Rita Skeeter's office door was ajar.
He knocked on the door, and a lazy voice came from inside. "Come in."
He handed her the manuscript, and Rita took it and flipped through it. Her eyes swept quickly across the paper, and her fingers turned the pages slowly, as if she was pondering something.
After reading the last line, she put the manuscript on the table, looked up at him, and had a slight smile on her lips.
"Well written."
Creech was secretly delighted.
"But something's missing."
"What?"
"A bombshell." Rita picked up the manuscript and waved it around. "You wrote it in great detail, but it's too conventional."
"Readers don't want a flat, straightforward narrative; they want something that will make their eyes widen. As a senior editor, I'll revise it for you, and you'll see when the time comes."
Creech was somewhat taken aback when he took the manuscript.
A righteous man in a trench coat stepped forward to save people in danger—isn't that sensational enough?
Diagon Alley was half burned down, a You-Know-Who fought with the masked guy, and even Dumbledore showed up. Normally, this kind of scene would make the front page for three days straight, and she actually said it lacked a juicy element?
But he didn't ask any further questions. Rita was a legend in the journalism world; if she said she wanted to make changes, she must have her reasons.
He took the manuscript back to his workstation, a secret anticipation creeping into his heart as he wondered how this legendary figure would revise his article.
At noon, the supplement to the Daily Prophet was officially released.
As usual, the owls flapped their wings and flew into every house, dropping the still-smelling newspaper on the windowsills, dining tables, and steps of every wizard's home.
On the Diagon Alley, a wizard picked up a newspaper that had fallen from the sky, unfolded it, and glanced at it. His expression first showed confusion, then turned to astonishment.
At the Leaky Cauldron, Tom spread a newspaper on the bar counter, and several customers gathered around to read it.
But then no one spoke; the area around the bar was so quiet that only the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace could be heard.
The title is very simple, just one line.
Is the mysterious man in the trench coat really a so-called champion of justice?
The first author is Rita Skeeter, and the second author is the middle-aged wizard Creech.
The article doesn't spend much time describing the specific details of the battle, and the fact that the masked man saved a mother and daughter is only briefly mentioned.
The majority of the article focuses on two things.
First, the masked man is Parseltongue, " and "having an unknown identity."
The second item is all the honors Gilderoy Lockhart has received to date: the Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Anti-Dark Magic League; and five-time winner of the Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.
The article juxtaposes these two events and concludes with a profound statement.
"When an unidentified, powerful wizard fluent in Parseltongue appears in the ruins of Diagon Alley, confronting a renowned wizard with the Order of Merlin and an honorary member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, who should we believe?"
When someone who has never shown their face, never given any interviews, and never explained their background appears in the public eye as a "messenger of justice," shouldn't we ask, who exactly is they? What do they want to do?
" Professor Lockhart's honors are recognized by the Wizarding World and are recorded in the history of Wizarding World honors."
"And we know nothing about the masked gentleman except for a fox mask and a black trench coat."
"Perhaps he is righteous."
"We thank everyone who lent a helping hand during this crisis."
"But we should also proactively consider whether someone who is unwilling to show their true face is truly motivated by a desire to help, or if they have ulterior motives?"
After finishing reading the newspaper, the wizard on the ruins of Diagon Alley looked up, his expression shifting from astonishment to an indescribable hesitation.
Inside the Leaky Cauldron, an old wizard in worn robes put down his newspaper, frowned, and muttered, "This actually makes some sense."
"What makes sense?" the person next to him asked.
"Think about it, we really don't know who that masked person is."
"Why does he always seem to be at the exact spot where something happens? How does he know Lockhart will set fire to Diagon Alley?"
"You mean he's in cahoots with Lockhart?"
"I didn't say that. I just said that what Rita wrote wasn't entirely without merit."
Of course, a small number of people who personally experienced the events in Diagon Alley also spoke out to refute the Daily Prophet's claims.
But their numbers were like a grain of sand in the ocean compared to the entire Wizarding World, and their voices were immediately met with numerous rebuttals:
"Then why do you think he always wears a mask?"
"If he has a clear conscience, why doesn't he dare to show his true colors?"
Why is he always able to appear where things happen?
"Is it possible that he started the fire? Lockhart came to the rescue?"
For a time, those who experienced the Diagon Alley incident were constantly harassed and questioned by others.
The supplement circulated throughout the Wizarding World; everyone was discussing it, and everyone was speculating.
The already vague facts have been further embellished and made even more confusing.
In that spacious editor's office, Rita Skeeter had her feet propped up on the corner of the table, a glass of red wine in her hand, and a satisfied smile on her lips.
No one noticed that in a corner of the editorial office, Creech placed the supplement with his name on it on the table and stared at the bold black headline on the front page for a long time.
He didn't know whether he should be happy or sad.
His name appeared on the front page for the first time, though after Rita's name, and in a smaller font.
His article was published in print for the first time, although it was difficult to discern much of his original writing style.
But I've been down on my luck for five years, and today my article finally made it to the front page, what more could I ask for?
Creech shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh and sat back down in his cramped spot.
I could hear the chatter of my colleagues who had just joined the editorial department:
"What do you think that man in the trench coat's purpose is?"
"Hiding things like that, huh? What kind of good person could they be?"
"Perhaps he has some scheme in mind too? Powerful people are never unambitious, like Dumbledore..."
"Shh, keep your voice down, don't say things like that in public..."
Perhaps because Creech's location was too secluded and cramped, his two newly arrived colleagues didn't notice him.
Creech listened to their conversation, then looked at his own report, which Rita had completely altered.
"My own" article did indeed make the front page, and my own name did indeed appear on the front page.
But is this really what I want?
He recalled the figure in the purple sea of fire in Diagon Alley yesterday afternoon, the man's miraculous arrival as he landed in front of the mother and daughter, his trench coat billowing wildly, and the awe-inspiring scene of all the flames making way for him.
Why must we assume the worst of everyone?
When did standing up for justice become a tool for attacking others?
Justice should not be distorted so easily, or at least not so hastily...
Creech exhaled the stale air, his gaze hardening. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write:
To Mr. Dumbledore...