Chapter 88: Improving the Environment
Summer nights at Wool's Orphanage were a miserable affair, defined by stagnant, suffocating heat and the relentless, high-pitched whine of mosquitoes.
Tamara Riddle sat rigidly before a rickety wooden table, her posture immaculate despite the squalor. She made no immediate move to touch the assortment of items laid out before her. Instead, her dark eyes narrowed slightly, fixing upon a translucent blue screen hovering in the empty air. Only she could see it. It was the accumulated harvest of her agonizing, humiliating first year of forced servitude to morality.
[Current Attribute Panel]
[Wisdom: 31]
[Courage: 27]
[Love: 20]
[Life: 17]
Her gaze dragged over the word 'Love'. Her stomach gave a phantom lurch of nausea. A cold, mocking sneer curled the corner of her lips. The very concept was utterly repulsive, a sickening joke played upon the greatest Dark Lord of the age. Yet, she had to begrudgingly admit the utility of the rewards. Reaching that pathetic milestone had unlocked 'Stupefy', currently her most reliable, heavy-hitting crowd-control spell.
She scanned further down the glowing interface, deliberately ignoring the passive skills the system had mockingly labeled as 'deception' traits—[Harmless], [Magical Creature Affinity], and [Dictator's Sophistry]. Her eyes finally settled on the gleaming golden text resting at the very bottom of the screen.
[Special Constitution: Golden Bloodline]
[Source: Philosopher's Stone Essence]
[Effect: Alchemical Blood, Longevity Potion Conversion]
The suffocating heat of the room suddenly felt a fraction more tolerable. Even trapped in this Muggle filth, wallowing in the mud of a London slum, she held true power in her veins. With this foundation, returning to the absolute pinnacle of the magical world was not a mere possibility. It was an inevitability.
She exhaled slowly, banishing the interface with a thought, and focused her attention on the battered tin pot resting on the scarred wood. The table was littered with the cheapest, most pathetic ingredients she had managed to scavenge from the dingy apothecaries of Diagon Alley a few days prior. A handful of brittle, dried porcupine quills, a few shriveled flobberworms that looked like dead twigs, and a tiny glass vial containing a suspiciously cloudy batch of lacewing fly juice.
"Meow-yowww—"
A shrill, intensely neurotic screech shattered the quiet of the room. The scrawny black cat Tamara had dragged back from Hogwarts was currently perched atop the rotting wooden wardrobe. Its back was arched into a jagged peak. It stared unblinkingly at the thin wisp of purple smoke rising from the tin pot, a continuous, threatening low growl vibrating in its throat.
"Shut your mouth, Nagini the Second," Tamara snapped, not bothering to look over her shoulder. "If you dare shed a single hair into my cauldron, I will transfigure you into a footstool and set you on fire."
The black feline shrank back against the wall, flattening its ears as if it perfectly understood the violent threat. Yet, the wild mania in its yellow eyes did not recede. If anything, the creature looked even more unhinged. Tamara finally cast a sideways glance at the beast, her upper lip curling in deep disgust.
'What an utterly useless creature.'
Ever since she acquired the wretched thing, she had attempted to train it, going so far as to bestow upon it the name of her greatest, most loyal companion. But this furball possessed absolutely none of the original Nagini's lethal grace or cold intelligence. In fact, it was spectacularly idiotic. Ninety percent of the time, it functioned as a brainless, defective lump. It would spend entire afternoons staring blankly at a speck of dust in the corner, or it would chase its own tail with such frantic desperation that it would inevitably make itself dizzy and vomit on the floorboards.
But during the remaining ten percent of its waking hours, it transformed into a complete lunatic. It would puff up its fur without warning, shrieking at empty air as if engaged in a duel with invisible demons, or worse, it would launch itself across the room in a desperate bid to lick her face.
"Truly, each generation degrades further into incompetence," Tamara muttered, shaking her head. She dismissed the deranged animal from her thoughts and locked her focus back onto the simmering tin pot.
The critical moment had arrived.
The liquid bubbling sluggishly within the pot was a nauseating, murky grayish-brown. It was, by all standard academic metrics, a completely failed Healing Potion. Given the abysmal quality of the ingredients, it was essentially a pot of foul-tasting ditch water that might, at best, possess a mild disinfectant quality.
"Perfect for a baseline test."
Tamara smoothly drew a slender silver knife from her sleeve. She drew in a slow, measured breath. A dangerous, fanatical gleam flickered in the depths of her dark eyes. She pressed the sharp edge against the pad of her pale index finger and sliced downward.
A single drop of blood welled up from the cut.
But this was no ordinary mortal blood. Caught in the flickering, dim candlelight, the crimson hue was impossibly deep and rich, possessing the crystal-clear translucence of a flawless ruby. Deep within the very core of that single droplet, a faint, captivating thread of liquid gold swirled and pulsed.
The Golden Bloodline. It was the physical manifestation of the Philosopher's Stone essence she had absorbed, the literal embers of eternal life burning within her veins.
The heavy droplet detached from her skin and fell. It struck the surface of the murky grayish-brown liquid with a soft plink.
There was no fiery explosion. No smoke plumed into the air. Yet, the resulting alchemical reaction was far more violent and absolute than any mere detonation.
The stagnant, lifeless sludge boiled instantly, emitting a sharp, crackling hiss like ice hitting a hot skillet. The repulsive, muddy color vanished at a speed visible to the naked eye, violently overwritten by a brilliant, luminous azure blue. A thick, incredibly fresh fragrance—smelling of morning dew, crushed mint, and raw, thrumming vitality—surged upward, instantly banishing the stale, moldy stench of the orphanage room.
What had been a worthless, trash-tier concoction seconds ago had been forcibly elevated into a flawless, master-crafted Potent Healing Potion.
"Flawless," Tamara whispered. A faint, intoxicated flush crept up her pale cheeks as she stared at the glowing blue liquid.
The implications were staggering. Even using the absolute worst, most degraded materials available, a single drop of her blood acting as an alchemical catalyst forced a total qualitative leap. She could mass-produce priceless, high-tier potions for mere Sickles.
'System,'Tamara commanded internally, a rare, sharp edge of urgency bleeding into her mental voice.'Detail the exact conversion mechanics for the Longevity Potion once more.'
[Ding! At your service anytime, my wonderful host!]
The system's perky, sickeningly cheerful voice echoed in her skull, instantly making her fingers twitch with the urge to strangle something.
[Based on the unique properties of your Golden Bloodline, you may convert a standard vial of ordinary water into a Longevity Potion using a single drop of your blood.]
[Effect: The consumer will extend their natural lifespan by exactly one year.]
[Restriction: This specific alchemical conversion can only be performed once every six months.]
One year of life. Once every six months.
The math was brutally simple. As long as she performed the conversion bi-annually and consumed the result, she would net two years of additional lifespan for every single year she lived. Theoretically, assuming the system's mechanics remained stable, she had already achieved it. She had secured a functional form of immortality.
Tamara stared at the glowing blue text. Her breathing hitched, growing shallow and rapid. It was the raw, instinctual thrill of her deepest obsession—the absolute conquest of death. There was no need to tear her soul to shreds. No need to commit unspeakable acts to forge a Horcrux. She merely had to drink enhanced water to cheat the reaper forever?
Yet, almost as quickly as it flared, the burning fanaticism in her dark eyes cooled into glacial ice. A familiar, haughty arrogance settled over her features.
'Pathetic. A low-level crutch,' she sneered inwardly.
An existence entirely dependent on a scheduled dosage of potion was as fragile as a candle left out in a hurricane. Yes, it halted the biological clock, but it offered zero protection against a well-aimed Killing Curse. It would not save her from a severed head, a lethal poison, or a catastrophic magical accident. It was a biological trick, fundamentally inferior to the absolute, invulnerable immortality she truly craved.
... Tamara turned her head slightly, catching her reflection in the cracked, grime-covered mirror resting against the wall.
Staring back at her was a face of flawless, porcelain youth. She currently possessed the most perfect, vibrant vessel in the world. This body was easily a full century away from the natural ravages of age and decay. Consuming a lifespan-extending potion right now was not merely redundant; it was an unforgivable waste of a strategic resource.
'Useless to me. For the foreseeable future, anyway,'Tamara concluded coldly.'However...'Her eyes narrowed into dangerous, calculating slits. She raised her uninjured hand, her pale fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the wooden table. Tap. Tap. Tap.'For those decrepit old fossils currently gasping on their deathbeds, absolutely terrified of the dark...'
Her mind instantly went to the ancient, rotting patriarchs of the sacred pure-blood families. The men and women who sat in the highest, most heavily cushioned seats of the Wizengamot. They hoarded half the total wealth of magical Britain, yet spent their days shivering in their manors, helplessly counting the hours until their inevitable demise. To those desperate, decaying elites, a guaranteed extra year of life would not just be a potion. It would be a holy miracle.
If weaponized correctly, this single drop of blood could buy her empires.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A series of crude, violently heavy fists slammed against her bedroom door, rattling the cheap hinges. The harsh, raspy voice of the orphanage administrator pierced right through the thin wood.
"Riddle! What in God's name are you doing in there?! I smell something strange! Put out whatever fire you've started immediately, you little freak, or don't expect a single scrap of food tomorrow!"
Tamara's delicate brow furrowed in deep revulsion. Her fingers twitched toward her wand. She deeply, desperately wanted to blow the door off its hinges and teach that screeching Muggle insect a permanent lesson in respect.
Plop.
Without a single warning, a heavy drop of freezing, filthy water detached from the ceiling and fell, landing with pinpoint accuracy right on the bridge of her aristocratic nose.
Tamara's expression instantly froze into a mask of absolute murder.
She slowly, mechanically tilted her head upward. Her dark eyes locked onto the ceiling above her bed. It was a sprawling canvas of fuzzy blue-black mold, currently weeping a steady, sluggish line of dirty rainwater.
This was her domain. This rotting, leaking, disease-ridden box was where she—the true Heir of Slytherin, the undisputed future sovereign of the entire magical world—was forced to sleep. It was an insult so deep it made Azkaban look like a luxury resort.
Right on cue, that infernal, overly cheerful chime echoed in her brain.
[Ding! Summer Side Quest Issued: Improve Living Environment!]
[Description: Goodness me! As a bright and shining future leader of the wizarding world, your current residence is simply far too shabby! A tidy space makes for a tidy mind!]
[Requirement: Please repair and clean the public areas of the orphanage.]
[Reward: Wisdom +1]
Tamara slowly lifted a hand and wiped the smear of dirty water from her nose. A prominent blue vein throbbed violently against her pale temple. Twice.
'You want me... to act as a Muggle bricklayer?' she asked the system, her mental voice dropping to a terrifying, sub-zero whisper.
The Dark Lord, climbing onto a rotting roof with a trowel and a bucket of tar? The very concept was a cosmic joke.
Tamara flicked her wrist. A wandless, completely silent Mending Charm shot upward. The rotting wood and cracked plaster knitted together instantly, sealing the leak overhead tight.
A trivial application of magic. But the system's mandate was explicitly clear: repair the public areas. That meant the entire sprawling, dilapidated structure of Wool's Orphanage.
If she simply unleashed a massive wave of restoration magic to fix the entire building overnight, the resulting magical surge would trigger every Underage Magic trace in London. It would be tantamount to hand-delivering her own arrest warrant to the Ministry of Magic, and it would undoubtedly draw the panicked attention of the Muggle authorities.
'In that case...'
Tamara listened to the heavy, stomping footsteps of the administrator pacing outside her door, still muttering venomous threats about starvation. Slowly, her gaze drifted back down to the glowing, azure blue Potent Healing Potion resting on the table.
Healing magic was, at its core, the forced injection of regeneration and raw vitality. If a perfectly healthy, uninjured human were to consume a potion completely saturated with this much concentrated, explosive life force... that massive tidal wave of energy would have absolutely nowhere to go. Unable to mend broken tissue, it would violently hijack the nervous system, mutating into a state of morbid, hyper-compulsive euphoria.
She reached out, her pale fingers delicately pinching a tiny pinch of the crushed porcupine quill dust left over on the table. She sprinkled it directly into the blue liquid. The potion hissed, its color violently shifting from a soothing azure to a harsh, electric violet.
She had just deliberately shattered the potion's alchemical stability. It was no longer a healing draught. It was now a highly concentrated Maniac Potion. It would flood the brain with so much hyperactive stimulation that the victim would be physically incapable of remaining still.
Once ingested, that miserable woman outside would feel such a terrifying, volcanic surge of physical energy that she would literally feel her skin crawling. She would feel as though her heart might explode if she didn't immediately find the most grueling, back-breaking manual labor available to burn it off.
Since the old hag had so much energy to waste screaming at doors, she could go fix the damn roof herself.
A dark, incredibly dangerous smile curved Tamara's lips, revealing a flash of white teeth.
'Improve the living environment, you say?'she purred to the system.'Not a problem at all.'
...
The following morning.
When Martha, one of the younger orphanage helpers, shuffled into the ground-floor kitchen mid-yawn, she was so violently startled by the sight before her that she nearly dropped a ten-pound sack of flour directly onto her own feet.
There, standing atop a rickety wooden ladder, was the head administrator—a woman universally known for being the laziest, most sedentary creature in the entire building. Yet right now, she had a heavy bristle brush gripped in her fist and was frantically scrubbing and painting the moldy corridor walls at a genuinely dizzying, terrifying speed.
The woman was sweating profusely, her blouse soaked through. Her eyes were blown wide, frighteningly bright and bloodshot, and her mouth was moving in a rapid, tireless, manic loop.
"Too dirty... must be fixed... scrub the rot... I love labor... must work harder... so much energy... scrub..."
Not only that, but glancing out the kitchen window, Martha saw the front courtyard piled high with stacks of brand-new lumber, fresh roofing tiles, and buckets of sealant. Word had already spread among the terrified orphans that the administrator had completely emptied her personal, heavily guarded savings box in the dead of night, frantically hiring a crew of local workmen at triple their usual rate to completely overhaul the roof.
"Good God in heaven..." Martha whispered, hastily making the sign of the cross over her chest. "Has the devil possessed the woman?"
High above, hidden within the deep shadows of the second-floor landing, Tamara stood perfectly still. She held a simple glass of water in one hand, her dark eyes looking down at the manic spectacle through a narrow gap in the moth-eaten curtains.
Slipping that spiked concoction into the administrator's evening tea last night had worked absolute wonders. It was the alchemical equivalent of feeding raw Dragon's blood to a stubborn, lazy mule. The woman's nervous system was so overloaded that, aside from working herself into a state of near-collapse, she had absolutely no other outlet to survive the strain.
[Ding! System has detected that the living environment is improving at a phenomenal rate!]
[Quest Completed! Reward: Wisdom +1]
[System Note: Goodness... while this specific method of motivating others is slightly... forceful, a true leader must know how to properly delegate and allocate labor! That, too, is a form of Wisdom!]
[Current Wisdom: 32]
Tamara took a slow, highly satisfied sip of her water, the cool liquid soothing her throat. She turned away from the window, the curtain falling shut to block out the morning light.
This was the true style of a Dark Lord. Why demean oneself by getting one's own hands dirty, when a few drops of a potion could effortlessly compel the lesser beings to solve the problem for you?
'Work hard, you stupid Muggle,'Tamara thought, a cruel, elegant smirk gracing her angelic face.'Bleed for it. This is the one and only chance in your pathetic, fleeting life to contribute to a truly great cause.'
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