As the summer stretched, Harry's lessons with Dumbledore evolved beyond mere spellcasting, opening up into deeper conversations about magic. Dumbledore often reflected on his time as a young Hogwarts graduate, travelling to France to study under one of history's most brilliant and long-lived alchemists—Nicolas Flamel.
"One evening, not long after my graduation," Dumbledore began one night as they sat in the garden's quiet, "I had the extraordinary privilege of beginning my apprenticeship with Nicolas Flamel. He was a master of many forms of magic, not just alchemy. He took me to France, where I learned to see magic in a new light."
Harry leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "What was it like? Learning from someone like him?"
Dumbledore smiled wistfully, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "It was both humbling and exhilarating. Nicolas showed me that magic was far more than just casting spells. It was an art, a philosophy—a way of shaping reality. In France, magic was viewed less as a rigid science and more as an expression of the soul. As we have in Britain, there were no strict divisions between 'light' and 'dark'. Magic's potential goes far beyond good or evil; it's all about intention and understanding."
Harry's interest deepened as he listened. "So, it wasn't about avoiding dark magic?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Indeed, Nicolas taught me that magic was not something to be feared but explored with wonder. It wasn't about categories of 'light' or 'dark,' but how we choose to use it. He believed magic was a tool to shape the world—not just to bend it to our will, but to understand it. He showed me how to look beyond the spells and the wands and into the essence of magic. Those lessons, Harry, have stayed with me all my life."
Harry's thoughts wandered to what he had seen in the bookshops in France, filled with strange runes and magical texts from places far beyond Britain. "Then why do we divide magic into light and dark in Britain?"
Dumbledore paused, gazing at the sky. "That sadly is a construct of fear, Harry. In Britain, there has been a history of malicious wizards coming to power and then welding that power to force their ideology on the populous. In truth, Harry, magic is neither good nor evil. It is only the intent behind the spell that matters. In other cultures, magic is viewed more holistically. For instance, in places like Africa and South America, magic is often seen as a connection to the earth, the stars, and the world's spirits. They use runes, places of power, and rituals to access the same magic that we do with wands. The divisions we create here are our way of trying to make sense of something vast and complex."
Harry pondered this, imagining how differently magic was viewed in other parts of the world. "It sounds like Mr. Flamel helped you see magic in a whole new way, so you do not have to be constrained by popular opinion."
Dumbledore nodded with a shine of pride in his eyes. "Yes, our time together expanded my horizons. Magic was no longer just a means to an end, but a way to shape reality. He taught me that the core of a wizard—our mana if you will—is like a great puzzle. It is sometimes calming, sometimes frustrating, but always ready to be solved. Our task as wizards is not to simply wield it, but to understand how it moves, how it connects with the world around us."
Harry sat back, letting the thought settle in. The idea that magic was more than just spells or wand movements, that it was something deeper, was starting to resonate with him. And, as he looked up at the stars, he felt that there was much more to learn—more than he had ever imagined.
Harry felt the familiar buzz of curiosity stirring inside him. There was so much more to learn—about magic, about himself, and about the world beyond what he had known. As he looked up at the stars, he felt that pull, that unquenchable desire to understand more. His mana core, as Dumbledore described it, was just beginning to stir, and he knew that his journey had only just begun.