Chapter 62 — The Audience Awakens
Late July, 1990
The streets of Diagon Alley buzzed with an unusual excitement. Shops had put up enchanted posters shimmering in the sunlight: "HOGWARTS LEGENDS: CHAPTER 1 – OF VALOR AND MAGIC (Part One) – Coming August 7th!" For days, whispers had swirled from Leaky Cauldron to Flourish and Blotts about a trailer that had appeared mysteriously in the hands of select patrons. No one knew who had crafted it, only that it left audiences gasping, silent, and eager for the full story.
A group of students crowded near a shop window, their faces pressed against the glass as the trailer played on a magically suspended crystal screen. The smell of butterbeer and baked goods mingled with the faint tang of spellwork lingering in the air.
"Look at the sword! The fire! Did you see that army?" whispered a first-year girl from Hufflepuff, her wand clutched nervously.
Her friend nodded, wide-eyed. "And the… the hero… he looks… he looks like a real man!"
Across the street, a pair of Squibs—long accustomed to being overlooked—stood on tiptoe to glimpse the trailer. Their mouths fell open.
"You… you think it's Muggle-made?" the taller one asked.
"Nonsense," replied the other. "This is magic. Pure magic."
In a quieter corner of the Alley, older wizards and witches murmured to one another. Professors from Hogwarts had begun circulating, excited and wary in equal measure. Dumbledore himself had given discreet invitations to those whose judgment mattered most. A few Ministry officials had caught glimpses of the trailer and were already debating policy. One senior Auror whispered to his colleague, eyes narrowing:
"If this is as powerful as it appears, it could inspire a generation. Or… terrify them."
By the evening, the premiere at Hogsmeade's grandest theater had filled with anticipation. The enchanted marquee glowed in the twilight, magical lanterns hovering to illuminate the red carpet. Wizards, witches, Muggle-borns, Squibs, and curious visitors from nearby villages—all forms of magical society—had gathered.
Inside, the scent of polished wood and sweet treats filled the theater. A few seats had been enchanted to float slightly, allowing smaller audience members an unobstructed view. The hall darkened gradually, and the magical screen shimmered to life.
The first notes of the orchestral score, composed by the unseen hand of a ten-year-old prodigy, filled the room. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience as the opening scene of the trailer—the arrival of Gryffindor at Godstone—flickered on the screen.
"Oh, my stars…" breathed a Muggle-born witch in the front row. "He's… he's everything they said."
A group of first-years from Gryffindor clutched each other's hands. "I've never seen magic like this outside of Hogwarts," one whispered. "It's… real."
Meanwhile, Bishop, seated in a shadowed booth near the back, scribbled notes in a small journal. His usual squib precision and critical eye were tempered by wonder.
"August 7th, 1990. The reactions are extraordinary. The trailer… they are riveted. There is awe, fear, and admiration in equal measure. The boy's vision—unseen by anyone—has reached them fully. And yet… the child behind the mask remains hidden. Excellent."
A Muggle spectator, visiting via a carefully enchanted invitation, leaned toward a wizard companion. "It's… like watching a legend breathe. Do you think this is real magic?"
His companion shrugged. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it makes your heart pound and your stomach turn. Like… like you are there, in the battlefield, with him."
The scene shifted to Gryffindor alone, standing amid the ruins, his sword raised, eyes blazing. Audiences collectively leaned forward. Several older witches wiped tears from their eyes; the younger students whispered in awed tones. Even seasoned Ministry officials found themselves unconsciously gripping their seats.
A quiet reflective snippet from Pomfrey's diary, later recalled by a visiting professor, captures part of the room's reaction:
"The child… he is not visible to them. Yet they feel the weight he bears. I can see it in the tight grip of their hands, the sharp intakes of breath. They are living the story. He has made them part of it without ever stepping into the room."
Halfway through, the trailer revealed the army illusions, the phantom villages burning, and the storms of smoke and shadow. The soundtrack—fully synchronized with every scene—made hearts pound. Gasps, murmurs, and exclamations ricocheted throughout the theater.
A group of Squibs in the back murmured among themselves. "I've never seen anything like it," one said. "And I've worked behind stage curtains for decades."
"Yes," said another, whispering, "the boy… whoever he is… he's extraordinary. Terrifyingly so."
Dumbledore, seated in a secluded balcony, observed quietly. In his journal, scratched hastily afterward, he wrote:
"August 7th, 1990. I watched the premiere. Every individual present—wizard, Squib, Muggle-born—responded as though they were on the battlefield themselves. The emotion, the awe… it is unprecedented. The boy has done more than perform; he has summoned legend into the world."
As the trailer drew to a close, applause erupted—not polite or restrained, but unbridled, as though each spectator had just borne witness to a miracle. Students clapped until their palms stung; professors murmured their astonishment; a few of the younger Squibs openly wept.
The screen flickered with the final post-credit scene: Gryffindor looking over the ruins, eyes thoughtful, haunted. The whispers in the audience became a chorus of reflection.
"I've never…" a young Gryffindor student whispered. "…felt something so… real."
"That is courage," said a professor beside her. "Not acting. Courage made flesh."
Outside, the enchanted lanterns of Hogsmeade glimmered in approval. Whispers of the premiere spread immediately through magical society, as small groups discussed, debated, and recounted their favorite moments. By midnight, nearly everyone who had seen the trailer was talking about Gryffindor, the story, and the boy who had made it all come alive.
Unbeknownst to them, the true magician—the ten-year-old boy who had lived the role, breathed the hero, and crafted the soundtrack—was still quietly editing, ensuring every note, every effect, every final detail would be ready in time for the full release.
The world was unaware that the legend they had glimpsed had been lived, not merely imagined, by a child who had, for a brief and magical four-hour span each day, carried centuries of heroism in his small, determined body.