Subject 757, Marvel Universe.
Another day of sweat and blood in the training room. Nothing extraordinary happened, but the air was thick with tension. George's instincts were screaming: It's happening soon.
He noticed something new in the hands of the other mutant children. A comic book. Uncanny X-Men.
He still hadn't pieced together the full history of this universe. If the X-Men were famous enough to have merchandise, why was the government running a super-soldier program in secret? Why did Captain America exist alongside mutants?
These were questions for later. First, escape. Then, research.
George, Wizarding World.
Morning in Knockturn Alley.
George reached into the collection box outside Merton's Apothecary and pulled out the Daily Prophet. Underneath it lay a thick envelope made of heavy, yellowish parchment.
The address was written in emerald-green ink:
Mr. George (formerly Dorian)
Merton's Apothecary, Knockturn Alley
"Finally."
It was the re-issued Hogwarts acceptance letter.
Even though Scrimgeour and Tonks had promised it, holding the actual letter hit differently. This was the golden ticket. A real school of magic. Who could say no to that?
"Time to go shopping."
He wolfed down breakfast, grabbed the supply list, and stepped out into the alley, feeling invincible.
His good mood lasted exactly five seconds.
"Well, well. If it isn't little Dorian. Heard you got re-sorted into the land of the living. Going to buy your cauldron?"
A stooped figure emerged from the shadows across the street. Greasy hair, skin like old parchment, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
It was Borgin. The proprietor of Borgin and Burkes, the most notorious dark artifact shop in London.
"Morning, Mr. Borgin," George replied, his voice polite but his guard up. "Going to get my books. And it's George now."
Borgin was dangerous. He was the oldest shark in the tank. Voldemort himself had worked for this man back in the day. If Borgin decided to move on George's shop, the other scavengers of Knockturn Alley would follow like hyenas.
"A good lad," Borgin sneered, his eyes flicking toward George's shop. "I saw that Auror girl yesterday. Had lunch with you, did she?"
"Oh, yes," George beamed, his smile bright and weaponized. "Tonks loves my cooking. She said she's bringing her whole squad next time. Even old Scrimgeour wants to try my recipes."
Borgin's smile stiffened. "Is that so?"
"It is! I love cooking for them," George said innocently. "Maybe you should join us next time, Mr. Borgin? I'm sure the Head of the Auror Office would love to catch up with you over a meal."
"Ah... no," Borgin took a step back, his face paling slightly. "I'm quite busy. Enjoy your shopping."
He retreated into his shop like a spider scuttling back into its web.
"Try me, you old fossil," George muttered as he walked away. "One day, I'm going to own your store, too."
He left the gloom of Knockturn Alley and stepped into the bustling sunlight of Diagon Alley.
The contrast was jarring. Here, it was noisy, vibrant, and alive.
"Dragon liver! Sixteen Sickles an ounce!"
"Cauldrons! Pewter, brass, copper! Self-stirring and collapsible!"
"Nimbus 2001! The fastest broom on the market! Pre-orders now open!"
George moved through the crowd with purpose. He didn't skimp. He had thirteen thousand Galleons, and he intended to use them.
"Quality tools for quality work," he reasoned.
He bought the finest pewter cauldron, a set of crystal phials, a brass telescope, and precision scales. He got fitted for his robes—which took the longest—and finally, he bought his wand.
It was a quick affair. He tried three. The third one—Acacia and dragon heartstring, 11 inches—warmed in his hand. Sold.
"Books, check. Wand, check. Potions kit, check. What's left?"
He checked the list. A pet.
Students were allowed a cat, a toad, or an owl.
For George, there was only one choice. Toads were useless. Cats were high-maintenance. But an owl? An owl was a secure communication channel and a delivery drone. In the wizarding world, these birds were smarter than some humans. They could track recipients anywhere unless blocked by powerful charms, and they could carry heavy loads.
He pushed his cart into Eeylops Owl Emporium.
The shop was dark and filled with the rustling of feathers and the glowing eyes of hundreds of birds.
"Welcome to Eeylops," a clerk chirped, sliding out from behind a counter. "Looking for a companion, young sir? A nice Barn Owl? Or perhaps a Tawny?"
George scanned the cages. His eyes locked onto a bird in the back corner.
"That one."
The clerk followed his finger and blinked.
"That one? Are you sure?"
"Positive."
The clerk hesitated. "Sir, I should warn you. That isn't a starter owl. That is a Eurasian Eagle-Owl. It's massive. And it costs one hundred Galleons—ten times the price of a Barn Owl."
The bird was a titan. Standing nearly a meter tall, with talons the size of a man's hand and orange eyes that burned with predatory intelligence.
"It's usually researchers or... eccentric adults who buy these," the clerk stammered. "It's a bit much for a first-year."
George stared at the bird. The bird stared back, unblinking.
"I'll take him," George said, pulling out a bag of gold. "I like a bird that commands respect."