All morning long—even Professors Sprout and Flitwick, usually the kindest of the staff—taught their lessons with unusually stern faces. Clearly, none of the professors had yet recovered from the barrage of Howlers earlier that day.
As if to prove themselves nothing like the fraud that was Gilderoy Lockhart, they all taught with the energy of people injected with firewhisky. Each class covered nearly three lessons' worth of content, and their standards for students were stricter than ever.
Professor McGonagall's mouth practically never stopped moving, constantly correcting her students' wand movements, their strength, even their pronunciation. For a terrifying moment, Neville could have sworn he was looking at a female version of Professor Snape.
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore was massaging his ears, which were still ringing faintly.
"So this is young Riddle's method?" he mused, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I never thought I'd live to see the day Slytherins displayed such unity."
At this point, Dumbledore was still unaware of what had transpired at the Ministry that morning. It wasn't until that afternoon, when Cornelius Fudge himself arrived—bringing with him a representative of the Board of Governors—that the Headmaster realized Tom had orchestrated a full combination attack.
"Albus." Fudge greeted him warmly, shaking his hand, though his tone carried a hint of complaint. "You've really landed me in quite a mess this time."
Despite the words, there was no true anger in Fudge's eyes.
Once he had understood the situation—that Lady Greengrass and several other Slytherin parents had lodged formal complaints—his first reaction had been one of relief.
Good. It wasn't him they were targeting. The complaints were aimed at Dumbledore.
But relief aside, it was still a headache. These parents weren't just ordinary witches and wizards; they were major donors to the Ministry, pouring in hefty political contributions each year. Their voices could not be ignored.
On the other hand, Hogwarts was Dumbledore's domain. None of Fudge's predecessors had dared interfere with the Headmaster's choice of staff. In fact, Fudge's own rise to Minister had owed no small part to Dumbledore's public endorsement.
Right now, their relationship was still in its "honeymoon phase." Fudge respected Dumbledore deeply—and appreciated that the old wizard confined himself to Hogwarts, showing little interest in Ministry affairs. That balance kept the two men on good terms.
Fortunately, after a morning's worth of digging, Lady Greengrass had uncovered some key evidence. With that in hand, Fudge finally had enough confidence to bring along a school governor and confront the matter directly.
The governor who arrived was an elderly wizard. Not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but a Slytherin alumnus who owned numerous businesses. Twenty years ago, he had purchased a seat on the Board from a failing old family in order to raise his own social standing.
After the briefest of pleasantries, the governor laid a parchment flat on Dumbledore's desk, his face expressionless.
"Dumbledore. Out of respect for you, the Board has never interfered in your educational philosophy or in your decisions. But this time, your choice of professor has caused more than half the governors extreme dissatisfaction.
"This," he tapped the parchment, "is a notice jointly signed by eight governors. We remain courteous, but make no mistake—our patience is wearing thin.
"Our annual donations are not meant to fund charlatans. We expect greater prudence from you in your future appointments."
Dumbledore inclined his head gravely.
"I share your hope that the children receive the best education we can provide. But surely you must also understand my difficulties. Barak—if professors' salaries continue to stagnate, the Defense Against the Dark Arts post will become impossible to fill."
Governor Barak's lips twitched violently.
He had come here to deliver a rebuke—yet somehow, Dumbledore had turned it into a plea for more money.
"I will… relay your concerns to the others," Barak replied stiffly, resorting to delay tactics. Then he turned to Fudge. "Cornelius, shall we?"
"Go on, Barak. Don't forget the banquet in two days," Fudge said with an affable smile.
Once the governor had departed, Fudge collapsed into the chair opposite Dumbledore and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from his forehead.
"Albus, you do keep the fire blazing in here," he panted.
"Old age makes one prone to the chill," Dumbledore said serenely. "Indulge me."
"Of course, of course—one must take care of one's health."
Then Fudge leaned in, his voice dropping. "Albus, regardless of whether you find a replacement or not, Lockhart cannot remain. That man is… deeply problematic."
"Oh?" Dumbledore tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Has something been uncovered?"
"Not conclusive proof—yet," Fudge admitted. "But here's what we can confirm: in Voyages with Vampires, he outright fabricated part of his tale. The timeline of his supposed 'adventure' directly contradicts his actual schedule.
"During that period, he was still in Britain, meeting with the deputy editor of Witch Weekly about his book release. He never left the country at all."
"Originally, Madam Bones wanted the Ministry to issue a formal order of dismissal, but I stopped it." Fudge winked slyly. "I felt it would be more… proper, if the decision came from you, not the Ministry."
"Cornelius, your warning is invaluable," Dumbledore said gravely. "Very well. I shall suspend Lockhart's position pending the Ministry's investigation."
In truth, before power and politics had clouded his vision, Cornelius Fudge had been a shrewd, charming man—so charming, in fact, that even Dumbledore once considered him a trustworthy partner.
The conversation ended with Fudge satisfied, Dumbledore seemingly cooperative, and Lockhart's fate quietly sealed.
Two days later, Gilderoy Lockhart was fully healed. Madam Pomfrey wasted no time in throwing him out of the infirmary.
This man had lain in bed for days, doing nothing but shouting curses at Riddle or whining about his pain. She had nearly been tempted to pour a bottle of Draught of Living Death down his throat just for some peace and quiet.
"Riddle! You just wait!" Lockhart snarled as he stormed toward the door, his face twisted with rage. "I'll see you thrown into Azkaban!"
But by the time he pushed open the infirmary doors, he had schooled his features back into their usual charming smile.
Outside, however, a crowd of students had gathered—and among them stood two stern-faced middle-aged wizards.
As soon as Lockhart appeared, one of them raised a parchment and read aloud:
"Gilderoy Lockhart. You are hereby charged."
The wizard's voice rang out like a gavel.
"You stand accused of fraud, unlawful alteration of wizard memories, and three additional counts of magical misconduct."
The color drained from Lockhart's face. His legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor, limp as a rag.
"You… you coordinated this rather neatly," he stammered, eyes wide with disbelief.