By early the next morning, the Ministry Atrium was already a hive of activity.
An Engorgement Charm had been cast on the hall's vaulted ceiling, and a space originally meant to hold two or three hundred people was packed with at least four or five hundred.
A stone platform about two feet high had been temporarily erected in the very center of the atrium. A high-backed chair stood on it, the Hogwarts crest carved into its back.
A thin rope encircled the platform, hung with brass signs reading "Press area," "Observation area," and "Guest area." The enchanted signs floated in midair, slowly rotating.
The front row of seats was reserved for reporters, and by now it was almost full.
Quick-Quotes Quills hovered in midair like a flock of little birds that had gone hungry for three days, waiting hungrily for the first speaker to open their mouth.
Rita sat in the very center of the front row, a brand-new notebook spread across her knees, its cover inlaid with a border of glittering gold enamel.
"Rita, you've really made a name for yourself this time," a female reporter in a round velvet hat beside her said, leaning over and lowering her voice.
"That piece, 'Dumbledore's True Face,' sent shockwaves through the entire Wizarding World. Even the newspapers over in Gaul are reprinting it."
Rita tilted her head slightly, a smug curve to her lips.
She raised a finger and gently brushed the carefully curled lock of golden hair at her temple.
"I only wrote a few things everyone knows but no one dares to put into print." She gave a laugh. "Hardly any great talent."
"How is that not talent?" The reporter in the round hat clicked her tongue enviously. "Do you know how many people in Diagon Alley are discussing that newspaper of yours right now?"
Rita lowered her head, pretending to straighten the edges of her notebook, but her smile deepened. "People can discuss it all they like, but someone has to stand up and say what's right and what's wrong. All I did-"
She raised her eyes and glanced toward the platform. "All I did was speak for those who didn't dare open their mouths."
Several reporters around her nodded, and someone picked up a Quick-Quotes Quill and hastily jotted down a few notes, as though intending to print Rita's "words of wisdom" verbatim in that evening's supplement.
An arched door at the side of the atrium was suddenly pushed open.
A tall man in dark gray robes entered, a silver badge pinned to his chest in the shape of a globe surrounded by olive branches-the emblem of the International Confederation of Wizards.
"Look over there." The reporter in the round hat nudged Rita with her elbow. "The people from the International Confederation of Wizards are here."
Two attendants followed the tall man, one male and one female, both wearing gray robes of the same shade, with a band of intricate runic patterns embroidered around their cuffs.
They went straight to the guest area and took their seats without exchanging pleasantries with anyone.
Immediately afterward, the door on the other side of the atrium opened as well.
Three elderly wizards in plum-colored robes filed in, the Wizengamot emblem embroidered on the fronts of their robes.
Leading them was a tall, thin old man with white hair and a white beard, leaning on a silver-handled walking stick and moving at an unhurried pace.
"The Wizengamot's here too," another reporter beside Rita said quietly.
"I hear those three are senior members, every one of them an old stickler famous for being utterly impartial."
A low murmur ran through the audience as the three Wizengamot members sat down.
Quite a few people craned their necks to look at them, as though hoping to read some clue in their faces.
But the three old men simply sat motionless, like three petrified statues.
When the small door beside the platform opened for the third time, three wizards in dark green robes emerged.
The one in the middle was slightly plump, his graying beard woven into a neat, short braid; on the left was a gaunt-faced elderly woman, and on the right a broad-shouldered middle-aged man.
"The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers," the reporter in the round hat whispered. "Damocles Belby, Horace Slughorn, Gilly Plunkett. All three of them."
As Slughorn reached the guest area, he paused, raised his head, and glanced toward the side corridor beside the platform, as though searching the crowd for a familiar face.
But he found nothing, so he withdrew his gaze and sat down.
Rita tilted her head and studied him for a moment, thoughtfully drew a circle in her notebook, then turned to a fresh page.
The Ministry of Magic contingent entered next.
Leading them was Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, followed by several deputy heads and clerks, each carrying a file of varying thickness.
"Madam Bones," someone in the crowd greeted her quietly. She gave a slight nod and walked straight to the foremost row of seats in the guest area, where she sat down.
"Where's the Minister?" someone asked in a hushed voice.
"Not here yet. He should be along soon."
The murmurs in the atrium rose and fell like successive waves washing ashore, occasionally mingled with the flutter of an owl's wings.
The restlessness in the crowd suddenly shifted as the two brass doors at the atrium's main entrance slowly slid apart.
Fudge stood in the doorway with four attendants in purple robes behind him, all expressionless and standing ramrod straight.
Fudge wore brand-new dark green robes with a silver-gray bow tie at his collar, his hair combed more neatly than usual.
But his complexion was noticeably poor, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and the smile at the corners of his mouth looked rather forced.
He stood in the doorway and took a deep breath before stepping inside.
"The Minister's here." Whispers rose throughout the crowd.
Fudge made an effort to straighten his back as he passed through the crowd. People nodded to him along the way, and he nodded back before taking the seat in the very center of the guest area.
Slughorn smiled at him, and the corners of Fudge's mouth barely moved.
"What, isn't Dumbledore here yet?" someone said.
The whispers in the atrium suddenly faded, as though someone had turned down a switch.
A few seconds later, the great clock above the main entrance gave a low, resonant chime.
The brass doors slid open again, and footsteps sounded from the corridor outside.
Dumbledore led the way, wearing deep purple robes, his silvery-white beard hanging to his chest. He held a curved wand in his right hand and walked with steady steps.
Professor McGonagall followed half a step behind him to his right. She had changed into dark green formal attire, her expression as stern as ever.
Flitwick walked beside McGonagall, small in stature but particularly conspicuous in the crowd.
Snape brought up the rear, wrapped tightly in black robes, giving slight nods to the members of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.
The moment the Hogwarts professors entered the atrium, the entire room abruptly fell quiet.
"Dumbledore's here," the reporter in the round hat breathed, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
Rita raised her head, her gaze passing over the bobbing heads in the rows ahead to settle on the white-bearded old man walking toward the platform.
Dumbledore walked at a leisurely pace. As he passed Fudge's row, he turned his head with a smile. "Cornelius, you look in fine spirits today."
Fudge looked as though he wanted to smile but could not quite manage it, and in the end merely gave an indistinct "Mm."
Without waiting for him to say anything more, Dumbledore continued toward the platform, the hem of his robes brushing the edges of the stone steps.
McGonagall and the other Hogwarts professors took seats near the front of the guest area.
Dumbledore came to a stop in the center of the platform, gently laid the wand in his hand on the armrest beside the chair, then turned to face all those waiting faces in the atrium, their necks craned.
His gaze slowly swept across the entire hall, and a gentle smile rose to his lips.
"Everyone," he said, "since we're all here, let us begin."