Chapter 61 — The Making of a Legend
Mid-April, 1990
The morning mist hovered over the Hogwarts grounds like a whisper, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, pine, and magic. Ron Weasley, freshly turned ten a month prior, stood in the middle of what had been transformed into a battlefield from another era. Smoke curls from small controlled fires climbed into the dawn sky, illusions of distant villages burning, and towering scaffolds—constructed entirely of transfigured timber and enchanted stone—marked the perimeters of the set.
Bishop, perched on a small raised platform with a clipboard in hand, squinted through his spectacles at the scene. The Squib assistant director had been cautious, precise, almost comically meticulous about safety, but Ron had learned to trust his judgment.
"Cut!" Bishop shouted, his voice echoing across the grounds. "This isn't a rehearsal. I need authenticity. Gryffindor's arrival—he doesn't just stride; he commands the battlefield."
Ron, staring at the open expanse that stretched before him, felt a thrill of tension coil in his stomach. I am Gryffindor now. He had drunk the Age Enhancement Draughts earlier—a common, harmless mischief potion with a strict four-hour limit—and had become the eighteen-year-old hero of his own story. Though small hands and youthful features were beneath the surface, the potion lent him the stature, muscle tone, and presence necessary to fill the armor of legend.
He took a deep breath and lifted the script—a battered leather-bound copy he had kept for weeks, annotated, crossed out, and rewritten a dozen times. But it wasn't the words that would carry the performance; it was the living embodiment of the man.
And for that, Ron reminded himself, I have the System.
With a quiet thought, he activated the interface hidden in his mind. The world around him blurred momentarily; muscle memory, timing, breath control, and the nuances of speech surged forward from centuries of accumulated experience. Acting level: Grandmaster. Tier: thousand-year-old legend.
Immediately, a sharp backlash hit his body—a spasming, nauseous wave of fatigue and dizziness. He staggered slightly, clutching his chest, but a flicker of calm entered his mind. Madem Pomfrey had prepared for this. She was there, ever vigilant, with a small satchel of restorative potions, a charm for rapid cellular recovery, and a healing chant she murmured under her breath.
"Careful, Ronald," she said, adjusting his collar. Her eyes softened, but her tone remained firm. "You're not just a boy playing a man. You're a conduit. Your body will demand repayment. Breathe, center yourself. You can do this, but heed your limits."
Ron exhaled slowly, letting the magic of Pomfrey's potions flow through him. The pain and fatigue dulled, leaving only the essence of Gryffindor: the lion-hearted, the fearless, the tragic hero who bore his grief and rage in every movement. He smiled faintly at her.
"Thanks, Madem," he said. "I think I'm ready."
The first scene called for Gryffindor's arrival at Godstone. The army was assembled, five thousand strong—or rather, illusions of such numbers, supported by spell-projected doubles, moving silhouettes, and enchanted soundscapes. Trees bent away as if caught in a storm, the ground shimmered with lingering magical residue, and smoke curled upward from simulated villages in the distance. All the while, Ron walked alone, sword in hand, wand in the other, every step radiating authority and grief.
Behind the scenes, Dumbledore observed from a secluded balcony. His long fingers drummed lightly against the railing, his expression unreadable. He had seen many things—wars, duels, experiments with magic—but watching Ron was unlike anything else.
The boy is only ten, Dumbledore thought, and yet he moves with the precision, the weight, of a man who has carried lifetimes of loss and responsibility.
Dumbledore's journal entry, scratched hastily in a small notebook later that night, read:
"April 17, 1990. Witnessed the transformation of young Weasley. The potion, the Acting… it is remarkable, yet worrisome. I have never seen such focus in one so young. The child becomes the hero he admires. His mind seems older than the century itself. He will need care; I will ensure Pomfrey watches him like a hawk."
The camera—enchanted to float freely, follow movements, and shift angles on command—swiveled as Ron approached the makeshift crater. The wind whipped ash and dust into his hair. He paused, letting the aura of loss and rage settle in. The memory of Eadric, the boy torn apart by the Rite of Severance, surged through him. He felt the anger, the sorrow, the responsibility. Each step, each gesture, resonated with the audience that would one day witness it.
I am Godric, he thought. And I will carry this weight until the end of the reel.
Madem Pomfrey watched from the sidelines, wand at the ready. "He's learning to carry it," she muttered to herself, noting the slight slump of his shoulders that mirrored years of pain. Ten years old, and already the world leans on him as if he is eighteen, as if he has lived every injustice of the past century.
Meanwhile, Bishop muttered into his enchanted communication scroll, coordinating camera angles and magical effects. "Ensure the shadow projection here, the smoke here… yes, perfect. Cut the light in the northern quadrant. We need the ash to glow faintly, not too bright." He paused, frowning. "Ron, remember: walk slowly, feel the loss, carry the burden. Yes, better. Magnificent."
Filming continued in cycles. Hogwarts' courtyards were transformed into ruined villages. Hogsmeade outskirts became embattled outposts. Even the Scottish Highlands were magically transfigured into forests and highlands filled with phantom armies. The transfiguration charm allowed Bishop and his team to construct and dismantle sets in hours, maintaining safety without sacrificing realism.
Every day, Ron rehearsed, drank the potion for four-hour bursts, activated the Grandmaster of acting, and enacted scenes with precision no mortal ten-year-old could normally possess. Every scene ended with him drained, leaning against the nearest wall or tree, while Pomfrey administered restorative draughts, singing softly under her breath.
Remarkable, she noted quietly in her own diary.
"April 25, 1990. He surprises me daily. The combination of the draught and… whatever discipline he employs… allows him to embody Gryffindor as if he were eighteen, carrying centuries of battle knowledge. I must monitor him closely; he is pushing past normal bounds of growth, yet he remains centered. Calm. Astounding."
By mid-May, the editing team arrived. Most were Squibs trained in visual and magical editing arts. They worked under the protective gaze of Bishop, who insisted that no detail of the filming be revealed to outsiders. Only Ron knew the full scope: the Grandmaster's influence, the enhanced acting, the magic-infused props.
Ron's perspective, recorded in a personal note later:
"It's exhausting, but amazing. I am him. I am Gryffindor. I can feel his anger, his grief, his sense of justice. Every scene I shoot, I lose a little of myself in him. But it's worth it. Every shot, every spell, every swing of the sword… it matters. I just hope the world feels it the way I do."
Conversations between cast and crew often drifted to amazement, though none suspected the true reason for Ron's prowess.
"Honestly," whispered one Squib actor, adjusting a harness, "how does he make the sword look so effortless? And the wand movements—like he's fighting five thousand men by himself!"
Even though Ron's wand "magic" is added later in editing.
"Don't question it," another replied. "The boy is terrifyingly good."
"Terrifyingly good?" muttered a young witch, squinting. "He's ten. TEN. But… he moves like a man."
Bishop laughed quietly. "I warned you. Watch, learn, and take notes. The boy has a future in this industry. Never seen someone command a set like him at any age."
Days turned to weeks. Ron learned not just to act but to direct his own subtleties, improvising moments to heighten emotional impact. By early July, the final scenes were shot—the post-credit sequences, the quiet reflective moments of Rowena, Helga, and Salazar, unseen by the main characters, but crucial to the story's tapestry.
The filming wrapped in mid-July. As the final shot ended—the smoke curling over the crater, the faint glow of magic lingering in the ruins—Ron exhaled, feeling both relief and a strange sense of emptiness.
"Bishop," he said, walking over, sword and wand laid aside, "I've made the trailer. All the best cuts. Magic-enhanced cinematography. You can distribute it."
Bishop's spectacles glinted as he took the small rolled scroll. "You did this? All of it?"
Ron nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. The entire trailer. Publicity ready. The movie… is ready."
Flitwick, hovering nearby, added softly, "Don't forget the editing, Ronald. You need to oversee the music and final cuts."
Ron nodded again. Days passed as he worked tirelessly, composing the orchestral tracks, weaving magical soundscapes, synchronizing effects, and polishing every frame. By early August, he had completed music arrangements and finalized the editing. Only a week remained before the movie's release.
Dumbledore's final note during this period:
"July 30, 1990. The boy astounds me. Ten years of age, yet every decision, every frame, every note—he embodies the maturity of someone far beyond his years. It is exhausting to watch him carry so much. I hope the world understands what he has wrought. I fear, though, for the child behind the Gryffindor mask. Pomfrey remains vigilant, as she should."
And so, as August approached, the world was unaware that the story of Gryffindor—the massacre at Godstone, the Lion's vengeance, the gathering of founders—was not only being told but had been lived, through the eyes, body, and mind of a ten-year-old boy who had, briefly, become a legend.