The practical exam for Herbology was incredibly straightforward. The tasks were simple: extract fluid from a Bubotuber—which involved wearing thick dragon-hide gloves, squeezing out the pus, and bottling it without spilling a single drop—and pollinate a Mimbulus mimbletonia—which required using silver tweezers to carefully transfer the pollen while avoiding the plant's aggressive defensive spikes.
Under Richie's meticulous handling, he executed both procedures flawlessly. Professor Sprout, deeply impressed, cheerfully marked an "O" on his exam.
Next up: Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Hogwarts Castle. Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's Office.
Richie sat on the sofa, keeping his guard up as he looked across at Quirrell.
Quirrell's condition was visibly deteriorating. Setting aside his usual severe stutter, his face was growing paler by the day. During class, he often looked so weak that he had to lean against the wall just to stay standing. Because of this, the first-years hadn't done any actual practical defense work all term; they just sat there, bored out of their minds, reading the theory straight from the textbook.
Honestly, Richie had started to wonder if this was actually a deliberate plot on Quirrell's part. By actively refusing to teach the students any practical defensive magic, he was essentially ensuring that if they ever actually encountered danger, they'd just stand there paralyzed, entirely defenseless.
Quirrell looked down at the long scroll in his hands and gave a slow nod. His eyes darted to the other sections, and the sight of the four previous "O"s registered instantly.
A strange look briefly flashed across his face.
"O-oh... M-Mr. Harland. You are, w-without a doubt... the m-most outstanding young wizard I have e-ever seen."
"Your e-essay on the... the dualistic n-nature of magic... was incredibly insightful. A f-fascinating observation."
Quirrell steepled his fingers, leaning slightly forward. He lowered his voice, adopting an eerily smooth, almost entirely different cadence.
"M-magic... is never simply g-good or bad."
"Only w-wizards... exist in b-black and white."
"Used p-properly, any magic... can p-protect. Used poorly... it harms both the victim and the c-caster."
With a wave of his hand, a strange, small mirror materialized in the air in front of Richie.
"The Dark Arts... are merely a mirror reflecting the magical w-world. To shy away from them... is to hide from your t-true self."
"L-like I said in class... F-Fiendfyre was originally created by medieval w-wizards to burn away plagues."
Inside the mirror, an image shifted into view: a group of medieval wizards using the devastating cursed fire to eradicate a massive swarm of disease-carrying rats.
"But the f-foolish Ministry... classified it as 'Dark Magic.' They entirely stifled m-magical progress."
"They... are n-not as smart as you."
The mirror vanished.
Hearing Quirrell's speech, Richie responded politely. "Thank you for the compliment, Professor."
The concept of magic having a dualistic nature was his answer to one of the essay questions on the exam. And just as Quirrell had pointed out, Richie genuinely believed that magic itself had no inherent morality—only the wizard casting it did.
However, there was a reason the Dark Arts were classified as "Dark Magic." Part of it was obviously Ministry regulation, but you couldn't deny that certain spells were fundamentally twisted and sinister.
Since intent and emotion made up half the foundational elements of spellcasting, successfully executing Dark Magic strictly required the caster to channel malicious, violent, or hateful emotions. It was a double-edged sword: the wizard gained access to immense power, but constantly tapping into that darkness would inevitably corrupt their own mind.
Because of that, Richie still believed there was a stark difference between the Dark Arts and standard magic.
Quirrell stared quietly at Richie for a long moment. Suddenly, he flicked his hand behind him, summoning a book straight from his bookshelf.
"T-this is The Curative Potential of Blood Curses... P-perhaps it can... further inspire you."
"J-just remember... this is our l-little secret."
With that, Quirrell pressed his fingertip onto Richie's exam and traced an "O."
With a sound like sizzling meat, a vibrant, burning-red "O" seared itself into the corner of the parchment.
Richie silently took the book. Its cover was wrapped in a strange, dark binding—it didn't feel like leather. It felt more like a massive, dried scab formed over dried blood.
"Y-you should go now. I... I see you still have two m-more exams."
Quirrell leaned back in his chair, a sickly, twisted smile creeping onto his face.
Seeing this, Richie stood up, collected his exam, offered a polite goodbye, and left.
Whatever this was, he just needed to finish his personal exams first. As for the book—which was obviously heavily restricted, taboo knowledge—he'd have to carefully decide what to do with it later.
Blood curses...? A few minutes after Richie left the room, Quirrell's expression violently shifted. He instantly flicked his wand, slamming and locking the office door before collapsing to the floor, writhing in sudden, agonizing pain.
"Master... Master!"
"I was wrong, Master!"
"Please... spare me!"
An indeterminate amount of time passed before Quirrell finally stopped thrashing. Half-sprawled across the floor, he gasped for air like a drowning man.
Not daring to rest for a second, he scrambled up on his hands and knees and practically crawled over to the full-length mirror sitting in the corner of his office.
His hands shaking, Quirrell carefully unwrapped his turban, exposing the grotesque back of his head. He turned sideways, twisting his neck to maximize the reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly, the flesh on the back of his skull violently stretched and contorted, as if a human face was aggressively trying to tear its way out from underneath his skin.
Quirrell endured the excruciating pain, not daring to move a single muscle.
Then, a harsh, raspy voice echoed through the room.
"I see a shadow of you in that boy, Quirinus."
At that moment, Quirrell's stutter entirely vanished. He spoke with absolute, groveling submission.
"Yes, Master."
"I am entirely confident he will not be able to resist such powerful, forbidden knowledge. He will only fall deeper into the trap!"
"And eventually, he will follow in your exact footsteps!"
Hearing Quirrell's logic, Voldemort let out a cold laugh. But almost immediately, his raspy voice turned deadly serious.
"Do not act without my explicit permission, Quirinus. I am always watching you!"
"The unicorn blood we last consumed is nearly exhausted. In a few days..."
Hearing those words, a mix of pure terror and frantic desperation flashed across Quirrell's eyes.
"Yes, Master! Yes, Master!"
Outside, the sun was already beginning to set.
After leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Richie made a quick detour back to his dorm, tossing the creepy Curative Potential of Blood Curses textbook straight into his trunk study. Once that was done, he hurried up to the second floor to the History of Magic classroom.
Because Professor Binns was a ghost, he didn't actually have a physical office Richie could visit, which meant his only option was the classroom. Fortunately, Binns seemed to be expecting him; when Richie arrived, the ghost was already floating near the chalkboard, waiting.
Since History of Magic didn't have a practical application component, Binns simply reviewed Richie's written answers and floated a ghostly "O" right onto the parchment.
After thanking the professor, Richie immediately sprinted up to the very top of the castle to the Astronomy Tower.
The Astronomy classroom sat directly beneath a massive, domed ceiling, completely surrounded by open viewing windows designed for observing the night sky. The first-years only had one Astronomy class a week, usually held precisely at midnight to guarantee peak visibility.
When Richie finally reached the tower, the sun was still setting, meaning there was massive light pollution and the stars were barely visible.
Despite the terrible conditions, Richie confidently stepped up to the telescope and effortlessly passed Professor Sinistra's practical assessment—accurately locating and mapping the requested constellations against the star chart.
Naturally, that earned him his final "O."
And with that, the grading was officially complete.
Richie's personal exams had ended perfectly. Seven subjects. Seven "Outstanding"s.