"Looks like he's actually dead."
George waited five agonizing minutes. When Merton didn't twitch, he finally crept into the room. He checked the pulse. Nothing. The old dark wizard was gone.
A wave of relief washed over him. He knew he stood no chance in a fair fight. A seventy-year-old dark wizard would have Shield Charms, Curses, and contingencies that could flatten a novice. But Merton had been arrogant, and arrogance was fatal.
George didn't waste time celebrating. He needed to sell the accident.
Panic. He needed panic.
He scrambled out of the shop, deliberately stumbling, his face a mask of terror. He bypassed the shady denizens of Knockturn Alley—shouting for help there might attract vultures who would loot the shop before the authorities arrived. Instead, he sprinted straight for the sunlight of Diagon Alley.
"Help! Someone help! Mr. Merton! The cauldron—it exploded!"
He screamed until his throat was raw, putting on the performance of a lifetime. It worked.
Within moments, two uniformed figures pushed through the crowd of shoppers. Aurors.
"Show us. Now."
Diagon Alley was high-security, especially during the back-to-school rush. The Ministry couldn't afford a scandal in the shopping district.
Inside the ruined potion shop, a young witch with bubblegum-pink hair and a heart-shaped face was running a diagnostic spell over the corpse.
"Head Auror Scrimgeour," she reported briskly to the stern, lion-maned wizard beside her. "Analysis complete. No secondary magical signatures. No signs of struggle. No theft. Evidence points to a catastrophic brewing failure. It's an accidental death."
Rufus Scrimgeour nodded, his yellow eyes scanning the room with predatory precision. "Good work, Tonks. Moody has taught you well. Keep this up, and you'll make full Auror in two years."
"Thank you, sir," Tonks beamed, a hint of pride breaking through her professional demeanor. "Training with Mad-Eye is... intense, but worth it."
George, huddled in the corner wrapped in a shock blanket, felt a spark of recognition.
Rufus Scrimgeour. The future wartime Minister of Magic.
And Nymphadora Tonks. The Metamorphmagus.
He knew them. Scrimgeour was a hardliner—a man who would eventually die refusing to give up Harry Potter to Voldemort. Tonks was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, destined to marry Remus Lupin.
This was good. Scrimgeour might be ruthless, but he was lawful. And Tonks was genuinely good-hearted. If a corrupt official had taken the case, George might have found his inheritance "misplaced" into the Ministry's coffers. With these two, the law would be followed.
"Poor kid," Tonks murmured, glancing at George. "Orphaned twice."
Scrimgeour snorted, his gaze lingering on the scars visible on George's arms—marks left by Merton's years of abuse. "I wouldn't call it a tragedy, Tonks. Look closer. The boy is free now. And richer."
He walked over to George, his limp noticeable but dignified.
"Boy. Dorian, is it?" Scrimgeour asked, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Merton has no next of kin. Under magical law, as his ward, you inherit the shop and his Gringotts vault."
He paused, leaning on his cane.
"However, you cannot stay here alone. You are underage and untrained. You will attend Hogwarts. It is non-negotiable."
George nodded meekly. It was exactly what he wanted. He didn't try to fake tears for Merton; Scrimgeour was too sharp for that. A silent, shell-shocked nod was more convincing.
"Sir," George said, his voice small. "There is one thing."
"Speak."
"I... I don't want to be Dorian anymore. Can I change my name?"
"To forget?" Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow, understanding the subtext immediately. A new life required a new name. "It can be arranged. Tonks will handle the paperwork tomorrow at Gringotts. What name do you want?"
"George," he said firmly. "Just George."
"Done," Scrimgeour said.
Tonks stepped forward and ruffled his hair, her hair shifting slightly to a sympathetic violet hue. "Don't worry, George. We'll get you sorted. New vault key, new name, new school. You're going to be okay."
"Thank you, Auror Tonks," George said politely.
He meant it. Having an Auror contact was invaluable. Knockturn Alley was a shark tank. A child with a bag of gold was prey. But a child with a bag of gold and the backing of the Auror Office? That was a predator in the making.
"Polite lad," Tonks noted with a smile. "Makes a nice change from the usual riff-raff we deal with."
George lowered his head, hiding the calculation in his eyes.
Step one complete. The assets are mine.