Three days after placing the special order, George secured the dusty, leather-bound copy of A Guide to Somatic Casting.
Ten days later, he stood in the small courtyard behind Merton's Apothecary, pointing his new acacia wand at a locked trunk.
"Alohomora!"
A beam of pale blue light shot from the tip of the wand, striking the brass lock.
Click.
The mechanism sprang open.
"Finally."
George lowered his wand, a satisfied smile breaking across his face.
It had taken ten days of obsessive practice, supplemented by tips from Tonks during her lunch breaks, to master a single First Year spell. This confirmed one thing: he wasn't a prodigy.
A true genius like Hermione Granger could master multiple spells from a textbook before even setting foot in a classroom. A prodigy like Snape was inventing dark curses as a teenager. And monsters like Dumbledore or Voldemort? They were in a league of their own.
George was just... competent.
But he had an edge no one else had: double the time.
When his wizard body slept, his mutant body in the Marvel Universe woke up. While other students played Gobstones or slept, George was practicing the wrist movements of Alohomora with a stick in his cell, dodging the surveillance cameras.
Ten days of practice for him was effectively twenty days for anyone else. Hard work beats talent when talent sleeps.
And now, the real work began.
"Wandless casting next."
He tossed the wand onto his bed and opened the Somatic Guide.
It took another eight days.
Eight days of grueling repetition, training his mind to channel magic through specific hand signs instead of a focus tool.
Finally, he stood before the relocked trunk. No wand. He made a sharp, twisting gesture with his right hand and focused his will.
Five seconds passed. Six. Seven.
Click.
"Success," George exhaled, wiping sweat from his forehead.
It was slow. Agonizingly slow. With a wand, Alohomora was instant. With hand signs, it took nearly seven seconds. In a wizard duel, seven seconds was enough time to die three times over.
It was a combat liability. But for a prisoner in a high-tech facility needing to bypass a lock quietly? It was perfect.
August 21st, 1992.
George sat at his kitchen table, checking the date on a magical calendar.
"Today's the day," he mused, buttering his toast. "Gilderoy Lockhart at Flourish and Blotts."
If his memory of Chamber of Secrets was correct, today was also the day Harry Potter would accidentally Floo-powder himself into Knockturn Alley.
Harry, escaping his abusive relatives, had been rescued by the Weasleys. But in his first attempt at magical travel, he would mispronounce "Diagon Alley" and end up in the fireplace of Borgin and Burkes.
"Time to make an introduction."
George decided to intervene. Not to save Harry—Hagrid would likely show up anyway—but to network.
Being friends with the "Golden Trio" was dangerous, yes. They were magnets for trouble. But they were also magnets for opportunity. Access to the Restricted Section of the library? Dumbledore's subtle favoritism? The Room of Requirement? All easier to access if you were in the inner circle.
George finished his breakfast and took up a position by his shop window, watching the street.
An hour later, he saw them.
Lucius Malfoy, radiating cold arrogance, and his sleek, blonde son Draco, stepping into Borgin and Burkes across the street.
"Right on schedule," George noted.
Ten minutes later, the Malfoys left. Shortly after, a small, soot-covered boy with messy black hair and round glasses stumbled out of the shop, looking terrified.
Harry Potter.
Harry froze, looking around the gloomy alley.
To his left, a shop window displayed shrunken heads. To his right, a cage full of giant black spiders. In a nearby shadow, two hags were whispering and pointing at him with hungry eyes.
"I need to get out of here," Harry whispered, panic rising in his chest. "Just keep moving."
He turned to run, but stopped dead.
"You look lost."
The voice was calm, steady, and slightly amused.
Harry spun around. Standing in the doorway of the apothecary was a boy about his age. He was thin, like Harry, but he stood with a relaxed confidence that Harry envied. He held a thick book under one arm.
"This is Knockturn Alley," the boy said, stepping into the light. "Not the best place for a solo trip. Unless you're looking for poison or cursed necklaces."
"I... I'm Harry," the boy stammered, wiping soot from his glasses. "I came by Floo powder. I was trying to get to Diagon Alley. I think I messed up."
George smiled, a warm, disarming expression that instantly lowered Harry's guard.
"Hello, Harry. I'm George."
He extended a hand.
"You probably coughed when you said 'Diagon Alley.' Happens to the best of us. Don't worry, they're connected. I'm heading that way myself. Come on, I'll walk you out before the hags decide you look like a snack."