By the time Harry turned six, his world had grown larger and more complex than he could have imagined. His boundless curiosity, particularly when it came to magic, had only sharpened with age. Though still young, Harry's hunger to understand the world around him—especially the magical one—had become the driving force in his life. Ted and Andromeda Tonks encouraged his curiosity, though carefully, knowing the extraordinary power that lay within the boy.

But there were limits—one of which sat snugly on Harry's wrist in the form of a small, silver band. A band he had started to notice more and more as his own awareness of magic grew.

Dora, at eleven years old, was on the cusp of attending Hogwarts and was already receiving lessons from a tutor her parents had hired to prepare her for the magical challenges ahead. She relished the chance to practice spells at home, often sneaking Harry into her lessons or showing him new tricks she had learned. Although her Metamorphmagus abilities fascinated Harry, it was the way Dora interacted with magic that truly captured his attention.

One quiet afternoon, Dora sat at the kitchen table, her tutor—a stern-looking woman with spectacles perched on the end of her nose—droning on about the fundamentals of Transfiguration. Harry sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, his green eyes watching everything intently as the tutor explained the complexities of transforming inanimate objects. Dora, ever the fidgety student, twirled her wand in her hand while occasionally throwing glances at Harry, who was getting visibly restless.

The tutor sighed, pushing her glasses up. "Nymphadora, you must focus. If you continue to twirl your wand like that, you'll find yourself turning your quills into something far more dangerous."

Dora snorted, though she stopped twirling her wand. Harry smirked. He liked how Dora didn't take things too seriously, even if the tutor did.

After what felt like an eternity, the tutor dismissed Dora for the day, reminding her that Hogwarts would expect more discipline. Dora rolled her eyes as the woman Disapparated with a soft pop, leaving behind the faintest shimmer of magic in the air. As soon as she was gone, Dora slouched in her chair, spinning her wand in defiance once again.

"Blimey, how am I supposed to learn if she keeps droning on like that?" Dora muttered, catching Harry's curious gaze.

"You could just practice," Harry suggested, his small voice cutting through the room.

Dora grinned. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

Harry shuffled over, sitting next to her, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the silver band around his wrist. He glanced at it, frowning. "Why do I have to wear this?"

Dora, noticing his fixation, shrugged. "It helps you, doesn't it? I think it's supposed to, you know, keep your magic from getting out of control."

Harry's brow furrowed, his fingers tugging at the band. "But I don't want it to! I want to use my magic, like you."

Dora leaned down, her face softening. "Harry, you're doing magic—just... in smaller ways. You've done it before, even without a wand." She waggled hers playfully. "Most kids our age can't even manage that."

"I want to do more, though," Harry insisted, his tone edging toward petulance. "I can feel it inside me, Dora. But the band... it stops it."

For a moment, Dora said nothing, her gaze flicking to the band around Harry's wrist. She remembered when Dumbledore had given it to him, explaining how it would protect Harry from the overwhelming force of his own magic. But at six years old, Harry didn't see it that way. To him, it was a restraint.

"Maybe you should ask Mum," Dora suggested, glancing toward the kitchen where Andromeda was tidying up. "She'll explain it better than I can."

Harry hesitated, but curiosity and frustration won out. He climbed to his feet, marching over to Andromeda with determination.

"Mum," he said, his voice more demanding than usual. "Why do I have to wear this?" He held up his wrist, the silver band glinting in the afternoon light. "It stops my magic."

Andromeda, who had sensed this question coming for some time, set down the dish she was washing and wiped her hands on a towel. Her expression was calm but serious as she knelt to meet Harry's eye level.

"I know it feels unfair, Harry," she began gently, her hands resting on his shoulders. "But the band doesn't stop your magic—it just helps you control it."

"But I don't need it," Harry insisted, his lips pressing into a stubborn line. "I can do it by myself."

"I know you can," Andromeda said with a small smile. "But your magic is very powerful, Harry—more powerful than most wizards your age. The band is there to make sure that power doesn't get too big too quickly."

Harry frowned, glancing down at the band. "But why can't I just learn like everyone else? Like Dora?"

Andromeda's gaze softened. "You will, Harry. But you're a little different. Your magic is... special. It's strong, and sometimes it can be hard to control, especially when you're upset or frustrated. This band just helps make sure you stay safe."

Harry's face scrunched up in thought. "Safe from what?"

Andromeda hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "From yourself, sometimes. Magic can be tricky. Without control, it can do things we don't want it to do. The band doesn't stop you from doing magic—it just makes sure it happens when you're ready for it."

Harry studied her face, trying to make sense of the explanation. He still didn't like it, but he trusted Andromeda. Finally, after a long pause, he sighed. "Okay. But I'm going to be really good at magic one day."

Andromeda smiled, brushing a lock of his messy hair away from his face. "Of that, I have no doubt."

in the passing months, Harry grew more accustomed to the band, though his frustration with its limitations still lingered. Whenever he watched Dora practice magic with her tutor, the itch to perform magic himself gnawed at him. It didn't seem fair—Dora could already make objects float with a flick of her wand, while Harry struggled to control even the simplest bursts of magic without the band tightening its hold.

One particularly chilly afternoon, as the leaves turned from green to orange, Harry sat in the back garden, watching Dora's tutor demonstrate basic charms. The tutor, a strict woman with hair pulled tightly into a bun, was lecturing Dora on the importance of precise incantations.

"Swish and flick," the tutor instructed, demonstrating with her wand. "Like this. Now, you try."

Dora mimicked the motion, and the feather in front of her floated gracefully into the air. She beamed with pride, though Harry sat nearby, sulking.

"What's the matter, Harry?" Dora asked, noticing his sour expression.

Harry huffed. "I want to do it."

"You will, one day," Dora said encouragingly, twirling her wand. "Once you're old enough for Hogwarts, you'll be casting spells left and right."

"I can do it now," Harry muttered under his breath, his fingers tugging at the band around his wrist.

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Dora gave him a sympathetic look, but her tutor frowned.

"Nymphadora," the tutor chided, "it's important to focus. Hogwarts won't tolerate such distractions."

Dora rolled her eyes, but her tutor's sternness seemed to catch Harry's attention. He fell silent, watching the tutor closely as she walked Dora through the basics of magical theory.

Later that evening, after the tutor had left, Harry sat at the kitchen table with Ted, who was reading the evening edition of The Daily Prophet. Ted, sensing Harry's quiet frustration, glanced over the top of his newspaper.

"What's on your mind, Harry?" Ted asked, folding the paper and setting it aside.

Harry frowned, staring at the silver band. "Why can't I just take it off?"

Ted raised an eyebrow. "The band?"

Harry nodded. "I know it's supposed to help, but I want to try magic without it. I want to be like Dora."

Ted leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "You will be, one day. But for now, that band is helping you control your magic."

"But it doesn't feel like it," Harry protested. "It feels like it's holding me back."

Ted chuckled softly. "I know it seems that way. But think of it like this—right now, your magic is like a overflowing river that's overflowing. The band helps guide that river, making sure it doesn't spill over and cause a flood."

Harry blinked, trying to picture it. "So, it's not stopping my magic? Just... guiding it?"

"Exactly," Ted said, nodding. "And one day, when you're ready, you won't need the band. You'll have learned how to control the magic on your own."

Harry considered this, his frustration easing slightly. "Do you think I'll be really good at it?"

Ted smiled warmly. "I think you'll be better than anyone can imagine."

As the weeks passed, Harry continued to watch Dora's lessons with growing interest. Though he still yearned to cast spells like she did, he was beginning to understand the importance of control. The band no longer felt like a restriction, but rather a reminder that magic required patience and discipline.

Dora, ever the mischievous older sister figure, still pushed Harry's limits whenever they were alone in the garden. She would tease him about his future at Hogwarts, promising to show him all the secret passageways and tricks she had learned.

"You'll be a natural," she told him one afternoon, her hair shifting from orange to blue. "You'll probably outdo me in no time."

Harry smiled at the thought. He could picture it—wand in hand, casting spells with ease, mastering magic just as Ted and Andromeda had taught him.

But for now, he had to wait. Wait until the time came when the silver band was no longer needed, and he could truly let his magic soar.

As the days shortened and the crisp bite of autumn deepened, Harry found himself spending more time indoors, wrapped in the warmth of the Tonks household. But despite the comforting routine of life with Ted, Andromeda, and Dora, Harry's mind often wandered to places far beyond the walls of their home.

At six years old, Harry was beginning to experience emotions and thoughts that seemed out of place for someone his age. Though he couldn't explain it, there were moments when he felt far older than his years, as if there was something within him that shaped the way he saw the world. It wasn't just his keen sense of observation or his thirst for knowledge—it was something deeper, a quiet pulse that thrummed beneath the surface of his mind, always present but never fully understood.

Late one evening, long after Andromeda had put him to bed, Harry lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. The house was quiet, save for the soft creaks of the old wooden floors and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. Normally, Harry would have drifted off to sleep by now, but tonight his mind was restless. His thoughts churned with questions he couldn't answer—questions about the silver band, about his magic, and about the strange sense of unease that sometimes bubbled up inside him.

The scar on his forehead tingled faintly, a sensation he had grown used to over the years. He absentmindedly rubbed it, his small fingers tracing the lightning-bolt shape etched into his skin. It was the only part of his past that seemed connected to a life he couldn't remember—a life that, for now, existed only in fragments and whispers.

There were times when Harry felt as though the scar was more than just a mark. It had a weight to it, not physically, but in a way that lingered in the back of his mind. Sometimes, when he was deep in thought, he would catch fleeting images—flickers of things he didn't quite understand, like dreams just out of reach. A flash of green light, a shadowy figure, voices that didn't belong to anyone he knew. The moments were brief, always slipping away before he could grasp them, but they left behind a strange sense of knowing, a maturity that felt out of place in a boy so young.

Sighing, Harry rolled over in bed, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He didn't talk about these feelings with anyone, not even Ted or Andromeda. It wasn't that he didn't trust them—it was just that he didn't know how to explain it. How could he put into words the strange sensation that sometimes gripped him, the feeling that something inside him was waiting to be understood?

The next morning, Harry woke to the smell of breakfast cooking with Ted whistling softly in the kitchen. He climbed out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and padded down the hall to find Dora sitting at the table, digging into a plate of toast and eggs.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Dora teased, her hair a vivid shade of purple today. "You missed Mum's lecture about the importance of punctuality."

Harry smiled sleepily as he sat down at the table. "She gives you those all the time."

"That she does," Dora agreed with a smirk. "But one day, I'll be on time for something, and it'll blow her mind."

Andromeda, who was standing by the stove, gave Dora a pointed look, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "If that day ever comes, I'll believe we've truly witnessed a miracle."

Ted chuckled, setting a fresh plate of eggs on the table. "Not likely, but a miracle indeed."

As the conversation flowed around him, Harry picked at his food, his mind drifting once again to the silver band around his wrist. He had been thinking about it all night, turning over Andromeda's words in his mind. Control. Safety. Those were the reasons he wore it. But even though he understood why the band was necessary, a small part of him resented it.

"Harry, you alright?" Ted asked, noticing the thoughtful expression on his face.

Harry blinked, pulled from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... thinking."

"About magic, no doubt," Ted said with a knowing smile. "You've got the look of someone plotting their next spell."

Harry smiled faintly, though the weight of his thoughts hadn't lifted. He glanced at the band again, the faint shimmer of runes catching the morning light. "How long do I have to wear this?" he asked quietly, his voice more thoughtful than demanding this time.

Ted and Andromeda exchanged a brief glance. Andromeda set her cup of tea down and turned to Harry, her expression soft. "For as long as you need it, Harry. It's not a punishment—it's just a way to make sure your magic doesn't overwhelm you."

Harry looked down at his plate, thinking. He knew they meant well. Ted, Andromeda, even Dumbledore—they were all trying to protect him. But it still didn't feel fair. Why did he need so much protection? Why was his magic so different from Dora's or anyone else's?

Later that afternoon, after Dora's tutoring session had ended, Harry wandered out to the garden, seeking the solace of the open air. The sky was overcast, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees that bordered the property. Harry liked it out here, away from the lessons and lectures, where he could let his mind wander.

As he stood there, watching the clouds roll by, a thought struck him—one that had been lingering at the edges of his mind for days. What if he tried to use his magic without the band's help? Just once, to see what it felt like. He had felt his magic stirring beneath the surface before, like a river trying to break free of a dam. What if he let it flow, just for a moment?

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Harry held out his hand, focusing on a small rock that lay on the ground a few feet away. He could feel the magic bubbling up inside him, that strange, instinctive power that had always been there. Slowly, he reached out with his mind, willing the rock to rise.

At first, nothing happened. The rock remained still, unmoving in the grass. But then, as Harry focused harder, he felt the familiar tug of magic beneath his skin. The rock wobbled, then slowly lifted into the air, hovering just above the ground.

Harry's heart raced with excitement. He had done it. He had used magic—without the band's help. But even as the triumph surged through him, a strange sensation followed. It wasn't like the usual thrill of casting a spell. It was primal, heavier as if something else had stirred alongside his magic.

His scar tingled.

The rock suddenly shot into the air, much faster than Harry had intended, before falling back down with a heavy thud. Startled, Harry stumbled backwards, clutching his forehead as a faint ache pulsed from his scar.

"Harry!" a voice called from behind him.

He turned to see Andromeda standing at the back door, her expression a mix of concern and something else—something closer to fear.

"What were you doing?" she asked, striding toward him.

Harry bit his lip, glancing down at the rock. "I... I was just practising."

Andromeda knelt beside him, her eyes searching his face. "Are you alright? Your scar..."

Harry hesitated, touching his forehead where the tingle had faded. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Andromeda didn't seem convinced, but she nodded slowly. "Let's get you inside."

That evening, as Harry lay in bed, the memory of the day's events played over in his mind. The feeling he had experienced when his magic surged—the way his scar had ached—had left him unsettled. It hadn't been like the times he practiced magic with Dora or Ted. This had felt different, like a part of him he didn't fully understand had taken over, just for a moment.

And though the sensation had passed, it left behind a quiet question in his mind, one that he couldn't shake.

Why did he have this scar? Why did it feel like there was something more to it than just the mark of a curse?

As the wind whispered softly outside his window, Harry drifted into an uneasy sleep, his thoughts swirling like the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.