Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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Slytherin Dungeon

The common room was buzzing when Tom walked in. Students clustered in groups, chattering excitedly about what had just happened. The moment they saw him, people scrambled to their feet.

"Tom! What did Dumbledore say?"

"I heard the Head of House went too, so it should be fine."

"That Lockhart is useless. Honestly, he had it coming."

"Trying to buy your dragon for five thousand Galleons? What a joke."

The voices overlapped in a noisy jumble until Tom raised a hand. The room fell quiet. He glanced around, then spoke to the few students standing closest.

"Get Carrow, Flint, and..... to wait here in the common room. I'll join you once I'm done."

Tom left and stepped into his own dorm.

"Pala," he called.

With a pop, the house-elf appeared. "Master Riddle."

Tom pulled out two sheets of parchment and, with a flick of magic, began to write at a speed no quill could manage by hand. In moments, both letters were done—one sealed with the Greengrass family crest, the other slipped into a gold-trimmed envelope along with a "WhatsApp" notebook, then bound with a Fidelius Charm.

"This one goes to Lady Greengrass. The other—she'll forward it to France. The magic signature will guide the owl."

"Yes, Master Riddle."

Pala accepted them with great care and vanished with a faint crack.

Tom stayed seated for a moment, thinking things over. Once he was sure there were no loose ends, he got up and returned to the common room.

By now, the place was even more crowded. The people he'd asked for earlier had all arrived.

"No need for small talk—you all know what happened earlier."

Tom strode to his chair and sat, his voice steady and deliberate. "Dumbledore docked me a hundred points. I'll get those back sooner or later. But that's not the issue. The issue is that I've lost all patience with Lockhart."

He let his gaze sweep across the crowd. "Your families are either part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight or well-placed in the upper ranks of wizarding society."

Several students straightened automatically, wearing faint, self-satisfied smiles.

It wasn't empty flattery. Slytherin was a lot like a Muggle-world corporate elite—few held ministry positions, but with their vast resources, their influence over the Ministry was undeniable. Lucius Malfoy was the perfect example, though most were less flashy about it.

"You've all seen Lockhart's 'teaching' this past week. The man's a walking disaster. Carrow—" Tom turned to a fourth-year boy. "Heard you played a troll in class last week. How'd that go?"

Carrow shrugged helplessly. "Pretty sure I was playing a stone, not a creature. Otherwise, how else could I have stood there dumb enough for Lockhart to hit me with a fifteen-second incantation?"

The common room burst into laughter.

"And you, Avery. I heard your 'Lockhart's Personal Interests' quiz only got two right. You were called out in class and lost five points."

Avery's grin was downright predatory. "Tom, you did today what I've been wanting to do for days. Shame I wasn't there to see it."

Tom arched a brow. "So everyone has a bit of a grudge against him. And even if we set aside personal grudges—his teaching is a waste of your time."

His voice grew sharper. "Especially for you, fifth- to seventh-years… The Examination Authority doesn't care about professor quality. They only test to Ministry standards."

Visibly, several older students' faces darkened. Even with family connections, they still needed a respectable transcript before strings could be pulled. This year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class was a write-off; they'd have to teach themselves.

"I'll be direct," Tom said, pushing himself to his feet. "I've had enough of this clown. Whether for my sake or for your education, he cannot stay at Hogwarts."

"I've been here two years. Look at the people Dumbledore hires as professors. And you've all just… tolerated it?"

"It's time we remind Dumbledore—and the Ministry—what Slytherin can do."

"Anyone who's with me, start writing home now. Get your family to put pressure on the Ministry. Don't bother sending complaints straight to the school; Dumbledore's a master at sweeping things under the rug."

"And if you're not with me…" Something flashed in his pupils—a flicker of a dragon's silhouette, a spark of lightning. The weight of his gaze made guts drop.

"…then you're my enemy. Don't let me catch you slipping up. I've got an excellent memory—ten years, twenty years from now, I'll still remember exactly who you are."

Several Slytherins who'd quietly resented him froze as if he'd been looking straight at them.

"I'll write to my grandfather now," Rosier said immediately, standing tall.

"Me too!" Zabini and Malfoy blurted at the same time, glaring daggers at each other afterward.

One by one—Nott, Avery, Flint, Carrow, Parkinson—they all joined in. It spread like a wave, and in that tide, nobody dared openly oppose Tom.

As for anyone trying to hold out in secret—Lady Greengrass could simply check which complaints the Ministry didn't receive. Slytherin wasn't big; it would be an easy list to compile.

Soon the common room emptied. Daphne and Astoria moved to leave to tell their parents, but Tom stopped them.

"No need—you're covered. I already wrote to your mom through Pala."

The sisters nodded and let it go.

---

By the time class was about to start, a storm of owls was swooping out of the Owlery. Slytherins came back to lessons looking downright cheerful.

Tom's speech had struck a nerve—Slytherin had been quiet for too long. For them, forcing out a professor was a statement to Dumbledore: "We're not to be trifled with."

Each student involved wrote their letters as scathing as possible, with the solemn satisfaction of someone 'contributing to the cause.'

It wasn't long before the castle was buzzing with gossip. So when Tom appeared in History of Magic that afternoon, the Hufflepuffs could hardly focus (not that they ever did). On average, someone turned around to sneak a glance at him every minute.

Hannah, who was on friendly terms with Tom, took advantage of a moment when Professor Binns had his head buried in his notes to twist around in her seat.

"Tom, do you know how miserable Lockhart is right now?"

Tom curled his lip. "I was the one who did it. You think I don't know? Madam Pomfrey probably won't be able to patch him up for days."

"But you only whipped him a few times! Some students sneaked in to take a look—Lockhart looks like he's been run through a meat grinder. The wounds won't even close," Hannah whispered in awe.

Superficial injuries were nothing in the wizarding world—dab on some dittany, wrap it up with a bandage, and a few hours later you wouldn't even have a scar.

What Hannah didn't know was that Tom had laced the whip with a jolt of lightning magic. Right now, Lockhart was probably itching and tingling so badly he'd rather be dead. Before the wounds could heal, Madam Pomfrey would have to strip away the magical effects first—something far trickier than mending torn skin.

Susan turned around too, her round face full of regret.

"Tom, you could've just gone for the body. Lockhart's only redeeming quality was his face, and now that's gone too."

"The lashes on his face were mine," Daphne announced proudly, lifting her chin. "What's so great about some old guy's face anyway? If you want to look at someone, just look at my Tom."

Hannah and Susan instinctively nodded, their eyes drawn to Tom's fair, handsome features. Two seconds later, they both flushed and looked away.

Susan joked, "That's different. Tom's yours—we can't just stare at him. Lockhart might be worse in comparison, but at least he's public property."

That comment made Daphne beam. She immediately pulled out some candy and shared it with Susan and Hannah. By the time Professor Binns glanced up, the girls had already whipped back around, all practiced innocence.

For the rest of the day, every professor and student who looked Tom's way had the same peculiar expression—a mix of admiration and fear. A few of Lockhart's fangirls were furious, but they didn't dare do more than glare in secret. They knew Tom might just string them up for a whipping too.

It was insane: he'd publicly beaten a professor until he was seeing stars.

And yet Slytherin only lost a hundred points, and Tom's punishment was a month's detention—with Snape supervising, no less. Might as well have been no punishment at all.

Who knew how Lockhart would react once he came to?

— — —

At Greengrass House, Lady Greengrass rushed back from the Ministry the moment she received Pala's message.

She first chose the sturdiest owl she owned and sent off a letter to France, then finally opened the one Tom had sent her.

Halfway through reading it, her brows drew together in a deep frown.

"Utter nonsense. Has Dumbledore gone completely senile? Any random fool can be a professor now? Might as well cancel the DADA class altogether."

She'd never been fond of Dumbledore, and this only deepened her dislike for the meddlesome old man who ignored what he should handle and stuck his nose into what he shouldn't.

If he truly cared about the wizarding world, why hadn't he acted when the Dark Lord first rose? Why hide away in Hogwarts and let Death Eater ideology spread unchecked?

If, back then, he'd taken a clear stand against Voldemort, would the pure-blood families have dared to openly pick a side? They'd have kept their heads down like everyone else.

And what business was it of his to meddle in the students' beliefs? Hiring a fraud as a professor—wasn't the headmaster's job supposed to be making sure students learned magic, got good marks, and landed decent jobs afterward?

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Following Tom's suggestion, she began writing letters to other members of the Board of Governors and digging into Lockhart's movements during the timeframes mentioned in his books.

As head of the Department of Magical Transportation, she might not have access to records for Apparition or Knight Bus travel, but Floo Network use, Portkey logs, and international travel were all registered.

If the records didn't match Lockhart's supposed adventures, there were only two possibilities: either his books were lies, or he'd crossed borders illegally.

He could pick his own crime.

Her letters to the other board members weren't part of Tom's plan—this was her own addition. She felt Dumbledore had gone too far. The previous teachers might have had their quirks, but at least they could teach. Students learned something, however spotty.

Quirrell and Lockhart, though? Utter rubbish.

What was this supposed to mean? Targeting her daughter just because she was a Greengrass?

Even if the board couldn't actually remove Dumbledore, they could make his life miserable for a while. Two could play that game.

One by one, owls flew out from the manor. Other Slytherin parents, having received letters of complaint from their own children, were equally furious.

Whatever their backgrounds or political leanings, all parents loved their children—and for the pure-blood families, whose bloodlines were so carefully guarded, that love was even fiercer. They spoiled their children, but they also wanted them to grow into powerful wizards.

When it came to education, even Dumbledore would find no room for compromise.

— — —

The next day.

Dolores Umbridge arrived at the Minister's floor in the Ministry of Magic as usual, heading into her little domain.

At this point she wasn't any kind of high-ranking official, just Fudge's secretary, stuck writing speeches, sorting correspondence, and other tedious chores.

"Bloody hell!"

She'd just poured herself a cup of tea when suddenly... the office door slammed open.

A flock of owls burst in, each clutching a bright red envelope. They dumped the lot on her desk and bolted.

And at that moment, staring at the mountain of Howlers, Umbridge knew… she fucked up

Before she could do anything, the letters activated.

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