Chapter 9: The Theft That Changed Everything - Part 2
Midnight settled over London like a burial shroud, and Adam Wright stood invisible at the warehouse fence, watching his breath mist in the December cold. The Thames lapped against the docks with oil-slick whispers, and somewhere in the distance, a foghorn moaned its lonely warning to ships that couldn't see through the night.
"This is either bravery or the stupidest thing I've ever done."
His hand found the fence's padlock—standard Muggle security that yielded to a whispered "Alohomora." Forty MP drained away, leaving him with 160 points and the creeping fatigue that came with wandless casting. The lock clicked open with mechanical obedience.
Adam slipped through the gap, his footsteps muffled by the Invisibility spell that wrapped around him like a second skin. Seventy-five MP per minute—expensive, but necessary. The warehouse loomed ahead, its broken windows dark as empty eye sockets.
The side door's lock fell to another Alohomora. Forty more MP. His magical reserves were bleeding away faster than he'd hoped, but there was no turning back now. Adam pushed through the entrance and froze.
Two wizards sat at a card table fifteen feet from the safe room, wands resting casually within easy reach. Their robes were expensive but travel-stained, and they had the relaxed alertness of professional criminals who knew their business. One was young—barely twenty, with the sharp features and pale complexion that screamed pure-blood breeding. The other was older, scarred, missing two fingers on his left hand.
"Your bet, Marcus," the younger one said, studying his cards.
"Patience, Yaxley. Good things come to those who wait."
"Yaxley. As in Death Eater Yaxley. Christ, I'm robbing actual terrorists."
Adam cast Silencio on his own footsteps—fifty MP that left him with seventy points remaining. The spell settled around his feet like invisible cotton, muffling every sound. He crept forward, weaving between crates marked with symbols that made his stolen knowledge recoil: dark artifacts, cursed objects, things that should have been destroyed rather than stored.
Marcus suddenly stood, hand drifting toward his wand. "Did you hear something?"
Adam's blood turned to arctic water. Ten seconds. Maybe less before they investigated, before they found him, before everything went catastrophically wrong.
"Wingardium Leviosa," he breathed, targeting a crate on the warehouse's far side.
Twenty-five MP. His reserves hit critical—forty-five points left and falling.
The crate rose silently, then dropped with a tremendous crash that echoed through the building like thunder. Both guards spun toward the sound, wands appearing in their hands with practiced speed.
"Check it out," Marcus snapped. "I'll watch the safe."
"It's probably rats," Yaxley muttered, but he moved toward the disturbance anyway.
Marcus hesitated, then followed. "Bloody building's falling apart. Grimley should have fixed that shelf weeks ago."
The moment they disappeared behind the maze of crates, Adam sprinted toward the safe room. His footsteps made no sound thanks to the Silencio charm, but his heart hammered so loudly he was certain it would give him away.
The safe stood against the far wall like a monument to greed—six feet tall, three feet wide, covered in glowing wards that pulsed with malevolent energy. Adam raised his shaking hand toward the lock and whispered, "Alohomora."
The spell hit the wards and rebounded like a physical blow, slamming into a shelf behind him. Glass vials exploded in showers of sparks and noxious fumes. The sound carried through the warehouse like breaking thunder.
"What the bloody hell—!" Marcus's voice, getting closer.
"The wards are too strong. Basic Alohomora isn't enough."
Footsteps thundered toward him. Adam checked his MP: forty-five points remaining. Enough for one more attempt, but it had to work.
"Alohomora!" he snarled, pouring double the normal energy into the spell.
Eighty MP vanished in an instant, overdrafting his reserves and sending lightning through his skull. But the wards cracked like breaking glass, the lock clicked with mechanical surrender, and the safe door swung open to reveal—
Paradise.
Stacks of Galleons rose like golden mountains, catching the warehouse's dim light and throwing it back in honey-colored reflections. Dark artifacts nestled between the coins: rings that whispered with trapped souls, daggers that thirsted for blood, amulets that radiated power and malice in equal measure. And scattered throughout the treasure, leather-bound ledgers filled with names and numbers that would make the Daily Prophet's front page for months.
Adam grabbed everything within reach, shoving it into his Mokeskin Pouch with desperate efficiency. Galleons by the handful, artifacts that made his skin crawl, ledgers that documented corruption at the highest levels of wizarding society. One book fell open as he seized it, revealing familiar names: Malfoy. Nott. Parkinson. Pure-blood families funding Death Eater operations, buying silence, preparing for their master's return.
"STOP!"
Adam spun to find Marcus twenty feet away, wand raised and fury twisting his scarred features. Behind him, Yaxley emerged from the crate maze with murder in his pale eyes.
"Stupefy!" Marcus roared.
The spell missed Adam by inches, close enough that he felt its wake ruffle his hair. His Invisibility had failed when his MP hit negative numbers—he was visible now, a twelve-year-old boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
"Protego!" Adam screamed, his remaining energy forming a shimmering barrier just as Yaxley's hex reached him.
The curse rebounded with a sound like breaking bells, but the shield had cost him everything. His MP dropped to negative fifteen, and pain exploded through his skull like molten metal. Magical burnout—the price of casting beyond his limits.
But he was still alive. Still moving. Still running.
Adam staggered toward the warehouse door, clutching his Mokeskin Pouch like a lifeline. More spells chased him—cutting hexes that carved gouges in the walls, stunning spells that would drop him like a stone if they connected, and something dark and purple that screamed as it flew past his ear.
"Reducto!" Yaxley snarled.
The blasting curse caught Adam's shoulder and spun him into the fence like a ragdoll. His HP dropped to eighty as bone cracked and skin tore, but adrenaline kept him moving. He screamed—in pain, in terror, in the primal rage of someone who refused to die quietly—and scrambled over the fence with desperate strength.
Behind him, the guards reached the property line and stopped. Aurors would ask questions they couldn't answer about the warehouse. Better to let one thief escape than explain why they were guarding a Death Eater money-laundering operation.
Adam ran until his lungs burned and his legs trembled with exhaustion. Five miles through London's maze of streets, until the docks disappeared behind him and he collapsed in an alley that smelled of garbage and broken dreams.
Only then did he allow himself to cry—great, gasping sobs that shook his small frame as the reality of what he'd done crashed over him like a tsunami. He'd just committed armed robbery. Stolen from actual terrorists. Been shot with a curse that could have killed him.
And somehow, impossibly, he'd won.
The Mokeskin Pouch lay heavy in his lap, pregnant with stolen wealth and secrets. The System chimed through his exhaustion:
[LEVEL UP! LEVEL 3 ACHIEVED] [MISSION COMPLETE: MAJOR THEFT - REWARD: 5,000 SP] [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: FIRST HEIST - BONUS: 2,000 SP] [NEW STATS: HP 120/120, MP 250/250]
Adam laughed through his tears, hysteria mixing with triumph. Everything had just changed. He was bleeding, traumatized, but rich beyond his wildest dreams.
"I did it. I actually did it."
The war with the magical world had officially begun.
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