I was sitting in the library with Abraxas and Orion, apparently doing something that would have looked completely ridiculous to anyone else.
In front of me was my Transfiguration essay, which I was writing by hand, while a book floated beside my head.
Every so often, a page turned by itself as I continued reading it out of the corner of my eye.
At the same time, I was carrying on a conversation with Abraxas and Orion while occasionally looking over their essays and pointing out mistakes.
Normally, attempting to do all of that simultaneously would have been absurd.
For me, however, it was surprisingly easy.
My enhanced intelligence and eidetic memory allowed me to divide my attention far more effectively than an ordinary person could.
I could read one book while writing an essay, retain what I’d read, and still participate in a conversation without losing track of what anyone was saying.
Honestly, I was beginning to wonder just how much I could actually multitask.
“You’re missing a section here,” I told Abraxas, pointing toward his parchment.
“Your argument is good, but you haven’t actually explained why the transformation becomes unstable when the object retains too much of its original magical structure.” Abraxas looked down at his essay.
“How did I miss that?” “Because you rushed it.” Orion snorted.
“That’s rich coming from you.
You’re writing an essay while reading an entirely different book.” “That’s different.” “How?” “I’m better at it.” Abraxas stared at me for several seconds.
“You’re becoming rather arrogant, Riddle.” I smiled innocently.
“I prefer confident.” The three of us continued working.
At this point, I had stopped thinking of Abraxas and Orion purely as potential assets.
They were still valuable, obviously, and I was certainly aware of their families, connections, and future influence, but they had become something more.
Friends.
Actual friends.
That distinction was important to me.
I had plenty of people I considered disposable.
If someone was merely useful, then their usefulness determined their value.
But Abraxas and Orion were beginning to move into a different category.
They were part of my inner circle, and I wasn’t interested in allowing them to embarrass themselves academically.
It would be rather embarrassing if my friends started getting terrible grades.
I was just about to correct another mistake in Orion’s essay when someone approached our table.
I glanced up.
Walburga Black.
She pulled out a chair and sat beside Orion as though she’d done it countless times before.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Hello, Walburga.” “Riddle.” She glanced toward Orion before settling into her seat.
I already knew about the relationship between the two of them, but seeing them together reminded me of something I’d mostly ignored until now.
They were engaged.
Apparently, Orion and Walburga were already promised to each other.
It wasn’t particularly surprising.
Pure-blood families had been arranging marriages and engagements for generations.
Political alliances were one reason, obviously, but there was another issue that was considerably more complicated.
Bloodlines.
The magical population of Britain wasn’t exactly enormous, and many of the oldest families had been marrying within the same social circles for centuries.
That meant that a ridiculous number of supposedly separate pure-blood families were related to each other in one way or another.
The further back you went, the worse it became.
During the Founders’ era, this apparently hadn’t been viewed with nearly as much concern.
But a thousand years of repeatedly marrying within a relatively small population had consequences.
Even magical people weren’t immune to genetics.
“Actually,” I muttered, “that’s something I should research.” Orion looked at me.
“What’s something?” “Inbreeding.” The silence was immediate.
Abraxas slowly lowered his quill.
Walburga stared at me.
Orion looked genuinely confused.
I sighed.
“Pure-blood family genetics.” “Ah.” Abraxas nodded as though that somehow made everything better.
I continued thinking.
There was actually an enormous opportunity here.
If magical inheritance worked differently from ordinary genetics, there might be magical mechanisms responsible for hereditary defects.
Perhaps magical blood could repair certain genetic problems naturally, but there had to be limits.
Otherwise centuries of intermarriage wouldn’t have produced any noticeable consequences.
And if those problems existed, there might be a way to solve them.
A potion.
My mind immediately began racing.
A potion capable of repairing hereditary defects caused by excessive inbreeding could potentially be extraordinarily valuable.
Not merely financially, either.
It could completely transform pure-blood society.
I could practically imagine the reaction.
A potion capable of eliminating hereditary defects?
Every ancient family in Britain would want it.
And if it worked reliably, I’d have enormous leverage over the pure-blood community.
I frowned.
The problem was that my potion talent wasn’t quite at that level yet.
I was talented.
Very talented, apparently, considering Slughorn’s reaction to my first potion.
But I wasn’t a Potion Master.
Not yet.
Perhaps the system’s talent rewards could help.
If I continued achieving the highest scores in Potions, I could potentially increase my talent through the system’s academic quest.
That might eventually push me toward the level necessary to create something this complicated.
Or…
My eyes drifted toward Arnold.
I could ask him.
Arnold Prince’s natural potential in Potions was probably higher than mine.
He possessed the kind of instinct that couldn’t simply be manufactured through studying textbooks.
If I gave him the problem and allowed him to research it, perhaps he could discover something I couldn’t.
And there was another advantage.
If we actually succeeded, it could become one of the most profitable magical products ever created.
I mentally added another project to my increasingly absurd list.
Project: Hereditary Restoration Potion.
Potential applications: elimination of genetic defects, restoration of damaged bloodlines, treatment of hereditary magical weaknesses, and possibly even purification of certain forms of magical instability.
Potential profits?
Enormous.
Potential political influence?
Even greater.
I smiled faintly.
Abraxas noticed.
“Why are you smiling?” “Nothing.” He narrowed his eyes.
“That is never a good answer when you say it like that.” I ignored him and returned to my essay.
For now, I’d keep the idea to myself.
There was no reason to announce that I’d just thought of a potion that might completely change pure-blood society while sitting in the Hogwarts library.
I had enough projects already.
Ancient Magic.
Advanced spellcraft.
My magical research.
Building my inner circle.
Political influence.
The Ministry.
Immortality.
And, apparently, fixing a thousand years of pure-blood genetics.
I looked at the floating book beside me.
Perhaps I needed to start making a list.
At this rate, I was going to need several lifetimes just to finish my plans.