Chapter 53 — Celestial Scripts and Silver Screens
The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Bishop Bones' study, glinting off polished wood and the brass fittings of an old globe. The faint crackle of a record player filled the air with slow, drifting jazz — a mellow contrast to Ron's scribbling quill and the stacks of parchment spread before him.
He wasn't copying or revising. He was rebuilding.
The Astrology of the Wizarding World, he had realized, was closer to medieval superstition than to celestial science. Charts were drawn by hand, constellations misaligned by centuries of error, and no one had ever thought to remeasure the heavens since the late 1600s. It was almost… comical.
Ron's brow furrowed as he adjusted another diagram.
"If the wizarding Mars alignment is off by five degrees, potion and charm timings would be skewed by entire hours… no wonder half the divinations don't work consistently," he muttered.
Mr. Stark, perched elegantly on a chair back, gave a low approving hum — his golden eyes reflecting the moving sunlight like burning coals.
When the final set of annotations was done, Ron titled the manuscript with his neat, decisive handwriting:
"Astronomy and Astrology: A Unified Magical Framework — 1990 Edition"
By Ronald B. Weasley.
He smiled slightly, rolling up the manuscript. "Stark," he said, tying the seal, "deliver this to Professor Sinistra at Hogwarts. Tell her… I hope she likes stargazing as much as I do."
The owl's feathers shimmered briefly, and with a soft rush of wind, he vanished out the window into the pale February sky.
A few hours later, Bishop Bones entered, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. The record player had shifted tracks — now playing something livelier, a Beatles vinyl Ron had found earlier in the sitting room.
Bishop chuckled. "You have rather… diverse tastes for a boy your age, Ron."
Ron grinned, setting down the guitar he'd been experimenting with. "Music's universal, isn't it? It's like magic — different rules, same feeling."
Bishop raised an eyebrow, lowering himself into a leather armchair. "And which one's stronger, then? Music or magic?"
Ron paused, then said softly, "Depends on who's listening."
That answer earned a small, appreciative laugh from the older man.
For the past few weeks, Bishop had been giving Ron what he called a "crash course in modern Muggle life." Television programs, newspaper columns, the function of Parliament, even the idea of a bank card — all of it fascinated Ron. It wasn't the technology itself that drew him in, but the systems, the quiet clockwork of civilization built on ingenuity rather than wands.
And then, one evening over tea, Ron had asked something that froze Bishop mid-sip.
"Do you think a wizard could make a movie?"
Bishop blinked. "A movie?"
"Yes," Ron said earnestly. "Imagine… a company — run by Squibs and out-of-work wizards — producing magical stories. We could blend illusion spells with Muggle practical effects. Imagine fairy tales, myths, legends — all shown to both worlds."
There was a moment of silence before Bishop gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Merlin's beard… you're serious."
"Why not?" Ron leaned forward. "The wizarding world hides, the Muggle world dreams. What if the dreams were messages — bridges, even — not exposure? What if art became diplomacy?"
Bishop studied the boy across from him — the quiet precision in his posture, the spark behind his eyes. There was something old about him, something regal and dangerous.
For a fleeting moment, the boy's aura shifted — as though centuries of royal etiquette, perfected composure, and a duelist's cold sharpness merged into one seamless presence.
Bishop felt his throat tighten.
It wasn't forced. It wasn't arrogance.
It was innate.
"You," Bishop said quietly, "carry yourself like someone who's already lived through empires."
Ron only smiled, faintly embarrassed. "Old habits… I suppose."
They sat in silence for a while — the gentle strumming of Ron's guitar filling the study.
Eventually, Ron asked, "If I wanted to make that idea real — the film studio — I'd need to understand why magic and technology don't mix. Every time I try to get close to electronics, they just… die."
Bishop nodded slowly. "It's not a myth. Magic and electronics repel each other — like two frequencies out of phase. The stronger the magic, the worse the interference. Even radios misbehave near Hogwarts."
Ron leaned back, thoughtful. "Then there must be someone who understands why. Someone who could help me bridge that gap."
Bishop frowned slightly, setting his cup down.
"There might be… but that's a very old question, and very few are foolish enough to go poking at it."
Ron looked up, eyes calm but determined.
"Then tell me, Bishop — who should I turn to?"
The record crackled again, shifting to another song — soft piano keys rising under the quiet tension of their conversation.
The older man sighed, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "You'll need to speak to someone who studies the intersection of magic and machinery. But that… is not a simple road, Ron."
Ron smiled faintly, as if he already knew.
"No road worth walking ever is."
And the record spun on, whispering echoes of a world where music and magic might one day play in harmony.