Shared abilities meant shared potential. If his avatar in the Wizarding World mastered magic, his main body in the Marvel Universe would inherit that power.
True, he didn't have a wand in the Marvel lab, but that was a solvable problem. High-level wizards could cast wandlessly. African shamanic traditions relied almost exclusively on hand gestures. A wand was just an amplifier—a tool for focus and speed. In time, he could craft his own. The Marvel Universe was teeming with exotic materials; surely something there could channel mana.
Harry Potter magic wasn't about raw destruction. It was about utility and bending reality. If he could master Apparition, he could teleport out of almost any situation in the Marvel world. Even if he couldn't beat a villain, he could always run.
"But first," George thought, his eyes narrowing in the dim light of the shop, "I have to kill the dark wizard."
In his previous life, George was a corporate drone. He'd never killed anyone. He bought his chicken from the supermarket, plucked and packaged. He was civilized.
But three months in a mutant weapon program changes a man.
He had killed twelve people in combat simulations. The lab didn't raise poets; it raised killers. It was kill or be killed. He wasn't a sadist—he had lines he wouldn't cross—but survival was non-negotiable.
He could have reported the dark wizard to the Ministry of Magic. Living in Knockturn Alley, Aurors were never far away. Dorian, the original owner of this body, had been too paralyzed by trauma to even consider it. But George saw the risks. If the Aurors were slow, the wizard might flee, or worse, retaliate.
No. A clean kill was safer.
And profitable.
If the wizard died in a "tragic accident," Dorian—his legal ward—would inherit everything. The shop, the gold, the ingredients. It was the startup capital George needed to study magic properly.
He had the element of surprise. To the wizard, Dorian was a squib-like servant, broken and terrified.
He had the skills. He knew how to kill with telekinetic precision.
And most importantly, he had no trace. No wand, no spell signature. To forensic magic, it would look like bad luck.
"You're up thirty minutes late. Do you want me to transfigure you into a rat and roast you over a candle again?"
The door to the back room creaked open. A balding old man with eyes like cold, dead marbles stared down at him. This was Merton.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Merton! I'm coming!" George stammered, perfectly mimicking Dorian's trembling fear. He scrambled to get dressed.
Merton's eyes narrowed, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, little Dorian. I may have burned your Hogwarts letter, but I'll teach you magic. Better magic. As long as you serve me well."
Yeah, magic for scrubbing floors, George thought, keeping his head bowed.
He stepped out of the cupboard. It was 6:30 AM in London.
Night in Marvel, morning in London. The time difference was convenient. He could sleep in one world while working in the other.
George fell into Dorian's routine: cooking breakfast, sweeping the dusty floorboards of the apothecary, and standing by the door to lure in customers.
Not that Knockturn Alley got "customers." It got clients. Hags, dark wizards, and shady characters looking for restricted ingredients. The Ministry turned a blind eye to the alley—it was better to keep the rats in one sewer than let them scatter. even high-society types like Lucius Malfoy came here to fence illegal artifacts.
The opportunity didn't arrive until 4:00 PM.
"I'm brewing a Draught of Delirium," Merton announced, his voice raspy. "Close the shop. Stand guard. If anyone interrupts me, I will make you wish you were dead."
He glared at George, clutching a box of rare ingredients.
"Yes, sir. I promise, absolute silence," George whispered, shaking like a leaf.
It wasn't an idle threat. Once, Dorian had let a customer knock during a brew. Merton had lost the batch and spent the entire night torturing the boy with stinging hexes.
But today, that volatility was George's weapon.
The Draught of Delirium was high-level, volatile, and expensive. It shattered the drinker's mind, driving them permanently insane. Brewing it was like defusing a bomb; one wrong move meant an explosion. High-risk, high-reward. It was why potion masters were rare and rich.
Merton retreated into his brewing shed in the back courtyard. George locked the front door, then crept silently to the shed's grime-encrusted window.
Inside, Merton was prepping his ingredients: Aliotsy leaves, Venomous Tentacula seeds, Lacewing flies, and the bile of a Runespoor. He began to stir the cauldron, chanting a low, rhythmic incantation.
Merton had never taught Dorian spells, but he had beaten Herbology and Potions theory into the boy to make him a better assistant. George knew the procedure. He knew the exact moment the potion became unstable.
The crucial phase. Merton was pouring magical energy into the mix, stirring counter-clockwise. His focus was absolute.
"Now."
George focused his will.
Inside the shed, a heavy brass candlestick on the shelf suddenly tipped over.
Clang.
It hit the cauldron's rim. The heavy iron pot shuddered and tilted.
"No!"
Merton's eyes widened in horror. Thick, sludge-like potion sloshed over the side, hitting the open flame and the raw ingredients on the table.
He raised his wand to cast a Shield Charm, but he was too slow.
BOOM!
A violent, magical detonation blew the windows out. Merton was thrown backward like a ragdoll, slamming into the stone wall before crumbling to the floor, coughing up blood.
"Tough old bird," George noted coldly.
A normal human would be dead. But wizards were resilient. Even at seventy, Merton had survived a blast that would have pulped a Muggle. The air in the shed crackled with wild magic and toxic fumes.
Merton groaned, trying to push himself up, his face bloodied.
"Finish it."
Veins bulged on George's forehead as he exerted his full power. The awakening of his magical blood had boosted his X-Gene. His limit had jumped from ten pounds to fifty.
Above the dazed wizard, a heavy iron chandelier hung by a damaged chain, swinging ominously from the blast.
George gripped it with his mind and pulled.
The chain snapped. The chandelier plummeted, its spiked metal frame driving down like a spear.
SQUELCH.
A sickening crunch echoed through the shed. The central spike of the chandelier drove directly into Merton's face, piercing his eye and punching through into the brain.
Wizards could regrow bones. They could reattach limbs. They could cure magical diseases.
But nobody cures a spike through the brain.