“Yep, some of my best work, that,” the veteran craftsman said, clearly pleased by Harry’s reaction.
“Still say it was a mighty strange request. Never seen glue like that in my life—can’t even spot the join between the pieces. And that cord you gave me… my mate swore he couldn’t see it at all! But you knew exactly what you wanted and were willing to pay, so who was I to argue, eh, young man?”
“Yes…” Harry murmured, only half listening, lost in his own thoughts.
“It is rather special.”
The moment his fingers brushed the handle, a powerful connection surged through him.
Warmth flooded his body, building into a rushing crescendo of magic that pulsed down his arm.
Emerald-green sparks erupted from the wand, dancing brightly across the workshop counter.
“Bloody hell!” the craftsman exclaimed.
“What the devil was that?”
“Magic,” Harry replied simply.
The man stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Well, I’ll be damned. My wife’s always on about horoscopes and psychics… Guess there really is something to it after all.”
“You’ve done an outstanding job,” Harry said sincerely.
“This has to be the only Muggle-made wand in the country—perhaps in the world. It feels far better than any I’ve ever held.”
“Err… thank you, I think?”
Harry ran his thumb lightly over the tip, then casually pointed the wand at the craftsman.
“Obliviate.”
≤○≥
Harry stepped out of the woodwork shop and spent the next twenty minutes carefully raising a subtle detection ward around the building.
It wouldn’t last long in such a low-magic area, but it would serve its purpose.
He felt he owed the craftsman at least that much for such exceptional work.
Besides, he might need the man’s skills again one day—and the ward would give him early warning if anyone ever tried to trace the wand’s origins.
A satisfied smile spread across his face as he twirled the new wand between his fingers.
His old holly and phoenix feather wand had never felt this natural, this perfectly in tune.
He had expected nothing more than a temporary stopgap, but this… this was something else entirely.
So much for the old saying ‘the wand chooses the wizard.’ Turns out the wizard simply needs to know himself—really know himself.
With a proper wand now in hand, Harry could finally turn his attention to his next major weakness: his completely empty and nonexistent vaults.
“Hello, my dear. Are you all alone? Where are your parents?”
“Confundo.”
≤○≥
“Where the hell did you come from?!”
“Obliviate.”
≤○≥
“Sorry kid, that information is restricted.”
“Legilimens.”
≤○≥
Harry lounged luxuriously on a pool chair, savoring the cool shade of a large umbrella while sipping chilled orange juice.
The crystal-blue waters of the Mediterranean shimmered just steps away from his rented apartment, both the sea and the nearby pool beckoning invitingly.
Damn, he thought, life is so much easier with a wand.
He turned his attention back to the notepad resting on his lap, reviewing his plans once more, searching for any overlooked weaknesses or potential disasters.
It was now mid-September.
Six weeks had passed since his return to the past.
For the last month he had continued his opportunistic thieving, and at first it had gone brilliantly.
He now possessed a respectable four thousand pounds.
But the returns were becoming too small relative to the growing risk of violating the International Statute of Secrecy or Muggle-baiting laws.
He needed something bigger.
The core challenge was using magic to his advantage without drawing attention or breaking the Statute.
His one brief attempt at robbing a mundane high-street bank had nearly ended in catastrophe when he realized—almost too late—that it was protected by goblin wizard-detection wards, anti-apparition fields, and even a miniature, invisible-to-Muggles Thief’s Downfall.
Stealing high-value items like art or jewelry crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea.
They were far too difficult to fence compared to other, more practical goods.
Harry took another sip of juice and flipped through the stack of academic papers he had “acquired” from various British universities.
Titles like The Organisation of High-Level Drug Markets and Drug Markets and Law Enforcement stared back at him.
Magic could be spectacular—McGonagall loved showing it off to Muggle-born families by turning household objects into animals or becoming a cat herself.
Impressive, yes.
Economically useful on a large scale?
Not really.
Fraud and con artistry were options, but they carried the same risk of drawing the Improper Use of Magic Office.
No, magic didn’t need to be flashy to be incredibly profitable.
The ability to move small cargoes across borders quickly, invisibly, and with minimal risk… that was valuable.
And Harry was one of the few wizards with both the raw power and skill to slip through the relatively weak wards most governments placed along their borders.
If caught, wizarding authorities would search for magical contraband.
Muggle drugs wouldn’t even register on their radar.
After all, wizards brewed potions far superior to any street drug, with far fewer side effects.
They even taught thirteen-year-olds the Cheering Charm—a textbook upper.
It was a wonder the entire wizarding world didn’t walk around permanently dosed.
Still, getting caught would put him back on the magical world’s radar.
Illegal apparition, underage magic, unlicensed wand… the charges would stack quickly.
He could probably escape most of them by revealing his status as an emancipated Lord, but he wanted to re-enter wizarding society on his terms.
He wasn’t overly worried.
He had already crossed the border three times successfully.
If this plan worked, he would only need to make a few more trips.