Chapter 59 — The Script of Legends
The night had deepened over Hogwarts, the moonlight silvering the towers and turrets like quiet brushstrokes of time.
Inside his circular office, Albus Dumbledore sat with parchment scattered across his desk — some official, some personal, and one, distinctively bound, with Ron Weasley's handwriting on it.
He had already read it days ago — the parchment version.
Every word had been devoured with growing fascination and a rare, almost nostalgic warmth.
It wasn't simply the quality of the story that struck him.
It was the structure, the weight of emotion, the rhythm of heroism and sacrifice interwoven into a tale of magic and valour that no ten-year-old should have been capable of composing.
When he'd reached the cliffhanger ending, he'd chuckled quietly.
Ron Weasley, of all boys, had managed to do what hundreds of grown writers failed at — leaving an old Headmaster wanting more.
He had placed the parchment aside then, meaning to revisit it later.
But tonight, another envelope lay before him.
A crisp paper copy — Muggle-made, thinner and smoother — sent by Bishop.
Dumbledore smiled faintly as he turned it over, recognising the mechanical neatness of Muggle duplication.
So Bishop had taken Ron's parchment and reproduced it with his strange, electricity-fed contraption.
How curious, he thought. A Squib who trusted in machinery more than charms — yet handled wizarding affairs with more precision than most who had wands.
He opened the letter attached to it.
Headmaster,
I've made a paper copy for safekeeping and attached the boy's latest requirements list. You'll find them most unusual, but he's set on this. I've also forwarded the details to Director Bones for transparency.
— Bishop.
Dumbledore's eyes softened.
He'd met many Squibs in his long years — some bitter, others withdrawn — but Bishop was neither.
He was pragmatic, sharp, and unfailingly loyal to his purpose.
For a moment, Dumbledore thought of him not as a Squib, but as something rarer — a bridge between two worlds.
The parchment had carried imagination.
The paper carried faith.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, gaze shifting toward the half-burned candle beside Fawkes' perch.
The phoenix rustled, emitting a soft, melodic hum.
"Trustworthy," Dumbledore murmured aloud. "Utterly trustworthy."
He smiled slightly, tapping the script's edge with his wand. The quill nearby began transcribing Bishop's enclosed notes automatically.
The attached list was concise but astonishing.
Production Requirements (As specified by R. Weasley):
1) Ten magical cameras — fully operational around ambient magic, each rune-linked for simultaneous recording.
2) Reliable sound-capturing devices unaffected by magical interference.
3) A full musical orchestra, capable of adapting magical resonance into harmony.
4) An enclosed filming compound, roughly 100 acres, protected by muggle-repelling wards and Ministry-observed boundaries.
5) On-site quarters for workers — magically hidden, safe, and fairly paid.
6) At least three hundred extras trained in:
• Swordsmanship
• Transfiguration
• Dueling
• Potions
• Healing
7) Separate warded chambers for costume design and prop enchantment.
8) Storage halls for armour, robes, and enchanted weapon replicas.
9) Access to trained horses (Muggle or magical) for medieval sequences.
10) Regular communication lines between the studio, Bishop's office, and Hogwarts via owl-post or Floo-authorisation.
The letter ended with Ron's familiar, straightforward tone —
"We'll need the space and staff before I can even begin casting. It has to feel real, or it won't work. I trust Bishop to handle logistics."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "He trusts Bishop."
He folded his hands beneath his chin.
At ten years old, most children trusted their parents, their teachers, or perhaps a few friends. But Ron… trusted the one man who couldn't use magic — yet could make things happen in the real world.
A wise choice, Dumbledore thought.
Power wasn't always about spellwork — sometimes it was about execution.
Far away, Bishop was working late under the dim glow of an office lamp, the smell of warm paper and toner filling the small study.
The photocopier hummed softly beside him — a sturdy, Muggle-built machine he'd acquired years ago from a London auction.
It had seen more magic-related documents than any spellbound quill.
He fed another stack of pages into it.
The machine blinked, scanned, and out came two crisp duplicates of Ron's script and Dumbledore's authorisation forms.
The first he kept in a locked metal drawer.
The second, he sealed inside a Ministry envelope and signed across the seam before sending it to Amelia Bones through the secured Squib Courier Network.
The process wasn't magical — it was meticulous.
But that was Bishop's way.
Director Amelia Bones received the packet the next day, her brows arching as she skimmed through the accompanying summary.
She didn't read the script fully — that wasn't her jurisdiction — but she did read Bishop's note.
"This isn't just about movies, Madam Bones. The boy's plan merges art and enchantment. It could soften the fear Muggles have of us. It could, for once, tell them our story on their screens."
She leaned back, thoughtful.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had handled rogue spellcasters, dark creatures, smuggling, and theft — but cinematic fusion? That was new territory altogether.
Still, Bishop was dependable. If he vouched for this, she'd at least let Dumbledore handle the philosophical side.
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Dumbledore placed the paper copy beside the parchment one on his desk.
The two versions looked almost identical — one old-fashioned, one modern — yet together, they symbolised exactly what Ron Weasley represented: a child straddling eras, blending myth and mechanism.
His gaze softened as he thought of the boy.
Ron didn't know how much change he had already set in motion.
He whispered softly, "So young… and yet already walking a path even older men avoid."
Fawkes tilted his head, letting out a long, low note that reverberated through the room like the echo of a coming dawn.
By late evening, Bishop's follow-up report arrived via owl.
Professor,
The boy's requested name for the production company is "Legendary Pictures."
He says to Muggles, magic is something from legends. So we should be Legendary.
He even designed a logo — circular crest, gold-lined, divided into four arcs — almost like a coin or seal. Rather elegant, actually.*
— Bishop
Attached was the 2019-style emblem, sketched in Ron's neat, forward-slanting handwriting — a silhouette of a globe behind the word "LEGENDARY," its arcs forming a perfect pattern of symmetry and mystery.
Dumbledore turned it in his hand, faintly amused.
It looked so polished, so timeless, that even a century from now it would not feel out of place.
He wondered — not for the first time — how a boy his age could think in such long timelines.
Later that night, he penned a short message back to Bishop:
Proceed with the organizational preparations. The land, the contracts, the wards. Discreetly, of course. The Ministry will cooperate once Madam Bones has reviewed the practicalities. Ensure that the boy's creative freedom is preserved. He must not feel shackled by bureaucracy.
— A.P.W.B. Dumbledore
He signed it with a flourish and watched as the parchment burned to silver dust, the phoenix fire carrying it away.
Bishop, upon receiving the message the next morning, whistled lowly and began writing new memos.
He listed out the land parcels near Somerset and northern Devon that could be hidden behind charm-wards.
He arranged for building licenses through Muggle channels.
He sent an update to Amelia Bones, outlining that preparations had begun — and attached Ron's requirements once more, annotated with feasibility notes.
Ron's vision was enormous, but so was his sincerity.
Bishop found himself quietly proud — the kind of pride that didn't need applause.
That evening, back at Hogwarts, Dumbledore looked out over the castle grounds from his tower window.
The moonlight gleamed off the lake's still surface, and the faint laughter of students drifted from the distant common rooms.
The world was changing — quietly, imperceptibly — through the hands of a boy not yet old enough for Hogwarts robes.
"Legendary Pictures…" Dumbledore repeated softly, rolling the words on his tongue like a prophecy yet unspoken.
The firelight flickered against his half-moon spectacles.
"Yes," he murmured finally, a slow smile touching his lips.
"That seems… rather fitting."
Fawkes trilled once more — a note of agreement, bright and timeless.