Chapter 56 — Dreams Woven in Celluloid and Magic
The frost had just begun to thin by the time the first quiet rumors reached Hogwarts and the Ministry alike — whispers of something Dumbledore himself had set in motion. Not a law, not a reform, but a… proposal. And at the center of it all, like the calm eye of a storm, was the youngest Weasley boy who had somehow managed to make the academic world dance to his tune without even setting foot in school yet.
Dumbledore's office smelled faintly of lemon drops and ink, parchment curling at the edges under the weight of his half-written letters. The Headmaster's blue eyes flickered from one document to another — Ministry liaisons, Gringotts' terms of investment, a discreet reply from Bishop Bones.
Each letter reflected a different world.
Each reply, a different kind of resistance.
Amelia Bones' handwriting was blunt as her tone:
"Albus, if this Weasley boy intends to involve both governments in any kind of cooperative venture, I expect written proof of supervision. The last thing we need is an incident involving Muggle secrecy or misuse of funds."
The goblins, naturally, had been more clinical:
"Wizarding entertainment is not a stable market, nor is Muggle involvement considered fiscally prudent. However, if Weasley proposes long-term contracts with magical artisans and unemployed wizards, we are open to negotiation — at a price."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, eyes glimmering with a kind of quiet amusement.
So it begins, he thought.
Far away, in the sun-warmed manor of Bishop Bones, the old man's study looked as though a tornado of paperwork had passed through it. Newspapers — both magical and Muggle — were scattered across his oak desk. A television hummed quietly in the corner, its antenna bent at an odd angle as static danced over the image of a man in a brown coat talking about Hollywood budgets.
Bishop rubbed his temples, muttering, "What in Merlin's name is that boy trying to do… films? In our world?"
Across from him, Ron Weasley was sketching something on a large sheet of paper. His hair, slightly longer now, caught the sunlight that filtered through the window. There was something oddly serene about him — a quiet precision that didn't belong to a child. His strokes were quick but deliberate, like he already knew what the future would look like.
Bishop broke the silence first.
"Ronald, my boy… you understand that electronics and magic repel each other, don't you? Cameras, televisions — even a simple radio starts to fizz if brought near a magical field."
Ron looked up, unbothered. "I know. But there has to be a way around it. I've seen what Muggles can do with their inventions — how they tell stories, how they create entire worlds that make people believe. Wizards don't understand that yet."
Bishop frowned, arms crossed. "Even if we could bridge that gap, who do you plan to ask for help? This isn't a small project. You'd need engineers, charm experts, maybe even foreign licenses. That's not something Hogwarts can fund."
Ron smiled faintly, the corners of his lips tilting up with that familiar spark of mischief. "Then I'll ask the one man who's already started talking to all the right people."
At the Ministry, Dumbledore was indeed doing just that — weaving diplomacy like a tapestry. He spoke softly but decisively, meeting Amelia Bones over tea in her office.
"He wants to create an avenue for wizarding unemployment," Dumbledore explained, his tone mild. "A production company, one that would employ squibs, struggling wizards, and even Muggle-borns. The young Weasley sees potential in storytelling — both magical and Muggle — as a means to bridge our worlds."
Amelia blinked. "You mean… like a theater troupe?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Something far more ambitious. Moving pictures, Amelia. Magic recorded and replayed, not through enchantments, but through… imagination."
She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerously idealistic."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, "and that is why I rather like it."
Meanwhile, across the Muggle side of Britain, Ron's ideas had begun attracting the wrong kind of attention — the powerful kind.
Not wizards. Not Ministry officials. But men and women who sat behind tinted car windows and polished conference tables, the kind who had long learned to profit from anything unusual.
Bishop, ever cautious, had arranged a discreet meeting with a few Squib investors in London. They were aware of magic — not entirely — but they were intrigued enough by the "young prodigy" with revolutionary ideas about cinema and immersive experience.
Ron sat quietly at the far end of the room as the adults discussed budgets, marketing, and public image. When they finally asked for his opinion, he simply said, "People love stories that make them believe in something greater. Muggles have Star Wars; wizards have The Tales of Beedle the Bard. What if both worlds learned to dream together?"
The room went silent.
The executives chuckled politely, brushing it off as childlike fantasy, but one of them — an older man with a keen eye — didn't laugh.
He leaned forward and asked, "And how would you make that happen, Mr. Weasley?"
Ron's answer was simple.
"I'll start by showing them magic — not the kind that breaks their world, but the kind that heals it."
A week later, Ron returned to Bishop's manor, tired but smiling faintly. He sat in the drawing room, flipping through a stack of old Muggle magazines. His mind was already spinning — ideas, concepts, ways to write a story that both worlds could understand.
Bishop entered, holding a letter sealed with Dumbledore's phoenix wax emblem. "He's begun the coordination," the old man said, passing it over. "He's even roped in Gringotts, though I doubt the goblins are thrilled."
Ron nodded, breaking the seal and scanning the neat cursive inside. Dumbledore's words were predictably careful — equal parts encouragement and warning.
"The bridges between worlds are fragile things, my boy. If you intend to walk them, tread lightly — and do so with truth, not power, as your ally."
Ron folded the letter with a sigh. "Truth," he murmured. "That's what every story needs."
He walked to the window, looking out at the evening sky. The clouds were tinted gold and violet, the sun dipping below the horizon like a curtain closing on one act and opening another.
He thought about Hogwarts — about his books, his duel, his ideas spreading faster than he could keep track. He thought about Ginny, humming to her new Muggle songs, and Bishop chuckling at his stubbornness. He thought about all the men behind those desks who didn't believe in magic, and the wizards who refused to believe in Muggles.
Then, quietly, he whispered to himself,
"If they can't see it, I'll make them feel it."
He picked up his quill and began jotting down lines — characters, settings, symbols. It wasn't a spell, not yet, but something deeper. A script born from memory and dream, from two lifetimes and two worlds. But nothing seemed to satisfy him.
Outside, Mr. Stark swooped down through the darkening sky, wings glowing faintly as the owl landed on the sill. A letter hung from his beak, bearing the golden seal of Hogwarts Astronomy Tower.
Ron's eyes lit up.
"Seems like Professor Sinistra's reply is here," Bishop said from behind him.
But Ron didn't answer.
His mind was already elsewhere — not on letters or permissions or politics, but on possibility.
The kind that could turn a story into a bridge.
And perhaps, one day, a bridge into peace.