Two days later, Harry woke up feeling refreshed and energized.
Stage one was complete.
He had “liberated” enough Muggle money from people lacking basic common sense to fund the next phase of his plan.
Now it was time to acquire thestral hair—and the journey would be long.
The only thestral herd in the British Isles belonged to Hagrid at Hogwarts.
Harry refused to go anywhere near that place; the wards might alert Dumbledore to his presence.
He would have to look farther afield.
In Voldemort’s memories, there was only one other major herd: the wild thestrals tended by the Mongolian shamans.
Over the following days, Harry apparated across Europe, through the vast expanse of Russia, and deep into the Mongolian heartland.
He arrived near Ulaanbaatar around midday on the third day, magically exhausted and still wearing his shirt tied around his head like a bandit’s mask.
He wolfed down the last of his packed food and collapsed onto the soft grassland.
Endless green steppe stretched in every direction, broken only by distant mountains.
There was almost no cover, but the land was so immense and sparsely populated that the chance of being noticed by anyone who mattered was practically nonexistent.
After several hours of much-needed sleep, he pressed on.
A few more hours of apparation brought him southwest to his destination: the Ongiin Khiid Monastery complex, the heart of Mongolia’s magical community.
When the communists seized power in the 1920s, they had razed most Buddhist temples across the country.
To Muggle eyes, the site remained little more than picturesque ruins.
The magical population, however, had survived behind powerful wards.
Over the decades they had quietly reclaimed and rebuilt the complex, layering it with Muggle-repelling and illusion charms.
To any passing Muggle, it looked like just another set of ancient temple remnants.
Harry walked through the gates and took in the striking Tibetan architecture: rows of white-walled buildings with elegant, curved roofs.
While Diagon Alley felt like a walk through layered history, Ongiin Khiid had a more uniform, harmonious beauty—like a carefully designed street frozen in time.
Except for one building.
Harry strolled down the main path until he stood before a structure that looked like a Roman temple caught mid-melt.
Gringotts.
Knowing goblins despised disguises, Harry unwound the shirt from his head, pulled it back on properly, and walked confidently past the guards and into the bank.
≤○≥
Ten minutes later, Harry stepped out of Gringotts with five galleons in his pouch—the result of exchanging two hundred and fifty pounds earned through relentless summoning practice on the London Underground. You are reading on novelping(.)com, the official source.
The goblin teller had raised an eyebrow at the sight of a lone Western child with a clear English accent, but asked no questions.
Merlin, I love goblins.
Harry continued down the street until he spotted exactly what he was looking for: a small shop with a live thestral tied up outside, noisily devouring a bucket of unidentifiable meat.
Inside, the shop was a thestral lover’s paradise.
Cured meat hung from the rafters, bones decorated the walls, bottles of thestral glue sat beside bars of thestral soap, and rows of glossy shell cordovan boots lined the floor.
Pride of place, however, belonged to a wooden mannequin displaying a magnificent black, full-length duster coat made of thestral leather, complete with a flowing robe-style hood.
It was stunning—exactly the kind of garment worthy of Death’s champion.
Harry sauntered over and casually checked the price tag.
Two hundred galleons (£10,000).
Ouch.
“Би эрхэм тусалж чадах уу?” a voice asked from behind him.
Harry turned to see an elderly Mongolian man standing in the doorway.
“Sorry?”
The man blinked at Harry’s clearly Western features but recovered quickly.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
“Yes. I’m looking for thestral tail hair.”
The shopkeeper smiled knowingly.
“You cannot see it?”
Harry met his gaze evenly.
“I cannot see it because it is not on display.”
“Ah, well done, Sir.” The old man looked impressed.
“I am surprised to see one so young who has already witnessed death.”
Harry simply shrugged.
If only you knew.
“How much do you need?”
The shopkeeper’s expression grew cautious.
“For a wand core…”
“Is that a problem?”
“Where will you go after this?”
“Back home to Europe.”
The man was silent for a long moment, weighing his decision.
“Very well. But you did not buy it here, understood?”
“Perfectly.”
Five minutes and two galleons later, Harry left the shop with a neatly wrapped cord of thestral hair and a small bottle of thestral glue.
“Oh, and for another two galleons,” he added, pointing at the mannequin, “I’d like to reserve that coat for a year.”
The shopkeeper grinned.
“You like it.”
“Very much. I just can’t buy it right now.”
“Consider it reserved, Mister…?”
Harry fumbled for a name.
“Death.” Damn it.
The old man raised a single eyebrow but said nothing more than, “Very well, Mister Death. I look forward to seeing you again… for the coat, of course.”
Harry stepped outside, inwardly cursing his stupid choice of alias, and decided to find a room to rest his magic before the exhausting journey back to Britain.
≤○≥
Three whole weeks after returning to the past, the moment had finally arrived.
Harry reverently opened the wooden box the old Muggle carpenter had crafted to house the wand.
His eyes shone with satisfaction as he gazed upon a true work of art.
The handle was elegantly ornate, adorned with subtle personal motifs of his own design.
It curved gracefully into the wand’s shaft, which spiraled all the way to the tip like a wrought-iron fence twisted by dark elegance.
Among the intricate details, Harry spotted a tiny lightning bolt striking down a serpent and another blasting a goat.
The grip featured an interlocking lightning-bolt texture, while the perfectly round pommel used the yew’s natural swirling grain to evoke a smoky orb.
It was perfect.