Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 9: The Hollywood Door Opens
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 14:30:00 +0000 UTCThe city of angels wore a thin haze of ambition that clung to every palm tree and billboard. It had been years since Rishi last walked through a studio lot.
Two months earlier, the knock on Rishi's door had come at dusk.
When he opened it, two officers stood there—one older and calm-eyed, the other visibly uncomfortable. Between them stood Zoey, her hair pulled into a ponytail that had long since loosened. Her eyes met Rishi's, and they were dry—too dry for a child who had just lost her entire world.
"Mr. Malhotra," the older officer began gently, "this is Zoey Whitaker. Her father, Officer Daniel Whitaker, has OD earlier today."
The words knocked the air out of Rishi's lungs. He leaned against the doorframe for a beat, the shock hitting him like a tidal wave.
"Yeah, I know her. She is my son's friend ", Rishi was able to reply after some time. He remembered Daniel. The man who once pulled Rishi from a scuffle outside a diner and walked him home like an old friend. A \father who used to show off his daughter's macaroni art as if it were a museum piece.
The officer continued, quieter now, "There's no immediate next of kin. Her mother is deployed. We are trying to contact her. Social services are getting involved, but the paperwork is still in process. We thought of you. Just for the night."
Zoey didn't speak. She stood there in silence, the edge of her coat sleeves curled around her fists. Her eyes never left his as if daring him to look away first.
Rishi dropped to one knee, his voice catching. "Hey, Zoey. You remember me?"
She gave the faintest nod.
"You want to come in?"
She didn't respond; she just stepped inside and took off her shoes like she'd done a hundred times. She set her backpack beside the umbrella stand and walked to the couch. She perched there like a bird on a high wire—ready to fly at any moment.
That night, Rishi made her a grilled cheese sandwich. Zoey didn't touch it. Didn't cry either. She just stared at the dark window while Ayaan dozed on the floor nearby.
But the next morning, Ayaan offered her half a banana and told her, "Your socks are cooler than mine."
She blinked, nodded once, and stayed.
Ayaan walked beside his father, his hand clutching the strap of his tiny backpack like a soldier going to war. Inside was everything he'd prepared: the annotated copy of Harry Potter, his storyboards, Zoey's concept art, and even his letter to J.K. Rowling folded into quarters.
It had taken weeks to get here.
Late nights at the kitchen table. Zoey, with her coloured pencils and watercolour pads, and Ayaan flipping through the pages of the book, explaining scenes as though she were his illustrator. She'd started sceptical—half-distracted, half-mocking—but quickly got drawn in. Her first drawing of Diagon Alley, full of crooked chimneys and shadowy shops, made Ayaan gasp.
"You see it," he whispered.
They worked like co-conspirators. Ayaan describes mood and tone—"It should feel warm, but also kinda secret"—and Zoey translates it into strokes and colour. When Ayaan wavered or got stuck, she picked up the pieces and moved forward.
"I don't get the rules," she'd said once. "So wizards can't just magic everything?"
"No," Ayaan said. "They have limits. That's what makes it feel real."
"Hmm. Like people."
By the end of the week, they'd compiled a complete pitch packet. Zoey even hand-lettered the titles on the cover sheet.
"You sure you don't want credit?" Ayaan asked.
Zoey shrugged. "You'll mention me. That's enough."
He did more than mention her—he made her part of the story.
Rishi would sometimes pause in the hallway and watch them work together from the doorway. Two kids, heads bent close over paper and ink, whispering names like "McGonagall" and "Snape" with utter seriousness. He'd catch himself forgetting they were seven. The way they debated, sketched, and rewrote—it looked like a team of seasoned creatives in a war room. Seeing Zoey settle in, her mother decided to complete her deployment, which had three months left, and then come home.
He once whispered to himself, half amused, half in awe, "What kind of kids are these?"
But the honest answer stirred something deeper. Zoey and Ayaan were kids who'd learned too early how to fill the silence left by someone walking away. Kids who'd found solace in creation. And somehow, in each other.
Rishi glanced down. "You ready?"
Ayaan nodded, though his lips were tight. "I think so."
They stepped into the cool, glass-walled lobby of Warner Bros.' creative wing. Rishi gave his name to the receptionist. Moments later, they were ushered through a maze of hallways into a mid-sized meeting room, sleek and sterile: a conference table, a few swivel chairs, and a water pitcher sweating on a tray.
Mark Silver entered moments later, dressed in dark jeans and a linen blazer, with the kind of calm that came from navigating boardroom battles and talent tantrums for decades. He looked older than Rishi remembered but sharp—his eyes scanning like radar.
"Rishi Malhotra," Mark said, offering a warm handshake. "Been a long time."
"Too long," Rishi replied. "Thanks for taking the meeting."
Mark's eyes dropped to Ayaan. "And you must be the genius behind the project."
Ayaan stiffened, then offered a cautious smile. "Just someone who reads a good book."
Mark chuckled. "Modest. I like that." He gestured to the chairs. "Let's sit."
As they settled in, Mark glanced at the folder in Rishi's hands. "Full disclosure—if this weren't coming from you, I wouldn't have agreed to the meeting. You and I go way back, and that history still means something to me."
Rishi nodded. "I appreciate that."
Mark leaned forward, elbows on the table. "To be honest, I skimmed the book over the weekend. The writing is decent and charming. But what struck me wasn't the text—it was the idea. There's something in it, some potential. Still, adapting a first-time British novel into a major feature isn't exactly standard practice."
Rishi opened the folder and slid over the proposal—clean, neatly typed, with Ayaan's annotations and Zoey's illustrations slipped in between the pages like whispers.
Ayaan's excitement flared as the pages were spread out. Unable to sit still, he leaned forward and began to speak, his small hands motioning in the air like he was conjuring the world himself.
"See, Hogwarts isn't just a school—it's a whole world. Some ghosts are said to reside in the hallways, and portraits are said to come to life. There's a giant three-headed dog guarding something mysterious on the third floor. And centaurs in the Forbidden Forest—wise, serious creatures who read the stars. There's even a troll in the dungeon."
Mark raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "A troll?"
"Yeah," Ayaan said with a grin. "Huge and dumb, but scary. But the best part? There's a dragon."
Mark sat back, intrigued. "Tell me about the dragon."
"It's a baby Norwegian Ridgeback," Ayaan said with awe. "It hatches from an egg Hagrid keeps in his wooden hut. The dragon's name is Norbert—well, later Norberta—and it's fierce. Breathes fire. But it's not just dangerous—it's misunderstood. It's part of a magical world that's wild, beautiful and doesn't fit into a box. That's what I love about it. Even the dangerous things have a place. They matter."
Mark tapped his finger on the table, his interest deepening. "Go on."
"There's a moment," Ayaan continued, "when Hagrid has to let the dragon go. It breaks his heart. But it shows that love doesn't always mean keeping things close. Sometimes, it means setting them free."
Mark nodded slowly, visibly moved. "That's... surprisingly mature."
"There are rules in the wizarding world," Ayaan added. "But there's also emotion. Wonder. Even the magical creatures aren't just monsters—they're part of the story's heart."
Mark flipped through the illustrations, pausing on a beautifully rendered image of the Forbidden Forest. "Your sister did these?"
Ayaan nodded. "We worked on them together. I told her how it looked in my head. She made it real."
There was something infectious about Ayaan's energy. His voice quivered with passion but not nerves. He wasn't performing. He was sharing something sacred, and that sincerity made Mark pause more than once.
Mark set the packet down and looked between the two of them. "I've been pitched a lot of fantasies. Dragons, vampires, the works. But this is the first one that feels... lived in. Not just made up. There's heart in it."
He smiled faintly. "And it's not just the world you sold me on. It's you. Both of you."
He turned to Rishi. "There's something in it, some potential. Still, adapting a first-time British novel into a major feature isn't exactly standard practice."
Rishi opened the folder and slid over the proposal—clean, neatly typed, with Ayaan's annotations and Zoey's illustrations slipped in between the pages like whispers.
"I know it sounds improbable," Rishi began, "but this book—Harry Potter—it's not just good. It's magnetic. My son saw something in it that I didn't at first. He sees it as a franchise, and frankly, I trust his instinct."
Mark raised an eyebrow, flipping through the materials. "You're talking about adapting a single middle-grade novel into a tentpole franchise. That's a tall order."
Ayaan leaned forward, his voice soft but clear. "It's not just one book. She's writing more. Seven, I think. It's a big story. There's a world. Rules. A beginning, middle, and end. I wrote it all out."
Mark paused on one of the storyboard panels—Zoey's depiction of the Hogwarts Great Hall. Candles floated above rows of enchanted children.
"This is... actually pretty good," he muttered.
Rishi tried not to let hope rise too quickly. "We're not here asking for a green light. Just to share a vision. One that's small now but growing fast. I believe it can be something. My son—he lives and breathes this world."
He looked at Ayaan. "You really think this will catch on?"
"I know it will," Ayaan said. "It's already catching. I've seen it. Read it to kids at school. They ask for more. They imagine their own houses. They believe in it."
Mark leaned back. There was a pause, long enough for Rishi to start second-guessing everything.
Then Mark said, "Okay. I'll take this to my team. You might be right. I've learned to follow the ones who can see ahead—even if they still need booster seats."
Ayaan's eyes lit up, but he stayed still. Trained, almost.
Mark turned to Rishi. "And you—Sharma. I would like you to be on board as our creative liaison. You've clearly got a grasp of this world, and if it gains traction, I want someone close to the source."
Rishi blinked. "I... of course. Thank you."
Mark stood and extended his hand. "One last thing: I'll need something clean on paper. Proof of rights. And a timeline from your author."
"Already in the envelope," Rishi said.
Mark smiled. "Of course it is."
---
Outside, as they stepped into the Los Angeles sunlight, Ayaan exhaled like he'd been underwater.
"Did that really just happen?" he asked.
"It did," Rishi replied, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "And you did it."
"I didn't think he'd listen."
Rishi smiled. "He didn't just listen, Ayaan. He heard you."
They walked to the parking lot in silence, the kind that felt complete, not empty. The city around them still buzzed, but inside the bubble of that moment, everything was still. A spark had caught. The door had opened.
And for the first time in a long time, the dream didn't seem foolish.
It felt like fate.
End of Chapter 9
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