Chapter 2: The First Kill
The sharing of abilities meant that as long as George's clone in the wizarding world learned a spell, his original body in the Marvel world could use it too.
Even if he didn't have a wand in the Marvel world, that wasn't necessarily a problem.
In the Harry Potter universe, not every wizard needed a wand to cast spells. High-level wizards often used wandless magic. In Africa, for example, many wizarding traditions focused on casting spells with intricate hand gestures rather than relying on wands. Wands simply allowed for faster, more precise casting. They were tools—helpful, but not essential.
If necessary, he could even learn how to craft his own wand. The Marvel world had no shortage of unique materials imbued with special energy. With enough research and luck, he might find resources to build something even better than the average wand.
Magic in the Harry Potter universe might not be as destructive as some mutant powers, but it was incredibly versatile. Many spells touched upon deeper, almost fundamental laws of nature. Even learning something like Apparition would be a game-changer—just the ability to teleport at will could make him nearly impossible to catch in the Marvel world.
"But before I start learning spells," George muttered, narrowing his eyes, "I need to deal with that dark wizard."
If it were the old George—the one from his past life—he wouldn't have even considered murder. Back then, he was just a regular office worker. The idea of killing someone was unthinkable. He hadn't even killed a chicken, always opting to buy processed meat from the supermarket.
But three months in the lab had changed him.
In that time, he had been forced to kill twelve people in live combat training. The lab didn't tolerate uselessness. Every mutant they trained was meant to become a weapon. Beyond honing their abilities, the subjects were also taught how to kill efficiently.
And the quickest method? Real combat.
He had no choice. In those fights, it was kill or be killed.
That was why he had to escape from the lab—because even if he had become numb to violence, he still had a line he refused to cross. He didn't want to kill innocent people.
As for the dark wizard—there were alternatives. He could report him. The Ministry of Magic was within reach, and as someone living in Knockturn Alley, George had ample opportunities to alert an Auror.
But that came with risks.
If the Ministry didn't act fast enough, the dark wizard could flee—or worse, retaliate. And if he could kill the old man cleanly, without leaving evidence, George would not only rid himself of a threat but also inherit everything the wizard owned.
According to Dora's memories, the wizard—Merton—had no living relatives. As his adopted son, George would become the sole heir.
And he wasn't going in blind.
First, the old man completely underestimated him. Merton thought Dora was a weak, timid child—too afraid to speak up, too powerless to resist.
Second, George had killed before. He'd fought trained mercenaries with his magnetic control and emerged victorious. Wizards caught off guard weren't much different from regular people. Most weren't prepared to defend against a sudden, precise strike.
Third, he wouldn't be using a wand or magic—at least not in the traditional sense. The Ministry tracked wand usage, not mutant powers. As long as he kept his actions subtle, no one would know the wizard had been murdered.
Of course, things could still go wrong.
But risks were part of the game. If he pulled this off, he'd have a safe house, financial resources, and the freedom to study magic at his own pace.
It was worth it.
"You're half an hour late. Do you want me to transfigure you into a mouse again? Roast you over a candle until your skin blisters?"
The door slammed open. A bald man in a black robe stepped in, his eyes gleaming with venomous malice. Merton, the dark wizard, had arrived.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Merton. I'll get started right away."
George adopted Dora's old mannerisms—shrinking back, bowing slightly, avoiding eye contact. The fear in his voice was entirely fabricated, but the wizard didn't notice.
Merton's scowl relaxed slightly. "Good. Remember, I refused that Hogwarts letter for your own good. Stay obedient, and I'll teach you spells far more powerful than what they teach at that school."
"Sure. Cleaning charms and cooking hexes. Very powerful."
George sneered internally but kept his face submissive.
By the time he left the cramped upstairs room, it was just past sunrise—around 6:30 a.m.
"Perfect. It's night in the Marvel world and day here. Makes switching focus easier."
He still hadn't fully adjusted to controlling two bodies at once. But the difference in time zones helped. One body slept while the other moved.
The routine began: preparing breakfast, cleaning the shop, managing the front door. The potion shop in Knockturn Alley didn't cater to normal customers. People who came here weren't looking for everyday healing potions—they wanted results the Ministry frowned upon.
And the Ministry tolerated it.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew what Knockturn Alley was. Pretending they didn't was theater. In a way, keeping it open gave the authorities a place to track shady dealings. Even high-ranking wizards like Lucius Malfoy occasionally used it to move banned items under the table.
By 4:00 p.m., the opportunity finally came.
"I'm about to brew an insanity potion. I'm closing the shop. Guard the door. If anyone disturbs me, I'll make sure you regret ever being born."
Merton's face was twisted with menace as he unlocked a box of rare magical herbs.
George trembled on cue. "Y-Yes, I won't let anyone in!"
He remembered well: the last time Dora had failed to prevent an interruption during a brewing session, she had been tortured for an entire night.
But this time, George had no intention of failing.
He watched from the hut's side window as Merton began preparing the ingredients—Arioth root, poisonous tentacle vines, lacewing flies, and two-headed snake gall. The process was delicate. Dangerous. One mistake could trigger an explosion.
And that was George's plan.
Dora might not have been trained in magic, but she had been taught enough about potion-making to serve customers. That knowledge had transferred to George.
He waited. Patient. Silent. The wizard reached the critical brewing phase, focusing all his attention and magical power on the boiling concoction.
"Now."
George focused his ability. The heavy brass candlestick on the table wobbled, then tipped—just enough to knock over the crucible.
The potion spilled across the table, mixing with the unused herbs. Merton's face turned pale.
"No!"
He tried to raise his wand—too late. The mixture exploded.
He was thrown across the hut, slamming into the wall, coughing blood as he crumpled to the floor.
"Still alive? Tough old bastard."
George watched, unfazed. The explosion hadn't just been physical—it carried magical backlash, disrupting the wizard's core energy.
He wasn't done.
Veins bulging with focus, George activated his power again—this time targeting the iron chandelier above. Already loosened from the blast, it trembled, then fell.
It drove straight into Merton's face.
"AAAGH—!"
The scream was short-lived. The iron spires pierced his eyes, driving through the skull and into the brain. Even a wizard's enhanced body couldn't survive that.
Only beings like Voldemort could recover from such fatal damage.
Merton was dead.
(End of Chapter 2)