Tom's words had struck a deep chord with them. Slytherin had been silent for far too long—now they would make their stand by driving out a professor, a warning to Dumbledore that they were not to be trifled with.
Every little wizard who took part felt the same odd sense of satisfaction, as if their letters were a civic duty—like soldiers smoking for national defense. However serious the matter, that was exactly how they wrote it in their letters.
By now, the entire castle was buzzing with the news. So when Tom appeared in the afternoon's History of Magic class, the Hufflepuffs couldn't concentrate at all (not that they usually did). At least once every minute, their eyes darted sideways to steal glances at him.
Hannah, who was on friendly terms with Tom, took the chance while Professor Binns was bent over his book to twist around in her seat.
"Tom, do you know how miserable Lockhart is right now?"
Tom gave a dismissive curl of his lip. "I was the one who thrashed him, of course I know. Madam Pomfrey won't be able to heal him for days."
"But you only gave him a few lashes!" Hannah whispered in awe. "Some students snuck in to see… Lockhart looks like he's been torn apart. His wounds aren't healing at all."
Ordinary cuts and bruises were nothing in the wizarding world. A bit of dittany, some bandages, and in a matter of hours there wouldn't even be scars left.
But Hannah didn't know the real reason. Tom had infused the whip with lightning—every wound still tingled and burned with magical agony. Lockhart must be suffering an itch and numbness beyond endurance. To even begin healing, Madam Pomfrey first had to dispel the magic coursing through his wounds, and that was far harder than fixing mere flesh.
Susan turned around too, her round face full of regret.
"Tom, you should've just beaten his body. Lockhart's only redeeming quality was his face. Now that's ruined too."
"Those marks on his face? I did those." Daphne lifted her little chin proudly. "What's so special about an old man's looks anyway? If you want to look at a handsome face, just look at Tom."
Hannah and Susan instinctively nodded, their eyes drifting toward Tom's pale, striking features—before their cheeks grew hot and they hurriedly looked away within seconds.
Susan joked, "That's different. Tom belongs to you, we can't just stare at him. Lockhart might be far worse, but at least he was public property."
Daphne beamed at the words, immediately handing out sweets to Susan and Hannah in delight. By the time Professor Binns lifted his head again, the girls had snapped back around with practiced speed.
For the rest of the day, whether it was professors or students, everyone's eyes lingered on Tom with an odd mix of admiration and fear. A few of Lockhart's fangirls were furious, of course—but none of them dared do more than glare secretly. No one wanted to be the next one dangling from a ceiling under Tom's whip.
It was madness. He had thrashed a professor unconscious in front of the entire school, and that professor was still lying in the hospital wing. Yet the only punishment was a hundred points off Slytherin and a month of detention with Snape—which was as good as no punishment at all.
The only question was—what would Lockhart say when he finally woke up?
…
At the Greengrass Manor, upon receiving Parra's urgent owl, Lady Greengrass had rushed back from the Ministry.
Her first act was to choose the sturdiest owl and send the enclosed letter winging its way toward France. Only then did she sit down to read Tom's own letter.
Halfway through, her brows knit tightly.
"Utter nonsense. Has Dumbledore truly gone senile? He lets any random fraud take a professor's chair?!"
Lady Greengrass had never been fond of Dumbledore, and this only made her disdain sharper. The meddlesome old man never managed the things he should, yet always poked his nose where it wasn't wanted.
If he truly cared for the wizarding world, why hadn't he acted when the Dark Lord first rose? Why had he hidden in Hogwarts while Death Eater ideology spread unchecked? If he had boldly stood against the Dark Lord then, would the pure-blood families have dared to throw in their lot with him? They would've tucked their tails and kept quiet.
But instead of handling that, he was busy meddling in "shaping students' ideology." And now—bringing in a fraud like Lockhart? A Headmaster's first duty was to make sure students learned magic properly, earned solid grades, and had a future. Not this nonsense.
The more she thought, the angrier she became. Following Tom's suggestion, she picked up her quill to write letters linking other governors together, while also beginning her own investigation into Lockhart's past travels.
As the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, she knew the basics: Apparition or Knight Bus left no records. But Floo Network, Portkeys, international travel? Those were all registered.
If Lockhart's movements didn't match the claims in his books, then there were only two possibilities: either he was lying in print—or he had been sneaking across borders illegally. Let him choose which crime he preferred.
Tom hadn't asked her to stir up the Board, but Lady Greengrass found Dumbledore's actions intolerable. Hogwarts' professors had always been eccentric, but at least they could teach. Quirrell and Lockhart? Utterly useless.
What was this? Some petty grudge against her daughter Astoria's admission?
Even with Dumbledore's reputation, the Board might not be able to unseat him—but they could certainly make him miserable for a while.
Annoying others? Two could play that game.
One by one, owls soared from Greengrass Manor carrying her fiery letters. Meanwhile, other Slytherin parents were receiving complaint-filled letters from their children. Almost every family was outraged.
Whatever their station or politics, the love parents had for their children was universal. For pure-blood families, where lineage was precious, that protectiveness was even stronger. They wanted nothing more than for their children to become accomplished witches and wizards.
So when education itself was at stake, even Dumbledore could expect no compromise.
…
The next morning.
Dolores Umbridge arrived at the first floor of the Ministry as usual, heading toward her domain—the Minister's Liaison Office. She wasn't yet a high-ranking official, merely Cornelius Fudge's secretary, responsible for drafting speeches, sorting letters, and other menial tasks.
She had just poured herself a cup of tea when the door burst open violently.
A great flock of owls swooped in, each carrying a fire-red envelope. Before the stunned Umbridge could react, the owls dropped the envelopes in a heap and fled in panic—afraid they might end up as someone's snack if they lingered.
She stared at the growing pile, bewildered—until realization struck. Her face paled.
Howlers.
Before she could take any action, the letters activated.
The next second, the Ministry exploded in deafening roars.