The Slytherin common room was crowded, students buzzing with animated discussion about what had just transpired. The moment Tom stepped inside, several jumped to their feet at once.
"Tom, what did Dumbledore say?"
"I heard our Head of House was there too—shouldn't be a problem then."
"That Lockhart's useless anyway. Getting beaten up serves him right."
"Trying to buy Usagi with just five thousand Galleons? Utter nonsense."
Everyone talked over one another until Tom lifted a hand. The noise died instantly, and his cold gaze swept across the room. He spoke to the few students standing nearest:
"Fetch Carrow, Avery, and Flint. Wait for me here in the common room. Once I'm back, we'll begin."
With that, Tom turned and strode into the dormitory.
Inside, the room was empty—Zabini and the others were still in the common room.
"Parra."
With a sharp crack, the house-elf appeared.
"You called, Master Riddle."
Tom summoned two pieces of parchment and, with a flick of his wand, his quill flew across them at remarkable speed. Within minutes, both letters were complete. One he sealed in an envelope embossed with the Greengrass family crest; the other he slipped into a gold-trimmed envelope, inside which he also tucked a chatbook, layering protective enchantments over it.
"This one is for Lady Greengrass. The other—she must send it on to France. The magical aura will guide the owl."
"Yes, Master Riddle."
Parra accepted the letters solemnly and Disapparated on the spot.
Tom did not immediately return. Instead, he sat on his bed, lost in thought, carefully reviewing every detail. Only when he was satisfied that no flaw remained did he rise and head back to the common room.
By then, even more students had gathered. The ones he had summoned—Carrow, Avery, Flint—were all present.
"Enough chatter," Tom began, striding confidently to his seat. "You've all heard what happened. Dumbledore docked me a hundred points. A hundred! I'll reclaim them sooner or later, but that isn't the point. The point is—I have run out of patience with Gilderoy Lockhart."
He let the words sink in.
"Your families are either among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, or your elders hold high positions in our world's elite. Don't think I don't know that."
At his words, many instinctively straightened their backs, pride flashing in their eyes.
And it wasn't empty flattery. Slytherin House truly resembled Muggle financial dynasties—few sat in government offices, but through sheer resources and wealth, they wielded enormous influence over the Ministry. Lucius Malfoy was the perfect example, though far more flamboyant than most.
"Lockhart's behavior this past week has been shameful. A fraud. A clown. Carrow—" Tom's eyes locked onto a fourth-year boy, younger brother of last year's female prefect, "—I hear you had to play a snowman in class last week. How did that feel?"
Carrow gave a helpless shrug. "It didn't feel like a snowman… more like a troll. And before I knew it, Lockhart had stunned me with a spell right in front of everyone."
The room erupted with laughter.
"And you, Avery," Tom continued, turning sharply, "I heard your quiz on 'Lockhart's Personal Interests' only scored two correct guesses. You were humiliated in front of the class and lost five points."
Avery's grin was twisted. "Tom, today you did what I've been dying to do for days. Shame I wasn't there to see it."
Tom's lips curled. "So we all agree, then—our disdain for Lockhart isn't just personal. His so-called lessons are a waste of everyone's time. Especially for the fifth-years and seventh-years…" His tone darkened. "You're the ones who are truly unfortunate. The Examinations Authority won't lower their standards just because your professor is incompetent."
The faces of the upper-years grew grim. Even with powerful family connections, they still needed solid marks to back them. This year's Defense Against the Dark Arts would be nothing short of a disaster.
"I won't mince words," Tom said, rising from his chair, hand gripping the armrest. "This buffoon has outstayed his welcome. For my sake, and for your education, he cannot remain at Hogwarts."
"I've been here two years. And look at who Dumbledore has hired as professors! How have you tolerated this for so long?"
His voice rang sharp, electric. "The time has come to remind Dumbledore—and the Ministry—that Slytherin is not to be trifled with."
"If you're with me, then tonight you will each write to your families. Have your parents pressure the Ministry directly. Writing to the school will do nothing—Dumbledore excels at sweeping things under the rug."
His eyes gleamed. A shadow flickered in his pupils—something draconic, accompanied by a crack of lightning. The room chilled instantly.
"If you don't…" His voice dropped, quiet but venomous. "Then you are my enemy. Do not think I forget. I never forget. Ten years. Twenty years. I will remember every betrayal."
The handful who had secretly harbored doubts froze, as if his gaze had pierced straight through them.
"I'll write to my grandfather at once," Rosier declared, standing tall.
"And me!" Zabini and Malfoy spoke at the same time, shooting each other murderous glares. Neither would yield.
Soon, Nott, Avery, Marcus, Carrow, Parkinson, and others all pledged their support. The momentum was overwhelming. No one dared oppose Tom openly.
As for those who might resist in secret—Tom already had a solution. Lady Greengrass would quietly discover which families had failed to send complaints to the Ministry. Slytherin numbers were small; it would be easy to investigate.
The room emptied quickly, leaving only Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, who were preparing to write to their parents as well. But Tom stopped them.
"You don't need to. I've already written to your mother. Parra's delivered the letters."
The sisters exchanged a glance and relaxed.
When class was about to begin, a storm of owls burst forth from the Owlery, carrying letters by the dozens. Slytherin students returned from posting them with smug grins plastered across their faces.
Tom had spoken to their hearts. Slytherin had been quiet for too long. Now, they would oust a professor—not just to purge incompetence, but as a warning to Dumbledore himself: Slytherin House is not to be underestimated.
Every student who took part felt a surge of pride, as if they had contributed to a great cause. Their letters spared no exaggeration. The more damning, the better.