….
The camera panned across the joyful feast. The Hogwarts school, once divided and fearful, was restored in celebration.
The score swelled - triumphant, warm, final.
The Red Studio. logo shimmered once more, the credits rolled, and the theatre lights began to rise.
….
The lights came up slowly, as if reluctant to break the spell.
Around the Uncle and Niece pair, the theater stirred - a collective exhale, the rustle of coats being gathered, the soft murmur of voices rediscovering themselves.
Emma sat frozen, staring at the screen even as the credits rolled. Her fingers gripped the armrest.
"Uncle David?" Her voice came out smaller than usual. "Do you think... Do you think being brave means you are not scared? Or does it mean you are scared but you do it anyway?"
David blinked, caught off guard.
This wasn't the same Emma from a year ago…
A single year could change so much.
Especially for a child.
…and more so for a thoughtful, sharp girl like Emma.
Her view of the world had shifted. Now, Harry Potter wasn't just a movie to her - it was something deeper.
And she wasn't the only one.
More and more kids were growing up alongside Harry Potter, seeing it as more than just entertainment.
David was about to make a lighthearted comment about his knees being too old for theater seats… but he paused.
Instead, he settled back down, studying her face.
She was still watching the screen, or rather, watching where Ginny Weasley had been just minutes ago.
Possessed, vulnerable, but rescued only because Harry had walked into the Chamber despite every reason to run.
"The second one." He said after a moment. "Definitely the second one."
Emma's jaw worked for a moment. "Ginny was so scared - of what she had done, of what people would think. She tried to throw the diary away but it came back. And she didn't tell anyone because..." She trailed off.
"Because she thought they would blame her?"
"Yeah." Emma's voice was barely a whisper. "But it wasn't her fault. Tom Riddle was the one controlling her. And Harry - Harry wasn't even scared of what people would think. He just went down there because it was the right thing to do."
David nodded slowly, pieces clicking into place.
Emma had been quieter than usual these past few minutes.
He had chalked it up to seventh-grade drama, the usual social minefield of middle school. But now…
"Did something happen, Em?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. I just... I was thinking about it. The movie, I mean."
On screen, the credits continued their upward march. Gaffer. Best Boy. Foley Artist. People whose work made magic feel real.
….
Three rows ahead, a father was trying to coax his son toward the exit.
The boy, maybe six or seven, had his face buried in his dad's jacket.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. The monster's not real, remember?"
"But the diary was real." the boy mumbled into the fabric. "And it made Ginny do bad things. What if someone gives me a diary that makes me do bad things?"
The father paused, clearly unprepared for that particular philosophical crisis. He crouched down to eye level, and David saw him actually considering the question - not dismissing it.
"Then I will just have to check every notebook you bring home, won't I?" He ruffled the boy's hair. "Besides, you hate writing. Any diary that tries to possess you would give up out of boredom."
The boy nodded against his father's shoulder.
They shuffled toward the aisle, the father glancing back once at the screen - at the light streaming through the pipes as Harry and Ron flew the Ford Anglia into the sky.
For a moment, his expression went distant. Wistful. Like he was remembering what it felt like to believe that caring about someone was enough to save them.
….
David and Emma finally stood, joining the slow river of people flowing toward the exits. In the corridor outside, clusters formed and dissolved - strangers bound briefly by shared experience.
"I need a new wand." a boy announced to his mother. "Mine broke when I tried to fix the toaster."
"You put a stick in the toaster?"
"It was an incantation."
Near the concession stand, two elderly women compared their ticket stubs like they were comparing lottery numbers.
"I still say the first film captured more of Hogwarts' majesty." one insisted, adjusting her scarf - Gryffindor colors, David noticed.
"Oh, Margaret, you always say the first of everything is better. You said that about the moon landing."
"Because it was. The second moon landing was far less impressive."
"There were five more landings, you know."
"Exactly my point."
….
Outside, the night had turned crisp.
October air carried the smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet.
The parking lot looked different somehow - less mundane. Street lamps cast pools of amber light that could have been Lumos charms. Car headlights swept across asphalt like brooms taking flight.
Emma pulled her jacket tighter. "Can we walk for a bit? I don't wanna go home yet."
David checked his watch - nearly eleven.
She has school tomorrow, and he has work. The sensible answer formed in his throat.
"Yeah." He said instead. "Let's walk."
They headed toward the shops that lined the street, most closed but a few still glowing.
A bookstore's window display featured a pyramid of [Chamber of Secrets] novels.
A toy store had plastered its glass with cutouts of Fawkes and Aragog.
"Do you think the author knows?" Emma asked suddenly.
"Knows what?"
"How many people he... I don't know. Changed? Like, not just entertained. Actually changed."
David thought about the job application sitting in some HR director's inbox.
About how he had almost skipped that first film.
About the father comforting his son, the teenager in the back row, the grandmother defending the moon landing.
"Maybe." He said. "Or maybe he just told the story that needed telling, and trusted it to find the people who needed to hear it."
They passed a café where a young couple sat in the window, gesturing animatedly.
The woman held her phone up, showing the man something.
An article, maybe. A review.
The man laughed, shaking his head, pointing at the screen as if to say See? I told you.
A street musician had set up near the corner - unusual for this late.
His guitar case lay open, scattered with coins.
He was playing something soft and wandering, no melody David recognized.
But it felt right.
It felt like the ending of something and the beginning of something else.
Emma dropped a few coins into the case without being asked.
"The basilisk was scary." She said as they continued walking. "But you know what was scarier?"
"What?"
"How easy it was for Tom Riddle to make everyone believe Hagrid did it. How everyone just... went along with it. Even Dumbledore."
David slowed. "Yeah. That is scarier, isn't it?"
"It made me think about Jenny Foster. Do you remember when I mentioned her before?"
David searched his memory, and came up blank. "I don't think so."
"Oh." Emma kicked at a pebble. "Well, she is in my grade. She is... different. She talks to herself sometimes. In the hallways, in class. Like she's having full conversations with people who aren't there. And she dresses weird - like, Renaissance fair weird. Bring these old books to lunch and read them instead of talking to anyone."
They passed the café, its windows still lit. A young couple sat inside, both laughing at something on a phone screen.
"Everyone says she is crazy." Emma continued, voice tight. "They call her 'Mad Jenny' or 'Foster the Freak.' Not to her face, usually. But she knows. You can tell she knows." She paused. "I called her weird once too. Last month. I didn't say it to her, but Sarah Chen did, and I laughed. I actually laughed, Uncle David."
David's chest tightened. "Em—"
"And today - yesterday, I guess - Jenny came up to me before class. She had this drawing she had made of a Hungarian Horntail dragon. It was really good, like, really good. And she was so excited to show someone. She said she knew I liked Harry Potter because she had seen my Hermione keychain." Emma's voice cracked. "She just wanted to show someone who might care. And I..."
"What happened?"
"Sarah and Melissa were watching. I could feel them watching. And I just... I took the drawing, said 'cool,' and walked away. I didn't even really look at it. And Jenny's face just—" She stopped walking, arms wrapped around herself. "She looked exactly like Ginny did. In the Chamber. Like she had been stupid to hope for anything different."
"That's why you were asking about being brave." He said quietly.
Emma nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "Ginny didn't tell anyone because she was scared of what they would think. And I didn't stand up for Jenny because I was scared of what Sarah and Melissa would think. It's the same thing, isn't it? Being too scared to do the right thing?"
A street musician had set up near the corner, unusual for this late. His guitar case lay open, scattered with coins. He was playing something soft and wandering, no melody David recognized.
"Yeah." David said. "I think it is."
"But Harry wasn't like that. He went into the Chamber even though he was terrified. Even though he didn't know if he could beat the basilisk. He did it because Ginny needed someone."
"He did."
Emma was quiet for a long moment. The musician's melody shifted into something that might have been Hedwig's theme, rendered slow and haunting.
"I think I am going to sit with Jenny at lunch next week." Emma said, not looking at him. "And I'm going to actually talk to her about that drawing. And I am going to tell her I am sorry I walked away." She finally met his eyes. "Is that stupid?"
"No." He said, voice rough. "That's the bravest thing I have heard in a long time."
"What if Sarah and Melissa make fun of me too?"
"They might." David admitted. "Probably will, honestly. Middle school is..." He searched for the right words. "It's like the Slytherin common room, but without Dumbledore around to keep things in check."
Emma laughed, a small sound, but genuine. "That's actually really accurate."
"But here's the thing, Em. You are not doing it because it's easy or because people will think you are cool. You are doing it because it's right. And that's—" He had to stop, clear his throat. "That's the kind of person I hope you become. The kind who does the hard thing anyway."
Emma dropped a few coins into the musician's case without being asked.
They started walking back toward the parking lot. The crowd had thinned to scattered groups, people still lingering, reluctant to let the evening end.
"Do you think Jenny will even want to be friends?" Emma asked. "After how I acted?"
"I don't know." David said honestly. "But I think she deserves the chance to decide. And I think you deserve the chance to try."
"What if I mess it up?"
"Then you mess it up. And you try again. That's kind of how being brave works, I think. It's not about getting it perfect. It's about showing up even when you're scared."
They turned back toward the parking lot.
The crowd had thinned to scattered groups, people still lingering, reluctant to let the evening end.
The marquee glowed above them: CHAMBER OF SECRETS in bold letters, showtimes listed below like incantations.
As they reached the car, David's phone buzzed. An email notification.
[Thank you for your application. We would like to schedule an initial interview…]
His heart jumped.
He almost told Emma right there, almost breaking his own plan to surprise her later.
But something made him wait.
Some sense that this moment belonged to her - to the question about bravery, to the decision about Jenny, to whatever she was becoming in the space between childhood and whatever came next.
"Uncle David?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming with me. I know you probably had other stuff you wanted to do."
He unlocked the car, but neither of them got in yet.
"Honestly?" David looked up at the marquee, then back at his niece. "I can't think of anywhere else I would rather be."
And standing there in the parking lot of a Regal Cinema on a Wednesday night in October, with the smell of popcorn still clinging to their clothes and the echo of phoenix song still ringing in their ears, he meant it.
Emma smiled, really smiled, and opened her door.
Behind them, the theater's lights began to dim.
Inside, crews would be sweeping aisles, checking for lost items, and preparing for tomorrow's shows.
The projectionist would be rewinding reels, boxing them carefully, making ready for the next audience, the next revelation, the next moment when strangers would sit together in the dark and remember what it felt like to believe in magic.
The musician on the corner shifted into a new melody.
This one David recognized - Hedwig's theme, rendered slow and haunting on acoustic guitar.
David drove home through streets that seemed wider somehow.
Emma dozed against the window, her face relaxed in a way it hadn't been for weeks.
Tomorrow, he will respond to that email. Tomorrow, Emma would seek out Jenny Foster in the cafeteria. Tomorrow, a teenager would attend her first creative writing workshop and read her story about her sister, and someone in the room would tell her she was brave for writing it.
Tomorrow, a father would sit with his son and actually listen when the boy said he was scared. A grandmother would call her friend and admit maybe the sequels weren't so bad after all.
Tomorrow, small acts of courage would ripple outward in ways none of them could predict.
But tonight, they were just two people who'd watched a story together and recognized something true in it. Something that mattered.
And sometimes, that was enough.
Sometimes, that was everything.
.
….
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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