Ability sharing meant that as long as his clone learned various powerful spells in the Harry Potter World, his main body in the Marvel Universe could use them too.
Even though he didn't have a wand in Marvel's world, that wasn't a problem. From what he understood, not every wizard in the Harry Potter world relied on wands. High-level wizards could cast spells without them, and African wizards had long used traditional gestures instead of wands.
Of course, wand casting was faster and more precise, which was why most wizards preferred it. Still, he could always learn to craft one later. There were countless energy-rich materials in the Marvel Universe—finding something suitable for a wand wouldn't be difficult.
Magic from the wizarding world wasn't particularly destructive compared to Marvel's powers, but it was incredibly functional. Some spells even touched upon the very rules that governed reality.
Take Apparition, for example. Just mastering that would allow him to escape almost any enemy in Marvel's world, even if he couldn't defeat them outright.
"But before that," he murmured, "I need to figure out how to get rid of that Dark Wizard."
If it were the George from his past life, the thought of killing someone would have terrified him. Back then, he'd been nothing more than a corporate drone—an ordinary office worker. He'd never killed anything in his life. When he bought food, it was always neatly packaged and pre-cut.
But this life was different. In just three months, he had already grown accustomed to blood.
Because over those three months, he had killed twelve people in real combat.
The laboratory didn't keep useless experiments. As a mutant being trained to become a future assassin, he not only practiced his ability daily but was also forced to learn how to kill.
And the fastest way to learn killing—was through actual combat.
He had no choice. If he didn't kill, he would be killed.
That was one of the reasons he was so desperate to escape from the lab.
He wasn't a saint, but he had principles. Killing innocents for no reason disgusted him.
Now, facing the Dark Wizard, he did have another option—reporting him to the Ministry of Magic. That would probably succeed, especially since they both lived in Knockturn Alley, where it was easy to contact an Auror.
But that was risky. If the Aurors delayed their action, the Dark Wizard could flee with his wealth—or worse, retaliate.
On the other hand, if George killed him quietly and left no trace, he'd remove a dangerous threat and inherit everything the wizard owned.
Through Dora's memories, George knew the Dark Wizard had no living relatives. Once he died, George—disguised as the adopted child—would become his only heir.
And he wasn't without confidence.
First, the Dark Wizard had no suspicion of him. To that old man, "Dora" was nothing but a timid, powerless child who didn't even own a wand.
Second, George had real experience. He'd killed armed mercenaries before using his blade-controlling ability. Caught off guard, even a wizard's reaction time wasn't much faster than an ordinary man's. They were just tougher to kill.
Finally, since he wouldn't be using magic or a wand, it would be nearly impossible for Aurors to trace the murder back to him.
Of course, nothing was ever certain. There was always a risk of failure.
But nothing ventured, nothing gained. If he succeeded, he'd have a home, wealth, and the freedom to study magic without worry.
The Dark Wizard, after all, had made a fortune selling illegal potions over the years.
"You woke up half an hour late today! Should I use the Transfiguration Curse to turn you into a mouse and roast you over a candle again?"
The sharp voice snapped him out of thought. The door burst open, revealing a bald old wizard in a black robe, eyes gleaming coldly like a snake's.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Merton! I'm coming right away," George stammered, perfectly mimicking Dora's usual fear.
Merton narrowed his eyes. "Don't worry, little Dora. Though I rejected your Hogwarts letter, if you serve me well, I'll teach you powerful magic. Stronger than anything they teach there."
"Powerful magic," George muttered inwardly. "Probably just more spells for cleaning and cooking."
On the surface, his expression stayed submissive.
He stepped out of the cramped little room. The morning sun had just risen—it was about 6:30.
"It's night in Marvel's world, but day here," he thought. "That works out nicely."
Controlling two bodies across two worlds still felt strange, but this alternating schedule—one body active while the other slept—helped him adapt.
Following Dora's memories, he started his daily chores: making breakfast, cleaning the shop, standing at the door to lure customers.
The potion shop in Knockturn Alley rarely saw normal customers. Ordinary wizards preferred to shop in Diagon Alley. The ones who came here were usually dark wizards or rule-benders looking for illegal brews.
The Ministry of Magic turned a blind eye to such business. Everyone knew what Knockturn Alley was. Pretending otherwise was pointless.
In a way, it made sense. Better to keep dark dealings concentrated in one area—easier to monitor that way. Besides, many powerful wizards had secret dealings here too.
Even Lucius Malfoy, a respected noble, sometimes resold illegal potions or magical items through Knockturn Alley.
By the time afternoon rolled around, George finally spotted his chance.
"I'm going to brew a Draught of Living Death," Merton announced coldly. "Close the shop and guard the door. If anyone interrupts me—your life won't be worth a Knut."
He glared as he carefully unpacked rare ingredients from several boxes.
"Yes, sir! I'll make sure no one disturbs you," George replied, trembling as Dora would.
It wasn't an idle threat. Dora had once failed to keep customers away during a brewing session, and the old wizard had punished her with Dark Arts until she nearly died.
But today, this was George's perfect opportunity.
According to Dora's memories, the Draught of Living Death was a high-level potion. A single sip could send a person into madness or a deathlike trance. It was extremely valuable—but even more dangerous to brew.
One misstep could cause a magical explosion.
Potion brewing, especially at higher levels, was never safe. Every year, wizards died from potion accidents. That was why skilled Potioneers were rare and highly paid.
Merton disappeared into the backyard shed used for brewing. George closed the shop door behind him and crept to a window, watching through a narrow crack.
Inside, the old wizard worked methodically. He laid out Alihotsy leaves, Venomous Tentacula, Lacewing flies, and the bile of a two-headed serpent. One by one, he processed them and added them into a bubbling cauldron.
Though Merton had never taught Dora magic, he'd forced her to learn about herbs and potion ingredients—so she could assist customers better.
That meant George knew exactly what stage the old man was at. The brewing process demanded total focus and a steady stream of magical control—any distraction could be fatal.
"Time to make it fatal," George thought grimly.
He waited until Merton reached the crucial heating stage. Then, with a focused pulse of his power, he nudged the metal candlestick on the worktable.
It tipped—spilling hot wax—then clattered into the cauldron.
The thick potion overflowed, splashing across the herbs.
"Oh no!" Merton's face paled. He frantically tried to stabilize the brew. Sweat poured down his forehead as he raised his wand—
—but it was too late.
The cauldron exploded with a violent roar.
The shockwave slammed Merton into the far wall. He hit with a sickening crunch and collapsed, coughing up blood.
George watched from the window, unfazed. "A wizard's body really is tougher than an ordinary person's."
If it had been anyone else—young or old—they'd be dead already. But wizards had stronger life force, bolstered by magic.
Still, that wouldn't save him now.
George clenched his fists, veins bulging at his temples. He extended his power toward the chandelier hanging above Merton.
Ever since gaining the wizard's bloodline, his mutant ability had grown stronger. He used to be able to control about ten pounds—now, he could lift five times that with effort. Someday, he'd surpass even his old limits.
The damaged chandelier trembled, then ripped free of its chains.
Before Merton could raise his wand again, it came crashing down—
—and the sharp iron spikes drove straight through his eye into his brain.
"AHHH—!"
The scream was short-lived. His body convulsed once, then went limp.
George exhaled slowly.
Even with a wizard's resilience, no one survived a pierced skull. Not unless they were someone like Voldemort himself.
He waited several minutes, watching for movement. None came.
Finally, he slipped into the shed. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burned herbs. The cauldron lay shattered. Merton's wand was half-melted beside his hand.
George looked down at the corpse and whispered, "Rest in peace, old monster."
Then, with calm precision, he began to clean up.
He used the few cleaning charms Dora had memorized, mimicking the traces left by a potion explosion. To any investigator, it would look like a tragic brewing accident.
No magic from George himself. No foreign spell residue. Just another Knockturn Alley casualty.
He collected the old wizard's storage keys and slipped them into his pocket.
From now on, the shop, the assets, the ingredients—all of it—belonged to him.
For the first time since entering this world, George felt a flicker of relief.
He wasn't just a trapped experiment anymore. He had a place to live, money to study, and time to master magic.
He glanced toward the sky, where the sun hung low over the crooked rooftops of Knockturn Alley.
"The Dark Wizard's dead," he murmured. "Now the real training begins."