The weekend passed in a blur of spell practice.
Rowan spent most of his time drilling newly learned charms, refining control and timing. When he needed a break, he visited Hagrid to deepen his understanding of magical creatures, practicing mental communication with the animals Hagrid kept. Harry and Ron were nowhere to be seen. Word around the castle was that their punishment for the flying car and the Whomping Willow incident was still ongoing.
By the second week, Rowan had settled into a brutal rhythm: earning points, absorbing theory, and pushing his magical limits daily.
Meanwhile, in the other world, things were finally taking shape.
That evening, Rowan rode a modified motorcycle from the mutant school on the outskirts toward the Bronx. At a roadside checkpoint, he flashed an expensive fake ID and rolled through without incident. Over the past couple of weeks, he had mapped out the major families operating in the area and secured a false civilian identity.
The ID was good enough for routine police checks. It would never fool intelligence agencies like S.H.I.E.L.D. or the FBI.
And that was fine.
He had never planned to buy Stark Industries shares himself.
This body had been grown in a laboratory. It had no legitimate records. Fake paperwork would never survive serious scrutiny, let alone financial background checks. Using it to open accounts or move large sums would only invite attention.
What he needed was a proxy.
Not just anyone.
The proxy needed status. Enough legitimacy that buying Stark shares wouldn't immediately trigger alarms. Even if Rowan stripped every gang in the Bronx of their liquid cash, it would barely register against a titan like Stark Industries. What seemed like an unimaginable fortune on the streets was pocket change to real power.
The truly wealthy lived in a different universe.
A single painting in Tony Stark's home could be worth more than everything Rowan planned to gather.
And that was fine too.
He didn't need to shake the world yet. He needed stability. Time to study magic. Time to grow stronger. The only reason he stayed near New York at all was the looming shadow of the Chitauri invasion. If Earth fell, nowhere would be safe.
The proxy also needed roots. Someone who couldn't simply vanish with the money. Loyalty born from fear or gratitude faded quickly, and Rowan had no illusions about inspiring absolute devotion after a few months.
Fortunately, the past weeks hadn't been wasted.
He had someone in mind.
Tonight was a test.
Rowan parked the motorcycle, slipped into a deserted alley, and pulled on a black cloak. A cheap, common mask followed. He activated his ability fully.
Metal plates embedded in his specially made boots responded instantly, lifting him off the ground. His control over magnetism had improved significantly, influenced by both training and his wizard bloodline. He could now manipulate objects weighing over a hundred kilograms, well beyond the limits once estimated by the lab.
Against someone like X-24, that much force would be more than enough to make even standing difficult.
Flight, however, was slow. Painfully slow. Walking would have been faster, and in a fight he'd be an easy target.
But for infiltration, it was perfect.
He rose to the rooftops, gliding over blind spots and cameras, slipping through the city unseen.
On the rooftop of a seven-story strip club controlled by the Chebel family, an old man sat in a wheelchair. His hair was thin and gray. Before him knelt a middle-aged man, beaten until he could barely stay upright.
"Leon," the old man said quietly, regret lacing his voice. "You were exceptional. I truly believed in you. I treated you like a son. But tonight, you have to die."
"Mr. Chebel, I didn't betray you," Leon rasped, blood streaming down his face. "I was framed. I've always been loyal. You know that. Please, you have to believe me."
Leon had grown up the son of an addict. His mother had disappeared when he was young, unable to bear the hopelessness. At thirteen, Leon had saved Chebel during an ambush by a rival family. That act changed his life.
For thirty years, Leon had built the family's power with ruthless efficiency, helping elevate it into one of the Bronx's dominant factions. Now, after a failed assassination attempt, he was being executed as the supposed mastermind.
He had a wife who loved him. Brothers who trusted him. A newborn daughter he hadn't yet held properly.
"I know you didn't betray me," Chebel said, closing his eyes. "The assassination was staged. Without it, I'd have no excuse to kill you."
Leon froze. "Why?" he whispered. "Why would you do this?"
Chebel coughed, his voice weakening. "I'm dying. The doctors say I have two years at most. My son is only twenty. He's taken over the family, but he lacks experience, authority, respect."
Chebel looked at Leon with genuine sorrow. "You were too capable. Too respected. I could never allow you to stand where my son must stand."
"I would never replace him," Leon said, collapsing onto the floor. "You know that."
"I trust your character," Chebel replied softly. "But I don't trust your followers. Some seats can't be refused. If you don't sit on them, others will push you into place."
The night wind swept across the rooftop.
And unseen above them, Rowan watched in silence.