Chapter 69 — A Winter of Mirrors
Snow fell thick and relentless over the Bishop Estate, the countryside wrapped in a silver hush that made the world feel suspended. The frost rimed every branch and swept across the paths, crunching under the rare footsteps of staff delivering parcels or tending the grounds. Within the house, the warmth of the hearths and the hum of magic provided a sanctuary from the winter's cold. Ron and Ginny moved through these halls as if they belonged entirely, the echoes of their laughter mingling with the low whir of editing crystals and the subtle tick of Muggle film reels. The second production had become his obsession; every morning, Ron rose early to coordinate lights, camera enchantments, and sound crystals, moving with a confidence that had grown with his first film. Every cut, every spell-infused frame, every careful calibration reflected hours of practice, a mastery of both the magical and mundane aspects of storytelling.
Ginny wandered the snowy courtyards during the pauses, old Gryffindor costumes rustling beneath her cloak, the golden and scarlet fabric catching the light of the low winter sun. Sometimes, she'd toss snow at Ron through the glass, and he would pause his work to summon a playful counterspell, laughing as she ducked behind hedges. The warmth of family grounded him, even amid the whirlwind of creation and the weight of anticipation. Bishop watched quietly from his study, observing the boy whose talent now walked far ahead of his years. Pride softened the lines of the man's face, but there was a recognition, too, of how extraordinary it was for such precocity to exist in a child.
December crept closer, bringing with it the promise of premiere night. The second film, HOGWARTS LEGENDS: CHAPTER 1 – OF VALOR AND MAGIC (Part 2: The Battle of Godstone), had been completed, its reels polished, its crystals aligned, its music blended and charmed to resonate with audiences both magical and Muggle. The screenings were scheduled a week before Christmas, simultaneous in Diagon Alley and London. Invitations had been sent, chairs arranged, and the magical wards protecting the theaters hummed softly, aware of the energy that the event would draw.
Molly and Arthur Weasley arrived at the London premiere with hearts full of a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Molly's hands were clenched, knuckles white, yet she walked with the grace and poise of a mother who knew she would bear witness to something extraordinary. Arthur's calm, measured presence steadied her as they found their seats, and around them, family friends, journalists, and a scattering of Ministry observers murmured, waiting for the lights to dim.
When the opening scores of the film rolled across the enchanted screen, the audience leaned forward, spellbound. Every charm, every visual cue, every movement on the screen carried the precise timing and subtle ingenuity of a craftsman far beyond his years. Molly's chest tightened; she knew he had done it, she had seen him labor through nights without complaint, and yet nothing could have prepared her for the public's response. The hall erupted in cheers, applause rolling like waves against the walls, banners waving as young witches and wizards called out his name. Tears spilled freely down Molly's cheeks, but she did not care; beside her, Arthur's quiet pride was evident in the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the glow of satisfaction in his eyes.
The post-credit scene lingered in the memory of every viewer. A lone, feather-quilled scholar stood before a towering stack of ancient tomes, their bindings glinting as though alive. The camera lingered, a subtle breeze stirring the scholar's robes, a single candle flame reflecting in their eyes. The imagery sparked fevered speculation. Who was this mysterious figure? Was it Ravenclaw's lost heir? Was it a ghost, a mage of old? Discussions ignited instantly, fan letters arriving even before the theaters emptied. Bishop noted the fascination discreetly, his expression amused as he observed the crowd's enraptured faces. He had seen genius before, but never with this combination of precision, creativity, and magnetism. He knew, without needing anyone to tell him, that Ron's future works would only grow larger, bolder, and more influential.
By the second week of January, Hogwarts thrummed with life once more. Snow still clung stubbornly to the turrets and spires, but within the walls, voices rang clear and warm. Students returned from their holiday breaks, many with stories of attending the premiere multiple times. Discussions in the Great Hall swirled around every detail of the film, from battle sequences to the elusive scholar in the post-credit scene. Even the youngest students whispered theories, trading conjectures like prized secrets. Professor Flitwick, unable to resist, had announced to his students before the term's resumption that Ronald Weasley—the same boy whose Principles of Potion-Brewing and Principles of Herbology textbooks had revolutionized first-year study—was also the creative mind behind the Hogwarts Legends films. The revelation sent ripples of awe through the student body, leaving them struggling to reconcile age with accomplishment.
Fred and George returned with a mixture of smug satisfaction and mischievous pride, striding through corridors as though fame were their own. Percy, usually verbose and precise, was rendered almost speechless, though his chest swelled with a quiet pride. The younger students whispered reverent theories: perhaps even Merlin himself had once started small. Dumbledore received weekly reports on the school's morale, noting that the blend of education, magic, and artistry had inspired a level of enthusiasm unprecedented in recent decades. The Hogwarts staff watched with careful consideration, balancing encouragement with caution. Sprout observed leadership tendencies during casual games, while Trelawney murmured cryptic prophecies about the boy whose aura would change the coming century.
In drawing rooms far from the school, the reactions of the pure-blood elite were no less fervent, though driven by very different motives. The Malfoys, Greengrasses, and Selwyns convened in opulent halls, gold glinting in candlelight, discussing the films not merely as art but as a potential instrument of influence. Lucius Malfoy's cold, measured words cut through the conversation: "The boy has found a way to make fascination itself marketable. The bloodlines may not grasp it yet—but gold always flows where fascination goes." Other families nodded, understanding instinctively that creativity and reach could eclipse lineage as a currency of social power. Letters began filtering discreetly to Bishop's office, suggesting co-financing or mentorship opportunities. Bishop, amused, showed them to Ron, who smirked knowingly, fully aware of the irony that old wealth now sought the spark of new talent.
At the Bishop Estate, the quiet of New Year's Eve wrapped the house in intimacy. Ron, Ginny, and Bishop shared a small dinner, the firelight dancing across their faces. Outside, Mr. Stark perched silently, watching snowflakes drift lazily through the night sky, their descent mirrored in the stillness of the estate's grounds. Letters arrived at intervals, each folded with care, each voice distinct. Dumbledore's handwriting flowed with philosophical grace, acknowledging how art could reveal more truth than history itself.
Flitwick's letter exploded with energy and pride, praising Ron's vision and the inspiration his works had delivered to Hogwarts students. Bathilda Bagshot's note was brief but potent, calling him "a boy who teaches the living to listen to the dead."
Ron read each in silence, setting them aside without fanfare. He rose to the frost-laced window, Mr. Stark's iridescent eyes reflecting the glow of the hearth. Beyond the glass, the snow lay thick and silent, yet inside, the warmth of family and the quiet hum of creation suffused every corner. His mind, never still, already traced shapes of imagined sets, sketches of characters, and sequences that would one day rise beyond even these walls. He had completed the script.
He didn't see fame, only foundation. Where others saw applause, Ron saw the beginning of a bridge — one that even history itself might one day cross.