"A year younger is still a year younger. Anyway, learning magic is what matters most."
George put down the newspaper and thought as he ate breakfast.
He'd been wondering which house he might be sorted into once he reached Hogwarts.
Gryffindor seemed the most likely.
Gryffindor valued courage, and George believed he had plenty of that. After all, just yesterday—on the very first day after taking over this body—he had carefully planned and eliminated an old wizard.
"Good morning, Dora—oh wait, I should call you by your new name, George!"
The shop door swung open, and a young witch burst in, bright and full of energy. It was Tonks—the female Auror from yesterday.
George put down his fork and greeted her with a smile. "Good morning, Miss Tonks."
Tonks sat down opposite him without hesitation and playfully ruffled his hair.
"Don't be so formal. From now on, just think of me as your sister."
George sighed, straightening his messy hair. He didn't reject her easy warmth. Instead, he brought out another plate from the counter.
"I made an extra breakfast this morning. Let's eat together."
Tonks grinned. "How did you know I hadn't eaten yet? Hmm—what is this? It tastes amazing!"
She took a bite of the rolled omelet, and her eyes immediately lit up. The soft pancake wrapped around vegetables and sausage had a delicate, satisfying flavor.
Cooking had never been her strength. Her attempts usually ended in disaster, so she often skipped breakfast or grabbed something simple on the way to work.
Of course, there were cooking spells, but they only worked well if you actually knew how to cook in the first place. Otherwise, even with pots and utensils flying perfectly in rhythm, the result still tasted terrible.
The same principle applied to most household spells: you had to understand the task before magic could make it easier.
"This is called an omelet," George explained. "It's made from eggs and flour. Inside are shredded peppers, carrots…"
He gave a brief introduction, though he hadn't really known whether Tonks would drop by. Still, preparing an extra serving ahead of time—just in case—had clearly paid off.
"I didn't expect your cooking to be so good," she said, giving him a cheerful thumbs-up. "You'll definitely end up in Hufflepuff."
That made George freeze for a second. "I won't really be sorted into Hufflepuff, will I?"
He chuckled and shook his head. Gryffindor remained his top choice, but he supposed any house had its merits. Still, Hufflepuff seemed unlikely.
Many Hufflepuff graduates went into the food industry, but that wasn't because their crest represented cooking—it stood for loyalty, honesty, hard work, and fairness. Their proximity to the Hogwarts kitchens had simply influenced their tastes over the years.
And among those qualities, George couldn't confidently claim many—except perhaps resilience.
After breakfast, Tonks led George to begin the process of formally inheriting the estate.
Their first destination: the famed Ministry of Magic.
"Hold on to my arm," Tonks instructed. "It might feel a little unpleasant, but it'll be over quickly."
George grasped her arm tightly. She took a deep breath and murmured, "Apparition!"
With a faint pop, the two vanished from the shop.
Knockturn Alley wasn't far from the Ministry, so direct Apparition was simple—no need for Floo Powder.
The sensation hit him instantly. Darkness swallowed his vision. A crushing pressure surrounded him, as though invisible hands were squeezing his chest. He couldn't breathe—his ribs compressed, his eyeballs felt shoved into their sockets, and his eardrums throbbed painfully.
It was a deeply uncomfortable few seconds. Then, as suddenly as it began, light returned.
Tonks laughed beside him. "The first time always feels awful. You'll get used to it soon enough."
Before he could respond, she grabbed his hand again. "Come on, let's get you registered."
Together they walked toward the center of the grand entrance hall. George's eyes widened in awe.
"It's… magnificent," he whispered.
The floor was made of highly polished dark wood, gleaming like black glass. Overhead, the peacock-blue ceiling shimmered with golden symbols that moved and morphed, forming words and shapes like a giant, glowing message board.
Fireplaces lined both sides of the hall, their gilded rims flashing as witches and wizards came and went in bursts of green flame.
At the center stood a great fountain of magical brethren—five towering golden statues: a noble wizard holding his wand aloft, a graceful witch beside him, and surrounding them a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf.
Each of the three smaller figures gazed upward at the wizard and witch with reverence, as if worshipping them. The meaning behind it was obvious—perhaps uncomfortably so.
More than their symbolism, what astonished George most was that every one of those statues was crafted from solid gold.
Nearby, a wizard hawked newspapers. "Daily Prophet! Get your Daily Prophet, ladies and gentlemen!"
Four hours later, as noon approached, George finally finished the long, tedious inheritance process. Tonks Apparated him back to the shop with another sharp pop.
"Strong on the outside, weak within," George muttered as soon as he caught his breath. "No wonder Voldemort tore the place apart so easily."
That was his verdict on the Ministry of Magic.
From the outside, it appeared grand and mighty—but inside, the workers were lazy, slow, and hopelessly bureaucratic. Corruption seemed almost routine. Without Tonks guiding him through each step, George suspected he might never have completed the procedure at all.
Still, the visit wasn't without its rewards. He'd seen a wealth of fascinating things within the Ministry's walls: enchanted artifacts, alchemically forged tools, clever spells designed purely for convenience in everyday office work.
It opened his eyes to the true diversity of wizarding magic.
In the Harry Potter world, most spells weren't about raw destructive power. They were functional—tools for daily life, not weapons of war. Yet that didn't make them weak.
If anything, it made them more dangerous.
Magic here was subtle, subjective, and incredibly flexible. Its danger couldn't always be measured by how much destruction it caused. A small, seemingly harmless spell could carry terrifying consequences in the right hands—or the wrong ones.
George leaned back in his chair once they returned to the quiet shop, letting out a long breath. His body still tingled faintly from the Apparition.
Tonks stretched and grinned. "Well, that's that! You've got the paperwork done, the inheritance recognized, and your new identity officially registered. Not bad for one morning."
"Thanks to you," George said sincerely.
She waved it off. "Please, I do this all the time. Besides, it's not every day I get to help a new little brother."
George smiled faintly at that. It had been a long, strange day already—and yet, he couldn't deny a growing sense of anticipation.
He had inherited not only an estate, but also a foothold in this magical world.
For now, his next step was clear: to truly understand magic—its nature, its rules, its limits—and how to push beyond them.
He glanced around the cozy shop, the morning sunlight spilling through the window onto the wooden floor. His thoughts wandered back to the golden ceiling of the Ministry, the bustling fireplaces, the dazzling spells woven into everyday objects.
Yes. There was power here—not the kind that shattered mountains, but the kind that quietly reshaped reality.
And George intended to master it.
The world of wizards might not run on firepower, he mused, but on imagination.
And imagination… could be far more dangerous than any spell.