Evening arrived as promised.
The dome of the Ministry Atrium was brightly lit by countless floating candlesticks, their flames several times brighter than usual, making the entire hall as bright as day.
The temporary platform in the center of the main hall was now complete, its surface covered with dark blue velvet, and several slender silver pillars stood at the four corners.
Several fist-sized magic light bulbs were supported atop the pillars, and light shone through them, illuminating everything on the stage in exquisite detail.
A thin rope was strung around the front of the stage, with a bronze plaque that read "Media Area" hanging from it. After being enchanted, the plaque floated in mid-air and slowly rotated, flashing dazzlingly.
After the news spread that morning, reporters from all over Great Britain swarmed over as if a hornet's nest had been stirred up.
Six people from The Daily Prophet arrived. Besides Rita Skeeter herself, who sat in the best seat in the center of the first row, the intern reporter named Creech was seated in a corner of the second row.
Four authors from The Witch Weekly also showed up, crowding into the left-hand row.
Three people from " The Witch's Home " came; they were not only reporters, but also Lockhart fans.
The seats at the back of the main hall, originally reserved for ordinary listeners, were all full. Those who arrived late had to stand on both sides of the aisle, making the main hall extremely crowded.
A buzz of discussion filled the hall, ranging from "What exactly is Fudge going to say?" to "Who will compensate for the losses in Diagon Alley?" to "Who exactly is that masked man?", each topic more outrageous than the last.
"What do you think Fudge will be able to say this time?"
"I don't know, but if he can't come up with something substantial, he can expect to be ousted tomorrow."
"I'm more concerned about that man in the trench coat. Did you guys read the supplement this noon? The one Rita wrote."
"I've read it, and what I've written makes a lot of sense. Who knows what someone's purpose is if they don't even dare to show their face?"
"But at least they saved people and put out the fire. What about you? Where were you then?"
"I... I don't live in Diagon Alley!"
Similar arguments rose and fell throughout the main hall until, at exactly seven o'clock in the evening, the side door of the Ministry Atrium was opened.
All eyes turned to that direction at the same time.
Fudge walked ahead, wearing a dark purple robe with a silver Ministry of Magic crest pinned to his collar.
He was accompanied by two assistants, one holding a folder and the other carrying a silver-green magic lamp with a cold white flame flickering inside.
Fudge walked slowly up the platform, stood on the high-backed chair in the center, and then turned around to face the hundreds of eyes staring at him from below.
He cleared his throat and moved the magic lamp with the Sonorus closer to his mouth.
The main hall fell silent.
"Everyone."
Fudge's voice came through the loudspeaker and echoed throughout the hall.
"Thank you all so much for coming to the Ministry of Magic tonight."
"I know there are many questions about what happened in Diagon Alley."
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the reporters below the stage who were desperately pushing their way forward.
"However, first of all, I have some very regrettable news to share."
Everyone's expression tightened.
Someone in the audience muttered quietly, "Could something have happened to one of the masters?"
On stage, Fudge's expression was one of deep sorrow. "That is, all the honors Gilderoy Lockhart received were fake."
As soon as he finished speaking, the main hall fell silent for a moment, as if someone had sucked all the air out of the hall for a second.
Then, with a loud bang, the pot below exploded.
"What?!"
"All the honors are fake? What do you mean?"
" Merlin's beard, I told you that book was true!"
" Lockhart's adventures... were all made up?"
"He's a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class! And a five-time winner of The Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award!"
"So what? That book says he couldn't even handle Cornish Pixies!"
Rita Skeeter sat in the center of the first row, her Quick-Quotes Quill pen hovering in mid-air, looking as if she had been punched in the face.
Her expression shifted from anticipation to surprise and embarrassment within seconds.
Just this afternoon, in that supplementary article, she compared Lockhart to that man in the trench coat, implying to readers, "Whom should we believe?"
Now Fudge is telling her directly that Lockhart, whom she used as a benchmark, is a complete fraud.
The female reporter in the round hat next to her turned her head and glanced at her, her lips twitching slightly, but she didn't say anything.
In the back row of the main hall, several witches dressed in pink robes sat there, their faces looking as if they had been Petrificus Totalus and nailed to their seats.
One of the young witches, with a ponytail, suddenly had tears in her eyes. She was clutching a copy of Lockhart's " Weekends with Werewolves " in her hand, the gold-embossed name on the spine gleaming in the candlelight.
"Impossible..." she whispered, "This can't be..."
Her companion gripped her arm, her voice strained. " Fudge is talking nonsense! Professor Lockhart could never..."
But her voice trailed off, for Fudge's next words silenced all their objections.
Lockhart has never defeated a Werewolf, never banished a banshee, and never walked with a Yeti in the mountains.
Fudge's voice steadily drowned out the noise below.
"All his books were created by him using the Memory Charm to erase the memories of other unknown wizards, then writing their experiences into his own books, and finally using the Memory Charm to make those original owners forget what they had done."
A collective gasp filled the main hall.
"He appropriated other people's honors, other people's adventures, and other people's lives for himself."
Fudge added another sentence, his tone carrying a perfectly measured sorrow.
The reporters in the audience went crazy.
The Quick-Quotes Quill danced wildly across the parchment, each one sparking with speed.
Rita's pen hovered in mid-air for several seconds before finally falling back down. Her face turned pale and then flushed, and she felt a burning sensation on her cheeks.
Fudge raised his hands and pressed them down. "Quiet, please be quiet."
He repeated it three times before the noise in the main hall gradually subsided.
But the expressions on the reporters' faces said it all; they looked at Fudge like a pack of three-day-starved hounds eyeing a piece of fresh meat.
After Fudge and the others had completely quieted down, he continued to speak.
"Upon receiving this information, our Ministry of Magic launched an investigation immediately."
"Through the extraction and analysis of Lockhart's own memories, we discovered an even more disturbing fact."
He paused, drawing everyone's attention to his next sentence.
" Lockhart, due to his weakness and weak will, was controlled by the remnant soul of Tom Riddle."
The main hall erupted in chaos once again.
" You-Know-Who?!"
"The remnant soul of You-Know-Who?!"
" Merlin's beard... it's that You-Know-Who again!"
"Is it the diary written in that book?"