If the connection between his two bodies stayed consistent, then whatever magic Rowan learned in the wizarding world would carry over to his original body in Marvel. The thought alone made his pulse quicken. He had no wand here, but that wasn't a dealbreaker. Not every witch or wizard relied on one. Skilled casters could work spells without a focus, and entire magical traditions preferred hand signs over carved wood.
A wand would still help with precision and power, and he'd eventually need to craft one. The Marvel world was full of exotic materials and energies. Something suitable had to exist.
The magic of this world wasn't built for raw destruction, but its versatility dwarfed what most mutants could do. Apparition alone would give him an escape method from nearly any threat Earth could throw at him.
But before any of that, he had to deal with the old wizard who owned this house.
In his previous life, Rowan wouldn't have dared to consider murder. He'd been an office worker, the kind who bought his food pre-butchered because handling a full chicken felt like too much.This life had changed him. Three months in the mutant program had already forced him to kill twelve people. The lab didn't tolerate weakness, and training involved real blades and real consequences. Kill or die. He had adapted.
He wasn't a hero, but he had lines he refused to cross. Leaving the old wizard alive wasn't one of them.
He could go to the Ministry, report everything, and hope the Aurors acted fast enough. Dola never dared because the man had spent years terrorizing him into obedience. But Rowan knew the real risk: if the Aurors didn't intervene immediately, the wizard would run or retaliate. And if Rowan could eliminate him cleanly, he'd not only be safe, he'd inherit everything the man owned.
Dola's memories confirmed the wizard had no family left. His assets would legally pass to his adopted son. Years of selling illegal potions had left him comfortably wealthy.
Opportunity, risk, inheritance. All lined up.
He had advantages:The wizard trusted him completely.He had combat experience the old man couldn't imagine.And he could kill without magic, leaving almost no trace for Aurors to investigate.
It wasn't guaranteed success, but Rowan wasn't here to live small.
The door to his cramped room swung open. A bald man in dark robes stared at him with cold, reptilian eyes.
"You overslept by half an hour," the man hissed. "Shall I demonstrate Transfiguration again? A mouse on a hook roasts nicely over candlelight."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Merton. I'm coming." Rowan hunched his shoulders, adopting Dola's frightened mannerisms.
Merton's gaze narrowed."Don't sulk. Hogwarts won't have you, but serve me well and I may teach you magic far beyond anything they offer."
Rowan kept his face blank. The "magic" Merton had in mind was domestic drudgery dressed up with Latin.
He stepped outside as morning light crept into Knockturn Alley. The contrast between his two bodies struck him. In Marvel it was still night. One world slept while the other moved. Convenient. It gave him time to adjust to managing both.
Using Dola's routines, he prepared breakfast, cleaned the storefront, and stood outside the dingy potion shop to attract customers. Those who came were the kinds of witches and wizards who preferred to avoid Ministry attention. That was the unspoken rule of Knockturn Alley. Even the Ministry tolerated it as long as it stayed confined. It was easier to monitor a den of snakes than hunt them across the countryside.
Even wizards of high social standing made use of this place. Rowan had glimpsed Lucius Malfoy himself once, discreetly selling off a questionable potion for quick gold.
Hours passed. At last, around four in the afternoon, Merton began preparing a notoriously unstable brew.
"I'm making Madness Draught. Lock the door. Stand outside. If anyone interrupts me, you will pray for death before I'm done with you."
Rowan flinched exactly as Dola would."Yes, sir. No one will disturb you."
He knew the story. A previous interruption had ruined a batch and nearly killed Dola. Merton's temper had done the rest.
But that history also gave Rowan his opening.
Madness Draught required constant spellwork and delicate magical infusion. A skilled potion-maker could manage it, but even then, the process carried serious risk. Explosions were common enough that apothecaries kept reinforced walls.
Merton entered the brewing shed behind the shop, arms full of rare ingredients. Rowan shut the front door, then drifted to the small window outside the shed.
Inside, Merton worked with meticulous care, preparing arriote, venom-touched roots, lacewing husks, and twin-snake gall. Rowan watched silently, letting Dola's inherited knowledge confirm what he already suspected: this phase—the heating and balancing of the mixture—was the most volatile.
The wrong vibration, the wrong shift in temperature, even a candle falling over could trigger catastrophic failure.
Rowan waited. Patient. Polished by months of lethal training.
When Merton reached the moment of magical infusion, Rowan flicked his power toward a nearby candleholder.
It toppled.
The cauldron lurched. Viscous potion spilled across the worktable, mixing with untreated ingredients.
Merton's eyes widened."No—!"
He tried to cut the spellwork, but the reaction hit too fast. The potion detonated. The blast hurled him across the shed, slamming him into the far wall before he crumpled to the floor in a wet rasp of breath.
Rowan exhaled."Stronger than a normal man. Figures."
A mundane person would have died instantly. Wizards endured far worse thanks to generations of magical hardiness.
But not this next part.
Rowan focused, drawing on both mutant potential and wizard-born magic. His telekinesis—or magnetism, here applied crudely to metal fixtures—had grown noticeably stronger since his souls had split. He'd once struggled with ten pounds of force. Now fifty was easy.
The ceiling lantern groaned under the strain, bolts snapping.
Merton lifted his head, dazed.
The lantern dropped like an executioner's blade.
The scream cut off half-formed as metal punched through his eye and into his skull. A wizard could survive losing limbs. But a destroyed brain was final, unless one had protections reserved for monsters like Voldemort.
Merton lay still.
Rowan did not move for several seconds, ensuring no breath stirred. Only then did he retreat from the window, heartbeat steady, mind already calculating the next step in claiming his new life.