"A year behind doesn't matter. Learning magic is what counts."
George set aside the newspaper, chewing thoughtfully.
As for Hogwarts houses—he'd likely land in Gryffindor. Courage? He'd just orchestrated a murder within hours of inhabiting this body. If that wasn't bravery (or stupidity), what was?
"Morning, Dora—oops! George now!"
The apothecary's door swung open, revealing a bubblegum-pink-haired Tonks, her auror robes slightly singed at the hem.
"Morning, Auror Tonks." George smiled, pushing aside his half-eaten omelet roll.
Tonks plopped into the opposite chair, ruffling his hair. "None of that 'Auror' nonsense. Call me Nymph—ugh, no, just Tonks."
George smoothed his mussed locks and slid over a second plate. "Made extra. Help yourself."
"How'd you—mmph—know I skipped breakfast?" Tonks mumbled through a mouthful, eyes widening at the flavors. The rolled egg crepe—crisp vegetables and sausage wrapped in golden batter—was leagues beyond her usual burnt toast.
"Omelet roll. Egg batter with flour, stuffed with bell peppers, carrots..."
He'd prepared it regardless—a small gesture to nurture goodwill.
"Blimey! With cooking skills like this, you're a shoo-in for Hufflepuff!" Tonks grinned.
George nearly choked. "Hufflepuff?!"
He'd assumed Gryffindor was inevitable. Then again—loyalty, patience, fairness—were those his traits?
"Hufflepuffs run half the wizarding world's restaurants, but it's not about cooking," he mused. "Just proximity to the kitchens..."
Ministry of Magic - Atrium
"Hold tight—this'll feel like being squeezed through a straw."
Tonks' warning came a second before CRACK—
—George's atoms got shoved through cosmic plumbing, reassembling in a gilded cavern of bureaucratic grandeur.
"Hence why most wizards prefer Floo powder," he gasped, knees wobbling.
Tonks laughed. "You'll get used to it!"
The Atrium dazzled:
Ceiling: A living celestial chart, golden symbols shifting like constellations.
Walls: Gilded fireplaces disgorging witches in Victorian robes alongside wizards in punk leather.
Centerpiece: A golden fountain depicting wizardkind's "benevolent" rule over "grateful" magical beings—house-elves groveling at their feet.
"Gaudy propaganda," George noted. The statues alone could fund a small nation.
"Daily Prophet! Get yer Prophet 'ere!" A hawker waved newspapers by the fountain.
Four hours of paperwork later (stamp-happy goblins, vanishing/reappearing files), they finally returned to Knockturn Alley.
"All glitter, no grit. No wonder Voldemort steamrolled them."
The Ministry's inefficiency was staggering. Without Tonks' auror credentials, inheritance might've taken weeks.
Yet the visit wasn't wasted. Between bureaucratic naps, he'd observed:
Enchanted Artifacts: Self-inking quills, memo-origami that flew to recipients.
Practical Charms: Desk-clustering spells to "lose" unwanted petitions.
"Functional magic can be deadlier than flashy explosions," George realized.
A Confundus could topple governments. A well-placed Obliviate rewrote history.