Chapter 10: Consequences and Choices
December twenty-ninth arrived with the kind of cold that made London's homeless population huddle deeper in whatever shelter they could find, and Adam Wright woke to a symphony of pain. His shoulder throbbed where Yaxley's curse had caught him. His head split with the lingering effects of magical burnout. Even breathing hurt.
But he was alive.
The System interface flickered weakly in his vision: [HP: 95/120. MP: 25/250. Burnout Debuff: 18 hours remaining]. His magical reserves were slowly regenerating, but the burnout penalty cut his recovery rate in half. It would be a full day before he could cast spells without risking collapse.
Adam raised his shaking hand and whispered, "Episkey."
Thirty MP drained away—more than he could afford, but necessary. The healing spell closed the worst of his shoulder wound, knitting muscle and bone back together with gentle warmth. But it left a scar, a permanent mark that would remind him forever of the night he'd crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
"My first battle scar. At twelve years old."
He traced the raised skin with trembling fingers, trying to process what he'd become. This wasn't a game or a fantasy anymore. The spells that had missed him would have killed him without hesitation. The guards weren't training dummies—they were criminals willing to murder a child to protect their operation.
And he'd beaten them.
The thought should have been triumphant, but all Adam felt was exhaustion and a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with his injuries. He was twelve years old, homeless, and he'd just committed armed robbery against Death Eater associates. Was this who he was becoming? Was this who he had to be to survive in this world?
That afternoon, Mrs. Chen found him in Russell Square, sitting on their usual bench and staring at nothing. The elderly woman took one look at his pallor and the way he held his shoulder, then disappeared without a word. She returned twenty minutes later with hot soup in a thermos and concern written across her weathered features.
"You hurt," she said in her careful English, settling beside him on the bench.
"I'm fine," Adam lied.
Mrs. Chen made a dismissive sound and pressed the thermos into his hands. The soup was some kind of chicken broth with vegetables and noodles, and it tasted like the closest thing to maternal care he'd experienced since the orphanage.
"You good boy," she said firmly. "But world is hard. Hard world makes good boys do bad things sometimes."
Adam's vision blurred with unexpected tears. He was so tired of crying, so tired of being weak and emotional and broken. But Mrs. Chen's simple kindness was like a knife to whatever armor he'd tried to build around himself.
"I don't know what I'm becoming," he whispered.
"You becoming stronger. But strong and hard, not same thing. Remember that."
She patted his uninjured shoulder with grandmother's gentleness, then left him alone with his soup and his thoughts.
That evening, once his MP had recovered enough for basic spells, Adam examined his stolen treasure with the methodical precision of an accountant. The Galleons alone were staggering—8,500 gold coins that clinked with satisfying weight. But it was the ledgers that made his pulse quicken with possibilities.
Everything was documented. Galleon transfers to "special operations." Names of corrupt Ministry officials accepting bribes. Scheduled shipments of "materials"—dark artifacts destined for Death Eater cells that were supposed to be disbanded. And through it all, one name appeared repeatedly: Lucius Malfoy.
The man was funding a resurrection. Not of Voldemort—not yet—but of the network that would be ready when the Dark Lord returned. Sleeper cells, corrupt officials, laundered money, and enough dark artifacts to outfit a small army.
Adam tried to practice sharing this information: "I have evidence that Lucius Malfoy—PURPLE BANANA MAN—is funding—DANCING TEAPOT CONSPIRACIES—to support—SINGING OCTOPUS OPERATIONS!"
The gibberish curse destroyed every word that mattered, turning explosive intelligence into the ravings of a disturbed child. He couldn't testify. Couldn't hand over evidence without explaining how he'd obtained it. Couldn't warn the authorities who would simply Obliviate him and move on.
The information was useless in traditional terms. But Adam was learning to think in non-traditional ways. The ledgers might not be admissible in court, but they were a roadmap to the enemy's operations. Every name, every location, every scheduled transfer was a target for future action.
"If I can't expose them legally, maybe I can destroy them systematically."
But first, he needed to prepare. The System Shop beckoned with its promise of greater power, and Adam's SP total had swollen to over 7,000 points. Enough to purchase significant upgrades. Enough to transform himself from a desperate thief into something approaching a real threat.
He started with practical necessities. Basic Wand - 500 SP materialized in his hand: ten inches of hawthorn wood with a decent magical core. When he cast Lumos, it used only three MP instead of five. More efficient casting meant longer operations, less fatigue, better survival odds.
Episkey Upgrade - 500 SP flooded his mind with advanced healing knowledge. The improved version could mend bones, stop internal bleeding, even counteract some poisons. Essential skills for someone whose lifestyle increasingly involved getting hurt.
But he resisted the temptation to spend everything. The False Wizarding ID still cost 1,000 SP, and without it, he'd never get inside the magical world proper. And there were other upgrades to consider: Apparition Short Range - 5,000 SP for emergency escapes, Advanced Protego - 3,000 SP for better defense, Legilimency Basics - 4,000 SP for reading enemy intentions.
Too many options. Too many paths to power. Adam forced himself to think strategically instead of emotionally.
"False ID first. Everything else is meaningless if I can't get inside their world."
He saved 5,000 SP for future purchases and kept 1,000 in reserve for emergencies. Delayed gratification—a lesson the streets had taught him through hunger and cold. The strongest survived not by taking everything immediately, but by planning for tomorrow's needs.
That night, Adam sat in his current hideout—the storage room above the closed restaurant—and read a discarded Daily Prophet by wandlight. The headline made him smile grimly: "Minor Disturbance at London Docks—Aurors Investigating."
Minor disturbance. As if 8,500 stolen Galleons and a warehouse full of missing dark artifacts constituted a small inconvenience. The magical world was protecting its own again, even when "its own" included terrorist financiers and war criminals.
"Fine. If the system is corrupt, I'll exploit every crack in it. But I won't play by their rules anymore."
January 1992 began with new possibilities and old frustrations. Adam was stronger now—Level 3, better equipped, flush with resources and intelligence about enemy operations. But he was still locked out of the world he needed to infiltrate.
The False Wizarding ID waited in the System Shop like a key to paradise. One thousand SP to become someone who belonged, someone with the right to exist in magical society.
Soon. Very soon, Adam Wright would cease to exist, and someone new would take his place. Someone with credentials, with legitimacy, with the power to walk through doors that had been barred to him.
The war was just beginning, and he intended to win it.
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