I'm on TV! (Showbiz SI) - BarCalak - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Warn A Brother

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Warn A Brother

Cardiff, Wales. January 2000.

Transmigrating twenty-two years in the past into the body of a seven-year-old may seem like a massive inconvenience, but to the ill-prepared mind, re-life was the next great adventure. The mechanics of my arrival in the time-stream would remain a mystery till my dying day.

My last memory of my past (technically the defunct future) was an overwhelming impulse to sneeze - an impulse I readily capitulated to and suddenly found myself in a younger world, occupying a more youthful body. No amount of sneezing again launched me elsewhere or returned me, so the only choice was to roll with it. No moral dilemma required or wanted.

When I arrived here two years ago, all I had on me was a wad of cash and a student ID that helpfully provided my new name, Bas Rhys. Eight-years-old, 1998 class of primary four, Cardiff Public School, Wales.

Acclimating into this new environment was smooth. Being an orphan in boarding meant my dorm master, Mrs Stephens, regimented and handled my existence. And life went on for the next two years.

One thing I didn't mention, however, is my little cheat that came with transmigration. It wasn’t a system, but the very next best thing - regardless of device, I could access the internet in its 2020 state.

I am unaware whether this acquisition was from happenstance, a gift from the divine, or something I sold my soul for. What I do know is that I plan to exploit it for all it’s worth.

“Bas! Bas!” An excited knocking thundered at my bedroom door. I’d be seeing the first of my ill-gotten gains.

I opened the door, letting in my guardian, Mrs Stephens, “is it my O-levels results?” She hurriedly thrust the already-opened letter containing my transcripts into my hands.

I’d gotten all eleven A* I knew, but humoured my over eager guardian.

We celebrated my success; Mrs Stephens gushed in pride at my prodigious accomplishment. And while adult comprehension made studying a breeze, cheating was a guaranteed outcome. Past papers for 2000 GCSE exams were readily available on 2020s internet.

“Oh! But this is such wonderful, wonderful news!” I reached over and grabbed her trembling hands.

“It is Mrs Stephens, and I couldn’t possibly have done it without you.”

She glomped on me after that, failing to hold back her tears. “Oh, you dear sweet boy. We must think about your next steps carefully now. No doubt 6th form colleges and perhaps even universities will line up to grab you!”

They sure would try. Unfortunately, I wasn’t truthfully a wunderkind, just someone with an accessible exploit. There wasn’t any way I’d be able to carry this level of performance into advanced academia. Best nip that in the bud. I had no intention of wasting away this chance at a new life by relegating myself into becoming a faceless cog for a multinational conglomerate. I desired money, power, and fame - not to mention the ass that would come along as a fringe benefit.

These were the precise facets of either a celebrity or political career. I wasn’t totally morally bankrupt, so a political career was very far from my mind. And as the saying goes, there’s no business like show business.

“If they reach out, I’d be delighted to contact them. But we both know the admissions cycle won’t begin for another six months.” I wriggled out of her grasp, hurried over to my work desk, and pulled out a bulky envelope from the drawer. “In the meantime, I’d like your help to post this for me, please.”

She inspected the package curiously, turning it over in her hand to feel for what was inside the package. “This feels like a disc. To whom are you sending a DVD?”

“Hopefully, my future employers.” I showed her the printed advert for the casting call, put out to the World only a few days ago. Wanted: young British Muggle with a lightning-bolt scar.

Los Angeles, California. January 2000.

Chris Columbus sat irritated on his chair at the Warner Brothers offices. It was going to be another long, slogfest of a day poring over mediocre video submissions for the Harry Potter movie casting.

Mercifully, they finished casting the adults months ago. It was just the child actors they had to fill out. The studio couldn’t afford anymore delays past filming commencing this July, or the project - or maybe just his position in it, just might be scrapped.

Truthfully, he didn’t see the point of coming in to review the tapes today. He’d got his Hermione locked. They had discovered the young Watson girl on their school tours across the UK, and they also had a good pile to choose from for Ron Weasley - he especially liked the ginger kid who rapped in his audition video. What a dopey character, pretty spot on for his vision of Ron.

The problem that was plaguing him, though, was that of Harry.

After all, it is more than difficult making a movie without the titular character - no matter how much Steve Kloves, their screenwriter, would have preferred the movie to be titled ‘ The Adventures of Hermione Granger’.

An incomplete script without a concrete protagonist, yet the shoot was only a handful of months away. What a mess.

Chris sighed and rubbed his head. “Alright, that’s enough.” Chris turned over to the casting director, and David Heyman, the producer of the film. “Thoughts?”

The casting director gave a firm no, David made a so-so hand gesture. “I think let’s work from the shortlist we already have. I know we’ve got that Felton kid and Maggie Smith’s recommendation - the Radcliffe boy. He’s even acted before in Copperfield.”

Chris nodded in agreement. “Sounds good to me. Let’s finish up here so we can finally move on to the next step.” He gestured to his assistant to swap out the CD for a last one.

By this point, most had checked out of the process. Chris himself rested his face on his hand, idly watching the grainy film on the CRT come to life.

“Hi! My name is Bas Rhys, age ten, from Cardiff, Wales.” Chris’ eyebrow rose. The boy was decent to look at and fit the part - a little more latte than vanilla shake, but still acceptable. His deep black hair was a nest and on point, but most striking were his green, green eyes. Not a terrible start.

“I’d also like to introduce my audition partner,” the boy bent over and lifted a cardboard cutout of the Michelin Man. “We don’t have many chubsters at the orphanage, so the Michelin man seems like an appropriate stand-in for the Dursleys, I feel.” David Heyman chuckled, and sat a little straighter in his chair. Even his ever erstwhile casting director had a small smile on her lips. The boy was funny - clever too, mentioning his orphan status. Promising. More so when he’s so far been able to follow the simple instructions they’d sent out with the casting call - state your name, age, tell a joke, and read a paragraph from the books. Many failed to follow simple guidelines. Kids he could forgive, but their parents?

The boy - Bas Rhys - Chris committed to memory, enacted a scene from the first book; of a dialogue between Dudley and Harry. “ No thanks, the toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it - it might be sick.” Oh, this guy had the sass down .

He thought back to the other candidates he had in mind for Harry; Radcliffe had a certain damaged intensity that he liked, but this kid had a chip on his shoulder that he’d not really seen from anyone else yet - must be a quality real orphans shared. Not quite what Kloves’ script was asking for - but if Chris was honest with himself, did more justice to the book character than the current screenplay did.

Given his colleagues’ conspiratorial glances between each other, they were thinking the same thing. Bas Rhys was looking like a promising prospect. But, Chris himself, didn’t quite see a USP yet - that ‘ It factor’.

Then the boy did something borderline insane.

The screen cut to black, shifted to a top-down view of a public swimming pool with a diving board at the bottom of the shot. They were clearly very up high on a diving platform. Young Mr Rhys crouched down and waved a squeegee at the screen, “This isn’t the Nimbus 2000, but I thought I’d provide a quick flight test to show you how I might look during the quidditch scen-”

An off-screen voice abruptly interrupted with a shout. “Oi! Get down from there, you absolute nutter! That’s for adults only!” Bas Rhys turned to the camera one last time and looked determined, nodded, and walked off-screen. “Well, better get on with it before the pool rozzers catch me.”

Chris leaned forward and glued his eyes to the monitor - no was he going to - Bas ran back in view, squeegee between his legs as he took a flying leap off the board. He’d positioned the camera perfectly to capture the fall all the way down till he crashed head (and broom) first into the water with an enormous splash.

The DVD ejected. David was full on laughing as Chris himself just remained shocked at the asinine antics of the ten-year-old. This was it, this was ‘ IT’ . The movie had a lot of scenes where Harry does stupid and reckless things; this was the first and only audition that precisely provided the sensation that watching someone undertake death-defying stunts should give.

“Yesterday.” Chris voiced to the room. “Send this kid a ticket and book his hotel. I want him to audition in front of me yesterday! ”

Chapter 2: Will You Marriot Me?

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Will you Marriot me?

“Oh, this is so terribly exciting! I can’t believe we’re in LA. Have your ears popped yet, dear? Mine seem to be rather stubbornly fuzzy.” Mrs Stephens - who had generously chaperoned me across the pond asked me. I dug into my pocket and found a Werther’s original butterscotch sweet and handed it to her.

“Suck on this for a bit. It’ll equalize your sinuses.” I did my best to peer beyond the bustling crowd at the arrival hall at LAX to look for our driver.

Full disclosure; I was just as surprised as her to be in LA. My video audition tape was a calculated move made given my foreknowledge - with my advanced internet access filling in the blanks on details. I’d known that the Harry Potter movie production was facing major casting issues - especially for the title character, so I’d taken my shot. Thankfully, this was still an era where talent was plucked off the street and did not demand fifteen years of experience for entry-level positions.

Somehow, I’d gotten lucky enough to get my foot in the door. It was the equivalent of getting an offer from Harvard without an established legacy. Lotteries were won more frequently.

“There’s the driver.” Mrs Stephens pointed out a uniformed chauffeur holding a sign with my name on it.

“I’m Bas Rhys.” I pushed the trolley holding our bags over to him, my head barely poking above the handlebars.

The driver smiled politely and took over the trolley from me and beckoned us to follow him. “Sir, Ma’am, on behalf of the Marriott hotels, welcome to Los Angeles.”

The drive over was quick, probably far too quick for Mrs Stephens who’d had her face glued to the car window, taking in the sights. Admittedly, it was a far cry from the austere and often spartan accommodations we’d just come from. And she’d remained in that shell-shocked state until we were escorted all the way up to our own personal suite.

As the bellhop brought our bags in, she finally found her voice again, “If this is how they treat people coming on for an audition… I’m truly struggling to wonder how’d they’d treat you if you actually get hired.”

“Probably with far less fanfare, I’d wager.” I responded, “Hollywood, by all accounts, seems like a place more interested in first impressions than lasting ones.”

“You’re not that far off the mark!” I turned to the foreign voice coming suddenly from the door. Mrs Stephens and I found a stranger casually strolling past the bell boy like he owned the place. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you in person. I’m David Heyman, the producer of the movie.”

“Oh, my days! You gave me a start!” Mrs Stephens couldn’t help herself.

I ignored her exclamation and strode forward to shake his hand. “Thanks for setting us up here. I’m Bas and this is Mrs Stephens - she looks after me.”

“Pleasure. Shall we sit down and get started?”

Introductions done, we sat down and got to the meat of the conversation. “I’ll not beat around the bush too long. Our movie schedule doesn’t afford us that luxury, I’m afraid.”

Mrs Stephens, sitting beside me, tensed up and began wringing her hands. I patted her to calm her down and addressed Heyman. “Alright, what do I need to do?”

“You just need to be you, or rather the version of you most aligned with the character Harry Potter. You’ve gotten to the starting line. Now it’s time to jump the hurdles.”

“That’s it?” I blurted out.

“Not quite. We have a very strict audition process. An eight-step process, to be precise. Over the coming days, you’re going to be driven to the studio where you’ll meet a different group each time who’ll ask you to do different things. This is all, of course, dependent on if you pass each preceding stage.” Heyman provided a succinct but informative response.

“And what if he doesn’t? Pass the round, I mean,” Ms Stephens piped up nervously.

“That’s a ticket home, I’m sorry to say.”

“Fair enough.” I chimed in before Mrs Stephens could express any other worries. “What specifically should I be preparing for?”

“Before I detail that, I’d like to give you fair warning. We really really are on a tight schedule at the moment, so however you present yourself in the audition rounds, you will not have much time to do so - at least in the initial parts. I’m not immune to the rush either, mind you! I’m flying in a couple of days too, to convince the parents of one of your competitors to go ahead with his audition. The hiring team considers him the strongest candidate as of now, so use this opportunity to put yourself ahead.”

That was likely Dan Radcliffe, he was mentioning. They reported it in the future that his parents were hesitant to involve him in this line of work, and only the producer of the film chasing them pushed everything forward. I had to make my impression, and I had to make it now!

“Then I better get to work.”

And so the grueling audition process began.

The first day, I was driven to a building, presumably the Warner Media studios offices. They escorted me to a waiting room that had a couple bottles of water and a few snacks on a table and told to wait.

After what felt like an age, they took me to a different room. This time, one with a lot of dark-coloured curtains, and was grocered in front of a table full of people. I failed to see how many and who, given that there were about ten extremely bright lights shining directly on to my face, making it very difficult to see anything but encroaching blindness.

“State your name, age, and place of residence, please.” A disembodied voice called out. So I did.

“Please spread your arms apart, and slowly turn in a full circle.” I carried out the instruction, feeling a little like a piece of pottery on display. Someone from behind brought in a height chart from behind the lights and set it standing beside me. “Now, please stand in front of the chart at your full height.” After a minute, I lifted my hand and put on top of my head, pulled away and checked my own height - 4ft 9. Not too shabby.

The chart was taken away, and they brought a single chair and camera in its place. “Please take a seat on the chair and focus your gaze on the camera lens. When I call out an emotion, I’d like for you to express that on your face. So, for instance, should I call out ‘happy’, we’d like-”

“Like for me to smile. I understand.” I looked right at the lens and smiled.

“Yes, very good.” It continued on like that for a while. Angry: glare, sad: frown, amused, hopeful, determined, worried, and on and on and on…

I began massaging my face once the camera was being taken away. My face felt like an overwrought sponge. “Thank you Mr Rhys, that’ll be all for today. We’ll guide you back to your hotel for the day. We look forward to seeing you in the next round tomorrow. Congratulations.”

Well, that was that. Guess they just wanted to get a good look at the goods.

Knowing that at some point I’d be having a one-on-one with the big man himself, I went through future interviews on my future net, showing his hiring process for Harry with Dan Radcliffe. I even saw the scenes with Haley Joel Osment from Sixth Sense, who Columbus mentioned had been his first choice for the role. It was super clear he wanted this sort of haunted severity brought to the character. So I practiced through the night while Mrs Stephens stayed up with me out of sheer bull-headedness.

Day two, as predicted, brought the director, with his cameraman as well as a young woman who was either his PA or script supervisor, to my hotel room. “Good morning Bas! I’m Chris Columbus the director. I hope we didn’t scare you off yesterday? Screen tests can be pretty invasive - even for child actors.”

“It’s only natural that they should put me in difficult situations to perform - I am trying to become Harry Potter, after all. Can’t exactly be him without being in a near constant state of discomfort.”

The director reeled back slightly in surprise and made a face at his PA. “You’re even cheekier than I recall from your video submission.”

He urged the cameraman to set-up quickly and rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Let’s get this show on the road! I’m going to give a few scenes to read Bas. We’ll choose two of them together, and I’ll read them with you for the camera.”

They handed me three stacks of paper, each depicting a particular scene from the first three books. There wasn’t anything past ‘Prisoner of Azkaban’, as the fourth book had yet to be written. The first scene was the potions class from the first book where Snape played twenty questions with Harry. The second choice was the dueling lesson with Lockhart from ‘Chamber of Secrets’, and last, the dementor aftermath scene from PoA.

Chris held up the second scene. “I want to go through this scene first. I enjoyed the bit of sass you displayed during the Dudley scene from your video and I’d like to see it live for myself. I’ll be Lockhart, my PA will play the part of Snape and read the stage directions - and you, obviously, shall play Harry. Take a minute to memorize the lines.”

I skimmed through quickly and saw that it was only a few short lines. A single, lonely minor scene was all I got to make my career - no pressure.

[“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.”

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops--my wand is a little overexcited--“

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”

“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.

“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”

“What, drop my wand?”]

I followed the cues and acted as the screen described. I twisted my face into the subtle expressions that came with the emotional beats of the scene. The delivery of the last line was key - I stared right into Chris’ eyes, I affected as much disbelief in my face and voice as fitting for the scene and said the line just under my breath, but loud enough for Chris to pick it up. Nailed it. Probably. Hopefully. Well, given Chris’ nodding, at least he seemed satisfied.

“That was great! Nice job, kid. You’ve got this edge to Harry that I read in the books that the script doesn’t really have right now.” He commented on my performance. I wasn’t entirely sure if my characterisation deviating from the current script was a good or bad thing. “Now, I want you to pick the next one.”

This was a test. He was baiting me with the ‘edge’ comment and his scene choice. He knows I can do that already and so doing the Snape scene doesn’t really show anything too new. But, the dementor scene was something unfamiliar and different. An avenue to display my range.

It was a more somber scene, Harry describing what the dementors did to him, about listening to Lily’s screams. I started slow and soft-spoken, but I steadily allowed myself to build to something more matter of fact.

The words flowed like water, my eyes burnt into theirs. My choice was correct and my prep paid off. I was called in for the third stage.

Chapter 3: JK ain't Kidding Around

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: JK ain’t Kidding Around

I found myself once again in a nondescript room in an office building for my third round audition. At least, this time the lights were shining everywhere rather than directly on to my face.

It was nice being able to see who I was performing for, for once.

And what a cast it was. Chris Columbus the director, Steve Kloves the screenwriter, and most importantly, the big boss lady herself JK Rowling.

There were a smattering of others, but I wouldn’t be able to tell the WB execs from the custodial staff.

Chris clapped his hands together and began, “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, it’s time we discuss your assignment for the day, Bas.” He gestured to the table we were all sitting around - in particular he motioned at the eclectic range of kitchenware and household items placed precariously close to some important seeming papers.

Steve Kloves inserted himself, interrupting what Chris was going to say. “We just need to see if you can carry out a few basic tasks. My script calls for a range of these things. We need to see you adequately accomplish them.” He tapped his pen aggressively on the script while saying so. Rude. And given by the looks JK was sending him, clear friction there.

I shrugged and smiled, attempting to seem disaffected by his callousness. “Lay it on me.” [So that I can shut you up] went said only in the confines of my mind.

“There’s more than a few scenes I wrote in that show Harry cooking and cleaning for the Dursleys, and some of that … thankfully made it into the script too.” Jo Rowling popped in while taking a jab at Kloves. Clearly didn’t like each other much, creative disagreements and all that I guess. Can’t really blame her. He changed so many characters and wrote out so many important Chekhov’s guns for the story to work, that it made it confusing to the average watcher later down the franchise.

Let’s alleviate the tension, shall we? Can’t have my audition tainted by a fight between two of the most important people for the franchise… for now, at least.

Grabbing the feather duster in front of me in hand, I stood. “I seriously hope this isn’t supposed to be my wand.” I started pointlessly dusting random items around me. “This probably isn’t what a swish and flick is meant to do.”

JK turned her attention away from Kloves and narrowed her eyes at me for a moment before allowing herself a small grin. “Clever boy. You’ve broken the tension, now, why don’t you break a few eggs too?” She got up and set a carton of eggs and a bowl in front of me.

“Ok, aunt Petunia.” I snatched an egg, tapped on the table, and cleanly cracked it over the bowl.

“The cheek on you!” she exclaimed with faux outrage. Turning to Columbus, she pointed at me and said. “I like him.”

We carried on from there, with me doing a lot of other random work. But in my opinion, I’d already won the day.

Day four brought the animals out to play. I had an eight-foot-long reticulated python draped across my shoulder.

“Hola, amigo.” I was clearly far from uncomfortable.

Today was essentially an extension of the previous day, but with a focus on how I handled myself around animals, or maybe even more importantly, how animals handled themselves around me. Most Hollywood movie makers have nearly unanimously agreed that handling animals is easier than child actors.

It had turned the usually quaint WB office into a zoo.

I’d played with cats and dogs - even the massive hound slated to play fang, Hagrid’s dog, that stood level with my own head. I had it behaving like a puppy in minutes; the benefits of being devoid of irrational childhood phobias.

Toads and tarantulas were slightly more icky to handle, but I pushed on through.

And of course, I even met Hedwig herself. The owl was far more of a diva than I’d imagined, and I had the marks on my arm from where her talons had sunk in to prove it. She tolerated me more than adequately, so I refused to complain.

The animal handler took the snake off of me and put it back in its box. I addressed the skeeved out looking exec crowd in front of me. “Do I get to play with anything else? Today was fun!”

One of the casting directors responded while failing to keep the grimace from her face. “No, that’ll be all for today, Mr Rhys, thank you. We’ll see you back tomorrow.”

I shrugged, nodded, and walked away. “Tomorrow, then.”

The fifth day was different. A good different. I’d been driven to a nice house in the valley. Even Mrs Stephens was allowed to tag along and they handed me a roll of dollar bills for lunch. Naturally, it being California; I told the driver to take us to his favorite Mexican spot and ordered something with a lot of flavor in every bite for the three of us.

Mrs Stephens was fanning herself and sweating at the flavour explosion, but my international sensibilities were left very, very satisfied for the first time in two years. Late nineties Wales doesn’t exactly have a lot going for it in terms of cuisine.

It was an ordeal to not fall asleep on this stranger’s very soft couch, following my meal. But given that Richard Griffiths was walking in with the studio team, I’d best put those chillies to work.

Chris took me by the shoulder and introduced me to his companion while the rest of the team set themselves up in the background. Rowling and Kloves were pointing heatedly at a select part of the script. The larger man took my hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you, lad.”

“You too, sir.”

“Bas, this is Richard Griffiths, and he’ll be playing Vernon Dursley - your uncle in the film. Fortuitously for us today, we can ease our foot off the pedal. We’ve seen you act by yourself and read scenes with us, Bas. But we’ve not had the opportunity to see how you gel with other actors in a scene.”

“Minus the Michelin man.” I quipped.

“Correct. So with that in mind, Richard was in town and we tapped him to run a scene or two with you to see how you get on.”

“Don’t worry, lad. You’re in expert hands.” Griffiths kindly offered, to which I nodded gratefully.

Chris leaned in a little and lowered his voice. “And just between the three of us? It’s also a small test to see what revisions we can make to our initial script - especially regarding characterisation.” He discreetly pointed over at the continuing argument between Kloves and Rowling. “Might help those two calm down a little and give the rest of us a modicum of peace. So do your best, Bas, and play Harry how you’ve been thus far.”

Chris’ script supervisor handed each of us a sheaf of paper.

Richard Griffiths put on his specs and read through quickly. “Ah! The postage scene.” He waggled his eyebrows at me and said, “I always enjoy a good mental breakdown.”

What a nice man. I shot him another smile for trying to reassure me - even though I really didn’t need it.

In what felt like moments, the scene was set. They gave me a paper plate of cookies to hold, Richard was given a stack of envelopes as he knelt by the unlit fireplace, and the ever-present script supervisor stood off-screen with a packet full of more envelopes.

Chris and the team had moved to the side, sat behind a small screen connected to a camera focused on us. “Places everybody! Whenever you’re ready, Richard.”

[Griffiths quickly shifted his expression into something manic, borderline insane. His pupils looked a little farther apart as he slowly and gleefully tossed Harry’s letters into the fire. I schooled my expression to express reserved irritation and walked towards him with the plate of biscuits.

He gave me a self-satisfied smile while tossing in the last one. “Fine day Sunday! In my opinion, the best day of the week. Do you know why that is?”

In the original movie, Harry answered the question. But it always felt like he was responding as if it wasn’t his letters being tossed away. I couldn’t bear to have Harry so unaware of his own circ*mstance. I kept quiet for a moment. I extended the plate of biscuit to the delighted Vernon, but before he could get his paws on them I denied him by setting the plate on the nearby table - still within reach but clearly snubbing him. “Because there’s no post on Sundays?” I asked, a little too innocently.

Griffiths, being the consummate professional, immediately played off me. Scowled, snatched a biscuit off the plate, and took a rough, messy bite. “Right you are, Harry! No post on Sundays.” he almost snarled.]

“Cut! That was grea-” Chris tried to get out before Kloves barged in.

“What was that? Did you not read the script? Is it that hard to follow simple scene cues?” Kloves suddenly pounced on me and began his barrage.

I was a little taken aback by the unexpected explosion. “I just thought -”

“You’re not meant to think, you’re only meant to act. Just follow the cues and read the lines. Don’t make your own arbitrary corrections!”

Jo Rowling stood up abruptly and started in on Kloves then. “Funny that, isn’t it? Someone fiddling with your written work makes you so unreasonably cross - at a child, no less. Yet when you’re the one doing the meddling, not a peep or ounce of understanding? I think the scene was perfectly fine and so was their performance - no matter the deviations. My Harry Potter - the very one that I created, if you’ll remember, is not so cowed as the one in your script, he’s meant to be quietly defiant!”

“Oh, not this again!”

Pandemonium. Chris, amongst others, was doing his best to get in between the two authors as they raged at each other. I just looked bewildered at Richard, who was just shaking his head in disappointment. Then I looked at the script supervisor, who stood stoic like this was a daily occurrence.

f*ck, I couldn’t let it end like this. I had to do something.

Hmm. Cameras were still rolling… I walked over to supes and gently took the script from her and turned to the next scene we were going to do - the scattering letters. I pointed at the scene and then at her box full of envelopes. She looked perturbed for a moment before getting it and smiled.

I rushed over to Richard. “They might not be paying attention, but the camera always is. What say you and I finish this up?” I started, and he searched my face for a moment, before a smart glint entered his eyes.

“As I said earlier, I’m always eager for a mental breakdown. Unto the breach, we go!” We got ourselves in position. I gave script supes the signal, and she began raining the letter down around us.

[Richard and I were on it, his exclamations of shock and despair, my peals of laughter as we danced around each other and the furniture. I jumped, ducked, swiped, and ran rings around Griffiths. I hopped on top of the table, making a reach for the fluttering paper, allowing Richard to grab on to me as we tussled. “We’re going far away! Far, far away!”

Even supes got in on it. “Daddy’s gone crazy hasn’t he?”]

By the end of that, the only noise in the room was the last of the falling letters. Richard put me down and dusted me off. “I’ll call cut on that.” He stared down the production team for an uncomfortable moment, who were still collecting themselves from what had just happened. Chris hurriedly rushed to his screen; probably rewind and review the scene.

“Now.” Richard continued, “You lot need to pull yourselves together. That was shameful.” He then glared directly at Kloves, “I may just be a simple actor, meant only to read lines, but even I know that the chemistry between two performers and the overall flow of the scene is more important than rigidly following the script. Should my opinion matter even one whit to you, the young man here as my vote for the role. He behaved with far more professionalism than any of you!”

Told off! I just barely held myself back from laughing. He put his arm around my shoulder and began guiding me out of the room. “We’ll be leaving for tea. Hopefully, you’ll all be able to sort yourselves out in the interim.”

I couldn’t help one last glance back to the gobsmacked room behind us. Turning to Richard, I asked, “Have you ever been to Korea town? My treat.”

Chapter 4: Brass Tacks & Income Tax

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Brass Tacks & Income Tax

The sixth day had passed, but day six had yet to arrive. Mrs Stephens anxiously busied herself around our squeaky clean suite while I moped on the couch.

“Ooh…” she sat beside me and clasped my hands between hers. “Don’t let this get you down, dear. You gave it your best, didn’t you?”

“... It’s still disheartening.”

“I know, sweet boy, I know.” Then the phone rang. It could only be for one reason; Mrs Stephens looked particularly put out. “I’ll get that, shall I?” she said, with her lips pursed. “Yes. Who is it?”

“Hello, this is David Heyman.”

“How nice of you to call us; we thought we’d been abandoned. It’s been nearly a week!”

[“How nice of you to call us; we thought we’d been abandoned. It’s been nearly a week!” ]

David winced at the reprimand. “My sincere apologies, Mrs Stephens. It’s just that we’ve had to put out a few fires on our end, you see.”

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t think it warrants radio silence. Bas and I were practically resigned that we’d only be receiving bad news - especially after the debacle during the last round.”

“No! Absolutely not! Please rest assured that he’s still very much in the running.” Heyman rushed to get out. “In fact, the reason for this call was to let him know that we’d like him back for essentially the final round tomorrow. So please don’t lose heart.”

The line went silent for a moment, only a light murmur audible. The two of them were likely deciding their course of action.

“Very well. Bas is adamant. He’ll see you tomorrow. And should anything change, please do inform us next time? Promptly!”

“Yes, of course. Good day, Mrs Stephens.”

“Likewise.” The line went dead.

He put down the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘One crisis averted,’ he thought to himself. He didn’t think he could stomach losing a second Harry Potter candidate in a single week.

“How’d it go? Do we still have an option for Harry, or are we starting from scratch?” Rowling pestered him sarcastically.

“Hunky-dory for now.” He sighed. He was more than a little annoyed at the author’s deeper involvement. She wasn’t meant to be here originally, but recent circ*mstances had forced their hand.

Given the tumult the script had caused - even with the hired actors - it forced them to take a deeper look into the screenplay.

In his opinion, Kloves had done an excellent job trimming the fat and keeping the more cinematic stuff from the books. They just didn’t have the time for multiple quidditch scenes and the like.

But he was definitely on Rowling’s side when it came down to character.

If the author tells you that certain characters would become increasingly important as the books went on, such as Malfoy and Longbottom, it would probably behoove them to listen to her advice. Better to set the foundation for sequels now than try to juggle that mess down the line.

Kloves seemed to forget that. They weren’t just writing for a standalone picture; this would be a profoundly involved franchise.

Harry was far blander than he needed to be, while Ron could have been written out entirely from Kloves’ script. The character of Hermione was given the lot, for whatever strange reason. Unnecessary bias? Either way, there was more correction with their characters than anything else in the script. They couldn’t afford to alienate their fans by completely misrepresenting the three most vital characters in the series.

“Alright, some good news then.” Chris walked up to a pin-board and stuck a polaroid of Bas under the Harry header. The only other photo under the same section belonged to Radcliffe.

“Good. As long as he doesn’t look horrible in the costume test, I say we finalize Rhys as Potter.” JK asserted.

“I feel like I wasted my time trying to convince the Radcliffes. They’ll likely be quite cross that I’ve been badgering them and, despite that, denying their son the lead role.”

Rowling leaned back in her chair and shrugged. “That’s their fault for being so indecisive.”

Heyman grumbled a little, “I really liked Dan for it. I genuinely believe he’s a phenomenal young actor.”

“Give him Neville, then. It’s become a larger role now and should satisfy you and him both.” Chris suggested.

“And what about the young man we were already thinking of for Neville?” That was Kloves.

“How about Crabbe or Goyle? If he’s worth hiring, he should be able to affect menacing instead of bumbling, shouldn’t he?” Rowling really could be a savage.

Chris continued to shuffle the photos around on the board as the decisions were made.

“I still say the logic puzzle is more important to the story.” JK stubbornly persisted.

“I’ve told you already, audiences will find flying magical keys and a broom chase far more exciting than a table full of potions accompanied by a poem.” Kloves refused to give an inch.

Heyman hoped Rhys could pull off the entire look tomorrow - he just wanted to get to filming already.

The sixth day had taken the weekend off, but its advent was finally here. I couldn’t believe it; I’d done it. I’ve done it! I was going to be the very literal face of a multi-billion dollar franchise for the next ten years - and likely forever after that, too.

The last audition felt like a formality. They brought me Harry's iconic round glasses and told me to put them on. I heard the script supervisor speak aloud for the first time since I’d met her. “Those really make your eyes pop.”

And that was it. I was now officially Harry Potter.

I weathered through a storm of hearty back slaps and relieved congratulations. Following that, I was provided a binder. “You need to hire an agent immediately. Here’s WB’s preferred list of agencies; you’ve got the pick of the litter.” Before being chucked into my car and told to go back to the hotel. Judging by the bags under their eyes, I’m guessing the production team was about ready to pass out.

This was a rare moment alone; I couldn’t waste it. The right agent in Hollywood makes or breaks your career.

Mostly, these were big-name agencies; CAA, UTA, WME, etc. However, while the companies were widely known, the agents they had provided as options weren’t. My choices didn’t extend beyond rookie or junior associates at the firms. It would’ve been a gamble had I not had my magic internet MacGuffin, so I researched a few names.

One stood out above all others. Anita Specter. She was a rookie in the present - only recently having even entered the industry - but she was very much a shark in a koi pond. In the future, she would go on to manage some huge names.

Denzel, Keanu, Zendaya, and even the actors needlessly shoehorned into everything like The Rock, Gal Gadot, and Chris Pratt. She represented them all at one point or another. And did so competently enough that they all left WME with her to join UTA years later.

I guess it was time to ‘go Hollywood’ and call my agent - only with Mrs Stephens’ blessing, of course.

Anita agreed to meet, and we’d signed a contract to retain her as my agent after a few days.

“Since you’re all child actors, WB wants to remain above board with all of this. Every agency has capped their fees to 10% of earnings - at least until your majority.” Anita Specter sat in front of Mrs Stephens and me, explaining my remuneration terms for the movie.

If I was a regular child, I’d have probably wished for someone more worldly than my middle-aged caretaker, but I wasn’t, so the info going over her head was landing quite comfortably on my lap. “This is gross income, I’m assuming.”

Anita looked stunned momentarily, but ultimately took it in stride. “That’s correct. Remember that my fees are on top of the Coogan fund you’re forced to pay 15% into.”

“So I lose 10 points to you and another 15% haircut into a fund that I can’t touch for eight years.”

“Well, it’s meant to be for your financial security.” She tried to placate.

“Try selling that line to me in a decade when I’ve not made a dime from investments, and that money’s depreciating from inflation.”

Anita looked at me in incredulity, then quickly burst into laughter. “Why would a kid like you know this stuff?”

“I’m an orphan; I can’t afford to be dumb with money.”

“Fair enough. If I’m honest, I hadn’t believed that you’d finished your GCSEs. I thought it was another publicity stunt. I believe it now.”

“So anyway, your immediate take-home from this movie would be 750k USD after the 25%. Or whatever the sterling equivalent is if you request to be paid in pounds.”

I waved her off. “USD is fine. GBP has been steadily losing value since the ‘70s.” And will only grow weaker. Thank you again, magic web.

“You’d have to account for a higher income tax rate then.”

“Of the total income!?” Mrs Stephens was, understandably, shocked at the insane value. This was in 2000; a million dollars still went a long way.

“Of gross, yes. Should work out to around- “

“33%”, I finished for her. “Leaving me with 420k. Not exactly a million-dollar salary.”

“Well, your contracted option for the second movie installment triples your salary, so you’ll eventually reach that milestone.” My agent pointed to the relevant clause of the contract.

“Well, I’m sure we can find loopholes somewhere.”

Anita raised her hands defensively. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. You’ll need a CPA or a business manager for that. And they take their own 10%.”

“I’m sure you already have names in mind. I’d need help to wrap my head around setting up a tax shelter, anyway. And whatever they charge, it will still be cheaper than paying the full amount to the government.”

Anita leaned forward, rested her head lazily on her interlocking hands, and stared at me, a little disappointed. “Don’t orphans depend on government assistance? I thought you’d have more incentive to pay your fair share.”

“I’m not on the dole. Some wealthy old bloke who wants to buy his way into heaven before he shuffles off privately funded my dorm.”

I tore my gaze away from Anita and stared right at Mrs Stephens. “And as for paying my fair share… no one deserves it but you. A good percentage of whatever I get for this movie is going to you.”

Mrs Stephens quickly grew teary and latched on to me in a hug. “Oh, Bas, you mustn’t! This is your money; you earned it, not me.”

“I wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t even be alive.” She started sobbing, and I turned back to my agent. “So tell me, d’you know anyone who wants to ensure an orphanage caregiver receives more money than a greedy politician?”

Anita pierced me with a hard stare, rhythmically tapping the nails of one hand on the table. “Conniving, little bastard, with a heart of gold.”

She suddenly smiled predatorily." I’m definitely going to enjoy working with you."

Chapter 5: Polaroid Express

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Polaroid Express

You never know how much or how little you have until you put your life into boxes.

A week’s worth of clothes, a well-worn pair of trainers, a folder full of documents, a camera, and a toothbrush. My entire existence fit into a single, medium-sized duffle bag with enough extra room for a tiffin and thermos.

Even my scrawny arms could lift that.

No. What weighed a hell of a lot more than the life I was taking with me was the life I was about to leave behind.

My dorm at the orphanage was small, but never uncomfortable. Yet now, despite both me and Mrs Stephens sitting on the bare mattress of my single cot, my room had never felt so huge or empty. She was turned away from me. I watched her back move as she silently folded my old school uniforms. I’d opted to leave those behind, along with my black oxfords and a full set of textbooks for the next tenant at the orphanage that would need them. My time in Wales was at an end; none of that would be useful to me anymore.

She finished folding, but Mrs. Stephens kept flattening a crease that wasn't there.. “That’s you done then, Bas.” Her voice was unsteady; it sounded wet. She still wouldn’t look at me.

“Don’t I even get a hug before I leave?”

Instantly, her shoulders tensed, and I noticed her hands curl into fists while she remained hunched over my old school wear. “.... that’d be inappropriate. And unfair to the other children.”

“Fairness, huh?” I was surprised at the scoffing tone that escaped me. “I always thought I was your favourite. Guess I was wro-”

Mmf! That was all it took till I found myself stuffed into her belly.

Since returning from LA, Mrs Stephens constantly complained that she’d put on a few pounds, but given how violently I was being squeezed into her, I was supremely thankful for her newfound softness. “You aren’t! You are! My favourite - not wrong. I mean… oh, you know what I mean!” She babbled frantically through light sobs.

Her body shook. I tried to pull my face away, but her clawing hands locked my head in place.

I guess eleven years was my second life’s limit. Cause of death, suffocation by smothering. It was painful. Given the way she shivered and sniffled, I’d assume her eyes were shut tight as tears and snot streamed down her face - yet my face was the complete opposite. I don’t think I’d ever smiled so widely. My arms circled around her waist and I hugged her back.

“I love you, too.” We weren’t related by blood, but she was my mother in every way it truly mattered besides. I wanted her to know that.

Obviously, that only made her cry more. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” She said wetly. “Goodbyes are tough enough as it is.”

“Hey, hey!” I patted her to let me go, she relented her stranglehold. “Not goodbye. Tan tro nesa.” I said in Welsh.

At that, her tears threatened to spill over again, but she bit her lip, held herself back, and nodded vigorously. “Right! Until we meet again. And don’t you forget it!” With one last hydraulic press, she broke the embrace and calmed herself down. She straightened her dress, wiped her tears, and fixed her hair. “Oh dear, I must look a frightful mess.”

I didn’t bother un-ruffling myself, but I did reach into my trouser pocket and pull out my wallet. There wasn’t much in it, about thirty quid in cash, my folded up train ticket, and the main thing I was looking for, two photos.

After I’d secured the part of Harry Potter, on one of our last days in America, Mrs Stephens and I went down to Santa Monica. While there, we visited the beach, the boardwalk, and even the pier. A stall selling cameras was there, and I bought myself one with the pocket money I’d had left, a cheap instant camera. We took two photos together.

In the first, a gust of wind had nearly knocked Mrs Stephens’ big, floppy hat off her head, and I’d elected to make a silly face - cross-eyed and tongue out. Inevitably, we took a second one that was picture perfect.

“Here.” I held out the first photo, obviously.

Her smile was brittle, yet happy as she gripped it. Her thumb stroked across the image. I waved the second photo at her. “I have mine, too.” I put it in the clear slot of my wallet, which I then pocketed again. “This way we’ll both always be with the other. No matter the distance.”

Mrs Stephens mauled me again. At this rate I was gonna miss my train.

Goathland Railway Station, UK. September 2000

My career had just begun, yet it already felt like the end.

I wasn’t getting fired or anything, not after the whole hiring ordeal, but because the first scene I would film was the movie’s very last scene.

Arriving early in the morning, I’d been immediately bathed, dressed in costume, and then subsequently strapped to a chair for the last couple hours, getting cuts, bruises, and not to mention the World’s most famous scar painted all over my face.

Rupert Grint had landed Ron’s role, while Emma Watson was Hermione.

Rupert sat in his chair beside me, quietly nervous while getting his hair done.

Emma had been taken outside and was being fitted, and screen tested for various different prosthetic buck teeth options. Incessantly chattering away at the man taking the behind-the-scenes footage.

“Are they done?” David Heyman walked into the makeup trailer just as we were finishing.

“Just about.” The stylist patted me on my shoulders, swiped off the makeup bib, and allowed me to hop off the chair.

“Fantastic. C’mon kids, time to earn your paychecks.”

We approached the legendary Hogwarts Express. Cameras were trained on our markers for their blocking, extras were in position, and the noticeably massive form of Robbie Coltrane standing on a soapbox was all lower down the platform.

The three of us stood clustered as the scene was set for us. “Alright, stroll down to the last cart and get on. Rupert and Emma, please wave off-sight and then, Bas, you’ll run your lines with Robbie. Good? Let’s hop on it. Places!”

It had been months since I’d signed on, so in the meantime, I’d watched and rewatched the movies repeatedly until they were seared into my brain. This scene was originally done well; the only changes I felt worth making were Harry’s awkward expression when looking at the photos and the stilted hug with Hagrid. But besides that, I’d keep it simple.

The two next to me seemed jittery, so I patted their backs to keep them reassured. “Action!”

It took several takes, but we eventually got it.

[I jogged down the platform, dodged around the roaming extras, and approached the towering form of Hagrid with a subdued smile.

“Thought you were leavin’ without sayin’ goodbye, did ya?” He took out the album from his oversized pocket and presented it to me. I glanced curiously between him and it. “This is for you.”

It wasn’t an actual book, just a folded block of green foam inside a cover for the CGI.

I knew what picture was going to be superimposed onto it, but at that moment, as I opened the book, I thought back to the photo in my wallet.

The camera panned into position. I didn’t look as the shot was framed, I just focused on an image only in my mind. My eyes burned, tear ducts activated, but I didn’t break. I stroked the page and kept my head down. “.... Thanks Hagrid.” I closed the book gently.

A large hand appeared in my vision. I looked up at him, misty eyed and wobbling smile. I took his hand but didn’t shake it, choosing instead to pull on him and crash into a powerful hug.

The scene continued, and I reached my last marker.

“I’m not going home.” Wistful smile. “Not really.” ]

“Cut! Print that one!”

Durham Cathedral, UK. November 2000.

Being on set can teach you a lot. My biggest bit of learning was understanding how involved movie making actually is.

That and secrets.

The last two months opened my eyes to the complexity of creating even a simple dialogue scene at a table.

For instance, if I performed a well-written dialogue like a robot, what would be the point? Then, even if my performance was adequate, if my costume and makeup weren’t there, then I’m not a character, I’m just some guy. I may look the part, but without a stage or props, I’m only good for Halloween. And all of that only matters if there're tons of electrical equipment recording everything. Which is why I found myself learning about cameras and filming from the movie’s principal cinematographer, John Seale.

“What we have here is the Panaflex platinum shooting on 35mm.” He instructed. It was a heavy camera, standing on a tripod taller than me. John panned across the hall as I observed on a monitor connected to the rig.

Durham Cathedral was the first location where the wider cast had joined. A large chunk of all the interior Hogwarts scenes were being filmed here. The Great Hall is most prominent, especially in holiday regalia in preparation for the Christmas scenes slated for next week.

“I use the same zoom lens for all my cameras. I love the free feeling! Slow zooms in during emotional moments that draw the audience in are my fave.” His tone turned a little teasing, “but you know all about that, don’t you, green eyes?”

“What can I say? I have star quality.” He chuckled, fiddled with the buttons and dials on the camera and zoomed in on a table full of kids.

While I was learning here, they were studying, too. Rupert and Emma, alongside a host of others, were slogging through their homework. Daily school was four hours for the Hogwarts cast, which meant homework was much heavier. I couldn’t be happier that I’d finished compulsory education.

Dan Radcliffe, in attendance as well, had landed Neville Longbottom’s role, and was provided with a larger-than-original part. It was pretty hard to miss a small kid wearing sunglasses in Hogwarts robes.

I felt terrible for Matt Lewis, but I found out he was Crabbe now, so good for him, I guess.

It became increasingly apparent how much had changed from the original script. Neville shows up on the train before Hermione this time. He was even included in the Fluffy scene after being found lost outside the Gryffindor dorms.

One scene that was still missing, however, was the chocolate frog card, Nicholas Flamel revelation. It was instead, like the original movie, where Hermione figures it out on her own rather than a team effort by all three. Ron for the clue, Harry for the epiphany, and Hermione to bring it home.

Too bad it wasn’t my place to discuss script changes. A topic that was already heavily contested.

I could try other things, though.

“I have six of these babies running on hydraulic heads to catch all you hopping monkeys.” Seale snapped me out of my introspection.

“Does that mean I can try experimental takes like a true Hollywood diva?” I teased.

“Don’t you dare move off the markers! If I have to reset the lighting, I’ll string you up by your laces.”

“Speaking of stringing someone up,” I quickly changed the subject, “I heard there are reporters on set today.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Wreaks havoc on our already tight schedule. But the PR team wants to drum up some early press by showing off the sets, getting some cast interviews, that sort of thing.” He pointed to the rest of the child cast. “Media types can squeeze water from a stone, mate. You tykes stand no chance against those vultures. And believe me, they’ll try.”

I stayed quiet for a moment. “We’re the leads, though. Can’t escape that.”

He nodded. “True enough”

“What if we pretend that we’re rehearsing a scene when they come around? Might keep them out of our hair if they think we’re working.”

He shrugged, “worth a shot.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Worth a shot.”

Chapter 6: Sticks & Stones

Chapter Text

Chapter 5.5: Sticks & Stones

Alnwick Castle, UK. December 2000.

My shooting schedule was brutal.

In between the interior school scenes filmed at Durham Cathedral - such as the transfiguration classes - I was also shuttled back and forth to Leavesden studio, where the Privet drive scenes were being filmed in tandem.

We even got to include the sassy moments between the Dursleys and Harry!

Alnwick Castle was also on the list of destinations - all the exterior Hogwarts shots were filmed here, like flying lessons.

The brooms themselves were fiberglass props, latched onto large jibs with near invisible wires to make us fly. I’d been doing gymnastics for a while now, and I still found it difficult to keep steady.

Yet, as fulfilling as everything had been the last few months, it didn’t compensate for the fact that I barely had any time for myself.

I’d even had to set aside my extracurricular activities temporarily. Extracurriculars that would be crucial for my budding career - especially post-Potter.

More depressingly, I’d also been stymied creatively with my portrayal of Harry, purely because I’d pulled a stupid stunt that had pissed Chris Columbus off and had been forcefully reined in.

This past week, for example, should have been a great opportunity to make an impression.

We’d been filming the Snape and potions scene. Rickman, of course, stole the show, but I wish I wasn’t made to be drowned out so thoroughly.

I glanced to the side; Rickman was making a sheepish Grint autograph the unpretty caricature he’d made of the man. I’d even convinced Rupert to write ‘yippee-kay-yay’ in a speech bubble before we were caught.

Someone tugged on my sleeve; it was Watson gaining my attention. “She’s here. It’s our turn!” She pulled me to my feet hurriedly.

I called down the hall for Rupert. He was part of the quest party, too. “Van Gogh, we’ve an appointment to keep.”

Rupert quickly excused himself and peeled away from a thoroughly amused Rickman, still admiring the drawing. “Thanks for that!” He breathed out, the flush of embarrassment still painted his face red.

We jogged down the hall together to the designated meeting room.

“There they are, my golden trio!” She greeted us grandly. “And as fashionably harried as they ought to be. Good work.” JK Rowling, the big boss lady, was here to do a quarterly inspection. “Come along. Do tell me how you’ve been handling your new stations in life.”

My co-stars nattered on about this and that. I mainly sat quietly, chiming in for affirmation.

“Lovely. And how are the three of you meshing with each other? I’m certain there’s no need to mention that a comfortable dynamic between you three is incredibly vital.”

I wrapped my hands around the kids’ shoulders and squeezed them in. “Peachy.”

“He lets me borrow his Gameboy and everything!” Way to keep your priorities straight, Grint.

“He’s been ever so helpful with our schoolwork! We’ve even got a small study group. It’s such a relief to not worry about my education while doing the movie.” Watson jumped up and down on her seat

“Won’t lie, though. I sometimes wish he didn’t make us practice so much.”

“Oh, honestly! He’s just making sure we’re all at our best.” Emma defended me.

“Yes… I’d heard about that.” JK met my eyes directly. “Someone got into a lot of hot water over their overzealous rehearsal habits. To the point, it even enforced a script change.”

I had no answer to that. Rupert had his moment with Alan Rickman. Now it seems it was my turn at bat against JK.

“That’ll be all for now, children. We’ll talk a bit more next time, I promise.” She dismissed us, so we got up to leave. “Not you, Bas; I need another moment.” My two little minions looked worried for a moment. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I assure you, he’ll be returned to you in one piece. Now, off you both trot.”

I sat back down as the other two toddled off. JK leaned back in her chair, quietly observing me a minute longer. “I’d gathered you were mischievous, but I never assumed you’d be quite so devious.”

“Why? All I did was schedule a rehearsal. How would I know the media would be there?” I fired back.

“The announcement that the press was coming weeks prior, maybe? Also, don’t you think calling it a rehearsal is disingenuous? The scene being ‘rehearsed’ wasn’t in the script.”

“But it was in the books,” I rebutted. “Rupert needed cheering up. He was disappointed that half his scenes had either been omitted or altered, so we ran the Flamel discovery like it was in the books. We were only having a bit of fun.”

“You’ve already sold that story to the press and Warner Brothers PR execs. I shan’t buy it. That’s why there was tremendous studio pressure to shoot and include that scene in the final cut.” JK refuted. “This isn’t a reprimand, Bas. I’m trying to thank you.”

I reeled for a moment. “What?” I’d actually been severely scolded for that stunt by nearly everyone on the production team; I wasn’t expecting a thanks. “Why?”

“Because I have been fighting for months and months to get similar results. It doesn’t matter how sincerely or frustratedly I present my ideas - they always seem to fall on deaf ears.” She began her torrent. “I slaved over this story for years. I was on welfare, living hand to mouth with a baby on my hip. I’d roam from cafe to cafe writing my story because I couldn’t afford to keep the lights on at home. This story means everything to me, and I’m seeing it butchered by strangers who want to change my content to market it more easily to the lowest common consumer. It’s been infuriating to witness so helplessly.”

She took a few deep breaths; I held mine.

“Then you come along. You ‘inadvertently’ put the same people brushing me off over a barrel. I guess I’m hoping for you to be less of a bumbling moron and more of a criminal mastermind.” She sounded almost pleading, “I’m just wishing that you can find success where I can’t.”

What to do? In all honesty, the real story sat somewhere between the two versions. I didn’t know if my little plan would work; I just got lucky with a half-court shot.

“What don’t you like?” I probed.

“More than you can imagine. I was lobbying for an extended centaur cut - I was denied, which means there’s a big clue not mentioned. They’ve completely cut out Peeves; the list just grows!”

Wow, she’s going on a whole tirade. I guess she doesn’t have anyone else to talk to about it. “The most unforgivable alteration for me, though, has been the traps. I can forgive skipping the troll - we’ve already seen one on Halloween. But why skip the logic puzzle? It’s such an important moment for Hermione; Ron has his with the chess match and Devil’s snare. Harry will have his with the stone. Why waylay the puzzle?”

“Wait. I thought we were only meant to flop around while Hermione saves us from the snare.”

“Not anymore. After your scene with Quirrel and Voldemort, it felt too out of place. Your portrayal is - I guess the best word for it is assertive. Kloves had Harry much more passive in his head, I believe.”

“Well, Rupert’s likely going to be ecstatic. He was upset that he wouldn’t get to say, ‘Are you a witch or not!?’”

“Ian Hart - who you may remember as Quirrel - is too; he’s determined to share his rendition of the mirror scene filming on the press tour. Did you really tell him ‘You can let go of my face if you want, doesn’t mean I’ll let go of yours.’ ?” JK asked amusedly.

“I had to!” I scratched my head to hide my chagrin. “He was so worried he’d hurt me. Harry escaping death shouldn’t be so clean and easy - it should be a dirty fight!”

“Well, the scene is appropriately violent, in my opinion.” Then she focused again, “So, any ideas on how I can get my way with the puzzle scene?”

I leaned back and crossed my arms as I contemplated the problem. “When-“ I hesitated for a beat to collect my thoughts. “When we did the quidditch scenes, I noticed it was basically impossible to keep stable without both arms. I don’t know….” I sighed. “I’m already knee-deep in it; I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”

She leaned with a sharp glint in her eye. “Don’t hold out on me.”

“You know what I do on my free days, right? I might be able to slip.” Unsurprisingly, it’s effortless to fall off a balance beam while cartwheeling across it.

Rowling was astonished. “You’d go that far?”

I held out my pinky finger. “Only if you’d tread alongside me.”

She conferred with herself for a while. Eventually, her pinky wrapped around mine. “Every step of the way. As long as I get to tell my story my way.”

LA, California. Jan 2001.

David Heyman, for the first time in months, was relaxed. The Christmas holidays were vital for his mental health.

Just a few more sequences left to film, and then they could finally wrap. And then it was smooth sailing into promotion and the box office.

Then his phone rang.

He checked the caller ID; why was the movie insurance executive calling him? “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to call on your break, David, but I’m afraid there’s some bad news.” Oh, what’s happened now? Heyman thought to himself. “I’ve just got off the phone with Anita Specter, Bas Rhys’ agent - they’re currently sitting with a triage doctor.”

“Triage!? What happened? Is Bas alright?” Heyman nearly shot to his feet, ready to run to the hospital himself.

“No. He fractured his right arm during his gymnastics lesson. Clean split. He’ll be out of commission for six weeks, minimum.”

“This is a disaster.” Heyman reflexively rested his face in his free hand. “We can’t afford that delay. I’m guessing the insurance team won’t sign off on any wirework for the broom stunts?” He didn’t mean for it to, but his query came out far whinier than he’d liked.

The nod on the other end of the line was almost audible as the insurance exec conferred. “You know us well. We’ve reviewed the script and are okay with everything except the flying-key chase. I can’t comment on the time delay if you’re adamant on the broom stuff, but I’ll tell you now WB won’t allow Bas to do anything that strenuous till March at the earliest. What about using the stunt double?”

Heyman rubbed his temple, feeling a migraine coming on. “Too many close-ups.” He denied the suggestion. “Nothing for it then. The press tours have already been scheduled, and distribution payments have been made. I’m going to have to scrap it, and I’ll have to replace it with that logic puzzle instead. We’ll have to un-delete that scene.”

“Look on the bright side; at least Rowling will be happy for once.”

Leavesden, UK. Jan 2001

I lived in a caravan. RV, if you’re feeling American.

My life operated not unlike your average boarding school student’s. Show up to class, keep your quarters in order, and you were generally left to your own devices.

My stunt, however, had changed that dynamic.

I knew I’d reap the benefits of my actions down the line - especially with Rowling. But damned if I wasn’t paying for it now.

My civic freedoms stripped from me by a nanny.

Warner Brothers had sent over one of their ‘talent management liaisons’. Code for fixer. Anita Specter, my agent, had also made the trip across the pond to first berate, then care for my belligerent ass. She was also here as the person with the final say on who’d be hired as my keeper.

“Ok I promise, this one is going to be perfect for you, Bas.” The fixer nervously handed me a CV.

Anita didn’t bother taking her copy. Far happier sitting in her seat like an imperial throne, relentlessly glaring at the sweaty Californian fixer. He hadn’t made the best first impression.

He’d brought his first choice nanny from Cali. Her suspiciously serene demeanor, condescendingly gentile speech, and flowy flower patterned dress had identified her as a hippie-dippie type. Her ridiculous name, Sequoia Spirit - no, really! Confirmed my assumption.

Truth be told, Anita and I were alright taking her on; at least until something fell out of her purse on her way out. I’d thought the smell was caused by a new age vegan lifestyle.

Her parents should have named her Mary Jane instead.

I guess what they say about LA was true. Women, weather, and weed. Needless to say, she wasn’t hired. Everyone recognized child actors and recreational drugs don’t mix.

“Better be,” Anita finally snarled out. I told you she was a shark.

The fixer wrung his hands and let in the next applicant. “I dipped into the local pool, this time,” He prefaced. “Please come in, Mrs. Fine.” It was a mistake assuming that I’d see another young, pretty woman.

What lurked in the doorway was instead the long list sister of Frau Farbissina from Austin Powers and Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.

Fine, she was not.

She walked in, head high, sat down straight backed, nodded at Anita and I and greeted us with a simple. “Good day.” Proper was the only suitable adjective. Even her accent was something you expected spoken in hushed tones around Buckingham palace.

“Mrs Fine has worked for a number of distinguished families…” I let the fixer ramble on as I perused her profile. There were only a handful of names - but what names they were. From corrupt politicians to inbred aristocrats and tenures averaging out to a decade each. Legitimately impressive. I tried handing it to Anita, but she just waved me off, more focused on sizing up the army general sitting opposite us.

Anita cut the fixer off. “Anything to add?”

“No.” Succinct.

“Not worried your taciturn attitude will turn us away?” She addressed the prospective nanny alone.

“No.” Confident.

“Oh, yeah?” Anita leaned forward and challenged, “why’s that?”

“My resume speaks for itself.” She speaks!

The heavy weight of tension settled on our collective shoulders. The fixer was sweating so much his cologne was wearing off. Then Anita smiled, leaned back in her seat, and spoke. “Yeah. You can handle this hellion.”

Both women snapped their attention to me; in particular, the broken arm in a cast. “What?”

Anita just rolled her eyes, “ask whatever stupid question you’re going to.”

“If you insist. I just have one. Do you shave your armpits?” To me the marijuana was just a symptom of a larger issue. My concern with hippies was hygiene, more than anything else.

Anita’s mouth fell open. The fixer smacked his forehead, and I got the mother of all glares from nanny Fine.

“Rarely have I been forced to, but rest assured, Mr Rhys. I will hit a child.” She didn’t need to raise her voice to raise my hair. I believed her. Anita nodding along in satisfaction seemed secure in her decision and I had to concur this lady was the only one who’d be able to put me in my place.

I stood up and stretched out my hand. Given the way her eyebrows shot up, Mrs Fine wasn’t expecting that. “Welcome aboard!” She primly shook my hand. “Mind if I call you Cadbury?” Suddenly my hand was in a vise. Too late to back out now - for either of us.

Chapter 7: Newboy

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Newboy

London, UK. March 2001.

Shooting wrapped towards the end of Feb, 2001. Almost immediately after the wrap party, there was a single press conference scheduled for the three of us - Emma, Rupert, and I - to attend.

It was surreal. A massive hotel banquet hall was packed to the brim with cameras and reporters. The lights flashed brightly and incessantly.

It was a wonder none of us went deaf from the clamouring voices or fell into seizures from the shuttering lens flashes.

While they finished setting up the tables on the stage where we’d be sitting, photo ops were given to the herd of frothing paps. They tried to get us to pose at first. I was given a dining chair to sit in, while my two cute little costars awkwardly framed me.

My broken arm in my lap with Rupert awkwardly leaning on the chair of that side, Emma was made to put her hand on my other shoulder. I sat straight, like Cadbury’d been training me to do. I wagered my smile was stiffer than my spine. I’d hated that so much - it felt too stilted and fake.

So I frowned.

“Smile, Bas.” came the instruction from behind the wall of flashing lights.

“Dictators don’t smile for photos.” I called back out.

“You’re an actor, Bas. Not a dictator.” The flashing began dying down, but the scribbling seemed to be picking up pace.

“Really? Then why’ve I been posed like one?” I responded facetiously. “You’ve given me minions and everything!” Maybe it was just my imagination, but I swore I heard the distinctive smack of a palm meeting a forehead.

“Minion?” That was Grint whispering as he scratched the back of his head.

Emma, meanwhile, was shaking my shoulder and whining at me in embarrassment. “Baaas!”

It’s not that I hated the attention, but these two deserve as much of it as me. I wasn’t exactly their best friend, but I’d spent the better part of the year bonding with them. I had no intention of letting them be sidelined. So I got up and pulled the chair aside.

I squatted and bent slightly with my back facing Rupert in the universal sign of a piggyback ride. “Mate, really?” he asked.

“Minions should do as they’re told.” I taunted good naturedly.

“I’ll show you minion! And suddenly, I was carrying a ginger who was playfully trying to choke me out.

“What about me?” Emma pouted at me for leaving her out of the mischief.

“What do you mean? Now it’s your turn to carry me!” With Rupert still on mine, I faked jumping on hers by wrapping my arms around her collar and leaned our combined weight on her a bit.

“No!” Peals of laughter tore out from both my costars - having basically forgotten the crowd in front of us.

The cameras went crazy, and the photos came out much better, in my opinion. At the very least, the smiles were genuine.

Then the inane Hollywood interview began. ‘How’s it feel to be in a movie? Did you like the books? Were you excited to meet any celebrities?’ Ad nauseum. Well, at the end we were asked what we’d do with the money.

“Put it in the bank till I turn twenty-one.” Emma said.

I flashed my still in-cast arm, riddled with well wishes from cast and crew. “I’ve already spent it at the hospital.” I joked.

And Rupert dropped the line that remained famous for twenty years to come. “Well, speaking as a wizard, they’re paying us in muggle money, And I don’t understand it.”

My caravan had been repossessed.

At the conclusion of filming, my coachman on wheels had been swapped out for a room at the Ritz on Piccadilly. Not forever, mind you, just for the time being. Cadbury was, of course, living with me now.

Shooting for Chamber of Secrets was yet to be announced. Post-production was underway along with promotion and I’d not been informed of the next steps yet. I’d just been put on ice.

Cadbury and I had only been in the suite a day before we had an uninvited guest. JK Rowling turned up with several copies of the script and a stack of post-it notes. “I hope our resident fixer is ready to work, because they’ve bungled this script badly!”

Just great.

Korea Town LA, California. April 2001.

Now that my schedule was temporarily empty, I carried on with my formal education. My internet access to past-papers would get their chance to shine again soon. With my A-levels this time.

I’d taken the important subjects for the three minimum. Maths and economics were beyond useful. Drama for the free grade.

Furthermore, once my cast had been taken off sometime in April, I’d be allowed to return to gymnastics. On top of that, I’d also taken up Taekwondo. Not for any other reason than it was the most cinematic fighting style, and that it complimented my growing acrobatic skill.

The future was looking bright, and my shins were looking bruised.

The question you might consider at this point would be, how was I managing to facilitate this eclectic range of activities in rural Wales?

Well, the answer was I wasn’t, in Wales I mean; I wasn’t even in the UK anymore.

On my last visit to Mrs Stephens, she had agreed to extend temporary guardianship to Cadbury after their meeting and reassurances from Anita, so that I could stay in LA. With the money, power, and influence of a major corporation, all things were possible - the access to food here was entirely worth it on its own. There was only so much lamb and potatoes one could stomach in a lifetime.

No matter how much I might have preferred it, however, I wasn’t left entirely to my own devices. WB arranged an apartment for me to live in. Probably a very common occurrence with the wealthy elite.

Not far from my new home, down one of the streets off Olympic Boulevard, there was a sign. A very special one. It had my face on it. There were other people on it too, but my face was fat, front, and center.

“Man, I can’t wait for November.” I stared at the movie poster for the upcoming movie with pride. Hands on hips and lips stretching to my ears.

“Your ego is showing.” Harsh, my dear au pair, but ultimately correct. Best not to get a big head before I’d even become famous.

Though being fair, I’m sure even now, some people would know who I was. Granted, those people were likely limited to young children and their mothers alone. But still!

“Tardiness is intolerable.” With that final push, Cadbury urged me to step away and step in line to reach our destination.

Gym Won. My taekwondo studio.

The chime on the door scarcely had a chance to jingle before a complaint was launched at me. “You late.”

Even Cadbury couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. My master, Oh Dae Su, would reprimand the ocean for being too salty. Already used to his demeanor after the scant few sessions we’d had so far, my nanny studiously ignored him and planted herself on the sofa in the waiting area.

I pointed at the clock hanging on the wall above us. Dae Su didn’t even bother turning his head, and kept his stare, much like his small beard, pointed. “I’m fifteen minutes early.”

He just shook his head, his wild hair dancing with the motion. His finger jabbed at the floor. “This not LA anymore. This is Korea.” He then jabbed at me. “You not fifteen minutes early, you seventeen hours late.” The last jab was tossed over his shoulder at the large rubber mats behind him. “Shoes off. Time to stretch.”

I bowed as soon as I stepped on to the mat and began going through my warm up and stretches. Oh Dae Su watched attentively, correcting me whenever I needed it.

It being mid-morning on a weekday, an hour where everyone else was either at work or school, I had the studio and, more importantly, the teacher all to myself. It would have been perfectly reasonable for him to charge me for the much more expensive one-on-one lessons, but my master was adamant that I just pay the affordable group price. According to him, it wasn’t my fault the rest of the group was invisible.

All warmed up, I hopped up on my feet, and faced Dae Su. He tucked the two striking paddles under his arm and approached me.

He gently held my wrist and turned it over while prodding this way and that. Satisfied with his examination, he nodded to himself and then with a raised eyebrow addressed me. “Pain?”

I shook my head in denial. “Nah. Only when I wake up in the morning.”

“Good. Then today we striking.” We both took our stances and began our routine.

“Hana!” He shouted one in Korean. I spread my feet, bent my knees, and brought my curled fists in front of my hips.

“Dul!” I stepped forward and punched out. My hand struck the paddle.

“Set!” I immediately lifted my other arm over my head, elbow bent. His second paddle swiftly swiped down. I blocked it.

“Net!” hooked my arm, twisted my waist, and hit the first paddle with my elbow.

“Hana!” Back to one. Rinse and repeat

I’d like to say the next hour passed quickly, but my burning muscles and drenched shirt would only prove me to be a liar.

A few drops of my sweat hit the mat as my teacher and I bowed at each other, signaling the end of the session.

“You are fast, but not strong.”

“I think that’s called being tired.” My sarcasm might have been thick, but his skull was thicker.

“When I was your age, I fight off fifty men with weapons in small corridor. You too weak.” without giving me a chance to challenge him on his b.s., he called out to Cadbury. “Iron lady, what do you feed him?”

“A nutritional, balanced diet.” Didn’t that just sound appetizing?

“Not good enough.” He tapped my shoulder, turned on his heel, and gestured for me to follow him. “Korean food make you strong. You eat with my family, iron lady, you also.”

“I must protest!”

“Come off it, Cadbury.” She stilled. “It’s bad manners to reject offered hospitality. You taught me that.” I teased my nanny.

Instead of arguing, and knowing I was right, Cadbury relented and took off her sensible shoes before the both of us trailed behind the taekwondo master. I looked at her socks. Argyle. How predictable.

A small living area with a dining room and an attached kitchen was located in the back of the studio. Stairs went up to the second floor, which is where I assumed the family lived.

“Yobo!” Dae Su called out. A head with bright blonde hair and sky-blue eyes popped out from the kitchen.

My teacher was clearly living the American dream. She couldn’t have looked more US of A if she was an apple pie wearing a cowboy hat.

She looked at him with a quirked eyebrow. He said nothing as he sat me down in what was presumably his seat and raised his hands with two fingers stretched out. There were only four sets of cutlery on the table.

“Thanks for having us!” I quickly jumped. Whatever she was cooking smelled divine, and I didn’t want to lose my chance to taste it.

Cadbury, ever decorous, offered her help. “We apologize for the intrusion. Is there anything I may assist you with?”

“Don’t be silly. You just make yourselves comfortable. Lunch will be out in a jiffy.” With a bright smile, she welcomed us both to the table and ducked back into the kitchen. “Kids! Dad’s got company, get two more sets.” She called up the stairs.

They had two adult children. I learnt they both also worked at the studio upon introductions. I would’ve loved to continue the conversation, but Dae Su quickly took command as soon as the food was brought out. “Translate.” He told his son. “Sundubu jjigae” soft tofu stew, his son clarified. “Dak gang jeong” fried chicken, “and main dish white rice”

“At least tell them our names before the food!” His wife reprimanded.

“Jae Sok,” the older son ‘Jay.’, “Jin-Hee,” the younger daughter ‘Jenny.’, “and main dish, white wife.”

He laughed like it was the greatest joke ever told. I studied his scandalized wife, who whacked him hard repeatedly on his shoulder. I saw embarrassment and something else a little more…. I glanced at the kids then who noticed the same expression on their mom’s face. Cadbury just took it in stride.

Maybe it was telepathy, maybe it was coincidence. Whatever it was, the three of us simultaneously avoided all eye contact, focused on our over-laden plates, and stuffed the first piece of food into our mouths.

I avoided the rice.

Chapter 8: Snakes & Ladders (of the corporate variety)

Chapter Text

Chapter 6.5: Snakes & Ladders (of the corporate variety)

Beverly Hills, 90210. May 2001.

Ostentatious, it wasn’t a word used a lot these days by people who themselves weren’t pretentious. It basically meant all glamour and no class. It was the most appropriate word I had in my vocabulary to describe the building and interior of the Endeavor agency.

The moment I walked in, a blast of mega-mall level air conditioning slapped me in the face.

Even ignoring the confusing and tasteless contemporary art installations everywhere, the price of cooling this massive open concept nonsense office clearly began at the wallet and ended through the nose.

It was heartening to see mine, and every other actor’s, money being put to good use.

I swallowed my annoyance and headed to reception.

David Heyman wouldn’t let me leave LA before I’d agreed to WB exercising my option - the carry forward terms - of my contract for the next installment in the Harry Potter Franchise. Three million dollars for Chamber of Secrets.

Anita, my agent, currently held the contract. Which is why I was here at the Endeavor offices to sign it.

“Appointments only.” The receptionist didn’t even bother looking my way, far too enamoured by her freshly painted nails.

“.... I have one. With Anita Specter.”

She blew out a sigh and began typing - with the same energy as if I’d just told her to move heaven and earth for me. “Name?”

“Bas Rhys. That’s h-y-s, not e-e-s-e.” I spelled it out for her. I wasn’t sure she’d go the Starbucks route and misspell the name.

Her demeanor shifted suddenly. She pierced me with her eyes, affected that fake LA smile, and began simpering. “Of course! Mr Rhys. How wonderful to meet you and welcome to Endeavor.” She quickly typed something, stepped out from behind the podium to greet me. “You’re right on time. We’ve been anticipating your arrival. Please follow me. I’ll take you up to the meeting room.” With that, she walked forward and beckoned me. I waddled along like a lost duckling.

I probably should have been paying attention to my surroundings, “thanks.” But her pencil skirt was skin tight.

The elevator dinged. I followed her until she led me to a door, ushered me in, and stepped away.

The clack of the door shutting returned me to conscious thought. “Bas! It’s cool if I call you Bas, right?” Came the masculine voice of a very bald white man.

“Either plastic surgery’s gotten very good. Or, you’re not Anita.”

I knew I was funny, but the way this guy laughed, you’d think I was Robin Williams during his co*ke days. “You’ve got a great sense of humour, kid!” He pointed at the plush leather chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat and we’ll get started. Specter’s busy with another client. Hollywood, you know?”

The second my butt touched the seat, a stack of papers was plonked in front of me. “Here’s the contract.” He pushed a pen at me, too. “I’ve taken the liberty of marking where you need to sign, so just go through with your signature and we should be done before you know it.” Was this guy serious? I stared at his face. His smile was all teeth even when surrounded by that God awful beard that looked like he gave cunniling*s to a shower drain. Yeah, this guy was serious.

Walking out of his office would have been the smart move. The view he had across Beverly Hills was nice, but not that nice. Still, I pulled the papers on to my lap and chose to flick through. I wanted to see what games this guy was playing.

“Clever kid!” He cajoled. “Never sign anything without reading it. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“I do have one. Who are you?”

“Can’t believe I forgot to mention that!” He was plastic enough to choke a turtle. “I’m Adam, kid. Adam Venit.”

Ah. I knew who this was. He started talking about himself, about who he was and his role at Endeavor. I took lessons from the receptionist and paid more attention to the papers while he prattled. He was cut from the same cloth Weinstein was. Allegedly, at least. I was inclined to believe Terry Crews, though.

Slimy motherf*cker. I continued to read. This wasn’t a contract, it was a deal with the devil.

On the surface, it was what I was expecting to sign, but there were glaring discrepancies. Higher agency fees, transfer of agent to Venit from Anita, the agency received all my image rights, there was even a conservatorship clause, sh*t just went on. I wasn’t being poached, I was being farmed for slaughter.

I carelessly tossed the toilet paper worthy docket back on his desk. “I’m not signing this.” I stood up, turned around, and made my way out the door.

“W-what? Wait!” He chased after me. “We can negotiate the terms!”

Neither of us was running like it was an action scene, obviously. But I marched down the hallway and he power walked at my tail. Worst race ever. “No, thanks.” There wasn’t any point talking to him. That deal was so raw, Gordon Ramsay would rant about it.

“Bas! There you are.” Normally, I’d be quite pleased to hear Anita’s voice, but I was seething.

My heart was shouting at me to blow past everyone and walk out the gate. But my stupid adult brain won out. “Where were you?” I stopped a foot away from her.

Anita caught on quick. Adam behind me, and my face, that looked like I’d been sucking lemons, clued her in. She strode forward and put herself between me and the other man protectively. “Anything I can do for you, Mr Venit?” Her tone was respectful but terse. We all knew he’d just tried a blindside and failed.

He chose to cut his losses and backed off. “Just showing our newest star around the digs. Glad we found you. He’s all yours.” He faked a phone call. “Hello? Hey Ben, how’s the movie going?” He put his hand over the mic, “we’ll catch up, Bas. I’ve gotta run.” Yeah, I’ll bet.

I was dumbfounded, it being my first time dealing with something so skeevy and brazen. Anita rapidly turned to me and began patting me down. “I thought I told you to wait for me in the lobby.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be kidnapped.”

“You gotta prepare for the worst in this town, Bas. Parents sell their own kids for pocket change here. You’re not more special. She straightened out, held my hand in hers, and we strolled over to our actual meeting place. “... What’d he try to show you?”

“A future of indentured servitude.” I eased her worry. “I didn’t sign anything. He didn’t flash me either, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good…. That’s good. Well done for standing up for yourself. Sometimes, this town. The people. They make your spine curl.” Anita shuddered.

You know me.” I shrugged. “Only the people I love get to mess with me.” I started swinging our joined grip. “If he ever tries something with you, kick him in the nuts and run away. You can hide out at my place.” I wasn’t totally joking, either.

She finally let the tension flow off her shoulders. “Don’t you worry. If anyone tries to shove their dick in my face, I’ll bite it off!” She smiled at me. “But thanks. I promise I will.”

The day ended with my actual contract being signed.

LA, California. June 2001.

Anita and I walked into the offices of Dunshire Equity to meet my business manager.

Ben Wyatt, CPA, ushered us in so we could begin.

My money for the second film had all finished being transferred to my accounts today, and we were having a strategy meeting.

Ben smiled beaming and punched my shoulder. “Welcome to the millionaire boy’s club, kid!” He should be happy, a good chunk of that was his. “You should’ve pushed for more, Bas! I’ve heard the box office numbers are predicted to shatter all sorts of records.”

Anita scoffed while taking her seat. “Impossible. The contract is airtight. But the next three films are going to require a new one, and you’d best be sure I’m going to squeeze them dry.”

I had plans for that, actually. Plans that would probably piss off both the people in the room with me. I’ll leave that conversation till later.

Ben rubbed his hands eagerly, flipped open his laptop and showed me the monitor. It was a financial statement from this morning. “As you can see, 2.55 mill has been transferred to your account after the Coogan security deduction of 450k. I’ve put an additional 17% away into your tax account. And 10% each to my firm as well as Anita’s has been made payable on the New Year. Leaving you with precisely 1.44 mill to play with on top of the pre-existing 190k in the account.” He detailed.

Anita did a quick calculation in her head, then angrily rounded on me. “When exactly did you spend fifty thousand dollars? Your rent and au pair are being footed by WB. Your spending should be almost non existent!”

Ben helpfully pulled open a spreadsheet to show my expenses, saving me from explaining. “Around 20k was paid to a travel corporation for a 3 week cross Europe luxury tour. Another 18k was transferred to a Mr Oh Dae Su in California. And the final 12k or so was for daily expenses, text books, exams and extracurriculars.”

“You never went to Europe!”

“Obviously. That was my anniversary present for Mrs Stephens.”

She couldn’t gainsay that, so she moved to the next item. “Then who the hell is Oh Dae Su?”

“My taekwondo master. He wanted to renovate the gym, so I gave him the money for it.”

“Gave!? I thought you said it was a loan!” Ben pounced on me, too.

“The man makes sure I eat at least one meal a week with his family, and has been doing so without any prompting for nearly half a year. As far as I’m concerned, he can keep it.”

Anita sunk her face into her hands. “How can you be so bad with money?”

“That’s why I hired Ben!” who was doing an impression of a gasping fish.

“Fine, then I’m giving a 50k allowance for the next year, and sticking every other penny you have into a mutual fund!”

I shrugged, “Ok, but before you throw my wallet in jail, just do me a favour. I want equity in two companies, ‘Netflix’ and ‘Fast Retailing Co Ltd.’ That second one’s only listed in Japan, so you’ll have to figure that part out.”

November, 2001.

The doorbell to my discrete little 2LDK rang.

“That’ll be your agent, Ms Specter, here to fetch you, Mr Rhys.” That was my au pair, a stern, overly proper, English lady in her mid-fifties. The studio incorrectly assumed that’d make me feel more at home - I still don’t understand why she had to look like Mrs Trunchbull from Matilda. Was a little eye-candy too much to ask for?

“You can let her in. Thanks, Cadbury.” That wasn’t her real name, but I was a young boy living with what was effectively a butler. I had only one of two choices.

Anita strutted in dressed for the ice age. Coats, gloves, muffler… we were in the middle of California.

“Are you packed? The car’s waiting for us.”

Cadbury teleported in with all our luggage. “We are indeed. Dinner jackets included.”

“I call dibs on the window seat.”

Today was the 4th of November, 2001. The day before the London premier of the movie. Couldn’t exactly miss the red carpet event with my face splashed all over the posters, now could I? So we were flying down for the weekend.

Accounting for the length of the flight as well as the time zone difference, we arrived with barely three hours to spare. It was a quick stop at the hotel to change into my celebrity clothes - all black from shirt to shoes except for a tan suede blazer - then a march right to the red carpet.

The main cast of kids were all invited. Emma was all dolled up, as was Dan. Felton was running late. Rupert, true to form, came entirely unprepared, brown cargo trousers and a fleece do not appropriate apparel make.

“We’re walking the red carpet, Grint. Not a hiking trail! What are you wearing?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Don’t tell me, ask my mum.”

This wouldn’t do. “Cadbury, would you mind helping him into some of my emergency clothes?” My au pair nodded and pulled the boy to the side. I’d brought an extra set of clothes for myself, just in case I spilled something or soiled myself somehow.

Emma approached me. “Who was that?”

“A robot pretending to be my nanny. Are you guys excited?”

“I’m fairly nervous, to be honest.” Dan shyly voiced. “I’m not really sure what we’re meant to do.”

“I know what you mean. There’s so many celebrities here! I feel so out of place.” Emma worried herself.

“Just smile and wave, you’ll be alright.” I reassured them. “Besides, give it a week. We’ll be more famous than anybody else here.”

The closest comparison I could give to the red carpet is being in a loud nightclub. There’s strobing lights, too much noise, and annoying people trying to talk to you. And much like a nightclub, it was necessary to pretend you were happy to be there.

I spotted Felton. Given the grimace on his face, he clearly wasn’t comfortable with whatever pushy reporter he’d gotten stuck with. Rescue time. I snuck up behind him. I noticed the camera aligned with me but paid it no mind. “Malfoy!”

He turned around surprised, shifting to glad before donning the Malfoy sneer. “Pottah!”

Ignoring the reporter’s calls, I behaved like an over excited child stealing his friend away.

It wasn’t long before we’d found our seats in the theatre.

The iconic John Williams score twinkled in.

My life changed forever.

Chapter 9: Unscripted

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Unscripted

WB London Branch, UK. November 2001

As she strode into the meeting room with Columbus, Kloves, and Heyman, Jo Rowling felt like, for once, she was the one in the lead.

It was time to finalise the screenplay.

She’d been in these meetings a hundred times before and usually felt like she was shouting at a brick wall. Well, today she had a sledgehammer in the form of the strategy that Bas and herself had worked out over the last few weeks.

He understood what the core of the story was, and helped her construct script changes that were more carefully aligned with her vision, while at the same time allowing the cinematic leeway that the studio preferred.

His true value, however, lay in dictating the narrative of her arguments. If he wasn’t already Harry, she’d have fought to make him Voldemort - devilish child that he was. At least it was to her advantage. Maybe she should let him in on the full secret of the story the way she had Rickman? Food for thought.

“Let me guess? You have issues with what I’ve written?” Kloves got started testily before they’d even had a chance to settle in.

Jo felt the urge to snap right back, and express every single grievance she’d made a note of, but held off in the name of reaching her story in the parts where it mattered most. She took a deep breath and replied far more genially, “No, actually, I think you’ve done a rather decent job this time. Merely a few tweaks on characteristics here, adding in a scene or two there; and I think we can be done in time for dinner.”

Chris and David looked relieved - at least until Kloves chimed in. “And what precisely does a ‘few tweaks’ entail? The last time that happened, the entire final act of my script was altered beyond recognition.” He grumbled.

“Well, I don’t entirely understand the complaint, if I’m honest.” Heyman lost his temper and reprimanded Kloves. “The movie’s only been out for a weekend now and it’s raked in one hundred million. Enough of this tired argument!”

This was a moment Rowling - on the advice of Bas - had been anticipating. She just didn’t expect Kloves to be simmering quite so close to the boiling point.

“Well, if it will ease tensions, feel free to extend the basilisk scene to the length you have. I understand the inherent cinematic value a boy fighting a sixty-foot-long snake holds.” Even if it was only twenty feet in her books. “In fact, I say make it even more dynamic!”

JK knew that Bas had clearly been fishing for a scene to stretch his acrobatic talent. She’d let him have it as a small reward for his insight.

“Seriously?” Chris spoke up.

“Have at it! Make Fawkes burst into flames for all I care.” She offered magnanimously. Phoenixes don’t die after all.

“... Well. I guess we can actually get somewhere. Thank you for your cooperation Jo; Sincerely,” Heyman thanked in relief.

Chris piled on as well. “Then, in the spirit of camaraderie, let’s hear your suggestions.”

“Oh, it’s really nothing major. My main requests lie with the lack of development with the Weasley family. They are absolutely crucial for the story in this book - and their role, as a whole, will remain much the same going forward. We can’t afford any sidelining.”

The three men had considering frowns on their faces, “that’s not unfair I suppose. Chris?”

“We’ll have to reorganise a few scenes and switch up the dialogue, but I think it’s perfectly reasonable. Right Kloves?”

Kloves didn’t say anything but grumble silently under his breath.

“We’ll have to get on rehiring Ginny ASAP,” David mentioned, confusing Rowling.

“Why? What happened to Bonnie?”

“Her father took a job opportunity out of the country. They’re moving to Australia, I believe,” David explained. “It’s not a worry, we’ve already contacted the runner-up from the audition phase.”

“She was a bit older than the part allowed for, if I remember correctly.” JK threw in.

David nodded in affirmation. “She’s only a few months younger than our Draco, but she’s sufficiently petite that we’re confident she won’t look out of place.”

“Is there anything else I’ve pointlessly written, then?” Kloves spat mulishly.

“Since you’ve mentioned it…”

Durham Cathedral, UK. January 2002

Being back on set felt eerily like returning to school after the summer hols. There were kids, homework, and adults telling you what to do.

The Leavesden studio sets were still being dusted off. The new ones, like the chamber and the burrow, were still being built.

This part of the world was still very much in the throes of winter, so the snow was an insurmountable obstacle for filming. We’d have to wait till spring to shoot all the outside, and half the quidditch scenes once Alnwick Castle became accessible.

“Wait, so how am I meant to solve for x, if there’s an unknown y term?” One twin loudly complained.

“Express x in terms of y, then substitute.” I boredly assisted.

“Why they have letters in maths, I’ll never know.” The second Phelps twin tacked on.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous knocking on my trailer room door, interrupting my tutoring session. I didn’t even get to invite the interloper in before the door was wrenched open and Emma Watson angrily barged in.

“Do you have a problem with me?” She shouted in my face.

I shifted back in my seat, while the Phelps twins flinched. “No… you clearly have one with me, though.”

“If you don’t, then explain this!” she said, slamming a thick pink bound stack of papers.

I calmly reached over and picked up what she tossed down. I could have gotten into an argument, but she was a little girl and I was a much older man (in spirit, at least).

It was the movie script. Specifically, the page was opened on the mudblood scene in Hagrid’s hut.

I couldn’t help frown however as I read further. This wasn’t the script we’d been given at the start of filming. It was an older version. The version that would have been in the movie from the timeline I originated from. The one where Hermione the muggleborn knows more than the pure-blood Ron.

Let’s pretend I don’t know what this is. “Do we have a new script that I don’t know about?”

“No! It’s the old one. Which, if you’ll notice, had a lot more for me to do and say.” She snatched the script from me and flipped to another page that showed Hermione blowing up the quaffle.

One of the twins picked up and began reading out of curiosity. “Ok. So an earlier revision had different scenes. Why does that make you mad at me?”

“Because it’s your fault they changed the script in the first place!”

“Is it my fault they changed the script to be more like the book? How do you figure that?”

“It’s what Mr Kloves confided in me. He said that script,” she pointed at it, “was the version he wanted. But because you won’t stick to his scripts, and wilfully use the books as your guide instead, JK Rowling made him do all the rewrites.”

It was a naïve line of thought and an unreasonable response. But she was just a passionate young girl, easily manipulated by a massive douche. I let her catch her breath.

“He said that because you won’t behave, the entire studio has to work around you. Which means that I get the short end of the stick!” She finished…loudly.

I raised my hands in a placating gesture to get her to calm down. “I won’t argue that my mistakes have made script changes. Don’t forget, though, that you benefited the most from it.” That took the wind out of her sails a bit. Probably best I never reveal that I broke my arm on purpose. I’ll save that for the twenty-year reunion special.

“Let me ask you a question.” She nodded slightly, more unsure now that a fallacy was presented to her. “Did you check the call sheet? Did you see who’s scheduled to film today?”

She nodded again, this time confused where I was going. “You know that Tom Felton isn’t the only name you should look out for, yeah?” I teased; she flushed in embarrassment. “Alan Rickman is also here today. We’re filming the potions class where Hermione steals the polyjuice ingredients.” I motioned for the script, passing it back to Emma. “Which, if you’ll see, isn’t in the old script. So the argument that you get less because of me isn’t true, is it?”

Emma looked confused again, then one of the twins chimed in. “On the other hand, your scene means my brother and I don’t get it. So should we be mad at you now?” Emma very quickly looked ashamed.

With her head bowed and her voice slightly shaky. “Then… why would Mr Kloves say all that to me?”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s still cross that I got him in trouble with Mr Griffiths last year, so he’s trying to play a trick on me.”

“Well, if he is, it’s not a very good one.” She got out with her head still down. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Bas.”

“No harm done.” I waved her off. “Do you want to sit with us and do your maths homework?” I offered an olive branch. She shook her head vigorously in a no.

“I think I’ll just go back to my room.” To cry, most likely. Kids, so many emotions. She reached for the script, but I clung on to it. “Don’t worry, you get going. I’ll make sure Mr Kloves gets this back. I’m certain we’ll film the duelling club scene soon - why don’t I teach you how to headlock properly, later? Sounds good?” I smiled at her reassuringly.

She managed a tentative smile back, nodded, and left.

I looked at the script again. If that’s how you want to play it, Kloves. We’ll play.

A few days later, there was a lull in my shooting schedule, so I took the opportunity to make my way over to Kloves’ office. I didn’t forget his script either.

“Come in!” He called out after I knocked. He looked surprised to see me, but didn’t bother getting up to greet me. “Yes, Bas, what is it?”

“What are you playing at?” I said dramatically.

“Excuse me?” He said, standing up very slowly.

I waved the script from where I was standing. “Just running lines. Thought you could help me.”

“Those aren’t part of your dialogue.”

“They aren’t? I’m sorry. There’s just so many differing versions of the script floating around, I got confused.”

He took a closer look at the script; his eyebrows shot up in realisation. “Where did you get that?”

“From Emma. She forgot it in my trailer after crying about ‘Mean, old Mr Kloves playing tricks on her,.” I embellished.

He panicked. “Has she told anybody else?”

“I don’t know. I imagine you’ll be the first to find out if she does.” I let him stew for a moment. “Or, if I do.”

The room went quiet. I didn’t bother implying a threat. I made it outright. We sat uncomfortably in the tense silence for far longer than I wanted to. Eventually, though, he capitulated. He shifted his gaze, looked away from me, and hunched over his desk.

“What do you want?” He growled.

I chucked the script. It landed with an echoing thump next to his hand. “I just wanted to make a good movie. I still do. Let’s both follow the script - the real script. And stay out of each other’s way.” I could have pushed for more, but I was quite happy with the revised - Rowling approved - version; and didn’t see a need to stick my nose in more than I already had.

He took a deep breath, picked up the script, and threw it in his bin. He’d gotten the picture. Game, set, match - me. “You’re not normal, boy. There’s something wrong about you.” He pointed at his door in a dismissal.

He was totally correct, but he didn’t need to know that.

Chapter 10: Rapid Fire

Chapter Text

Chapter 7.5: Rapid Fire.

Leavesden Studio, UK. January 2002.

[The three actors playing the Dursleys sat around the dining table eating their food. Fiona Shaw, who played Petunia, fussed over Harry Melling as Dudley, who was eagerly scarfing down the food that had long since gone cold. I was in the kitchen area of the set, pretending to fry some greasy bacon.

Richard Griffiths, reprising his role as Vernon, cleared his throat. “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day. We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be -?”

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I’ll be waiting to open the door. May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” Melling recited, sure to spray out crumbs of unswallowed food. Fiona as Petunia lovingly dabbed him around the mouth.

“Excellent, Dudley. And you?” Griffiths’ tone suddenly became disgruntled and aggressive.

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist.” I kept my back turned while fiddling around with the pan. My speech was flat and toneless to convey that this wasn’t the first time we were having this conversation.

Right on cue, the loud recorded bark of Hedwig’s owl was played over the speakers.

“Third time this week!” Griffiths complained to me when I reached his side and scooped more fried meat onto his plate. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!” He continued as I moved on to the others, setting Fiona’s portion, then Dudley’s last.

With the plate emptied, I went to my mark at the counter where Harry’s breakfast was placed, two slices of toast and some lukewarm tea. Far smaller and away from the Dursleys. I picked up the slice.

I kept my voice even, but let just a little pleading slip out “She’s bored, If I could just let her out at night -“

“I want more bacon.” Dudley interrupted me obnoxiously.

I stalled the untouched piece of bread near my mouth. Looked incredulously at Dudley, then at Petunia. “Get the frying pan.” She sternly commanded me to make more food.

I sighed, lowered the toast but still held on to it and irritably said my line. “You’ve forgotten the magic word,” I affected Alan Rickman as Snape and curled my lip in distaste.

Just like in rehearsal, the three were flawlessly in sync. Dudley gasped and fell off his chair. Petunia gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth. Vernon planted his hands on the table and made to get up. “I warned you!”

Petunia placed a calming hand and made Vernon sit back down with a grumble. With a rude jerk of her head, she tossed me out. “Don’t you dare threaten Dudley!”

Not without my toast, I left through the back door. A secondary camera on a jib followed my path. I crossed the fake lawn and stood at my mark. I snorted through my nose, my face still in a frown. I Considered the toast I still held, after a moment I ripped it in two. One half went into my pocket, the other I shoved into my mouth. This was my own improvisation.

I looked offscreen to where the bush with Dobby’s eyes peeking out would be, and jolted in surprise. Just then Dudley’s jeering voice floated across the lawn, “I know what day it ~” he sang tauntingly.

My stare didn’t deviate from the bush. “Finally learned to count the days of the week, have you?” I sassed back.

Dudley scrunched his face in anger, waddled up to me Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “And none of your freak friends even sent you a card!”

I clenched my jaw, but ignored his bullying. In the original adaptation, it was actually Harry who’d confided in the Dursleys about his worry - which really didn’t make any sense given their dynamic.

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.

Dobby would disappear at this point, so I shifted my eyes to Dudley with my most unimpressed front. “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire.”

Dudley panicked and stumbled back. “You c-can’t - Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic - he said he’ll chuck you out of the house -“

I fully faced him, hunched over slightly, and menacingly began wiggling my fingers. “Abra cadabra! Nitwit, blubber, oddment, twea-!”

“Mum!” howled Dudley while racing back to the house.

Petunia rushed to the door and swung it open. Dudley crashed into her and tattled on me. She swaddled him, shot me a venomous glare and slammed the door shut.

“Happy birthday to me….” end scene.]

Leavesden Studio, UK. March 2002

The first set renovations completed were the Diagon Alley extensions. Namely the Borgin and Burke’s interior as well as Flourish and Blotts.

The entire Weasley cast was on set for the first time, as were Emma, Felton, and I. Jason Isaacs was also here with his platinum wig. “Let’s get this done in one take, shall we, old boy? I don’t quite fancy multiple tussles.” He joked at Mark Williams, who was the actor for Arthur Weasley.

Mark air boxed, “I wouldn’t want to wrestle with me either!”

We got the Lockhart autograph and photo shoot scene done. Given the amount of takes for it, I was certain that Kenneth Brannagh had hugged me in this life more than anyone else - which was a little sad to think about.

We successfully shot the Arthur versus Malfoy fight scene and quickly moved on to the post Knockturn alley rescue scene.

The entire time we were filming all the Diagon Alley scenes, something was niggling at the back of my head.

[Covered in grime and soot, I hurriedly ran into the pleasant-looking street of Diagon. Spotting the familiar forest of red hair just barely poking above the milling crowd, I pushed my way through to them.

Julie Walters, noticing that I’d elected to use a more scared portrayal this take, immediately clued on and adjusted her own performance. “Harry! Where have you been?!” she rushed forward herself and tightly swaddled me in an embrace. What a pro!

Feeling another set of arms scrabble around my frame “Are you alright?” Emma was clearly taking lessons from her co-star and was improvising well too.

I smiled involuntarily. “I’m fine.” This wasn’t acting as much as a genuine response, but Chris liked it a lot, so I’d chalk it out as a win.]

It was only after the Diagon scenes were done did I realize what was bothering me. They’d swapped out Bonnie Wright as Ginny. They looked similar enough initially that I hadn’t quite made the connection - but as the scenes carried on, it became apparent they weren’t the same person.

I saddled alongside her at the catering table during lunch. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve formally met yet. I’m Bas.”

She dropped her sandwich onto her plate and wiped her hand on her shirt. We shook hands. “Oh, um, I’m Karen. Karen Gillan.”

Now… wasn’t this interesting?

Durham Cathedral, UK. April 2002.

Karen’s role and involvement as Ginny became even more apparent when I found out we’d be doing the Valentine’s day scene in the great hall.

[Heart-shaped confetti rained down over us. I wiggled my head to shake it all off, showering Emma and Rupert sitting on either side of me. ‘Oi!’ ‘Harry!’ They each protested loudly.

“What’s going on?” I peered around the pink stained Great Hall.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Kenneth Branagh as Lockhart flamboyantly shouted from the teacher’s podium. “I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all - My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen house-elves. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines!”]

In an act of foresight I hadn’t predicted, the production team had correctly assumed that wider audiences wouldn’t agree with the actual humiliation of little people. It was only appropriate when they were being paid to get made fun of, apparently.

So instead of having dwarves dressed as cherubs handing out valentine’s cards, they’d switched it to Hogwarts house-elves via post production VFX.

The same three and four-foot actors who’d been previously hired to portray the goblins were hobbling around in gray bodysuits. Everyone of them had been employed through Warwick Davis’ company Willow Personal Management. Supplying short supply work for those with shorter stature since 1995.

I’d gotten acquainted with Diane Gibbins, too. She’d done the motion capture for Dobby.

[“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the forty-six,” said Rupert as Ron. Emma feigned innocence and began digging around in her bag, avoiding eye contact, and didn’t answer. The rest of the Gryffindor students sat around us on the table began jeering and elbowing each other teasingly.

“Oy, you! ‘Arty Potter!” shouted a grim-looking elf, dodging around milling students to get to me. I locked eyes with Karen playing Ginny, with a beet-red face, squeaked and avoided my gaze. “I’ve got a musical message to deliver to you,” the elf said while threateningly waving a piece of pink parchment at me.

I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel to escape, and hissed, “Not here!”

Right as I reached my mark, the short actor tackled my knees and knocked me over. “Stay still!” I landed hard on the discreet mat blended with the floor. I dropped the bag and all my school props, wand and Riddle’s diary included went spilling out.

“Let me go!” I snarled. The actor ignored me, sat on my legs, cleared their throat and began reciting the poem.

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad…” By this point, the various students had formed a loose circle around the central action of the scene. Two cameras were trained on us. One for the artsy aerial shot for those sweet cinematography points. The other zoomed in on the central players in the scene, including me scrambling on the floor like the loser in a wrestling match.

Thankfully, this take didn’t send my wand out of reach, and I was just able to palm it.

“Causing another commotion, Potter?” Felton in Draco mode alongside his posse stepped into the circle. Draco stooped low and snatched the diary. “Can’t cry to mummy so you write in here instead?” was the vicious taunt.

Ron stepped forward and brandished his broken wand. “Hand it over, Malfoy,”

“When I’ve had a look,” Felton lazily swung the book back and forth. I knew in the background that Ginny would be terrified and hypnotically tracking the diary’s movement. Eagle-eyed movie goers would likely catch it, and I’m sure more than a few YouTube videos would be made on it down the line, too.

“Give it back. Or I’ll call a prefect!” Hermione also spoke up in support of me and bolstered Ron.

I glanced up at him and a sea of unfriendly laughing faces (since Harry’d already been outed as a parselmouth). I waited for the camera to finish panning and reach its final destination. When it did, I acted losing my temper, knocked over the actor on my legs, hopped back on my feet and jabbed my wand “Expelliarmus!” ]

“Freeze!” the director Chris Colombus ordered.

The scene and all the actors froze. A simple trick to maintain visual continuity. A stagehand ran over and replaced the prop diary that Felton was holding with one that was on a fine tether. Movie magic wasn’t the same as the real stuff.

“Places and Action!” we returned to our roles.

[The book was yanked out of his grip in Rupert’s direction. Ron caught it with a “Wicked!”

With an aggrieved expression, I hurriedly stuffed all my spilled belongings back into my bag, shouldered through the ring, and made my exit out of the scene. My two little minions stumbled in tow while squawking their lines.

Draco sneered at a fresh target. “I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!” Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran.]

None of this was in Kloves’ original script. In fact, Ginny, as a character, always felt like an afterthought for him. But in this rendition of Chamber of Secrets, the end foreshadowing would be done with greater justice, rather than a few throwaway lines and scenes near the conclusion of the movie.

Maybe it’s too early to count my chickens, but I hoped this also meant I’d avoid that horrific shoelace scene that belonged in the cringe hall of fame.

Chapter 11: Stand-ins & Stunts

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Stand-ins & Stunts.

Leavesden Studio, UK. April 2002

Chris blew his whistle in short, sharp bursts to organize the throng of children occupying the set. It reminded one of being in PE class.

I hopped slightly on my toes, testing the crash mat beneath my feet. I felt the wires attached to the harness under my costume tug uncomfortably. Kenneth Brannagh settled his arm on my shoulder as we took places for the shot.

We were both standing on the narrow dueling platform with Felton and Rickman at the other end. As was obvious, we were filming the climax of the dueling club scene.

And we’d been at it for days.

Mercifully, the scenes immediately preceding the duel - including the student brawl that was cut from the original version - had finished filming. Once the VFX was added, it’d be a nice, quick little burst of lights and chaos for the cinema.

Right now, though, my focus should be on this take. I was determined to make it the last.

Doing wire stunts and pratfalls was fun the first few times. But constantly having the wind knocked out of you got old, very fast.

Chris returned behind the camera and called out, “Alright, Kenneth. Let’s take it from ‘Just do what I did’. Action!”

[Brannagh as Lockhart flourished his wand and squeezed my shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”

I stared at him with the full force of my incredulity. “What? Drop my wand?”

Felton and took a couple steps towards each other, Brannagh scurried off the platform while Rickman shot me a near imperceptible smug grin. “Scared, Pottah?”

“You wish.” And then we danced.

Felton and I had this sequence down into a routine. We’d done it dozens of times so far. Seeing our commitment, the team had even allowed us to act out a few extra spells.

Tom twirled his wand and shouted, “Tarantallegra!”

I quickly, if a little clumsily, seeing as it was Harry’s first time dueling, spun on my heel and side stepped.

I swiped my wand down aggressively, “Rictumsempra!”

Tom ducked and jabbed his wand at me while I simultaneously slashed my wand in his direction.

“Everte Statum!” Tom incanted.

“Flipendo!” was my own little homage to the HP games.

The wires on our harnesses suddenly pulled taut and yanked us together in our respective tumbles.

Felton flipped head over heels and landed on his butt. I was thrown into - what felt like fifty - barrel rolls and landed hard on my back. I wheezed as my breath left me. Please let this be the one.]

“Cut! Perfect, boys. That’s going in the trailer!”

Oh, thank God!

The production assistant who’d been relegated into the position of child shepherd herded the swarming children away to their mid-morning tutoring session.

“Thanks for your hard work today, kids. Just a handful of hours and the weekend’s yours!”

As they were ushered off the set, I remained prone on the nice, hard ground. I, of course, had the unique distinction of a complete education.

Spring had only just started, so it was still a little nippy. None of the sets or the drafty old castles we filmed in had any level of heating, so my only solace had been the double layer of socks I’d worn. So when a ray of nice warm sunshine peeked through the window and licked my face, I decided to catch a quick nap right there on the floor.

I didn’t even move when the harness was clipped off of me.

“Just because you’re the leading man doesn’t mean you can skive off.” I opened one eye and found Kenneth Branagh loomed over me.

“I-” before I could explain,

“No more school for the little genius here. He tested out… recently.” Rickman came to my rescue. “Now, he just lays about wasting time while all the other children are hard at work.” Maybe I spoke too soon.

“Really?” Kenneth asked, impressed.

“Really?” I asked, unimpressed.

Alan smiled. Happy that he’d accomplished his teasing. “No, not really. You’re an all around overachiever.”

“So you think I’m a good actor?” I genuinely wanted to know if I was doing a good job. It’d be easy to get an ego inflating answer from every simpering buffoon back in LA. But a compliment from a master at the craft was something else entirely.”

“You… try hard, at least,” Rickman drawled. Well, that took the wind out of my sails real quick

“Don’t torture the poor boy. He’s better than we probably were when we started.” Kenneth generously defended.

“School plays don’t count.” Rickman immediately rebutted, sending the two thespians into a fit of laughter at my expense.

All the while, I just laid there on the ground like a particularly ugly carpet.

I stood up, dusted myself off, and stared at them with arms crossed. I wish I could say I was intimidating, but the two grown men were much taller than me.

Kenneth rose his arms in mock surrender. Alan reached over and roughly tussled my hair. “Lighten up, will you? I’m just pulling your leg.” He tossed his arm over my shoulder and pulled me in. “Don’t think nobody’s noticed you weaseling your way into all the different production departments. Your acting is perfectly serviceable, but it should also be your priority. You must spend more time improving it.”

I ducked my head in embarrassment and rubbed my nose. “... thanks.” I said shyly. “I’ll see if I can get an acting coach after filming’s finished.”

“Acting coaches are about as useful as cotton scissors.” Alan immediately dismissed my idea.

“The only real way to elevate your acting is by doing more of it. Plain and simple.” Kenneth chimed in.

“I’m not sure if I’ll have enough time in between the Harry Potters.”

“You shouldn’t use these large-scale fantasy productions as an example. Many films from start to finish rarely take half a year. And depending on your part, you’d only need to be available for a few days to a few weeks.” Alan tutored.

“Speaking of,” Kenneth inserted. “Aren’t you doing that Christmas film for next year?”

“How’d you find that out?” Alan queried.

“Em told me. She got the part opposite yours. I heard they’re also looking for a young boy to play a role.”

“Thompson’s still talking to you?” He teased the other man.

“Oh, don’t you start! This little discussion isn’t supposed to be about me.”

“What’s this about a part now?” I brought the conversation back on track.

Alan stepped back, put me at arm’s length, and surveyed me. Kenneth, with his hand on his chin, also leaned in for a better view. I obliged.

I posed with one hand on my hip and the other behind my head.

“Age wise, he’s a bit north of the call.” Kenneth pondered.

“Yes.” Rickman provided. “But unlike the rest, with their… hormonal fluctuations. This one’s been left behind.”

I was a late bloomer, sue me! Full disclosure, I’d been getting worried that I’d missed puberty and the only way I’d be recast in the movies once everyone outgrew me would be as Kreacher or Griphook. But I recently found a hair on my ball to my immense relief.

“Well, no harm in trying. Tell your agent to reach out to mine, they can talk shop.”

Leavesden Studio, UK. June 2002.

We were steadily approaching July, and the pace of filming was only growing more frantic. Post-production had already begun for the filmed scenes and we’d have to wrap soon or risk delaying the movie.

The incredibly elaborate Chamber of Secrets set had finally finished building. Not just the facades for the aesthetics, but there was plumbing for the water effects, a pulley system of wires on the ceiling, and, most glaringly, the massive animatronic head of the basilisk.

I was harnessed up and wired in. The built bald man explaining the sequence to me was the stunt coordinator for the movie. “Right, so in this scene, Fawkes has come to your rescue and attacked the basilisk’s eyes. This is gonna piss that big snake off and it’s going to thrash about. Fawkes, being the bird that he is, has unhelpfully dropped the sorting hat on the other side of the chamber from you. Now, you must be a part of your own rescue.”

Truth be told, this was the scene I was most excited about filming. It would be my first proper action showcase, and would be a good primer for my career going forward - should my long-term plans pan out.

He walked me through the scene multiple times to make sure I’d committed it to memory. I recited every action I’d take while standing on the blue markers taped to the floor, and pointing to the appropriate set props they had to simulate the action.

Cameras were rolling. I took a deep breath and channeled my inner Jackie Chan.

[I sprinted to the first marker and threw myself to the floor. Right on time, a giant blue bean bag on a winch swung over my head. I hadn’t stopped moving. I rolled to the second marker. With a loud thud, a blue sand bag was heavily lowered to the floor where I had fallen. I scrambled to my feet and sprinted to the next marker, ducked, and took two massive steps back as another sandbag was dropped.

My heart was pounding and sweat was dripping from my hairline.

I took a standing leap and landed on the sand bag. I tensed momentarily as the wire on my harness yanked me forward onto a crash mat. I skidded for a few feet, stopping right beside the sorting hat prop. Rising once more to my feet, I plopped the hat on my head and clenched it tight, ran to the final marker behind a pillar, and ducked down.

The pillar started swaying, debris rained down around me, and I rapidly whispered, “Help! Help! Help!]

These last couple weeks of filming in the Chamber continued to drag on. But we were, by the grace of God, on to the final stunt I had to film.

The animatronic snake head was raised around ten feet off the ground. I was attached to it via a harness, and I was holding on to a handle inside the mouth to make it look like it was biting me for stabbing it with the sword of Gryffindor.

The snake head would whip itself left, then right, then left, and finally crash on to the ground - all with me still hanging on.

It would be a really cool scene, and would also more reliably explain why the basilisk fang detached so easily. Unfortunately, however, we were having a few issues with the mechanism which made the snake’s movements too erratic.

I had been tossed to the floor again, and again, and again, and again. My back was feeling bruised, even through the discreet padding hidden in the robes, and my arm was sore beyond anything from constantly gripping the handle.

The technical team analyzed the snake while we were both laid out on the ground, trying to calibrate it further. I just lay there, tired, sweating, and feeling like I was back in my first month of Taekwondo lessons.

A shadow fell over my face, mercifully blocking the blinding cinema lights. “Is that you done, then?” The bald stunt coordinator, hands on hips, came over to torment me.

Challenging me? “Not on your life, mate. I’ll outlast this bucket of bolts.”

Chapter 12: Upbeat

Chapter Text

Chapter 8.5: Upbeat

London, UK. July 2002

Forget Harry Potter, I should’ve been the new James Bond.

Call me super spy in disguise. I wore a cap and a face mask. Even my sense of style was twenty years ahead of the curve.

No shades, though. I wasn’t that much of a douche just yet.

There was a banner for the upcoming release of ‘Chamber of Secrets’ plastered on the train’s wall just behind me. Not even the man poring over his copy of ‘Goblet of Fire’ noticed.

I jostled as the train did. Playfully, I swayed around the stanchion in the near empty cart. That finally drew someone’s attention.

“Sit down, Mr Rhys.” Cadbury gently but sternly commanded.

Did I listen? “Nah.” I tried to reach up and hold the hand rails swinging above my head. I was still too short. Did the train then jostle again, making me bump my dome on the metal rod near me? “Ouch!” Yes.

“Oh, for the love of-!” that annoyed exclamation came from Anita. She’d be of use on today’s outing, and so had flown down for the week. “You have precious few brain cells as it is. You can’t afford to lose any more.”

I raised my cap and gingerly rubbed my scalp. “I’m smart!” I protested.

Cadbury rifled through the bag on her lap, pulled out a binder, and thrust it into my hand. “Perhaps you should reread the script. It might have just fallen out of your ears.” Given that I’d literally gone over it an hour ago, it seemed my nanny was in agreement with my agent. Honestly, the nerve of these people. I handed it back.

“I knew we should have taken a cab,” Anita huffed, crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. As soon as she did, she jolted and pulled away from the chair’s surprisingly sticky surface. “Ugh. This place is disgusting!”

“What’d you expect? It’s the London underground.” I inhaled deeply the putrid aroma of public transportation. “Burger King, and piss and sweat. Just be happy the conductors aren’t on strike today.”

“I ask again. Why didn’t we take the cab?” She complained.

“Even I’m not dumb enough to pay fifty quid for a ten-minute ride. There’s no such thing as a lunch tariff. That cabbie was totally a liar, wasn’t he, Cadbury?”

This time, she agreed with me. “As honest as a Nigerian Prince.”

“Fine!” Anita tucked into herself. “How much longer are we stuck in this poo-poo train?”

Next station, Holborn. Doors will open to your right. Called out over the intercom. I grabbed one of their hands each and pulled the ladies up off their seats. “That’s us.”

Less than five minutes on foot from the tube station, the three of us reached our destination. We entered an office building that had that strange blend of classic Victorian English exterior and dystopian corporate interior.

We were led down a corridor to a door that had a handful of chairs acting as a waiting area. I handed Cadbury my mask and cap as she sat down. “Wish me luck!” I felt surprisingly nervous.

“You shan’t need it.” her response may have been curt, but damn if it wasn’t inspirational.

The audition room door swung open. A lithe blonde woman who I knew to be the casting director of the film greeted us with a warm smile. “Bas, welcome! We’re thrilled to have you here. Please, come in. I’m Fiona Weir.” She gestured to the genial elderly man waving from behind a table. “We’ll be joined by Richard Curtis, who, as I’m sure you know, is directing ‘Love, Actually’.

“Hello, and thanks for having me.” I entered, with Anita following closely. The table where they sat was full of scattered notes next to a camera pointed at a couch. A casting couch. Thankfully, it wasn’t black.

When Anita and I sat down, I’m sure we breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of any suspicious stickiness - though for very different reasons I imagined.

My legs swung a couple inches off the floor, which Fiona took immediate notice of. “You know, I was worried you’d be a little too old for ‘Sam’, but looking at you, I’m relieved.”

“Not often I get complimented for being short. So, what’s on the agenda today?”

Richard Curtis piped up while sifting through the papers on his desk. “The part is not all that complicated. I’d like to see you, specifically, run a quieter scene.” He handed a sheaf of papers over to me. It was the follow up to the titanic scene. “You can run it with whoever you want.”

I turned to Anita and handed her the script. I’d memorized my lines already. “Here you go, dad.”

Anita, caught off guard, stammered “Me!?”

I played the scene back in my head. The one thing that stuck out to me the most was how much the two actors’ physical proximity added to the scene, so I sought to replicate it. I reached down, grabbed Anita’s ankles, and put her legs over my lap. I wasn’t comfortable enough to do this with the other two in the room. Anita squawked, but ultimately relented, knowing better than to get in the way of my performance.

With the script in hand, Anita and I began.

[“You know Sam, there isn’t just one person for everyone…” her voice was unsure and a little toneless.

“It was for Kate and Leo. And there was for you and mum.” I punctuated that with a light thump to her leg to get Anita to relax. “And there is for me. She’s the one!” I was soft-spoken but determined. I raised my index finger, highlighting the one.

“Fair enough…. A-and her name’s Joanna?” she stuttered a bit, but funnily enough, her discomfort and hesitance added to the overall delivery. I decided to play off of it.

I ducked my head and started to fiddle with the hem of Anita’s trousers. “Yeah, I know.” I looked shyly up at her with a small smile. “Just like mum.”]

At the conclusion of the scene, the two judges looked at each other. Fiona’s expression was questioning, while Curtis was pleased. Fiona nodded appreciatively. She clapped her hands and turned to us. “Fantastic, Bas, you’ve got the role. Welcome aboard!”

Genuinely surprised by the swift decision, I commented, “Are auditions usually this decisive? Don’t you wanna like, have a callback or someth- “

Anita suddenly pressed down hard on my lap to get me to shut up.

Fiona chuckled. “You not only have a potential box office draw, but Alan Rickman also vouched for you. This audition was more of a formality, to be perfectly honest.”

Before I could respond, Anita, seizing the opportunity, interjected, “Speaking of formalities, let’s discuss compensation and schedule details.”

“As we’d discussed earlier, the offer is for three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds.” Anita made a face. Fiona scrambled to explain. “It’s a meager budget film with an ensemble cast with some huge names. If we pay one person too north or south of the others, we’ll have a revolt on our hands. We’ve kept the pay as fair as we can, I assure you.”

We already knew the pay was fair after Alan had kindly disclosed his own contract, but that wouldn’t stop Anita from trying to take a bigger bite.

“Can’t help it then, I guess.” Anita shrugged. “Bas does have a tight schedule, after all.” If the total pay wasn’t high enough, reduce the time commitment.

“We understand. We’ll be shooting from the last quarter of ‘02 to mid ‘03. We can keep most of it flexible, except for January of next year. The entire cast will have to be available then.”

Anita looked at me to confirm. I gave her the ok. “That works.”

With both parties nodding in agreement, we all shook on it. The actual paper work would be handled by the respective legal departments later.

As they wrapped up and made to leave, Richard Curtis approached me. “Before we break, I have a bit of an odd request, Bas.”

I tilted my head inquiringly, prompting him to continue.

“You can say no, of course, but I’d like your help with casting another role for the movie.”

“Uh…sure. But I’m not sure I have that kind of influence, to be honest with you.”

He laughed. “You do, for this!” He rummaged around a bag and pulled out a replica Hogwarts cloak. “I’m trying to hire my daughter for the illustrious role of lobster number two. She’d said she’d agree if I got her a meeting with Kiera Knightly and an autograph from Harry Potter.”

Though bewildered, I signed the cloak with a proffered marker. I felt the cheap fabric in my hands that even polyester or nylon would be ashamed to claim. But I signed nonetheless. “Just an autograph? Doesn’t she want to meet me, too?”

“You’re not Kiera Knightly.” He said, amused.

“I guess Slytherin for her makes sense.” I joked and handed the green-lined cloak back to Curtis.

As we collected Cadbury and made our way back to Leavesden, I couldn’t shake the desire to improve merchandise quality for young fans who deserved better.

Leavesden Studios, UK. July 2002.

Summer was hot, but shooting was not.

Filming for Chamber of Secrets was ready to finish. Barring any unexpected calls for reshoots, the cast, including all the kids, would finally be released for summer break while the movie fully moved into post production and promotion.

With nothing to do today, I was spending it getting ‘baby’s first drumming lessons’ from Dan Radcliffe, the resident percussionist on set. The Love, Actually production team had asked me to learn at least the basics. Until I buy one on my return to LA, I’d have to settle for the various takeout containers that I used to substitute a real drum set. In my infinite wisdom, I’d specially ordered Chinese just so I could use the chopsticks as drumsticks.

“So the basic rhythm is eight beats.” Dan diligently explained with sunglasses on. “One-and-two-and-three-and-four.” He clapped at every word. He pointed to the tall round container that previously held the egg drop soup. “This is your high hat. You hit it on every beat with your left stick.”

“Got it,” I nodded along with his instruction.

The next container he pointed to was the flat square one that still had a little fried rice in it. “This is the bass drum. You need to hit it with the right stick on even counts. So just the two and the four. And lastly for the snare, just stamp on the packet on the one and three.” he gestured to the crumpled plastic under my right foot.

‘Let’s party!” I clacked the chopsticks in my hands, but right before I could, someone tackled my back. I lurched forward, which sent the takeaway boxes sprawling.

“The drums!” Dan lamented.

“You’re back! How was the audition?” Emma, with arms around my neck and hanging off me, welcomed my return excitedly.

“That’s where you were over the weekend?” Rupert hopped on and took a seat on the table.

“Where’d you think I was?”

The last of the group made himself known. “Thought you’d been fired. At least that was the rumour going around.” Felton facetiously provided while helping Dan pick up the rubbish.

Just as I was about to retort, Emma barked again. “Stop ignoring me! Tell me how it went.” She demanded.

I chuckled, reached over, and patted her head to calm her. “I got the part, so probably well.” She screeched happily and proceeded to choke me half to death.

“What’s the movie about?” “What’s the part?” “Who else is in it?” The three boys threw out their own questions.

“It’s a romance!” Emma eagerly answered for me. “I heard it’s called Love, Actually.”

“Romance…” like typical preteen boys, they whined in disgust.

Rupert laced his finger and brought his hands up to the side of his cheek. “Are you going to go all kissy kissy?” He mocked.

“Oh, grow up!” Emma scolded. The two other boys just made gagging noises at each other.

“Not me personally, but I do get a kiss.” I revealed.

“Wait, really?” shocked, Emma whipped her head around to me.

“You’re bonkers, mate. If I were you, I’d only do action.”

“Just on the cheek.” I placated. “And tell you what, I promise the next movie I do, I’ll race a car or something.”

Chapter 13: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

Heathrow Airport, London. September 2002.

I enjoy showing off as much as the next guy, probably even more so if I was completely honest with myself. But even I could tell when something left the realm of good taste and became wholly unnecessary.

Point of fact, my current predicament.

Today was the last of our allotted days we’d had permission to film in active Heathrow for Love, Actually. Despite that, though, I was being forced to run across it again for the umpteenth time today.

All because some producer discovered what parkour is and decided he wanted a free running sequence in a Christmas rom-com.

Guess who had to go around hopping like the Energizer bunny?

“Whenever you’re ready, Bas.”

[I hopped on my feet lightly. The metal detector was a few feet in front of me.

On cue, the extra dropped to one knee, securing my opening. I ran and leapt over their back.

Instead of landing on my feet, I tucked into a forward roll before I continued to run.

The actors playing airport security called out and gave chase. I raced down the wide, carpeted hallway at a full tilt, doing my best to outpace the three adults.

I was painting hard and my clothes had grown totally ruffled.

At the end of the hall, I rounded the final corner. I stopped for a beat, acted my search for Joanna, spotted her, gave one last glance to the encroaching officers, and found the handrail descending the gangway.

I sprinted to gain momentum. With a skip and a jump, I landed on the rail and slid all the way down to my last marker.

I felt ridiculous.]

A kind production assistant jogged up and handed me a bottle of water. “Thanks.” I sucked that down like a whirlpool.

I glared at the offending producer who’d leaned over Richard Curtis’s shoulder to review the footage. Pillock that he was, he nodded self satisfied, entirely ignoring the opposing expression on the staff’s faces. Seeing his work accomplished, he marched off - probably had more films to ruin.

I headed over to Curtis. “Please tell me we’re not putting that take in.”

“Oh, we’ll have to. I’ll put it right in the deleted scenes.”

Phew!

–

Gabriel’s Wharf, London. October 2002.

Filming Harry Potter was mostly an in-studio affair. The few on-locations shoots were generally in areas that had very little general traffic. I can only recall the nine-and-three-quarters King’s cross scenes requiring us to mingle with the public.

‘Love, Actually’ was a far less claustrophobic experience. It was fun, but the greatest downfall of this method was the horrible efficiency.

Waking up before the sun so we could get perfect lighting versus waking up to dodge the curious crowds wasn’t the same thing. I sat on the bench I was meant to, doing my utmost not to fall asleep.

Three-thirty in the morning will do that to you.

All around me, the production staff had it worse. Lights, cameras, reflectors, mics were all being set up.

The only civilians out and about were the occasional jogger and the few dedicated fisherman casting out lines. This was a marked improvement from the rest of the week where the shutter-happy crowds had rendered hours of footage unusable.

Hence, three bloody a.m. in the morning.

“Don’t be dozing off now,” came the gravelly voice of my faux father, Liam Neeson. He had a toothpick in his mouth that I could tell he was doing everything not to chew through. Quitting smoking gives anyone a serious oral fixation.

“M’not.” I rubbed my eyes and sat a little starfighter in my seat. My voice came out relatively gravelly, too. Unfortunately, it had less to do with puberty and more the early hour. The bench creaked as he dropped his massive frame next to me.

His head fell back and he let out a deep sigh. “God, I hope we can clinch this before the breakfast crowds come in.”

“You sound tired. Did the housewife from yesterday wear you out?” I teased. Liam had received endless attention from a slew of dedicated fans over the last week - including a married woman who’d slipped him a note with her number and address.

He glared at me balefully. “No!”

“Huh, so you like nerdy dudes? I wouldn’t have gues- Ow! Ow! Ow!” A star wars fanatic had also propositioned him.

“Cheeky bugger!” He pinched my ear.

“Places!” Richard Curtis called out, saving my hide. The cameras started rolling.

[“So what is the problem, Samuel? Is it mom…. Or something else.” He slipped seamlessly into the role of concerned parent. “Are you being bullied? Any clues?”

All the while, I paid attention to him with a slightly distracted look on my face. “You really want to know?” I pinned his eyes with more seriousness. “Even if you won’t be able to do anything to help.”

“Even if that’s the case…” he nodded with equal sincerity.

“Ok…” I ducked my head. I felt a small rush of heat colour my cheeks. I looked into his eyes again. “The truth is, I’m in love.” I hurriedly pressed on. “I know I’m supposed to be thinking about mum, and I am! But I was in love even before she died, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” I just slightly shook my head.

“What?” Liam let out a disbelieving laugh. “Aren’t you a bit young to be in love?”

I gave him an incredulous frown. “No!” I was completely matter-of-fact.]

“Cut!” Curtis suddenly interrupted. “Liam, your toothpick!” He complained.

“Oh, geez. Sorry everybody!” He quickly pocketed it and we reset to zero.

“Man, your Padawan required lots of training if you’re that distracted.”

His eyes immediately narrowed, so far removed from the doting step-father. “No matter where you run after this, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

WB Offices, London. November 2002.

Have you ever been to a tennis match? If you have, you’d know how much head rotating the spectators do while following the ball. They always looked stupid doing it.

Which meant I looked stupid now, too.

Anita Specter, my sharky agent, and David Heyman were in a furious rally over my new contract. My poor neck was ready to cramp.

“Forty million dollars?!” Heyman just barely succeeded in not raising his voice.

Anita shrugged it off, “over three films, David, not for each.”

“Yes, I know that! It’s still a ridiculous ask.”

“Is it? If I recall correctly, the first film crossed a billion in gross months ago - and it’s still running in select theaters. Opening week alone for ‘Chamber’ was equally massive - what is it now? Nearly a quarter billion worldwide?” Anita began circling David; I wish I had some snacks.

“Our high hopes seem to be coming to fruition.”

“Do you think it has the potential to cross a billion in gross, too?”

“The initial projection had us nearer to 900 million,” he then turned to me to continue his thought. “But the response to the ‘Duels’ trailer with you and Felton really built the hype to another level. The projection analysts now believe we will probably cross the billion dollar mark.”

Made perfect sense to me. The studio was a lot more aggressive with marketing this time around, seeing as they had more to show off action-wise.

I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. But internally, I wished I could advise him to focus on the shark fin surrounding him. I was, however, also feeling vindicated at my choice for a little more dynamism in the more exciting portions of the movie. It felt even better when we had the London premier and someone actually shrieked during the Basilisk fight.

“So you have two billion dollar movies from a single franchise, yes? And potentially a third, fourth, and fifth. Should things go well?” Anita honed in on David; he’d bled in the water.

“Well…yes. What’s your point?”

“Do you want to lose out on those billions over a paltry forty million? That’s my point.” The shark strikes! Bye-bye baby seal.

David’s words died at the back of his throat. “Y-you,’ he stammered, “Shouldn’t you leave that decision to Bas?”

“I’m twelve going on thirteen. What do I know?” Got to have my girl’s back. She discreetly tapped my foot with hers under the table. I didn’t know if she was telling me ‘good job’ or ‘shut up’.

“The studio would never allow such an enormous expense.” David tried reasoning again.

Anita dragged him down without hesitation. “The studio will write whatever cheque you tell them to. We both know that.”

David hefted out a laborious, heavy sigh. He gave me one last glance, picked up his pen and scratched the amendment on the contract. “Fine, forty million total in remuneration for the next three Harry Potter films. The payment will be made in defined installments per film.

He then quickly threw off his mask of consternation; he smiled wide, stood up and presented his hand for a shake. “Well, that was fun!”

Anita quirked her lips in amusem*nt, clasped his hand and shook. “It always is.”

I guess agents and producers had to find some way to make their jobs more enjoyable. Weirdos.

“Just one caveat, though. We’re going to have to do an unequal split on the payouts. WB wants to cap his salary at eight million for ‘Prisoner of Azkaban’.”

“And why is that? Is the studio facing liquidity issues?” Anita quipped.

“No, no. But there is a lot of unrest in the production. I wanted to have it done for November ‘03 but we’ve had to postpone it to June ‘04 instead.”

“Is this because Chris made the decision to stop directing?” I entered the conversation.

“Again, no. Chris made his intention to leave known to me months ago. We’re already in the process of locking in the new director.”

“Really? Who?” I already knew thanks to my magic macguffin, but it never hurts to confirm.

“Guillermo del Toro’s been approached; he turned it down because he didn’t like the already established aesthetic. He recommended a contemporary of his, though; Alfonso Cuarón. We’re quite pleased with his body of work, so have decided to proceed with him.”

“Then why the studio turmoil?”

“Well…” David hesitated, “his family, out of respect, had asked me to keep it relatively quiet. Richard Harris, our Dumbledore, as you well know, passed away a few weeks back.”

“You’ll be writing your condolences to them, Bas.” Anita demanded. I could only nod.

“So you can see how that ends up being an issue.” David continued, “An issue, by the way, we can’t solve quite so easily anymore, seeing as our resident screenwriter has quit the project, and it would be inadvisable to cast a major role without their input.”

“Kloves is out?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Kloves is out.” David reaffirmed. “I guess the frustration of not having as much leeway with the script got to him.”

I so, so badly wanted to celebrate. But in the spirit of maturity, I kept to my seat. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lean back a little and smile. Had to allow myself at least that minor victory.

“So if you’ve got any ideas on replacements, do feel free to clue me in!” I knew David was joking to make light of the situation, but I didn’t think it would hurt to make a suggestion, at least. A little research was called for.

“Can you appreciate the position we’re in now? As far as investors go, they see we lost a director, a screenwriter, and a lead character all in one fell swoop. Therefore, while I'm not worried about securing funding one way or another, dealing with this headache is something I'd rather avoid. If you can lower your price, just for this next movie, it would inspire a lot more confidence in potential investors that it’s not a hole they have to throw money into.”

I glanced at Anita in my peripheral vision. Anita clenched her hand tight on the armrest to stop herself from leaping in excitement. Why? Because money, that’s why.

“What’s the budget for the movie looking like, and how much are we short?” I broached.

Heyman opened a drawer and pulled out a file. “Hmm, we’d estimated the production budget to be around 130 million this time around. I’ve managed to fulfill around about 112 million so far between WB’s pre-existing commitment to the franchise, as well as a few legacy investors.”

“Can I contribute?”

David’s hand went to his beard, where he stroked it in consideration. “I don’t see why not.”

“The dividends come from gross revenue, right?” I questioned.

He spread his arms wide as if to say, ‘of course,’ “Our investors wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Great! How does half my salary for the movie sound?”

Chapter 14: Numero Uno

Chapter Text

Chapter 9.5: Numero Uno

LA, California. January 2003.

“Dōzo yoroshiku onegai itashimasu.” Those were the first words out of my mouth as I shook the hand of the person in front of me and gave them a polite bow. He was Japanese, and I, who stumbled through that sentence with what was probably horrible elocution, am obviously not. But I gave it a shot, regardless.

Ben Wyatt, my faithful financial manager and companion for this meeting, jolted beside me. “I didn’t know you could speak Japanese.”

“I can’t.” I confessed to the room. “I just learnt a formal greeting. The only things I know how to say besides that are my favorite orders at restaurants.”

Luckily, the person I was getting acquainted with found my attempt amusing, and playfully clapped my shoulder.

He released me and gestured to our seats while taking his own. “ Dōzo .”

“Mr Tadashi Yanai invites you to sit,” spoke the assistant confidently in English. I must have sounded like a hillbilly to them in comparison. “I am Shinpachi. I will be your interpreter for this meeting.”

“Nice to meet you.” Ben responded politely.

I threw my two-cent wrench in. “I’m quite surprised the CEO of fast retailing came for this brief visit himself. I was just expecting one of your typical salarymen.”

Shinpachi, our interpreter, relayed my observation to the head honcho and received a prompt reply. “With the exception of private enterprises, banks, and other corporate entities, you are our largest individual foreign shareholder. We could not ignore your request.”

“I am?” I turned to Ben.

“I bought 1.5 million dollars’ worth of shares at your behest. It’s a little less than six dollars per share at purchase, which works out to around 256,000 shares.” Ben detailed.

Shinpachi took over for him. “You own 0.25% of all the free floating stock available to the public.”

“That’s enough for a seat at any table, Bas. Especially ones whose worth is measured in the billions.” And I knew that was before the stock split that would happen at the end of next month.

I also knew that this six dollar stock appreciates into a three-hundred dollar stock over the course of the next two decades. With generous and steady annual dividends. Significant benefits, without even factoring in what I hoped to achieve actively with the brand.

Ben and Shinpachi had barely known each other for five minutes, yet already seemed in sync. They dove into the nitty-gritty of the numbers with the same vigour a pig has for filth.

While they were doing that, big boss Tadashi was staring me down. I smiled in return.

He lifted his hand. All chatter ceased, and he spoke. “You invest, why?” That was for me alone.

“I’m not wearing this just to flatter you.” I tugged on the shirt I was wearing to display the Uniqlo logo. “Even all the way down to my feet. I just really like your clothes.”

Shinpachi carefully translated what I was saying to a focused Tadashi. “But it’s not just that. Asia is a massive market that’s generally ignored by the west. Half the world is there, but we don’t even think about setting up shop. And in my opinion, Japan, with its reputation here, and commercial foothold there, is the ideal bridge.”

The room sat stunned. I pushed ahead, undeterred. “Uniqlo presents a unique opportunity for me. I’ve seen how successful your franchise collaborations are, like Jump comics, Capcom, and even Pokemon. I’d like to add Harry Potter to that list.”

It took a moment, but the CEO found his voice again. Shinpachi followed suit. “Mr Yanai states that you do not talk like a child.”

I shrugged. I am who I am, no sense in hiding it. I only acted mature when it was required of me.

“What you say is true. Our partnerships have proven very successful. While we have seen success in the west with our recent international expansion, it pales in comparison to our explosive growth in Asian markets. Mr Yanai states that this is because we lack brand recognition in the west.”

I piggybacked on that point. “Recognition that the Harry Potter IP can provide.”

“This is correct. But we would also be pleased to have you personally as a brand ambassador.”

An endorsem*nt deal, I thought to myself. I sought out Ben again. “I own my image rights, don’t I?” I asked to confirm.

“Yes… you do…”

“Cool! Go ahead and put a bow on this, Ben.”

He stared at me weirdly, almost as if he saw me, as I truly was, for the first time. I guess my overwhelming competency knocked out his child filter. “I’ll have to arrange a meeting with WB corporate for the Harry Potter discussion.” He began.

“Best we only do that with proof of concept.” I chimed in.

“Sample products will be developed and created.” Shinpachi added.

“As far as Bas’s endorsem*nt goes, I have a greater amount of liberty to speak to that.”

“Mr Yanai wishes to know the current state of his contract for the Harry Potter franchise.”

“He’s committed to the next three movies. Time wise, it’s estimated that this’ll occupy him till 2007.”

Tadashi rubbed his chin thoughtfully before playing a little ‘ twenty questions’ with Shinpachi. “Mr Yanai proposes the following. Mr Bas Rhys, as himself, will become the western face of Uniqlo for the children’s, teens, and young adults’ line of apparel. This will be for the period of the next four years commencing from the date of signing. Additionally, Uniqlo would also appreciate your support in brokering a deal with Warner Brothers corporate for the merchandising rights of the Harry Potter franchise.” Shinpachi listed the tentative details of our potential deal.

“And Bas’s compensation?” Ben asked.

“Upon signing, Mr Rhys will be authorized to receive an aggregate 0.75% of free floating fast retailing shares until he owns a full 1% of stock with his already purchased stake. Consequently, he may request that in a specified portion or entirety in cash payment at his own discretion, up to approximately-”

“4.5 million US dollars.” My pocket calculator simplified for me. He maintained his demeanor, but I’d known Ben long enough to know that he wanted to raise absolute hell. If Anita was here, she’d have dollar signs in her eyes.

“Sound like a good deal, Ben?”

“Yeah, Bas. It’s a good deal.”

“Mr Yanai is pleased to hear your approval. The paperwork shall be completed and presented to you as soon as possible.”

Tadashi Yanai rose from his chair, prompting the rest of us to do the same. He reached his hand over to mine. He had a wide smile on his face. “Pleasure doing business.”

I eagerly shook it. “Likewise!

Ben and I made our way out of the hotel meeting room. “C’mon, let’s go share the good news with the girls. I’m suddenly in the mood for sushi.”

Soon enough, we found ourselves sitting at a table in the very fancy Japanese restaurant in the hotel itself.

“Am I awake?” Ben had a shocked look on his face and was gripping his disheveled hair. He was completely ignoring his sushi. How rude, I’d brought the four of us out here to celebrate not just the lucrative deal we’d landed, but also the recent success of Chamber of Secrets, and the completed shooting of Love, Actually .

I completed my work at last. I was fully prepared to enjoy my singular month off this year, even if Ben failed to take the hint.

“Not now, Ben. We’re at lunch,” Anita reprimanded him while scooping another unagi roll into her mouth.

I’d evidently been a little too sloppy with my table manners, as Cadbury had to take a napkin and wipe the corner of my lip.

Ben stared at the three of us as we’d all just told him the sky was green. “I don’t think the three of you fully understand the magnitude of the deal we just pulled in today. So let me break it down for you. We’ll get to the absolute insanity of your endorsem*nt deal later. So let’s start easy with just the Harry Potter stuff. You have a little over 3% stake in a billion dollar property - and all you had to do was take a pay cut for it.”

We focused on our food as he prattled on. Someone clearly had to get something off their chest. “Even if we’re conservative with estimates and say the third movie, only ‘ only ’ earns 800 million. That’s still 24 million dollars from an initial investment of 4 million!” He aggressively whispered. “Even after you take my 10% brokerage fee and the lowered tax rate, you’d have to pay because it’s dividends.”

“Don’t you dare forget my 5% of that! My bonus is my bonus. You have no idea how much my boss chewed me out for not getting Bas a higher salary.” Anita added.

“Yeah, sure. After all that, you would still make 18 million. That’s an over 400% rate of return in a single fiscal year! Without even counting the money, you would already have.”

“You know what the best part about that is, Ben? Not a penny of it goes into that goddamn Coogan security.” I was still sore about the opportunity loss of having that part of my earnings locked away.

Ben was getting frantic. “We haven’t even talked about your investmen-!”

“Are you Harry Potter?” A little girl suddenly popped up out of nowhere. Anita slapped her hand over his mouth, quickly muffling Ben.

“ Shh !” I hurriedly shushed and cast an overly dramatic look around the restaurant. “Speak quietly. You know we’re not supposed to talk about magic among muggles!”

She hurriedly brought the notepad and marker to cover her mouth, but it couldn’t hide her massive, glowing smile. “I’m sorry, Harry. I forgot!”

“Don’t worry about it. Now, how can I help you?” I stood up from my chair to face her. I put my hand behind my back and signaled Cadbury to hand me something. Being the robot that she is, she knew I wanted the polaroid camera she kept in her purse at my request. She handed it to me strategically so the girl wouldn’t see.

“I just wanted an autograph. I know you have to go back to Hogwarts soon, but I wanted to get one before you left.” She showed me her notepad and marker.

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.” I denied the little girl, who looked absolutely heartbroken.

“Why not?” Her voice quivered.

“Because it’s not good enough!” I pulled out the polaroid camera and showed her.

“Magic!” she squealed.

“C’mon, let’s take this photo before the muggles see us.” She latched on to me, pressing herself cheek to cheek. I extended my arm out, smiled for the camera, and took the selfie.

“What’s your name?” I uncapped the sharpie while fanning the photo. “Mia!” was her immediate response

I flipped the photo over and wrote:

[For Mia,

One ticket for the Hogwarts Express from platform 9 & ¾.

From her friend,

Harry Potter]

She bounced on her feet, unable to contain her excitement as she read my little message for her. Rather quickly, however, she grew sad. “What if I don’t get my owl when I turn eleven? What if I’m not magic?”

I ruffled her hair. “You’ll get to Hogwarts, don’t even think you won’t. I can feel magic all around you.”

“Really?”

“I don’t lie to my friends.” She beamed another smile at me, hugged me, and ran back to her parents, who waved in thanks.

“You know,” Anita started while looking softly at me. “I sometimes forget that behind your scarily precocious nature, there’s a normal, cute little kid under there.”

“A normal child would have merely signed an autograph.” Cadbury, suddenly and very uncharacteristically, made herself the focus of attention. “Mr Rhys is someone far more special.”

Jeez, Cadbury, you’ll make me blush.

Chapter 15: Button Down

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Button Down

London, UK. January, 2003.

His bed was calling out to him. Like soft whispers from a lover, he heard his name being whispered in his mind. “ Neil. Neil. Neil. “

But he disregarded his desires and knuckled down to get the screenplay finished. His next meeting with JK Rowling and the producers was in less than a week. He’d like very much to show them a cohesive, completed draft; unlike the unfinished jigsaw puzzle he’d been asked to revamp.

Neil Gaiman sighed, and tiredly scrubbed his eyes to stave off his drowsiness.

Uncapping his highlighter, he found yet another discrepancy between the source material (the book) and Steve Kloves’ script.

The man whose place he’d been hired to take.

The most frustrating part about his current task wasn’t that Kloves had done an awful job, and that Neil would have to start from scratch. It was that Kloves had actually done a fairly decent job with the adaptation - especially the first act, from the Dursley escape to the dementors on the train.

Neil actually preferred the script’s handling of the hippogriff scene compared to the book. Even the werewolf chase was an excellent addition - appropriately cinematic and terrifying; all Neil had to do for that was resize Hermione’s unnecessarily large command of the scene to make it book accurate enough.

Aside from that, however, everything began to fall apart.

Kloves had elected to ignore the core through-line of the story. Harry sleuthing out the mystery behind Sirius and the Marauders is the most important plot point of the story. Without that, the plot twist at the end fell completely and utterly flat. How anticlimactic.

Condensing the multiple quidditch matches and Hogsmeade visits was a respectable decision too, in Neil’s opinion. Audiences would grow bored - but that didn’t mean you just randomly jumbled dialogues and scenes in any order.

All of that, to an extent, would be forgivable and easily fixed. It was easy for him to do so, seeing as Neil was an accomplished author in his own right. American Gods was a stunning success. His Sandman series was a cult phenomenon, and his screenwriting on Neverwhere had been a favourite for those tuning into the BBC.

But nothing hurt Neil’s inner author more than the egregious mishandling of both Ron and Hermione.

No fight over Crookshanks and Scabbers - reducing the impact of the Pettigrew reveal. No fight over the Firebolt - taking away another aspect of the mystery and denying all three children their character growths. And worst of all, outright stealing Ron’s defining moments just to bolster an already solid character. Neil was surprised that Kloves hadn't assigned the task of performing the Patronus to Hermione instead of Harry.

So much to do, Neil exhaustingly thought. He almost succumbed to the relentless beckoning of his soft sheets, but just as he was getting up, he spotted the dog-eared copy of his latest book, Coraline. It was filled with post-its and notes in the margins - they depicted an analytical comparison on the themes and motifs between the story he’d written, and the saga of Harry Potter.

None of it was in his handwriting.

David Heyman had given it to him. When they’d interviewed him for the job, they’d admitted to not even knowing who he was. They’d revealed to him that his profile had been brought to the studio’s attention after Bas Rhys, the young man portraying Harry Potter, had sent them this copy of his book to the studio. Trying to convince them to take him on. And they had.

Neil sighed again, but ultimately sat down to continue his work. He couldn’t be upstaged by a thirteen-year-old boy.

Neil didn’t know whether he’d curse the boy or kiss the boy when they’d eventually meet. The work was mountainous, but the money was too.

Leavesden Studios, UK. February 2003.

As was becoming increasingly customary, I once again found myself in a discussion with JK Rowling at the starting line of the newest film.

Though, today’s meeting was less about the still under construction screenplay, which by all accounts was coming along swimmingly through Neil Gaiman’s respectful imagination, but had more to do with the next book slated for release.

Coraline wasn’t the only bit of summer reading I’d done last year.

“My editor could use an assistant like you,” JK Rowling said wonderingly as she trawled through my chicken scratch handwriting littering the draft manuscript for Order of the Phoenix.

I wasn’t going to sit and lie and say I’d pored over the book with a fine-tooth comb. Even above my own interpretations of the book, I had the benefit of extensive discourse and review and discourse of the reviews, if that wasn’t already convoluted enough, to bolster my critique. Not that I’d written an essay for every chapter, “I’ve just annotated what I considered the most salient points.”

She snapped the book shut, her forefinger trapped between the pages marking her place for her to return. “Is that humility, I hear? How unusual for you, Bas.” she teased.

“I’m one of the most humble people in the world! Ask anybody, they’ll say so too.” I rebutted with blatant narcissism.

“Ha!” She threw her head back and laughed. “See, this is why I enjoy our little chats. You’ve got a tongue sharp enough to duel with.”

“Got a lot of ‘yes men ’ following you around these days, then I take it?”

“Like a line of lost ducklings. But enough about that.” She reopened the book, folded the page she was on, and set it down on a nearby table. “I’m going to read through all that later. For now, though, I’d like to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. How’d you like the book?”

I leaned back in my chair and steepled my hands in front of my face. That pose likely did every cliche villain proud. “I don’t know how you’re going to pull it off, but Voldemort’s going to have a hard time filling those pink power heels Umbridge wears. She has to be one of the greatest villains in modern fiction.”

Rowling clapped hands in glee. “I’m inexorably proud of how detestable she is!”

“The secondary cast really shone in this novel. I don’t know who I like more, Ginny or Luna. And the stuff with Neville and the Longbottoms is just wow. Even Snape! This has to be the first and only time since his introduction that I haven’t felt only disgust for him. Not to mention just how brutal the hit with Sirius was, especially after the mirror revelation.” I heaped on the praise.

She did that wriggly thing with her fingers to highlight her evil intent. “Oh, it’s all coming together!”

Such a shame I had to burst her bubble. “That being said, I do have some thoughts.”

“Building me up, just to tear me down, eh?”

“A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.” That was Cadbury piping up from her perch in the corner.

I jerked my thumb at her. “Mary Poppins gets it.” Rowling just rolled her eyes. “To make it even easier to swallow, I’ll mostly stick to the nitpicks.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, first off, the jaunt through the DoM is too tedious. The door spins, they go into a room, they run back out, the door spins again, you get it, yeah?”

She pursed her lips and hummed. “Streamlining is possible, I suppose. What else?”

“Why does Slytherin house exist?” She looked as if I was an alien.

“To be the bad guys.” She said slowly, as if talking to a particularly slow golden retriever.

“That’s it?” I pressed. “Don’t you feel like they’ve become one dimensional punching bags? I just thought about having a splinter group joining the D.A. would add a little more nuance.”

She rubbed her chin in thought. “I guess I see your point, though I feel that Snape alone gives Slytherin enough complexity.” She shut her eyes and considered for a moment. “It’s not a bad idea, but not for Order . I’ll need time to sort them out in the subsequent novels.”

“Fair enough.” I shrugged. I had bigger fish to fry. “Grawp and SPEW seem like wasted time. Their plot threads don’t really amount to anything.”

“Both serve to aid Hermione. SPEW shows her well-intentioned but misguided self righteousness. And Grawp is her inspiration to lure Umbridge into the forest.” Rowling was quick to defend her work.

“Feels contrived.” I was honest. “You’re usually much better with your Chekhov’s guns. Like with Montague and the vanishing cabinet, I don’t know what you have planned for that,” Lie. I did. “But I’m sure the payoff is worth it. Grawp isn’t. And as for Hermione’s character, you’ve already established it. She bullies Harry into forming the DA - which is a push he admittedly needs. The way she guards that secret with the enchanted sheet also accomplishes the same. And also the Rita in a jar thing.”

“I can’t argue with that.” She grumbled but remained stubborn. “But I like the SPEW stuff.”

“Then keep it.” This was the chance I was waiting for. “But have it serve another purpose.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe plugging that plot hole with Dobby alerting Harry about Umbridge discovering the room of requirement.”

“Wh-what?”

“The speed with which Umbridge reacts to Marrietta’s info and even where it’s revealed - there’s no reason Dobby or any house-elf for that matter would know and also be barred from talking about it, unless he was actively spying on her. And you never even hint at that.” She picked up the manuscript and flipped through the pages. She’d written the thing, so I didn’t take her long to find the relevant excerpts.

She read it, tossed it, and sunk her face in her hands with a groan. “I can’t believe no one caught that.”

I patted myself down. “I’m not invisible, am I?” I discovered it and I was someone.

Her eyes glared at me through the gap in her fingers. “I preferred you humble.”

“I have a suggestion that could tie it all together.” I offered my insight.

“Go for it.”

I took a breath and built the foundation. “Harry’s generally a pretty proactive guy. He searched for the stone, he rescued Ginny and Sirius. Why wouldn’t he do something more about his own poor situation? Even if it’s just a light heads up for when things inevitably go wrong for him.”

Rowling sat quietly, paying attention as I spoke.

“The only worthwhile thing Harry is doing right now is the DA. But he should have misgivings. When he gets caught later in the book, no one is prepared to help him even then.”

Rowling pursed her lips and squinted. “But, that’s wrong! Dumbledore takes the blame for the DA on himself.”

“So? He still disappears abruptly. Fudge and Umbridge have already proved they consider themselves above the law. Umbridge sent dementors to snog Harry to death. As far as the ministry is concerned, there’s no obstacle to get rid of Harry anymore.”

“.... I knew I should have kept the version where Dumbledore gets taken to Azkaban instead. I don’t have nearly enough time for such a massive rewrite. Also, how does any of this solve the Dobby problem?” She sighed.

“I’m just saying. You can’t change anything now, but maybe in the next novel. You might also want to adjust Harry's attitude towards Dumbledore; I don't think he should be so forgiving - but that's ultimately your call.” Realizing that I had gotten off topic, I refocused my argument. “As for the Dobby situation, here’s how it could work out: as much as Harry trusts Hermione, her methods leave a lot to be desired. Then SPEW happens. Her intrusive activism poses a danger to the house-elves, proving Harry’s point further. But then a silver lining, Harry reunites with Dobby who’s always eager to help out. When Marrietta becomes a sneak, Dobby is able to give a good enough heads-up for everyone to escape. But Harry, who’s quite a bit more confrontational this year, makes the choice to stay and get caught, which also might be Voldemort’s thoughts impacting him-”

“Like when the serial killer turns himself in at the start of se7en.” Rowling suggested.

I snapped my fingers. “Exactly! The story can stay mostly the same from this point forward. And I also feel you get more consistent characterization for Harry. It didn’t sit right with me that the guy who’s successfully teaching students older than even himself notoriously difficult charms like the Patronus gets so easily tripped running away from his schoolyard bully.”

We sat quietly for a while as Rowling absorbed our conversation. Cadbury had thoughtfully prepared a pot of tea, while JK read through my notes and collected her thoughts. “You know, I never thought I'd empathize with Kloves, but you’ve put me in that position and I don’t think I can forgive you for that.” She kidded.

I waggled my pinky finger at her. “A promise is a promise.”

She stood with a tired chuckle. “Yes.” she made her way over to me and tapped the manuscript on my head. “It is. I’m going to head out. I need to see just how much I can fix in the little time I have left.”

Chapter 16: Crumpled Clothes

Chapter Text

Chapter 10.5: Crumpled Clothes

Leavesden Studio, UK. March, 2003.

Alfonso Cuarón and Chris Colombus had entirely different directing styles. Chris always had a very good idea in his head of how he wanted a scene to look and as long as we as actors could reach his vision closely enough, even if he had a turd in hand, he’d polish it in post so at least the sh*t looked good.

Cuarón, on the other hand, was both a free spirit and a perfectionist. He encouraged us to approach a scene with our own ideas, sometimes even when I’d rather just ape the script and be a little monkey see monkey do.

Some days blended into the last. I felt like I'd actually been trapped in a time-turner loop, and maybe that prop wasn’t as fake as it was supposed to be.

He’d take a scene again and again and again, each one different from the last until that nebulous vision in the back of his head struck satisfaction.

This pattern was what likely contributed to the movie being a late pregnancy, and Alfonso having to become the dad that went for cigarettes and never came back for the fourth movie.

Mike Newell was then brought on to direct the fourth installment. Mike Newell, who had refused to read the books or watch the old movies, and made the worst adaptation.

I refused to let that happen.

All I could do was push with all my might and hope that this baby was delivered on time.

I was trying to focus on the small monitor in front of me. I was watching the playback of my last take. It was hard to do though, on account of Alfonso Cuarón frantically shuffling through papers beside me.

“It is missing something…” Alfonso said while continuing to parse through the storyboards he’d drawn up. “Ah! Here.” He found the specific sequence he was looking for and laid it on the table.

My partner in crime, Richard Griffiths (Vernon), Fiona Shaw (Petunia), and I leaned in to see.

“This is the scene that will open the movie.” The series of sketches in sequential boxes depicted Azkaban swirling with dementors, which was followed by Sirius’ animagus prison break. “Once he lands on shore, we will cut to our scene here in Privet drive. To me it shows a parallel between Sirius and Harry - both are escaping from jail.”

I hummed in understanding. Initially Alfonso had wanted to film me casting ‘Lumos’ under a sheet for the opening. When I brought up that it contradicts the lore, he very easily compromised and asked Neil Gaiman to write him something equally dynamic to start.

Malleable. What a wonderful word.

He left the story to those who knew better, he left the acting to those doing it. He offered his suggestions, but was never demanding. His aesthetic was what mattered to him the most.

Considering that he set the standard for visuals in Harry Potter movies, I did my absolute best to just listen to his ideas and act on them.

“I cannot explain what I mean…” he tilted his head and twisted his arms, struggling to help us visualize what was in his head.

“Desperation.” Fiona Shaw stated. “Harry’s angry, but he’s not desperate to get out. We’re panicked about Marge flying away, but not desperate to have Harry not interact with her.”

“Yes!” Alfonso clapped his hands together. “Let’s run the scene again! This time, with more desperation.”

“I don’t mind running this scene again and again. Just don’t put me back in that fat suit.” The actress playing Marge Dursley spoke up.

[The TV started playing the news alert about a mass murderer prison escapee.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for this one, Petunia. It’s all to do with blood - bad blood.”

I stiffened and hesitated while clearing the plates.

“What did his father used to do?” The camera craned to get a better shot of Petunia, sending me a worried glance. I kept my head down. Marge snapped her fingers, and I continued my task.

“N-nothing.” Fiona, playing Petunia, nervously replied, “he was unemployed…”

“And a drunk too, no doubt!”

I slammed the plates down on the table. “That’s a lie!” The glass of booze in her grip shattered and everyone jumped.

Petunia hurriedly got up, put her hands on my chest, and pushed me back to the kitchen, trying to prevent me from attacking Marge. I glared at Marge. “My father was not a drunk!”

Marge smirked at me in victory and began speaking again. “It’s more to do with the mother.” Vernon worriedly clasped her arm to try to dissuade her from continuing her drunk diatribe but was brushed off. “If there’s something wrong with the bitch, then there’s something wrong with the pup!”

“Shut up!” I took a step forward. Petunia struggled to hold me back.

“Right! Let me tell y- “

“Shut up! Shut up!” I stepped on my marker, shoved Petunia aside, stayed still while huffing angrily. The fans started blowing beneath me, fluttering my clothes and hair. The lights started flickering and the magic VFX started.

Everyone took to their cues and exclaimed.]

“Cut! Yes! Desperate was perfect!”

I immediately moved to Fiona and held her gently by the shoulders. My growth spurt, made evident by the agonizing creaking of my bones every night, had finally kicked in. I’d grown to near her eye level, so I hadn’t had to look down.

“I’m sorry! I hope I wasn’t too rough and hurt you.”

She laughed and tapped my cheek with her palm. “No! No! I’m fine! That was wonderful improvisation.”

“I want to reshoot everything with this energy!” Alfonso was fully jazzed up.

The actress portraying Marge sighed deeply. “You’re going to make me wear that fat suit again, aren’t you?”

Laco*ck Abbey, UK. April 2003.

[Alan Rickman tightly clenched the lapel of my shirt, dragged me to a chair, and shoved me onto it.

I fell on the seat a little too hard, the chair teetered on its back legs, I swung my arms in momentary panic, before losing the fight with gravity and crashing to the floor “Oof!”]

“Cut!” Our director Alfonso Cuaron called out.

The set was suddenly a storm of activity as a veritable army of stagehands rushed in to set the scene to rights. Including me.

I had to endure multiple people clawing at my body to ensure my costume was clean enough to restart the scene and that all my body parts were in the right place.

Alan, in full Snape regalia, stared imperiously at me. “Aren’t gymnasts meant to have a good sense of balance?” His voice was scolding, but the smirk he was sporting betrayed his amusem*nt.

“And I hadn’t realized you were a method actor.” I bantered back, referencing his rough handling.

He fisted my collar and began dragging me back to our scene marker. “Allow me to guide you back. We wouldn’t want you toppling over again.”

“You don’t need to be ashamed grandad, I’m happy if you want me to help you walk.”

“Don’t be clever.”

“Quiet on set! From the top, please, gentlemen.” Alfonso addressed us.

Dropping the shenanigans, we both got serious. Alan tightened his grip on my clothes, nodded at me, and I reciprocated.

“Action!”

[Severus Snape slammed the door of his office open. Harry Potter, clutched firmly in his grip, stumbled in behind him. Snape waved his wand over his shoulder, “Colloportus.”

The VFX team tugged on the string attached to the bottom of the door, banging it shut in response to the acted out spell. Snape thrust his wand again, “Accio.” A chair on a hidden rail zoomed over in front of the pair and stopped.

Once again, I was shoved onto the chair, but this time I managed to maintain my balance successfully. Snape took a handful of steps forward and gracefully spun around to face me. He tugged his cloak around him and sneered down at me.

I sat stiffly on the chair, visibly clenched my teeth in repressed anger and glared right back at Snape.

“Turn out… your pockets,” Snape drawled.

“Searching for something?” I tightened my hands around the armrest, only just managing to keep my voice level.

Snape suddenly darted forward and got in my face. “How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He, too, was exceedingly arrogant. Always… strutting about.”

“My father did not strut! And nor do I.”‘ I made to get up from the chair but Snape pressed my shoulder down to keep me seated.

As he was removing his hand, Snape went a little off-script. He hesitated and made a strange move. He softened his glare almost imperceptibly and reached for my face - specifically my eyes.

I kept the flow of the scene going. I jerked away nervously and glanced back and forth between his face and his hand.

Snape snapped back to reality and sneered again. “Turn. Out. Your. Pockets!”

I pursed my lips, reached into the robe’s inner pocket, and pulled out the Marauder’s map prop - the blank one.

Snape tried to take it from me, but I held on. He glared, and I let it go begrudgingly. “What is it?”

“Spare bit of parchment,” in exaggerated innocence. “Found what you were looking for?” I sassed.

Snape’s lip curled in disgust. “I will. Revelio!” he tapped his wand on the parchment - the green surface where the CGI for the map would be added in post. We pretended as if words were appearing. “Read it.”

I recited the line while keeping my head slightly declined - as if in defeat. “- compliments to professor Snape, and -”

“Go on…”

I raised my eyes and met Snape’s glare. “And request that he keep his abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.” I finished viciously.

“You insolent-!” He snatched the prop out of my hands, marched to the lit fireplace in the background, picked up a handful of copper sulfate powder that the props department had prepared and chucked it in, creating a green plume of fire. “Lupin!”]

“Cut!” Alfonso called out, and we returned to real life. “Please remain in your places, everyone. I would like to review first.” He put on his headphones, and zoned in on the monitor to playback the scene.

I untensed my muscles and relaxed into the chair. Alan Rickman dropped his Snape persona and walked forward to lean comfortably on the table next to us. We both waited side by side while Alfonso decided whether he wanted us to run the scene again or not.

“You’re improving.”

I tilted my head in slight confusion. “Hm? You really think so?”

He smiled. It was an incredibly jarring sight to witness in full Snape get-up. “I do.”

“But still not as good as you, right?” I teased.

He scoffed, “of course! I’m a thespian, as are the majority of the adult cast. The lot of us have spent decades perfecting our craft. We aren’t some urchin picked up off the street and told to do our best.” He rebutted.

I start chuckling, “unlike me, I suppose?”

He nodded sagely. “Precisely! But you know what’s funny about that? Somehow, you’re the millionaire with a household name.”

“Oh come on! It’s not like I’m prancing about like it! I exercise a great deal of humility.”

Rickman threw his head back and laughed at my protest. “I know, I know. That’s why I’m bothering to commend you at all. There is a propensity for people to rest on their laurels once a significant level of fame or wealth has been achieved. I think you have potential. I truly believe that you could make a lasting and fruitful career out of all this.” He gestured at everything.

I couldn’t help ducking my head. I had to hide my blush in some way! “So you’re saying don’t get a big head and keep my nose to the grindstone?”

“Mhm.” He agreed. “Not to mention, you’re getting to that age now. Certain… distractions may present themselves. So don’t lose focus on your true priorities.”

I couldn’t believe my ears when, celebrated actor, Alan Rickman, tried to talk to me about girls. “Speaking from experience, are you? I wouldn’t imagine Hans Gruber was considered a sex symbol.”

“Was? Is!” He shot back. “Die Hard has been a cultural phenomenon since before you were born. I’ve been around the block more than a few times.” He buffed his nails on his cloak with an air of supreme confidence.

All I could do was laugh.

Rickman, with the aid of the prop map, swatted me on the side of the head. “I am attempting to offer you sincere advice. I suggest… you take it!” He intoned in that uniquely Alan Rickman way.

I know he was admonishing me, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

Chapter 17: What’s the Rub?

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: What’s the Rub?

Durham Cathedral, UK. May 2003.

Have you ever been snug as a bug in a rug? I have, and I can relay with full confidence that the sensations my body is feeling now are decidedly not it.

I tried to ignore the irritating prickle of the scratchy blanket we’d been given to stave off that jagged hardness of the stone floor of the cathedral. I think I’d gotten a particularly sharp tile to lie on. Something was digging quite persistently into my lower back. It would’ve been bearable if not for the veritable sauna these unnecessarily downy sleeping bags keeping us swaddled like newborn babies.

Schiff, schiff. Rupert, laying beside me restlessly, did the worm inside his own oven. “Bloody things! It’s like being in a burlap sack filled with hot coals.”

“The lit candles and fireplace certainly don’t help the situation.” Emma, on my other side, puffed out. She looked flushed from the heat, with sweat tickling her temples. No chance the makeup lady didn’t rush down and scrub her face dry before the next take.

Like the God Emperor himself, I lifted off the floor in my pupated form. I surveyed the great hall where nearly a hundred more like us carried out similar conversations. I’d caught a cold a few days back, and despite the congestion I was suffering, I could easily smell the throngs of sweaty teenagers. “It’s like they’ve tossed us into those sausage rollers at seven-eleven.”

Quietly, I fished out the mini bottle of Vick’s vapour rub in my pocket, popped it open, and smeared some around my nostrils. I’m sure the makeup lady would scrub this off, too. But until she did, I was going to allow myself some unpolluted air.

“Sainsbury’s or nothing. American.” Rupert scoffed in disgust.

“I can’t deal with this anymore. I’m boiling!” Both us boys craned our necks to Emma when we heard her drag the zipper of her bag down. She kicked her way out and splayed across the floor. “Sweet mercy, that’s better.” She sighed in pleasure.

Unfortunately for everyone around her, Emma’s pleasure meant our pain. It was evident that while she was cooking in there, something had spoiled. Blech! Rupert gagged. “What’d you smuggle in there? Fish?”

“Don’t be juvenile, Grint.” She scolded. “It’s just a bit of sweat.” She turned her head to the startled girl packaged on her alternate side, “I don’t smell that bad, do I?”

“N-no?” The poor girl tried to placate her. It would have been more convincing if she hadn’t pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose.

I took my role of hero seriously, so immediately jumped to the damsel’s rescue. “I’d describe it more like someone used a dirty dish rag to mop up old milk.”

Emma whipped her head around so fast, her frizzy hair almost scratched my money maker.

She nearly ended the franchise then and there.

“You can’t say that!” she gasped in abject shock. With how wide her eyes were spread, she almost put her open mouth to shame.

“Sour, innit?” Rupert agreed with my assessment.

“You utter beasts!” Like any and every publicly embarrassed teen girl was entitled to, Emma threw a tantrum, complete with kicking feet.

My taekwondo got its first opportunity to display itself. I snatched her ankles before they could do any damage. “I’d rather be a beast than the monster who shattered the dream of every boy in the world that pretty girls all smell good!” I teased. My arms jostled as Emma continued trying to stamp me out.

Fierce as her kicks were, the breeze they blew clued me into where the stink was wafting from. A pair of soggy socks. I firmed my grip and yanked her in closer to me. She fell onto her back with a surprised aah! “Hurry, Grint! Pull off her socks.”

“No way!” He recoiled in horror. “Stuff her back inside her bag.”

“Unless you wanna spend the next several hours with this stench trying to bury into your brain, you’ll do as I say.”

“Stop it! Release me this instant!” Emma protested from her place on the ground.

But I wouldn’t. This was for the greater good.

Rupert, with his face scrunched up in distaste, used his forefingers and thumbs to clamp the tips of the damp cloth gingerly, he quickly yoinked the socks off, and tossed them somewhere out of blocked framing. A production assistant was going to earn a bonus for retrieving that radioactive waste later.

“Now, time for my secret weapon.” I trapped her feet under one arm, scooped the majority of the leftover Vick’s from the bottle and slathered them all over.

Emma thrashed wildly. I learnt she was more than ticklish with the way she laughed out. “I’ll get you for this!” she threatened. Happily I might add.

She’d kill me later, I knew, but the immediate difference in the air was worth it.

Ahem! The sound of a throat clearing above snapped the three of us back to reality. “Shall we get back to filming?” Alfonso (rhetorically) asked. My two contrite minions scurried back to position in shame.

Had I been capable of the same, I’d have done so too. Instead, I smiled at our director, peered behind him to find Alan Rickman massaging his temples while averting my gaze. Michael Gambon as Dumbledore smiled at me when I waved at him. “If you insist.” Today was his first day on set and I’d say I’d made a hell of a first impression.

As predicted, the makeup lady painfully set us to rights before the great hall sleepover scene started filming.

[Dumbledore and Snape stood less than a meter away from my head.

The camera very slowly panned down between the rows of sleeping students, drawing Dumbledore, Snape, and me squarely in the center of the frame.

I lay unnaturally still, one eye open as Dumbledore began his speech.

“For now, let them sleep. In our dreams, we enter completely our own world-

PRRRFFFT! The explosive sound of flatulence suddenly echoed around the cavernous hall.

As I felt the vibrations from the speaker hidden in my sleeping bag, I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about this. I rolled over just as Alan Rickman snorted.

Gambon, in control and unfazed, continued his monologue. “And we like to-” THBBT! “We like to swim-” FWWWT! “In the deepest waters.” BRRRT! “Hee hee hee!” He broke.]

The hall erupted in laughter. I jumped out of my bag and flapped it till the fart device spilled out.

I picked it up and looked at it for a moment. I’d forgotten about the prank played on Radcliffe in the original timeline. Guess I was the butt of the joke this time.

I raised it in the air so everyone could get a good look. Gambon clicked the switch again, ripping another loud one. All the kids cheered him on excitedly as he celebrated with his hands dancing above his head. Rickman beside him bent over with a wide smile stealing across his face.

“Now, who’s the smelly one?” Emma teased with a wide smirk on her face.

“Still you!”

She kicked my shin, successfully this time. “Prat!”

Leavesden Studios, UK. June 2003.

[The offscreen speaker played the soundbite of the door to the Gryffindor dormitory shut with a grind and a stoney thud, signaling McGonagall’s exit with the Firebolt.

The camera started at a close up of my face as I stared forlornly, my eyes glistening at the Gryffindor common room exit. I bared my teeth and scowled at the broom polish prop clutched, shaking, in my hand.

The camera pushed and floated over my shoulder to focus in on Ron and Hermione having a row deeper in the common room.

Ron stood over a seated Hermione, flushed face, and frowning. “What did you go running to McGonagall for?”

Hermione had a thick tome hiding her face. “Because I thought-” Her cheeks had been made up to look pink in frustration. She shifted the book down until the tip of her nose was visible over the pages. “and Professor McGonagall agrees with me - that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!”]

“No! No!” Alfonso suddenly called cut. “The tone is not right. Rupert, you must whine more, your anger is not justified - it is petty. Emma, you must show more guilt. And, Bas, stop overacting.” He pushed his sleeve up and noted the time on his watch. “Let us try one more time.”

Just as we were about to take our places, David Heyman, the executive producer for the franchise, marched into the middle of the set. “I’m afraid they have a prior engagement.” David patted Alfonso on the shoulder.

Our director sighed, “very well. We’ll have to pick this up first thing tomorrow.” When the boss tells you to take a hike, you put on your best boots.

“Come along, kids, follow me.” He took a seat on the plush chair by the fireplace, he put one knee over the other, and locked his hands over them.

The three of us squeezed in on the couch, facing him. The set was mostly left alone, but the staff started picking themselves up and made themselves scarce as our private conversation began.

“I don’t remember being informed about anything aside from our regular filming schedule today.” Emma broached.

“That’s because you weren’t,” Heyman clarified. “Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying goes. The press is involved today, so the risk of you pulling shenanigans was weighed and taken into account, Bas.” He pointed at me.

“Rude.” I pouted.

“But, fair.” Rupert elbowed me playfully.

“I’m glad you understand. As you all know, over the last few years, we’ve kept you three mostly out of the public eye and away from journalistic scrutiny.”

We nodded. Aside from a few infrequent and heavily monitored interactions, we were generally kept away from non-filming cameras.

“The studio has now agreed that it would best serve everybody’s interests if we increase your exposure with the press. We’ll start off easy this year, but next movie onwards we’re really going to be involving the lot of you in more aggressive media campaigns.”

“And that starts today?” Emma asked.

“You catch on, quick. Yes. We have a reporter from Access Hollywood with us. She’s going to conduct a fairly light interview with you today, and besides this short dose of coaching, I’m going to let you off the leash. It’s important that you kids get used to handling yourselves.” He matter-of-factly informed us. “We’ve already pre approved her list of questions and topics so there’s no need to be too nervous. Just be yourselves and don’t spoil the ending of the movie.” He glanced behind us and gestured to someone with two fingers. “With my piece said, good luck and don’t embarrass us!”

“Hey, man!” I protested his speedy explanation and speedier exit in equal measure.

He rolled his eyes at the pun. “Save that charm for the camera, Bas. And remember, I’ll only be stepping in if she goes rogue.” With that, he found a chair only just within earshot as the young, blonde reporter took his place and her cameraman set up his tripod.

“Don’t worry kids, you’re in good hands.” It was always jarring hearing an American accent after spending months in the UK. The red light of the camera flickered on. The cameraman gave a thumbs up, and the reporter plastered on her fake Hollywood smile.

“Welcome to Access Hollywood! I’m your correspondent, Nancy O’Dell, joining you from the magical school of Hogwarts!” Nice of her to introduce herself while on camera. “With me today are the wonderful young actors portraying the bright young wizards and witches of our favourite story.” She introduced us one by one. “Rupert Grint as ‘Ron’. The stunning Emma Watson, as ‘Hermione’. And last but not least, Bas Rhys as our titular character ‘Harry’! Say hi to everyone watching at home.”

We did as told. Emma was polite and surprisingly fake. Her inflection was pretty different from how it usually was. Rupert was also uncharacteristically shy. Hopefully, that gulp of his wasn’t audible. I, as usual, was perfect. Or maybe that was just in my head?

“Now I’ve got oodles of questions to ask, but the one I have on the tip of my tongue is because of a story a little birdie whispered in my ear.”

“It’s all lies. Don’t believe a word.” I joked. “Unless it’s the one about musical fruit. That one’s true.” My costars needed to chill. The best way I knew to do that was to behave as flippantly as I normally did.

“No it wasn’t. But I’ll be certain to ask about that story, too!” She didn’t miss a beat. “I heard that when shooting started, the three of you were assigned some homework. The director Alfonso Cuaron tasked you with writing about your characters and their motivations from your perspectives. Tell me about that.”

I nudged Rupert to go first. “Oh, well… Emma wrote like eight pages-” Predictably, he started ragging on Emma instead of telling his own tale.

“Single spaced and double sided.” I joined the fun.

“All about Hermione and how she identifies with her character.”

Nancy opened her mouth for a follow-up, but Emma retaliated before she could. “Well, if somebody had written anything at all, maybe I wouldn’t have had to compensate.” She pestered back good-naturedly.

“But that’s just what someone like Ron would do, don’t you think?” He was quick on his feet. “I was method acting.”

I glanced at the reporter. If it wasn’t unsightly, I’m sure she’d be rubbing her hands in glee.

“Bas, I hear yours wasn’t much better either.” Nancy asked to elaborate.

Seeing her chance to get one up on me, Emma chimed in. “Do you mean the single ripped up piece of paper with actual bite marks he handed in?” She smugly smirked at me as if to say, ‘bullsh*t your way out if this one.’

So I would. “There’s just so many beasties and creatures we’ve got on set. Unfortunately, one of them mistook it for lunch.” My answer was obviously outlandish. I shrugged.

“And you didn’t re-write it?”

Truthfully, I’d gotten bored halfway through, and just decided to play the old ‘dog ate my homework’ schtick. With added believability, a la chomping.

“Nah. That’s just Harry’s luck, isn’t it?”

Chapter 18: Black Flag

Chapter Text

Chapter 11.5: Black Flag

Leavesden Studios, UK. August 2003.

The ultra rich had ultra strange hobbies, like building a fully animatronic two-story house inside another larger warehouse. I ought not to complain though, considering I was going to be one of the tenants of said robot house for the next several days, if not weeks.

If it wasn’t quite clear yet, I was filming the Shrieking Shack section of the climax for the Prisoner of Azkaban.

Even though our makeup was freshly administered, neither Emma nor I had looked so grimy in our lives. Blood, cuts, soot, dust, and every other imaginable type of detritus was smeared across our skin and clothes.

The house, as it was elaborately designed to, swayed. Emma lost her balance slightly when it did. I tensed when she grabbed my arm for support, so that we both remained square on our markers.

We were standing at the threshold of the main room, Rupert was just beyond on the other end of it.

“Quiet on set! We go again. Action.”

[Hermione and I dashed across the room to Ron. The free floating camera craned along our trajectory, keeping just the three of us in frame.

“Where’s the dog-! I demanded, “Ron, your leg-!” Hermione worried just slightly over my line to underline the urgency of the situation.

“Not a dog,” Ron moaned through grit teeth. Ron had one hand occupied by the docile rat playing Scabbers, while the other clutched the prosthetic broken foot that bent at an awkward angle. “Harry, it’s a trap - He’s the dog... he’s an Animagus!”

While we spoke our dialogue, the camera circled around Ron’s back, and tilted to focus on his foot and the marks and steps tracked through the thick layer of dust. The camera zoomed as Ron pointed and followed in, stopping just as it reached Gary Oldman as Sirius Black.

The door slammed shut, and the camera pulled back into a wide shot.

Sirius was filthy. His hair, both head and facial, was matted. The Azkaban uniform was in tatters, revealing the runic tattoos which were Cuaron’s Mexican culture leaking through. Somehow, the makeup department had made him look even dirtier than us. Sunken eyes, sweaty skin, and just the most horrid set of chompers that couldn’t be attributed to British dentistry alone.

He twirled Ron’s wand and shouted, “Expelliarmus!“

The mono-filament wires attached to mine and Hermione’s wand pulled taught on their reels and yanked them out of our hands, clattering against the wall a few feet away from Ron. Sirius had his wand focused on Ron, or more accurately Scabbers, his manic eyes were fixed on my own seething ones.

He took a step closer. The house swayed again, the opposite way. The mounted camera capturing all our side profiles moved with it. The frame would show the house tilting in Sirius’ direction as he spoke. His voice sounded hoarse enough for a polo match. “Your father would have come to save his friend, too. Brave of you, Harry. I’m grateful... it will make everything much easier....” He taunted.

I bared my teeth in hate. My muscles tensed enough that I was visibly trembling. My breathing was short and sharp. I made to lunge at Sirius, but just as I shifted a foot forward, a set of arms locked around my waist and pulled me back. “No, Harry!” Hermione pleaded.

In that same moment, Ron jumped up, snatched the collar of my shirt to hold me back, hobbled on his broken foot, and placed himself between me and Sirius. “If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!” he yelled fiercely. Sweat was lining his hairline, and the lighting would highlight his pallid demeanor.

“Only one will die tonight.” Sirius hissed with a wide smile, his wand still trained on Scabbers near Ron’s chest.

I twisted and fought Ron and Hermione’s combined grip on my body. “Just one? What’s the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?” I snarled out.

“Mate-!” grunted Ron. “Harry, stop!” yelled Hermione. Both struggled to hold me back.

“Didn’t care last time, did you?” I broke Hermione’s hold and slipped from Ron’s clutches. I tackled Sirius. “When you slaughtered my mum and dad!” I roared.

My shoulder dug into his gut. Surreptitiously, I slid my foot behind Sirius’, knocking him off balance, and sent both of us tumbling like we’d rehearsed countless times.

Gary Oldman had been apprehensive at first, but if there was one thing I’d learnt how to do in my martial arts lessons, it was how to take a fall.

Sirius and I pitched forward. On cue, the house swayed and pitched back in the opposite direction. The mounted camera would catch the moment of impact, and the opposing movement would emphasize the violence of it.

The free camera on the jib would follow our descent down. Sirius and I would be framed and centered. It was an extreme close-up shot featuring my rage and Sirius’ shock. It was a locked steadicam shot, which means that despite him and I being the ones falling, the camera would keep us upright while the world swirled around until we crashed on the hidden mat beneath the dust.

Two things happened immediately as we hit the mat. Sirius’ (Ron’s) wand slid past my ear and twitched. A remote detonated canister of CO2 fired, signifying the pre-CGI VFX for a spell slipping past my face and striking the wood on the ceiling.

Debris rained down as we wrestled. Ron, nearer to the discarded wands, scrambled on his knees and palmed them, while simultaneously Hermione dove for Sirius’s wand hand.

She latched onto his wrist and smacked it on the floor while I reared my arm back and punched the mat tightly near Sirius’s torso. The camera angle would allow it to look like I got him in the ribs. Sirius gasped, his face scrunched in pain. He let the wand go, which I snatched before Hermione could.

Still furious, I dug the tip of the wand into his sternum right above his heart.

Sirius’ breath shuddered as if the wind had just knocked out of him. “Going to kill me, Harry?” he croaked. He maintained that manic smile.

The room stilled. My chest heaved from my position over him.

I twisted the wand and leaned. The house swayed again and followed my motion. Sirius squirmed uncomfortably under me. His hot breath washed over my face, thankfully minty and not minging like his teeth. I whispered, “You’ve never heard it, have you? It’s the only thing I remember of her.” my voice grew more and more shaky. “My mum screamed when Voldemort came. You did that…” I growled out the last line.

The door of the room burst suddenly open when David Thewlis as Remus Lupin came hurtling into the room, “Expelliarmus!” Lupin shouted.

The prop wand, once more, flew out of my hand. Seeing my advantage gone, Hermione snagged me by the collar, hoisted me on my feet and pulled us back away from the two adults. All the while I stared dumbfounded at Lupin, who lifted and brought Sirius in for a hug.

“Remus, I found him!” Sirius whimpered, but his voice carried delight in spite of the pain he was in.

“I know.” Lupin’s voice was tense but soothing as he held Sirius up gently by his elbows.

“Let’s kill him!”

“Where is he, Sirius?” The groan of the house titling came again. Slowly, Sirius raised and pointed his finger straight at Ron.

The camera zoomed in on Ron, rat and wands fisted in each hand, who dragged himself on the floor towards his friends. “No!” The camera quick-panned over to a shrieking Hermione, “I trusted you!”

Everyone’s eyes were now on the calm but wary Lupin. “Hermione, listen to me, please,” Lupin lowered his wand and tried to shout over Hermione. “I can explain -”

But the now enraged Hermione wouldn’t be outdone. “Don’t believe him, Harry!” She pointed aggressively at Lupin. “he’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too - he’s a werewolf!”

Lupin stopped dead. “How long have you known?”

“Ages,” she admitted, “You were ill every full moon, and your boggart was it, too.”

Lupin let out a chagrined laugh. “You really are the brightest witch of your age, Hermione. But not up to your usual standard this time - only one out of three. I won’t deny I’m a werewolf, but I didn’t help Sirius into the castle, and neither do I want Harry dead.” He said coolly.

Through clenched jaw I spoke, “If you haven’t been helping him,” my eyes darted from Lupin to Black, “how did you know he was here?”

“The Marauder’s Map.”

“You know how to work it?” I asked suspiciously.

“Of course I do. I helped write the damned thing.” He answered impatiently.

“You wrote-?” my question was interrupted by his continued impatience.

“Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” he began. “I’m Moony. That’s the nickname my friends gave me when they discovered my secret in school. Your father, James, among them. I know everything there is to know about the map, just like I know the invisibility cloak can’t hide you from it.”

“You know about that, too?”

“The number of times I saw James disappearing under it...” Sirius’ voice was haunted.

Lupin gestured at the surrounding detritus. “This shack? That tunnel? That blasted tree? All of it was made for me, to serve as a cage for me to transform alone. A price I happily paid to attend Hogwarts. But then I made three stubborn, foolhardy, wonderful friends I didn’t deserve, who learnt animagus magic just to keep me company. Your father was a stag, Harry. Prongs.” He pointed to Sirius. “This dog is Padfoot, and-”

Everybody jolted when Sirius launched himself at Ron. “Scabbers!” Ron yelped as Sirius stole the thrashing rat from his hands.

“Come out! Come out, Wormtail!” Sirius jostled the struggling rat in his grip.

“The last one, the one who truly betrayed your parents, is a rat animagus.”

“Peter Pettigrew!” Sirius howled. He reached for the wand in Lupin’s hand.

Lupin pulled it away. “You can’t do it just like that - they need to understand -” he tried to calm Sirius

“Enough talk, Remus. Let’s just kill him!”

“Wait!”

“I did my waiting!” Sirius wailed with every bit of air in his lungs. “Twelve years of it!” His voice bounced off the walls. There was no hiding the pain in it when it cracked. “In Azkaban!”

No one moved, no one spoke. There was no following that delivery.]

A bell rung, a slate cracked, and a voice called, “Cut. Magnifico!”

“Wow.” I heard Emma whisper under her breath. I had to nod in agreement.

Thewlis helped Rupert up, but my eyes stayed on Gary Oldman as he paraded the rat around.

“Can someone please take this vermin off my hands?” Not even a minute, and he was already out of character. He was in full control of his performance rather than the other way around.

“One day…” I finished the rest in my heart, ‘That’s going to be me’

Chapter 19: Red Mist(letoe)

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Red Mist(letoe)

London, UK. September 2003.

Bullets whizzed over my head. The sound of gunfire and screams echoed all around me.

The peaceful life I’d grown accustomed to had disappeared and in its place, this hellscape had risen. I ducked behind a crumbling wall, my own gun clutched firm in my grip, finger on the trigger ready to fire.

“Bas!” Tom Felton, his own firearm in hand, shouted for me. My head snapped at him. He slid behind a rusty barrel, desperately ducking as another hail of death pinned him to his post.

Our enemy, seeing their opportunity; Tom, unaware of their position, lined up a shot. Not on my watch!

“Duck!” I fired my own salvo. Red spurted. “Get over here.” I waved him to my barricade.

With a nod, he braced and sprinted across the opening between our positions. He was fast, the resulting fire pelting the ground behind him.

But then, tragedy. His foot fell into a divot on the ground. He tumbled in a cloud of dust. I saw the gun barrels all aiming at his defenseless form.

I knew what I had to do. I’d already lived a good life.

I pumped my legs as hard as I could. I skidded in front of his prone body. I spread my arms wide, my body shook violently as I was rocked by the seeds of war.

Strength left my legs. I fell to my knees. I looked over my shoulder. Tom was ok.

“Medic!” He shrieked, anguish in his voice.

“Ha! I got you!” my assailant celebrated.

“T-tell them my-” I coughed, “my story. Don’t forget me.” my breath shuddered.

Suddenly, more bullets came. The pellets exploded against me and painted me red. “Ow! I’m hit already. I’m hit!” I quickly stretched my arms to surrender. Tom dodged around me and huddled against a barricade.

“Hurry up, Bas!” Emma raised her mask and taunted my death. “Scurry off unless you want another round bruising your butt.”

“Damn, girl! Take it easy.”

“Permission to treat the target as a zombie, commander?” Alfie Enoch, the young actor playing Dean Thomas, and apparently Emma’s second in command pointed his paintball gun at me.

Realizing that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, I rushed off the field with my hands raised over my head. “I’m dead, don’t shoot.” I could do without any more bruises, thanks very much.

The gun strapped to me clattered against my thigh as I hastened to the picnic table set aside for corpses and parents.

“Quite the performance.” Mrs Felton teased as I took my seat at the table.

“Less pretend than you’d think. Those kids are ruthless. I can see why warlords love child soldiers.” I looked around what had been dubbed the graveyard.

Tens of teenagers, snacks and drinks in hand, mingled around in paint splattered army fatigues while the other half still duked it out on the war ground. A few even sat happily near their families. Given the host of adult supervision readily available, I’d given Cadbury the day off.

She chuckled and offered me two paper plates, both with something sweet on them. “Chocolate or red velvet?”

I took both. “Dying worked up an appetite. And you know what they say about a balanced diet, don’t you?”

“Do enlighten me.”

“It’s a slice of cake in each hand!” Without wasting any more time, I forked a nice, fat bite of gooey chocolate cake and stuffed my cheeks.

Mrs Felton, Tom’s mom, if it wasn’t obvious, handed me a napkin. Clearly, my table manners fell to the wayside with Cadbury’s absence. “But seriously, Bas. Thank you for suggesting this party. We so infrequently get to spend time with Tommy as it is, it’s nice to see him enjoying himself on his birthday. I’m sure the other children also appreciate the outing.”

The redness on my cheeks wasn’t courtesy of a paintball this time. She was being way too sincere. “I didn’t do much.” I waved her off. “It’s not like I organized anything.”

“I beg to differ. I have neither the authority nor the ear of anyone to halt filming for even a moment, forget an entire day.”

“Wasn’t a big deal.” It really wasn’t. “We’re stuck twiddling our collective thumbs for another week, anyway.” I took another bite. “The Buckbeak animatronic is going through revisions again. We can’t continue filming until Alfonso Cuaron is happy with it.” I deflected. “It’s mostly just the kids on set these days since only the Hogwarts class scenes are left to film.”

“You really must learn how to just take a compliment.” She reprimanded lightly. “You’ve been filming since February, haven’t you? I’m surprised it’s carrying on this long.”

“Alfonso is obsessive.” I shrugged. “David Heyman, who you might’ve met - he’s the producer - has put his foot down though. We’re going to use whatever version of Hippogriff comes out next and fix the rest in post or we risk running long.”

“Mr Cauron sounds rather difficult to work with.”

“He is, but he’s good at what he does. Thankfully, he’s been convinced to come back for the next movie.”

“This one isn’t finished, but you’re already thinking about the next one?” her eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs.

“I won’t be the only one thinking about it. Filming for Goblet starts months before Prisoner is set to release.”

“All the more reason why today’s party is important for the children. So I say again, thank you, Bas. You’re a sweet boy.”

I hurriedly looked around us to make sure nobody was in earshot. “don’t let anyone hear you say that. I have an image to maintain!”

London, UK. December 2003.

“I’ll be parked out front, sir.” He heard the chauffeur inform him as he stepped out of the leather coated interior of the pointlessly expensive Bentley.

The luxury only continued as he stepped into the lavish lobby of the hotel. He observed the large bouquet sculpture centerpiece decorating the middle of the room. At least there was some semblance of class here.

He marched up to the concierge and announced himself discreetly. “Alan Rickman. I’m told you have a key for me.”

“Good evening, sir.” She greeted. Given the way her eyes widened, she’d clearly recognized him. She kept professional, however. Alan appreciated that. “Ah! Yes. Mr Rhys has informed us of your arrival.” She kept her head down as she went about preparing a key card for him, but he caught her sneaking glances at him. “The suite is on the 8th floor.” She handed him the cardboard sleeve with the key card tucked in, showing the room number.

“Thank you.” Long used to this, he waited as the young woman plucked up the courage to speak to him from beyond the facade of her duty. “Is that all?”

“I-I’ve watched Sense and Sensibility a hundred times…” there she goes.

Unsurprising. Had she been a man, he’d have expected Die Hard.

Without missing a beat, he took the card out of the sleeve, palmed the tethered pen on the desk, and signed the piece of paper for her. “To Bridgette.” Her name tag was made to be visible. “Have a good night.”

She snatched the card from the table and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you!” Alan couldn’t help but smirk on his way to the lifts. Still got it.

The elevator dinged, he stepped out, and the plush carpets of the hallway swallowed his footsteps. Only a few moments after a sharp knock on the door, Alan found himself ushered into Bas’ hotel suite by the boy’s austere au pair. “Please make yourself comfortable. Shall I prepare some tea?”

“Not quite the time for it tonight. You’d best prepare the boy instead.” He hadn’t even bothered to sit. The only ‘T’ he was concerned about were the letters in tick-tock.

“Very well. I shall pick the pace up for him.”

He caught a glimpse of the dressing room as she opened and entered it. He sighed irritably - the boy was only now putting trousers on.

Love, Actually‘s red carpet premiere was in less than an hour, and it just had to be him that served as Bas’ babysitter for the night.

This wasn’t something he’d normally consent to doing, but he liked the boy well enough, and with the incessant pushing Warner Brothers had done, he’d had little choice.

Everything, even another movie entirely, was a potential marketing ploy.

The callous irresponsibility of children was one of the many reasons he’d never had any of his own. Being surrounded by the hormonal hoards over the last four years did little else but bolster that decision.

Yet, as Alan parsed over the pile of papers Bas had likely been working on earlier, this youngster wasn’t so easily labelled.

Contracts, endorsem*nts, financials, was just the little he could glean from a casual glance. The sort of minutiae and tedium best left to those who were paid to know better. But given the horrendous, familiar, chicken scratches all over the pages, Bas’ mind wasn’t as empty as he liked for it to appear.

“Cadbury, who is that?” Bas announced himself with his trademark frivolity. Eager for absurdity when a simple greeting would suffice for anyone else.

“You know very well that is Mr Rickman, Mr Rhys.”

“But where’s the black bob-cut and fashion sense of a grieving widow? That’s the Alan I know.”

He jumped in before the nanny could. “Talk of fashion coming from the person wearing the ugliest sweater I’ve had the distinct displeasure of ever seeing? I might as well take tree climbing lessons from a fish.”

Redder than a baboon’s behind and littered with embroidered white hearts stolen straight off a twenty pence Hallmark Valentine’s card made it garish enough, but the large brand logo - identical to the one on Bas’ endorsem*nt file, somehow made the sweater the minister of distaste.

The knitted monstrosity was a surprisingly à propos insight into how Alan saw Bas. Flippant on the surface, but when you looked closer, everything had a legitimate purpose.

An attention grabbing outfit that seemed like a joke, but also served as a walking billboard.

A carefree young man, hiding a keen mind beneath juvenile antics.

Devious.

“I’m repping a Christmas themed rom-com, and my brand. But you? Funeral homes would consider you dour.”

Alan opened his blazer to show off the label. “Versace.” He pointed to Bas, “pyjamas. Good thing you blend into the red carpet. Provides you with a ready-made excuse when no one bothers noticing you.”

“Good thing I have a trump card.” Bas pulled on a novelty antler hairband. “Tada!” More holiday vulgarity. “No one can ignore me now.”

“Except for every woman out of sheer embarrassment.” The banter continued even as the group bundled up in the car and made their way over to the event.

Bas, as ever, projected unwarranted confidence. “Who do you think will want to take more pictures with me? The Swedish models in skimpy Santa outfits, or Kiera Knightly?”

Their arrival was marked with the theme song from the movie blaring over the speakers, and the manic flash of cameras even before they reached the gator board and banners.

For many celebrities, it’s these moments where people clamour for a moment of your attention, that hold all the value of fame. The limelight. But Alan considered this the most infuriating aspect of his chosen career. He couldn’t wait to hit the open bar.

Bas made a beeline to the aforementioned models. They did, in fact, enjoy the accessory adorning his head.

His focus was stolen away by someone hooking their arm around his elbow. Few people in the world took such liberties with him. Emma Thompson, his co star and dear friend, was one of them.

“Your boy sure does know how to work a crowd.”

Alan looked back and saw the cameras going wild as Bas manufactured a photo-op swaddled in the embrace of several attractive women.

“You have no idea.”

Chapter 20: Sideways & Side quests

Chapter Text

Chapter 12.5: Sideways & Side quests

LA, California. January 2004.

Filming was done, so I’d flown back home. Cuaron had stayed on the project, and Goblet of Fire would be monumentally better than it would have been otherwise. I’d seen that travesty enough times to truly learn to hate it - especially after being in the revamped versions of the movies from my perspective.

Not to toot my own horn - but the new Harry Potter renditions were legitimately superior.

Cadbury walked into the room, silently handed me one of the two cardboard boxes she was holding, grabbed her purse, and signaled the driver. “I’ve spoken to Mr Wyatt. He will meet us there along with the representative from Fast Retailing Co.”

We were all scheduled for a meeting at WB offices - specifically the merchandising department. With the benefit of future information, I was well aware that merchandise accounted for approximately 40% of the $44 billion franchise revenue. If I could swing this deal, I’d have a nice slice of that pie for myself.

The executive greeted us when we reached the office. “Bas Rhys, I’ll admit I was extremely surprised to see you schedule this meeting.”

“No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid. Let’s get to it.”

He humored me and ushered us all in. “Alright, what have you got?”

I cleared his coffee table and put down both cardboard boxes. Cadbury held Ben Wyatt, my business manager, back and allowed me to proceed with my plan. Fast Retailing Co. - the parent company of Uniqlo clothing had sent a representative from Japan to help with this presentation.

Tadashi Yanai, the CEO I’d previously met, had helpfully assigned the English proficient Shinpachi as my official liaison to the company.

I opened the first box, revealing the current batch of official Harry Potter licensed clothes. “This is what fans of Harry Potter can currently purchase on the market to clothe themselves.” I took out the frankly paltry selection and spread them out over the WB exec’s table. “Cheap polyester and nylon - which if you wash a handful of times, you won’t even be able to see the Harry Potter graphics on anymore.”

I then opened the second box. Cotton and cotton blend shirts in all four house themes, winter wear like beanies, scarves, and gloves. Each with multiple iterations of the same design in different hues, all house themed. Smart casual uniform trousers, skirts, and shirts with inconspicuous Hogwarts emblems. Hogwarts bathrobes. Quidditch jerseys and tracksuits.

The WB exec looked astounded at the difference in both quantity and quality of products on display. The sad little comparison of the presently available selection only highlighted their attributes. “In a little over three years, the movie franchise alone has earned well over 2 billion dollars. Why are we wasting that potential when it comes to merch?”

“This is high-quality stuff… I’m not sure if the cost of production for these would allow an acceptable profit margin.”

“That is where I can assuage your worries.” Shinpachi, his bowl cut hair combed, and round glasses shining, stepped over and handed the WB exec a prospectus.

This was the last nail I needed to hammer down. JK Rowling and the publishing house were already onboard, and David Heyman himself was the one to set up this meeting for me.

I gave a thumbs-up to an, as usual, thoroughly flabbergasted Ben. You’d think he’d be happy that I was setting myself, and through me his firm, with another line of credit.

Korea Town, LA. February 2004

The way you looked on a massive movie poster and the way you looked at yourself in the mirror sometimes felt like staring at two entirely different people. It also probably had to do with the fact that the poster shots were taken nearly a year ago, and being smack dab in the middle of puberty tended to change teens like me pretty quick.

As I tightened the blue belt with a red stripe over my brand new taekwondo dobok, the changes were readily apparent.

I was taller, obviously. I had better be too! Cadbury has been making me chug raw eggs every morning since my growing pains began - I’d be livid if I hadn’t put on height.

But, personally, the difference in my looks that pleased me the most was my growing definition.

My muscles, earned from years of martial arts and gymnastics, finally seemed to find space to grow. I adjusted the top of my uniform to be a little wider in the gap to show off my budding pecs.

I couldn’t begrudge that little vanity.

I leaned my face closer into my reflection as I studied my jaw. Not quite sharp enough to cut glass just yet, but maybe it could slice through butter. Cut me some slack, I was hitting fourteen, not forty. I still had plenty of baby fat left to lose.

I rubbed my fingers along my jaw. A little peach fuzz, but thankfully nowhere near visible enough to need to start shaving yet.

My eyes were still that striking green, not dulling with age, my skin a little tanner, edging on beige, due to time spent out in the California sun. God, I was getting good looking.

“Vanity is not a virtue.” Oh Dae Su, my taekwondo master, entered the locker room.

“I’m just so handsome, I can’t help myself.” I lamented as I jokingly flexed in front of the mirror.

“In Korea, you are too ugly for girlfriend.” Now that was just uncalled for! “Come fast. It is time for your final test.”

I stood alone on the sprawling blue mat as a couple dozen martial artists faced me from the gallery. I bowed, then subsequently waved to the camcorder held up by Cadbury. A couple of spars, a few flips, kicks, and a bunch of shattered boards later, I removed my blue belt and tied on my fresh new red belt. 2nd geup was what I’d successfully accomplished today, just two levels away from a black belt. It would only be the first dan, but a black belt was a black belt.

I was sure Mrs Stephens would be just as proud when she got the video.

Bas’s Home, LA. February 2004.

The phone barely had a chance to ring before the ever dutiful Cadbury answered it. “Mr Rhys’ residence. How may I help you?” The low mumble that responded on the other end was inaudible to me. “Please hold.” Cadbury covered the speaker's end and turned to me. “It’s Mr. Heyman, for you.”

“Thanks, Cadbury.” I gestured for her to hand it over and immediately spoke into the phone. “Hey man, Heyman!”

“You must attempt to find another pun for my name, Bas. This one’s gotten quite old. I was calling to ask if you’d like to make your way over to London a little early this time? I saw that your karate showcase was over. We’re tidying up the casting for a few of the side characters and I thought you might like to be involved. Plus, it’ll give the casting director a chance to see who you’d have better chemistry with.”

“Yeah, sure, I’m not doing anything till production starts, anyway. It’s Taekwondo by the way, and it was my promotion exam - how’d you even hear about that?” I was genuinely quite surprised. I hadn’t bothered sharing the news about it yet with anyone outside of my inner circle. Only Cadbury, Mrs Stephens, Anita Specter, and Ben Wyatt knew so far.

“Find out? Bas, it’s all over the tabloids! Do you not read the news at all?”

“I only read the financial times and good housekeeping. Rags aren’t on my radar. I don’t see much point reading about what I did when I’ve already done it, or as is more usually the case what I haven’t done.”

“Well, they’ve got photos and a full video of it. They’re calling you the Wizard, Wushu Warrior, Wunderkind.”

“Gross.”

“That’s the Sun, for you.” I could practically hear him shrugging on the other end of the line.

I looked towards Cadbury. “Did Anita sell my video for PR or something?”

“I don’t believe so. It is most likely the local paparazzi having snuck into the event. I shall, however, enquire with Ms Specter about it, regardless.”

“It’s rather good press, so I wouldn’t worry too much.” David Heyman chimed in, again. “So, shall I have the team book your flight?”

“Mhm. Go ahead, I’ll see you soon.” I hung up. I couldn’t help but feel a little wary about my first real run in with the paps. I hoped, maybe futilely, that this wouldn’t become an issue down the line.

Oxfordshire, UK. March 2004.

There were few things that the UK could give me, that the States couldn’t. In this case? Some quality time behind a steering wheel.

When I made the decision to expedite my return to the isles, I left my normal host of hobbies by the wayside. However, instead of wandering about with my thumb up my arse, I found a new set of skills to learn that would facilitate my career.

I’d told Anita exactly what sort of project I’d like to undertake next and she’d aggressively begun sniffing about for even a drop of blood.

I wonder if you know what I’m talking about.

I was sitting in a beat up old Subaru. Just a handful of months ago, only my forehead would’ve had any chance of viewing anything above the dash, but the puberty deity had done me a solid and I sat comfortably in the driver’s chair without having to push the seat all the way forward.

The passenger side door opened, and my instructor parked himself behind his own special steering wheel and pedals.

These rally training cars were funky.

“Right.” He clipped his seatbelt. Beer was probably a staple in his diet with the way the strap struggled to stretch over his round belly. “Ever been behind the wheel of a car before?”

“Not in this life.” Honesty was the best policy, especially when it was the truth and a lie at the same time.

Even fourteen years out, I didn’t feel a hint of anxiety. Driving this car would be like riding a bike - a four wheeler bike with a four-cylinder engine.

“Far be it from me to fight my bottom line, but aren’t you a little young to be learning how to drive? Surely if you wait a year, you’ll be able to register for a bog standard provisional license.”

“I didn’t come to rally school to learn how to drive on a flat road.” I went about checking my mirrors. I knocked on the helmet on my head, “and I doubt we’d be wearing these unless we were very special boys.”

“You see that track down there? That’s the beginner’s run, and it even has mixed asphalt and gravel terrain. Those orange cones aren’t for show, mate. You’re going to have to keep this fat cow inside the lines and not scribble tracks all over the colouring book. I can teach how to toss a car around the corners like a gymkhana pro. What I can’t do is teach you what pedal makes the car go vroom, what makes it stop, and what the colours on a streetlight mean.”

I’d spent so much time around people who’d grown more and more aware of my mature mindset that I’d forgotten what it was like when someone who had no clue who I was spoke down to me like they would the average teenager.

I wasn’t fond of it, but I understood. Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to stick a banana in his tailpipe.

I released the parking brake, pushed the clutch, shifted to first gear, and launched off the mark with the full roar of 125 horses.

“Road rules later, Scandinavian flick now!”

Chapter 21: Casting Couch Potato

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Casting Couch Potato

WB Offices London, UK. March 2004.

“Bas! There you are!” My popularity knew no bounds, not even half a step into the building, and I’d already been accosted.

A harried looking middle-aged woman hastened over to me. My old friend the script supervisor followed much more sedately behind her and gave me a genial nod. Given that I’d been ushered to London for a specific reason, I handily assumed this was the new casting director.

“Fiona Weir, lovely to see you again!” She pulled in for a quick hug and lightly kissed my cheek. Hollywood types, what’re you gonna do? I wasn’t always the best with faces, but when she said her name I quickly remembered her as the same casting director who had hired me for Love, Actually. She just as suddenly pulled back, gripped my shoulders and pushed me at arm’s length to survey me head to toe.

She tsk’d quite briskly. “Dear, dear, dear, how utterly dreadful!” Am I crazy? Was I really only attractive in my head? “Puberty doesn’t just want to hit you, does it? It wants to run you all the way over and then double back.”

“You’re speaking as if I’ve morphed into a forty-year-old Serbian.” Couldn’t blame her though, Sam now seemed like a role I’d filmed years ago rather than a character form a movie that had come out just this past Christmas.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’d really have my job cut out for me then; replacing you. We erroneously assumed you’d keep to a more boyish charm for a while longer. You’ve jumped straight into teenage heartthrob.” She rebutted.

“Is that a problem?”

“Only insofar as us having to reevaluate a few of our casting choices for the actors you’ll be interacting with.” She explained before quickly turning on her heel and power walking over to the lifts. “Now come along. The first batch of auditions is beginning.”

I felt bewildered at the pace of the woman. Script supervisor tapped me on my arm and beckoned me to follow. I threw my arm over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize London could have typhoons.”

I thought that sitting on the other side of a casting chair would be fun, but after a week of being there, I was thoroughly disabused of that notion.

It really didn’t make me feel good to dash the hopes of so many bright-eyed hopefuls. Some of whom I’m sure even looked up to me in some form. Just thinking back to how some struggled to hold back their tears… No, it really, really didn’t feel good at all.

Thank God it was almost over.

Fiona efficiently sorted through the piles of headshots that we’d all been deliberating on this evening.

“That’s the Durmstrang girls sorted.”

“Wasn’t particularly complicated, if I’m honest.” I couldn’t help but comment. “Pretty, white girls, with dark hair between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Not like they even have to be European - none of them have any lines.”

“Maybe you should tell yourself that. If I recall, you were the one staring a little too hard at some of the headshots.”

Ah, perhaps I’d been a little indiscreet. But it was impossible not to be. There were a couple of girls on there who, while unknown at the moment, would be absolute bombshells in a few years. They were, of course, cast. “I have two heads competing for oxygen, I’m afraid.”

Script supervisor lightly smacked the back of my head with a rolled up script. “Bad.”

She was right.

Fiona checked her watch. It was a little past six pm. “Let’s break for a light dinner. The finalists for Fleur Delacour are due to arrive at seven and seven-thirty, respectively.” She then looked pointedly at me. “I’d like for your to run a scene with them, so do be professional. This one is actually important.”

I looked down at the two photos she passed over to me. Script supervisor whacked me again. Good move on her part, if I’m honest.

We didn’t have access to a pool and swimsuits, so we ran through the confrontation in the antechamber after the names were to be chosen by the goblet.

Clémence Poésy was up first.

[“Why should ’e complain?” Clemence, with affected indignation and disbelief, acted out a light tantrum. “’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t ’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!”]

She was just as good as last time, and it made sense why she was here as a finalist. But her competition was stiff.

The second actress they brought in looked and felt a little older than the previous. If she had auditioned the first time around, it was surprising she didn’t get the part. Especially given her pedigree in the near future.

The deciding factor may very well have been the age disparity. Playing against Radcliffe it may have been a hard sell to consider them peers, but she seemed far more natural when paired with me.

It wasn’t as if Radcliffe at this point in time looked any younger than me. His genetics winning out meant that he hadn’t, unfortunately. Couldn’t quite reach the heights I had, if you catch my drift.

[“Madame Maxime! Zey are saying zat zis… leetle boy is to compete also!” Whereas Clemence was petulant, this actress chose to emphasize another aspect of Fleur more prominently; her arrogance.]

I felt it full force.

From the beginning, my portrayal of Harry has been more belligerent and determined than resigned or despondent.

Clémence Poésy, I felt, was too doe-eyed. The other actress wasn’t. Her facial features were sharper. Her demeanor was distant, other, contemptuous. She glared at me like I was gum stuck on her shoe.

And it served to make me even angrier.

Her Fleur fits my Harry well. The casting team thought so too.

Nineteen-year-old Lea Seydoux would be my Fleur Delacour.

Leavesden Studio, UK. April 2004.

Originally, Goblet of Fire was, undeniably, the worst adaptation of the seven books. It was as if someone had ripped out the pages and rearranged the story in a completely jumbled order.

Mercifully, for both Jo Rowling’s sanity and my own musculoskeletal system, Neil Gaiman had knocked it out of the park with his screenplay.

As I looked around the room while we were doing the table reading, a mere glance was able to tell me that the Weasley presence would be as prominent in the movie as was in the book originally. Sure, the scenes were trimmed for fat. There wasn’t a need to waste an hour of runtime in the burrow, but the core beats of the Weasley story were actually present.

Ludo Bagman and Bertha Jorkins wouldn’t just be characters that book readers knew about this time around. Rather than completely sidelined for a confusing and worthless dance number for the unnecessarily gender segregated foreign students.

Julie Walters, the actress who played Molly, and I had some of the more poignant emotional scenes together. The Phelps twins were happy with their Weasleys Wizard Wheezes plot trail.

Gary Oldman wouldn’t be lending just his voice. He’d actually get to act.

Even Toby “Dobby” Jones and I had a scene or two. Both Winky and the kitchens would feature in the movie.

Most importantly, however, for the core through-line of the story, the entire Barty Crouch Jr situation was thoroughly explored, so that the rest of the story made sense.

As we finished for the day and everyone started filtering out, Jo held me back for a conversation. Guess I might have spoken too soon about my bones and their general health.

“Please tell me we’re not here plotting another studio heist.”

“Oh, hush!” She reproached me while leading me away to another room. “Nothing of the sort. I’m quite happy with the script as it is.”

As we sat down for tea that a PA prepared for us, Rowling ordered that the door was closed and locked to ensure a heavy dose of privacy.

“No? Then what’s with all the heavy security?” I questioned.

“Merely a precaution. I’d rather not give someone with large ears and loose lips any opportunity. We are going to be talking about the books, after all.”

“You wanna call the secret service to sweep for bugs too?” I meant it as a joke, but my recent run in with the press likely coloured the comment more than I’d assumed.

“Thankfully, we’re not in America, or I might’ve done. I’d like to check whether you’ve completed the small bit of homework I’d set for you.”

“Cover to cover, three times over.” I had the distinct privilege of receiving an early draft of the Half-Blood Prince novel. My conspiratorial relationship with Rowling had its benefits.

“And? What did you think?” She probed.

“The horcruxes were a revelation. The Draco versus Harry stuff was unputdownable. I think you’ve secured the enmity of every reader with the death at the end of the book - more than even Sirius’ I’d bet.” Jo clapped excitedly.

“Phenomenal. That’s exactly the response I was hoping for!” She said with good cheer, despite the morbid subject matter.

I continued on, “The relationship between Harry and Dumbledore seems a bit too cozy from the get-go if I’m honest, though. Felt a little jarring to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t quite be so chummy with the guy who revealed that he knew all about my ‘dark and difficult’ upbringing and purposely neglected me to that environment - which was only compounded by the fact that the actual torture I was subjected to the previous year was also willfully ignored. I’m not even going to get into the Sirius and Snape stuff besides that.” I let that sit for a minute as she contemplated my response. “Speaking as an orphan myself, we’re not that easy.”

Rowling crossed her arms, leaned back in her seat, and hummed for a moment. “That’s a fair enough point… my editors had brought up a similar criticism. I could potentially, in Harry’s inner monologue during the earlier parts of the story, mention how he realizes that he has to be practical and persevere despite his distrust in order to ultimately face Voldemort, before he ultimately attains a more understanding relationship with Albus. But don’t you feel that might drag the pace?”

“The pensieve bits dragged on more, in my opinion. It’s an urgent situation now that Voldie’s out and about. I don’t get why they spend months taking face baths instead of knocking it out ASAP. It also doesn’t make sense why Slughorn is being treated with kiddy gloves. I mean Dumbledore has zero issues getting into the grey area when it comes to grey matter, just like when he tacitly approves of Shacklebolt's memory charming a student in the preceding book. Maybe write Harry and Dumbledore going on hunts together for more than just the one horcrux in the spaces where the info is drip fed instead. People are absolutely getting slaughtered in universe.”

“Food for thought. I still have a year. I’m sure I can find a more seamless explanation. You’ve really paid attention, I must say. So, do you think you’ve found any secrets I haven’t revealed as of yet?”

What an unfair question to ask a time traveler. “You mean how Harry has to die because he’s a horcrux?”

Her jaw was on the floor.

“Have I made it that obvious?” She said in near panic.

I waved her down. “There’s always going to be conspiracy theorists who’ll get it right and discuss it in niche forums. I only guessed because I figured you out rather than the story itself.” An easy lie to keep her calm.

“Don’t frighten me like that! I’ve had that twist in mind since the very conception of the story. I’d hate to change for fear of it being so obvious.” She patted her chest consolingly.

“It’s not, don’t worry. Not like any of your editors have figured it out either.”

“Well, since you’ve snooped out the mystery, I may as well tell you the whole thing. Just keep it to yourself. Only you, I, and Alan Rickman know at least parts of the whole tale.”

I leaned in as she narrated. All according to plan; I’d change that last chapter; come hell or high water. I promise you Albus Severus, you’ll not be born and neither will that cursed child.

Chapter 22: Tumble Tour

Chapter Text

Chapter 13.5: Tumble Tour

Leavesden Studios, UK. May 2004.

It was a damned good thing that our dance instructor was scheduled to come to teach us next month, because I’d never seen a group of more rhythmically challenged people in either life.

Plates of pudding moved with greater grace. “You’ve got a fake peg leg, are currently blind in one eye, and even you could dance better than that.”

“I’ll be giving the pubs a wide berth the day this lot has their first night out.” Brendan Gleeson, in full Mad-Eye Moody uniform, spat his distaste from beside me.

There was a good reason for a bunch of teens flailing about on set. We were filming the second part of the Defence Against the Dark Arts class where Moody would put us under the Imperius. Like the scene with the spider, the seriousness of the situation would be coupled with a short sequence that was being played for light laughs - aside from myself and a few other key actors who had specific actions we had to take.

“On your marks, everybody. Reset to zero.” We collectively followed Alfonso’s instructions. “Action!”

[“Off your rumps, I want you all front and center!” Moody barked, and we all jumped out from behind our desks. Like a pack of nervous lemmings, we all congregated on the outlined markers on the floor in a symphony of shuffling feet and whispered mumbles. Moody paced back and forth, his teeth gnashing as he purposefully glared at each and every student. He lifted and brought down his prop stave hard on the ground.

The VFX team executed their orders on cue.

Chairs, desks, and the paraphernalia occupying them moved from their stationary positions through the clever use of wires, pulleys, and rails, clearing a large open space around us.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. Constant vigilance!” Moody’s voice drowned the scraping of wood on stone.

Hermione’s hand immediately shot up, and she bounced impatiently on her toes. “But - but you said it’s illegal, Professor!” She voiced with uncertainty before Moody even bothered to address her. “You said to use it against another human wa-”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” He interrupted her interruption. Moody strode and loomed over Hermione, whose hand gingerly slunk down because of the eerie, uncomfortable stare he fixed her with. “If you’d rather learn the hard way — when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely - fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.” He pointed at the door, turned his head away, and marched away from Hermione, who bit her lip and ducked her head.

The sequence began with an aerial crane shot that caught a bird's-eye view of Moody beckoning the students to spread out over the area before he cast the curse on the students one-by-one.

“Imperio.” Lavender Brown hopped up on Moody’s desk and imitated a squirrel by gnawing at a magical knick-knack. The crane swooped down and meandered through the throngs of students in a tracking shot following in Moody’s wake.

“Imperio.” Ron dropped down on all fours and neighed. Parvati Patil mounted his back, and both went for a horse ride. “Imperio.” Dean Thomas hopped around the room while singing the national anthem. “Imperio.” The Slytherins weren’t spared either as Malfoy, doing his best impression of a crowing chicken ran across the frame of the shot from end to the other. “Imperio.” Moody stabbed his stave, the camera whip panned to where it was pointed to, showing Hermione launching paper airplanes made from her much cherished notes.

The camera swam through a group of dancing students and paused when Moody approached Neville. “I’m going to keep you awake for this, Longbottom.” Moody snarled. “Imperio.”

Dan Radcliffe, as Neville, cartwheeled. I’d been in the harness enough times to know that it was helping him. He somersaulted, the wires tugged him up, the camera followed his ascent, adjusted its angle to catch his face and zoomed in. “Why is it always me?”

From up high, the camera once again panned over the entire scenery before resting beside Moody and I. “You’re next, Potter.”

Moody pressed the top of his stave under my chin. I clenched my teeth and flexed my jaw. “Imperio.”

My expression fell away. I relaxed my features, making myself look unfocused and calm. Moody leaned in and growled. “You see that desk, Potter?” He stepped away and gestured at a specially prepared prop table. “It’s a troll. Go jump on it.”

The camera closed up on my slackened face, and rack-focused to blur my surroundings.

I bent my knees obediently, prepared to follow through. Then I paused. I twitched one eye, my body jolted, unwilling to heed his command.

“I said jump, Potter!” He stabbed his stave again.

Hesitation imprisoned my body as I tensed every muscle I could feel and lunged forward. But rather than taking a leap, I crashed headlong into the foam and fiberglass table, sending us both toppling over in a loud crash.

I found myself in a heap on the floor. I shuddered and rattled the Imperius curse out of my ears with a jerk of my head. “I’d really rather not.” I grunted out.

“Now, that’s more like it!” Moody suddenly guffawed. “Look at that, you lot… Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it!” He removed the spells, and all eyes were on me. “We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you pay attention.” Moody’s tongue darted out and snaked over his lips. “They’ll have trouble controlling you, won’t they Potter?”]

Laco*ck Abbey, UK. May 2004.

As much as I or anyone night like a screen adaptation to stick rigidly to the books, the reality was that it was impossible.

A book often had the luxury of saying longer is better, but a movie couldn’t adhere to that notion. So, oftentimes, especially in the Harry Potter movies, a slick trick was employed to include multiple scenes from the book into a single shot in the film.

Neil Gaiman had skillfully merged two conversations into one instead of discarding one scene in favor of another.

In the books, there was a conflict between Harry and Malfoy in nearly every other chapter. It just wasn’t feasible to have each one in the movie. And this way, a scene not seen in the original rendition would be included in the new one.

[The Gryffindors stood awkwardly in the dungeon’s hallway outside the potions room. Ron leaned grumpily on the hallway wall, arms crossed and intentionally engaging with Dean and Seamus in an effort to spurn me. I only had Hermione by my side.

The stalemate was broken when Malfoy arrived with his posse of Slytherins. He made a beeline directly for me. “Like them, Potter?” He tapped the green prop stand-in for the magical badges. “And this isn’t all they do — look!” The animated ‘Potter Stinks’ would be added in post-production.

Rather than de-escalating or shying away, I stepped to the entire cackling group alone. I curled my lip and sneered at Malfoy. “You’d know all about stink, wouldn’t you, Malfoy? Wager you learnt it from your mother.” I felt Hermione tug on the back of my robes, but I wasn’t swayed. I stayed mean. “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?” I mockingly rubbed the bit of skin in between my upper lip and nose.

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” Malfoy’s face went pink, and he bared his teeth.

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then.”

“Harry!” Hermione reprimanded.

Humiliated but undeterred, Malfoy switched targets. “Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”

For a split second, we glared at each other, then, at exactly the same time, we both brandished our wands.

“Go on, then, Potter, Moody’s not here to look after you now - do it, if you’ve got the guts.”

“You should’ve stayed a ferret. Furnunculus!” I slashed my wand in a wide arc.

“Densaugeo!” screamed Malfoy with a downward swipe of his own wand. Goyle bellowed and put his hands to his nose. Hermione whimpered in panic, while clutching her mouth.

“Hermione!” Ron immediately rushed to her side.

“What is all this... noise about?” Snape’s soft, deadly voice slithered out as he stamped out from the shadows.

“Potter attacked me, sir.” Malfoy simpered, “- and he hit Goyle!”

Turning away from him, Snape focused on Goyle, who moaned while his face was buried in his hands. Snape lifted his arms like surgeons did, sharply tugged his cuffs down, grabbed Goyle’s hair, and plucked him out from his palms. Matt Lewis, as Goyle, would receive his first close-up shot since Chamber of Secrets. I’d seen the mock-ups and rest assured the boils that would be CGI on his face were vomit inducing. “Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape said calmly while roughly releasing him.

“What about Hermione? She was attacked, too!” Ron loudly accused. He gently pried her hands from over the mouth to display where her overgrown set of chompers would be.

Snape looked coldly at them, a small smirk on his lips. “I see no difference.” He swiveled on his heel, turned his back to us, and dramatically threw open the doors of the potions room.

Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears, she covered her teeth again, and dashed out of frame.

“You’re a right foul git, you know that?” Ron insulted Snape, who didn’t even miss a step.

“Detention Weasley, and bring Potter with you.”]

Durham Cathedral, UK. June 2004.

“HARRY POTTER! DIDJA PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIYAH!?”

The thundering wail of his voice boomed across the hall. Michael Gambon clawed my shoulders and shook my body like a career bartender with his tumbler. “You little sh*t, I should send you to Azkaban!”

My neck was loose, my teeth clacked like castanets, and my head lolled back and forth with Gambon’s deceptive vigor.

Even as he let go and addressed a thoroughly bewildered Alfonso Cuaron, I continued to shake like a cartoon bobblehead. Because at the end of the day, that’s all I was to these cruel adults, a toy.

“I was thinking something a little more like this. Adds to the scene’s tension, don’t you think?”

Cuaron’s eyes darted away from Gambon’s earnest gaze. Clearly that was a ‘No’. “Ehm… I cannot imagine Dumbledore manhandling Harry…”

I’d rather railroad this train than see it pull into the station, so I ceased my seizure and pulled on the brakes. “Dumbledore’s screaming is probably best reserved for Crouch. I’ll even gift David Tennant a pair of ear plugs so you can holler your heart out.”

“Bah! No one lets me have any fun.” Gambon called it all humbug.

“A discussion for a later day, perhaps. For now, let’s finish this scene.” Cuaron rushed away behind his monitor. Let me translate, that was director for ‘Keep your ideas to yourself’. A little tact went a long way, never a good idea to be completely candid with actors - we’re all just so dramatic by nature.

[Cuaron busted out my favourite steadicam for this sequence. The antechamber was fit to burst with not just the number of bodies stuffed into it but the cacophony of noise swirling around me.

The camera fixed solely on my position. I was centered in frame as me and the camera rotated steadily, revealing the disorganized circle of players each shouting over each other.

“Extraordinary!” Cheered Ludo Bagman.

“Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!” Spat Fleur.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” Came Maxime’s deep, indignant bellow.

“Two Hogwarts champions?” Sneered Karkaroff.

“Potter’s determined to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here!” Snape helpfully added fuel to the fire.

All the while, I frantically whipped my head back and forth between the frowning faces. My eyes were wide, I bit my lip, I let my hands shiver just enough to be visible. Sweat began seeping from my hairline as I induced a panic attack.

Voices piled on voices, my breathing grew erratic and audible. The uproar threatened to drown me alive.

Then pin drop silence. The camera, the world, stilled.

A firm hand rested soothingly on my shoulder. My trembling ebbed. Dumbledore gazed down at me over his half-moon glasses.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” Dumbledore asked calmly.]

Chapter 23: Rated (R)ock to the Rhythm

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Rated (R)ock to the Rhythm

TCL Chinese Theatre, LA. June, 2004.

I was in the lap of luxury. And by that, I meant I was curled up with a blanket in the trunk of a minivan.

The rich and famous traveling in style was a long established phenomenon. Why no one bothered to tell me that style was akin to that of a hobo, I’ll never know.

The premier for the Prisoner of Azkaban, after months, was finally here.

Problem was, we were still very much in the thick of filming Goblet of Fire, so the schedule was kept tighter than a flea’s butthole. The plan for these sorts of events was very much show up, show out, and show up back to work.

At least when we did the London premiere, we could easily drive back to Leavesden to resume work. I’d spend longer on the transcontinental trip than I would in my own backyard.

What a waste of a first-class ticket.

My transient tranquility was harshly torn away by Cadbury. The blinding glare of a setting sun seared away the rods and cones of my eyeballs.

Flimsy as they were, at least those flowery cloth curtains prevented me from going blind.

I immediately rolled over and yanked the blanket over my head. “Five more minutes.”

In lieu of an argument, she merely tore the quilt off me. Resistance was futile in the face of her fierce forearms. I suspect she was distantly related to Popeye. I’d have to prepare some baked spinach and see how she reacts.

“Your daily quota of tomfoolery has passed, Mr Rhys. Now, up! The rest of your colleagues have arrived, and you are still, in no way, shape, or form, presentable.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.” True enough, I couldn’t let anyone but me hog all the attention on the red carpet.

I scooted over and sat on the edge of the trunk. Cadbury shifted beside me, pulled out my toiletries from their bag, and dolled me up.

That wasn’t saying much, though. My hair was messy by design for the movie, and no amount of combs or clay was going to tame the wild animal living on my scalp.

I confirmed as much when I surveyed myself in the small foldable mirror. If my hair wasn’t loud enough, my clothes required a noise complaint.

Head to toe, all white. Not a buckle, zipper, or button in sight.

“I look like a mascot for a laundry detergent brand.” With my endorsem*nt with Uniqlo now cemented for the foreseeable future, I gained the privilege of basically never having to buy clothes for myself again. The flip side of that coin, however, was that my apparel wasn’t always my choice anymore - especially when I was to be paraded out to flog out my image like a walking, talking billboard.

My complaint went in one ear and out the other. Cadbury draped the last of my outfit on me. A clean crimson mandarin collared dinner jacket. Which she pierced with a small but conspicuous jewel encrusted lightning bolt lapel pin - a prototype accessory for the Harry Potter line of Uniqlo merchandise.

“A mannequin has no need for opinions, Mr Rhys.”

A robot would know. “Alrighty then,” I twirled and studied myself from every angle. The air around me was clearly debon. “Let’s give the people a show, then catch my own.”

I felt an elbow nudge my side. I turned in my movie seat and glanced at Emma Watson sitting beside me. In stark contrast to the very serious scene playing out, her smile was ear-to-ear.

I raised my eyebrows in question. She discreetly pointed to her other side. I leaned forward and saw Rupert Grint practically bouncing in his seat. I stifled a laugh and rested back in my chair and focused on the potions confrontation happening on the screen.

[ “That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”

The close-up frame showed Hermione as she went red, put down her hand, and stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears.

The camera blurred the foreground and zoomed in on Ron, who stared at Hermione with a frown, turned a heated gaze on Snape and shouted. “You asked us a question, and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want to be told?”]

I leaned into Emma and muttered in her ear. “Don’t pretend you won’t be just as excited when you see the scene where you got to punch Malfoy.”

She slapped my shoulder playfully. The movie progressed.

I’d likely have been more enthused about the event if I was allowed to go to the after party. But with my timetable, my dinner was reserved for forty-thousand feet in the air.

I snuck a peek at Emma’s half full tub of popcorn. I followed her hand as she popped another kernel into her mouth. Good, she was concentrated on the movie. Slowly, ever so casually, my twitching fingers slithered their way over. I reached in, palmed a fistful of buttery triumph. Yet all I’d taste was bitter defeat.

Emma pinched the back of my hand, which reflexively dropped its payload and pulled back. “Get your own!” she whisper hissed.

Count on British manners to maintain decorum in an active cinema.

I showed her the decimated vestiges of my own greasy tub. “The intro ran way too long.” Movie premieres didn’t come packaged with previews and warnings to keep your phone off. Instead, we were treated to meandering, self-congratulatory speeches that put smug award acceptances to shame.

“...Fine.” Chapped lips, and salty fingers, here I come. “But I want something in return.”

“Name it.” My lap suddenly had a snack bucket, and my shoulder held a second head that wasn’t mine.

Emma turned me into a combination table and pillow. “I’m cold.”

Taking the glaringly obvious cue, I threw my arm over her shoulder.

Good thing too, if this was my first turn around the block I would have (and had) told her to get a jacket.

Alnwick Castle, UK. June 2004.

Summertime was for the students; even more when you were working students.

The actors hired to play the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were very much included in that number, so the cast and their required scenes were of paramount importance to get done in a timely manner.

Being the consummate professionals that we all are, we young actors were on set - the adults, however, were taking a little too long.

So, naturally I decided to incentivize them to hurry up.

Strolling over to the sound system set up in the corner of the great hall and pulled out the ever useful aux cord.

No smartphones just yet. But I’d nudged Ben Wyatt, my financial manager, subtly in the right direction to capitalize on the oncoming situation with what liquidity I had left. In the meantime, I was relegated to mp3 players. Everyone in the hall startled at the sudden blasting of Michael Jackson. “Good morning everybody, and welcome to your first day of dance training!”

I clasped my hands behind my back and strutted forward to face the crowd. “Today, we learn how to moonwalk!”

“That’s about enough of that!” In quick succession, my music was cut off, and my ear was twisted and held in punishment. “I am Hazel Newberry. I am a two-time world champion ballroom dancer, and luckily for the lot of you, your dance instructor for the next few weeks.”

Our willowy new teacher had yet to let go of my ear and continued her initiation to the highly amused audience. “Despite what our little miscreant here says, we will not, in fact, be moonwalking. We shall be practicing the waltz.”

“Planning to release me anytime soon?”

“No. I happen to need a volunteer, and you have graciously presented yourself. All eyes on us, I shall be showing you the first steps we’ll be learning.”

Quick as a whip, I found my hand firmly clutched in hers, while another held strong at my waist.

“On my shoulder, Mr. Rhys.”

“I guess I’m the skirt and you’re the trousers in this equation.” I supplied. “So, you got a boyfriend?”

“Please flirt on your own time.” Shut down without an ounce of remorse. “Pay attention, everyone.” She led me through the first steps. “1-2-3. 1-2-3.”

I fumbled along while she glided through the routine. “Perhaps you should spend more time focused on your steps rather than your hormones.”

“I’m confident I can do both.” Ha! I finally got her to smile.

She stopped and faced the crowd once more. “Nice and easy for today to get you all comfortable. Please pair up and find some space. I shall be wandering through and correcting you.”

She let me go. “You as well.”

“Tired of me already?”

“Even before we began dancing. Run along and find someone a little more age appropriate. Your practice dummy duties resume tomorrow.” She shooed me away and began her rounds.

As much as I wanted to continue flirting with her - even if just for practice, there was someone who I had my eye on since the casting in London.

A large portion of those in attendance were teenagers; and with that came that hesitation to mingle with the opposite sex for fear of embarrassment. But I had no doubt that once the dam broke, I’d miss my chance - she was too pretty not to be one of the first picked; and I’d be damned if I wasn’t doing the picking.

She sat there, a little nervous, as she twiddled her thumbs and glanced around the room for a partner.

Full, wavy hair; and even fuller pink lips. Her deep eyes peered hither and thither, dark enough that you’d struggle to see her pupils. Full seemed to be the most à propos adjective when it came to her; because it was the ideal word to describe that sinful figure as well.

I came to a stop in front of her. She noticed me then. “Hey!”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Me?” She self consciously looked behind her to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake.

I leaned down, grabbed her free hand, and pulled her off the bench. “Who else would I be talking to?”

Still a little stunned but trapped in my pace, she allowed me to wrestle her into the starting position as the music in the background started playing. My hand was on her waist this time.

“I would’ve thought, one of your more prominent co-stars, no?” It was an ordeal to actually process her words. Her unique voice was oh so distracting as it sent shivers down my spine with every note.

“The moment I saw you, I sort of forgot about them.”

“Liar!” she said, playfully given her new smile. “You don’t even know my name.”

1-2-3. 1-2-3. I could hear the teacher call in the distant background.

“You can solve the conundrum quite easily. Go on, I could hear you talk all day.” She giggled. I felt my goosebumps wake. At nineteen, I was sure she was more than aware of the effect her voice had on boys.

“I’m Gemma Arterton. And you are a flirt!”

“Didn’t sound like a complaint to me.” I whispered into her ear and pulled her in tighter. Not enough that she was pressed flush or anywhere near, but calling us cozy would be apt.

She gasped at my action. The hand she had rested on my shoulder struck at my neck and pinched me there. But despite that, she made no effort to pull back.

I saw as her cheeks flushed red, a ruddy band stretching across her button nose to connect the two sides. I smiled then.

Over the coming month, the classes would continue.

In the mornings, we’d shoot all the scheduled scenes for the film, and then nearly every afternoon would be spent practicing the steps for the Triwizard ball scene.

Ms. Newberry advised us to stick primarily to one partner; which if I was reading her signals correctly, Gemma was just as happy about as I was. On occasion, we were made to swap partners to ensure we weren’t ingraining any bad habits, but at the end of the day, we’d both come back together.

It being the height of summer, the sun only grew hotter as our dance routine more demanding.

Sweat became a constant companion.

I didn’t know if pheromones were a scientifically proven fact, but her scent drove me wild.

She was blatantly aware of that. If it wasn’t for her helping to hide it, my erections would be plain to see for everybody. Although, her pressing up on me with her sweat soaked body certainly didn’t help dampen my arousal either. She smirked at me every time I popped one.

I’d say damn my hormones, but they clearly seemed to be doing more good than harm.

Chapter 24: Scuba (muff) Diving

Chapter Text

DISCLAIMER

This chapter contains explicit sex. As Bas commences his journey into adulthood, certain aspects of life are unavoidable. Scenes like the following will be few and far between, but they will be present where I deem they add to the story. The women Bas involves himself with will always be adults. With that out of the way, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 14X: Scuba (muff) Diving

Leavesden Studios, UK. July 2004.

Scuba diving was my jam.

My intention with that statement was both that I loved it - I’d been PADI certified in the before times - and also that my current underwater escapade had me stuck in a less than ideal situation.

My lungs burned. I’d run out of usable oxygen, and in response exhaled a storm of bubbles.

Before I could even ask for it, an octopus was shoved into my mouth.

With practised calm, I pressed the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I pushed the button on the back of the regulator, sending a puff of air into my mouth. Fully cleared, I took a deep breath and gave the ok sign as I resumed breathing.

Already I could feel the compressed air drying my throat out. Coupled with the prickly gill prosthetics I’d spent an hour and a half getting pasted on me in the morning, I was in itch city.

You ever get a tickle on the top of your nose while your hands were full? Imagine that all around and inside your neck.

I glanced down at my feet and saw the fleshy flippers wobbling in the water. Regular flippers were bad enough. It didn’t matter how graceful I was under the surface, but the moment I stepped out, I knew I’d be waddling more than a pregnant penguin.

The regulator rumbled as I breathed. Another cloud of bubbles sprung into existence; immediately, a set of hands swatted the burbling disturbance away.

Alongside my air source was the person whose dedicated job it was to keep the bubbles out of my face.

The floor was only a metre deeper than my toes, but I had a five metre thick ceiling of two million litres of water pressing down on me.

Another two divers, whose job it was to tug and pull at me to simulate the grindylows, idly held on to my ankles.

The last member of our league of extraordinary gentlemen was the underwater cameraman. He wasn’t alone in his job, though, as the other set of cameras and production staff were nice and dry behind the expansive glass barricade.

I couldn’t quite see through my aquarium, but it looked like Alfonso had zoomed into the gills on my neck to evaluate and determine his satisfaction with FX.

Well acquainted with his process by now, I knew he’d take his time.

We weren’t filming the actual scenes yet. None of my co-stars would join me for a few more weeks until they finished building the full arena.

These were all just screen tests to make sure our shots would look good.

I turned my attention to the rest of the set - not that there was all that much to look at. The payoff of scuba was submersion in an alien world. All I got to see here for a hundred metres across was a blank blue wall with fluorescent lighting for superimposed CGI.

Across the pool was my body double, Ricky Stirling, working with the stunt coordinator to plan out the full route I’d take as Harry and setting the appropriate markers.

The muffled thump of knocking on glass rippled along my ear.

Alfonso had approached, stuck out his finger and twirled his wrist in that familiar motion that either meant ‘go again,’ or ‘you’re crazy.’

Both applied to me.

Taking one last deep breath, I handed my octopus back to my living oxygen tank. The bubble assistant karate chopped her way out of frame and the two sea monkeys resumed their tug of war.

With the way I floundered around, this pool now had full authority to be called an ocean.

I’d dived eyes closed, head first into my work these last few years, and my list of extracurriculars was only growing. I understood I had an obsessive side, but it didn't mean I couldn't be playful.

As the season reached the same sweltering peak my libido had, I decided to do something to relieve it.

I hijacked the pool for my own selfish and venal purposes. That the rest of the teens were fully on board only served to convince me further.

I pulled aside the manager of the catering service and handed him a roll of 50s. “I want you to go out and get a barbecue organised, virgin pina coladas, and see if you can ask the prop guys to source some pool toys.” Most any other teen would have been told to sod off; some days it was very good to be the big shot.

Gemma squealed in delight as I tossed her into the water from my shoulders. I had little choice but to get dunked too as her thick, pillowy thighs wrapped around my neck and pulled me under in the same motion. She pulled away so she could kick to resurface, making me miss the feel of her soft mound on the back of my neck.

I rose and wiped the water off my face. Looking around, I saw a hoard of far too pasty kids either splashing around in the water or downing virgin mai tais.

Gemma glomped my back, wrapped her legs around my waist and arms around my neck. “You seem incapable of tearing your eyes away from me normally, yet here I am, squeezed into a tight little swimsuit, and your gaze is swimming everywhere but in my direction.” She leaned into my ear and said, “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t anything spectacular. Just your average navy one-piece you’d see on the rack at any sporting goods shop. But the way she filled it out… you’d question if it wasn’t one of Victoria’s secrets.

I reached around and got a healthy grip of an even healthier derriere so that I could twirl her around to face me. Her legs still clinched to my torso, I pressed my lower half rigidly against her. “Then maybe we should go some place where the only thing to look at is you.”

It was clear I was doing and saying the right things when her nipples intruded into our conversation.

She pressed her upper half into me now too, no doubt in an attempt to preserve some modicum of decency. “I like looking at you, too.” She whispered huskily, her breath warm on my cheek. She ran her hands down my burgeoning muscled back. “It should be a crime to hide you away in those baggy rags.” She complained about my Harry costume.

Cadbury momentarily flashed a smug grin in my mind; vindication for force feeding me those raw eggs. Not the time - I have an erection to maintain here, lady!

“The heat’s getting to me. It’s time I returned to my trailer. Care to join me?” I made the offer.

She uncoiled her legs, locked my hand in hers, and proceeded to tug me out of the pool. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The second the door to my abode shut, she was all over me. The sweet sound of her laughter on the way over immediately turned into maddening moans.

The door rattled when my back was forced on it as she slammed herself against me.

I, at last, discovered the taste of her tongue. Searing kiss after searing kiss only interrupted by desperate breaths and shuddering moans when I sucked her lower lip.

One of those p*rnographic legs of hers ran up and down my inner thigh. We hadn’t bothered towelling off, so the water was cascading down our entwined legs. I couldn’t take it anymore. I clawed the back of her knee. She groaned in pain and delight both and snared my hand between her soft flesh. I grabbed the other leg too, lifted her off her feet, and marched her over to my bed.

Her melodic voice chimed with glee while I urgently shucked off my trunks.

I tossed her on to the bed. I knew I’d be drenching the sheets, but at this point, I honestly couldn’t give a toss.

As I saw her chest jiggle beneath her suit, I dearly regretted not ripping it off sooner. I climbed on top of her, situated myself between her meaty thighs, and reached for the straps.

The wet neoprene of her suit was being stubborn. But she shimmied her shoulders just as desperately as I yanked on the straps. Together, we succeeded in rolling the bastard halfway down her quivering belly. There they were.

High, proud, and shifting pliably with each one of her laboured breaths. Fat, pink gumdrops for nipples stood achingly up in the air. Her sensitive areola pebbled and darkened, crying out in need of my touch. Her hand fisted the hair on the back of my head. As she arched her back towards my face, her breasts swayed.

I sank in, savouring the salty tang of her skin. I took both of her hands in my right, snaked our fingers together, and trapped her arms above her head. Her natural perfume blossomed, mingling strongly with the scent of her lotion.

I went lightheaded.

My other hand took her available breast, her unbelievably soft flesh almost melting in my grip. I pressed down hard, pinching her nipples between two fingers. I felt her heart try to burst from her chest. She moaned, “it hurts!” Loudly approving of the painful pleasure.

That same hand slithered down her body as I relentlessly suckled her. It wound its way under her swimsuit. I ghosted over the matted, wet fur of her downy pubes. I scratched there lightly, irritated that I couldn’t see it.

She bucked her hips, trying to force my hand down to her heated core. She made to free her hands from my grip, but I was too strong.

“Kiss me!” She demanded. I popped off her yams, lapped the sweat off her collarbone, to ultimately meet her juicy lips.

I ran my hand up and down the raging furnace of her cunny. I played with her, flicking her nubbin, caressing her folds, and invading her with my fingers. She responded eagerly with trembling thrusts of her pelvis. The sound of her squelching on my fingers, louder than even our hungry necking.

I reached the end of my patience. Peeling myself away from her, I got off the bed while simultaneously pulling the single most annoying piece of fabric all the way off her and tossed into the depths of my living quarters.

Gemma’s hair was in disarray, half spread wildly, while the rest clung to her skin with sweat.

She scurried desperately up the bed until her back met the headboard. Her wobbling flesh, doing its best to hypnotise me. She spread her legs. Two fingers dipped, pressed down on her lips and opened herself for me.

Her core was dripping, swollen, and pulsing. “Stop teasing me, Bas. Please!” She begged.

I leapt at her. I didn’t hover hesitatingly. I didn’t ask for permission that was already given. I just plunged myself in deep with a single stroke.

A long languid moan escaped her as I pierced into her soft, warm, clenching depths. I felt myself nearly break just halfway in, but she wasn’t having it. One of her legs kicked at my waist, encouraging me all the way in until my head bumped into something. She groaned in discomfort. I pulled back; she gasped in sweet denial, so I speared back in until my balls smacked against her rear.

My rhythm started like that, slow. But once I knew I wasn’t going to blow immediately, I picked up the pace more and more until I was pounding in mercilessly.

Each thrust was in harmony with a moan of ecstasy and the wet slapping of flesh. “Have you… done this… before? Ungh!” she asked through heaving breaths.

I kissed her hard and growled out, “you’re my first.”

Her hands stopped fisting the sheets beneath us, painfully clutched my face so she could kiss me even deeper. I felt the smile more than I saw it.

Suddenly she began trembling, her eyelids fluttering. Her inner walls clamped down on my girth. My lower abdomen sensed the splash of her release as she sprayed it out. That did it to me too. I tried to pull out, but I couldn’t control the first shots. I came inside her. Even when I could squeeze out her, I continued to coat her raven bush and outer lips.

I flopped down, struggling to catch my breath.

“Happy Birthday, Bas.” she panted out.

I couldn't respond because my eyes were glued to her undulating flesh. I woke back up.

I kneeled above her, gripped her shoulders, and rolled her onto her stomach. “Again already?” she asked incredulously.

I got my first look at her devastating cheeks. I lifted her hips, watched as even the slightest movement caused them to ripple, and promptly stuffed myself back inside her.

“We’re going to be here a while.” I decisively responded. She buried her face in the pillows and eagerly met each thrust of mine with her own. I guess she very much agreed.

Chapter 25: Enter the Sandman

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Enter the Sandman

Leavesden Studios, UK. September 2004.

If the thick rope binding me to an uncomfortable reaper headstone didn't clue me in enough, the fact that the same length of jute gagged me was a clear sign that the production team had likely tired of my smart mouth.

Nearly a month like this left lots of time for regrets and introspection.

‘Waaah!’ The sound of a child bursting into tears alerted the set. I craned my neck around the little I could and spotted my dear friend the script supervisor hurriedly consoling her young son.

Ralph Fiennes, in Voldemort’s horrendous glory, entered the stage.

In a rushed but efficient manner, the production staff set the stage with the same level of rehearsal that us actors had at this point.

[Voldemort stood still, shoulder hunched, eyes closed, where the cauldron once stood. He suddenly snapped up straight, his arms at first uncertain, then rapidly with growing delight caressed his head, like the world’s creepiest shampoo commercial.

If it wasn’t for the lack of hair, I’m sure Voldemort would have signed a sponsorship deal with L’Oreal.

“M-master.” Pettigrew cowered.

Voldemort’s head whipped in his direction. His arm, on the contrary, slowly, sensually slithered up and out. “My wand, Wormtail.”

Pettigrew reverently handed it over. Voldemort sighed in pleasure, running a soothing hand over the wood. And then suddenly and violently slashed it to the side to test his magic on the nearest target.

The wires tugged on his harness, launching Pettigrew sideways with a shriek, and he ultimately crashed on the cushioned pedestal of the grave I was standing on.

I flinched as he landed near my feet. Pettigrew whimpered and wailed. An unseen squib inside his sleeve began spurting out blood from his severed arm. I unsuccessfully tried to pull away in disgust as his blood got too near the mangled remains of my leg after the Acromantula had its meal.

The makeup artist pulled out all the stops. It leaked poison and pus from between the swollen, twisted gashes of the prosthetic skin. I could practically smell the almonds.

With purposeful steps, Voldemort strolled over to the weeping Wormtail. His silky robes billowed as he looked over him. “Your arm.”

“Oh thank you, master!” He presented his dripping stump to his lord.

Voldemort snarled, revealing his manky, gingivitis ridden dentures. “You other arm, Wormtail!” Striking like a snake, Voldemort grabbed Pettigrew’s good arm and stabbed his wand into the soft skin.]

“I like it. Let us switch to the new blocking.” Called Cuaron.

Since magic wasn’t actually real, death eaters couldn’t just apparate in and continue the scene like nothing.

The staff got to work again as I was left hanging like yesterday’s laundry.

Timothy Spall tapped my foot to gain my attention. I looked down and saw him reclined comfortably on the foam as the harness was pulled off of him. “Alright up there, Bas?”

I shook my head no.

“Feeling parched?”

I nodded yes. Helpfully, Timothy called over a stage hand. They loosened the rope around my face and pressed a straw to my lips. I greedily sucked down the refreshingly cool water.

“Thanks.” I smacked my lips in satisfaction.

I wasn’t the only one getting some interscene reprieve. Robert Pattinson also received his own dose of water, but instead of sipping it, someone dropped it into his no doubt dry eyes.

“Forget the saline, get the f*cker an oxygen tank! He’s been holding his breath between scenes.” Had to admire his dedication, if I was honest. Bloke was playing a corpse and was determined to give the performance of a lifetime.

An unwilling laugh tore out from him. “Shut up, Bas! You’ll ruin my concentration.”

Predictably, the rope once more rendered me mute.

Death eaters in place, the scene, and Diggory’s cadaveric commitment continued.

[I’d always held myself in high esteem, but I’d never really considered myself arrogant. That was until Ralph Fiennes gave his performance.

He was manic, mercurial in his mood. His grandiose speech and tirade against his disloyal followers began.

My physical prowess was something I was proud of. Between doing my stunts and acting against veterans, I thought I was doing an alright job. But as I had studied Ralph’s Voldie, I very much had to raise my game.

Voldemort swanned over to Cedric. He placed one gnarly looking foot on his cheek and turned it. He tutted in disappointment. “Such a handsome boy. Another innocent life lost…” Voldemort discarded his soft demeanour and struck over to me. I felt his warm nescafe scented breath wash over my face. “And all because of you, Harry.”

I tried screaming, but all that came out was a strangled gurgle.

“Just like your mother’s. Lily Potter died in the attempt to save you - and unwittingly provided you with a protection I admit I had not foreseen.” He addressed the death eaters, who slowly tightened their circle around us. “…I could not touch the boy. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… still, I was alive.” He roamed in a circle, like a coiling snake. “But, now?” He launched his hand out. The tip of a long spindly finger clawed at my scar. “I can touch him!”

Tucked neatly away in my bushel of hair was another tiny blood squib. Ralph pressed on just the right spot. I thrashed in pain, futilely in my restraints. My throat strained as I let out a suppressed scream. Blood seeped from my scar all the way down my face.

“You see how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me?” A wide smile stretched unnaturally over his face. I collapsed on all fours after they pulled away the ropes holding me back. “Pick up your wand, Potter.” I scrambled to my knees until a quivering hand snatched the discarded wand on the ground. “I said pick it up! Get up! Get up!” His mood once again turned on a dime.

Conscious of my destroyed leg, I hobbled and limped on to one foot and five toes.

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry? So first we must bow.” he spread his arms magnanimously and barely tilted his waist.

I just stared at him. A pained grimace danced across my face. My wand clutched in my shivering fist at my side.

“Come, the niceties must be observed.” He taunted. Seeing as I remained upright, he took action. “Imperio! I said, bow. Dumbledore would like you to show manners.”

I allowed myself to slacken as the curse took momentary effect. But just as promptly, with a clenched jaw, I threw it off. “I won’t!”

“Bow to death, Harry!” He slashed his wand at me again. With the same veracity that I’d observed him use, I jerked forward and bent at the waist. I scrunched my face in agony, curled my spine and fought to stay vertical, as if a waterfall was suddenly pounding on my shoulders.

My knees shook and almost fell back to the ground. But with every bit of strength, I tensed my muscles and kept from dropping.

“Very good.” The pressure let off.

Without a force to fight any longer, my toiling figure bucked. I stumbled back, lost my balance, and crashed into a sneering Lucius Malfoy - who just as quickly nabbed my shirt and threw me off. The surrounding death eaters laughed at me.

“And now… we duel.”

I had no chance of regaining any foothold when Voldemort shouted, “Crucio!” Losing the battle with my stubbornness, I finally howled in an agonised wail, tearing my throat raw. I slammed hard on to the ground and writhed in torture.

As I seized in pain, I glimpsed Voldemort’s feet stop just short of my head. Wicked smile on his face, Voldemort leaned in and stated for all to hear. With a wicked smile on his face, Voldemort leaned in and declared, "I'm going to kill you now, Harry Potter," making sure everyone heard. He then swiped his wand again, signaling the lifting of the curse. With a grand gesture to his followers, he turned his back to me. “He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger.” I threw myself behind the headstone. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” A plume of debris detonated behind my head by the VFX team.

I hyperventilated, struggling to catch my shuddering breath through the suffering racking my body. “Is this all the vaunted boy-who-lived is worth?” He mocked. I forced my breathing back under control. “No Dumbledore to save you! No parents to die in your place!” Fear gave way to anger. That was far enough.

I rose to my feet, abandoned my barrier, and stood face to face with the laughing monster. I leveled a determined glare at him. My wand arm no longer shook. “Let’s finish this.”

—------- “Avada Kedavra!” —------- “Expelliarmus!”----------]

Leavesden Studio, UK. October 2004.

The stunt team was back on their bullsh*t. I tugged uncomfortably on my wired harness and hopped up and down to make sure it was appropriately taut. The platform under me jostled a little under my weight.

We were filming the big action set piece for the film - the Triwizard maze.

In the original rendition of the movie, the maze itself was the obstacle. Neil Gaiman’s script employed a more fantastical approach, which included the myriad of magical fauna that Jo Rowling had written in the books.

Alfonso Cuaron had taken the script a step further and had a mechanical stage built specifically for this scene.

The marketing team were ecstatic too, as they could use all the magical animals featured in this scene along with the dragons to make a fantastic beasts style trailer.

Much more appetizing than the generic Hollywood summer blockbuster style adverts.

There were only four of us on the call sheet for today’s shoot. Pattinson as Diggory, Lea Seydoux as Fleur, the actor for Krum, and myself as Harry.

All four of us stood in front of a large robotics project disguised as a maze.

The set team had built a large blue screen sound stage with a rotating platform in the center. Blue board walls arranged like a labyrinth sat on it.

A series of cameras encircled the circular construct, while additional cameras were mounted at specific choke points within.

Finally, they would use a large jimmy jib type crane with a large blue ball as the stand-in - and later, the CGI anchor - for the creatures the four of us would be fighting.

“Places, everyone!” Alfonso called out from his seat behind the monitor. Each of us headed over to our markers taped to the floor. One colour represented one person.

I had red, Pattinson yellow, Seydoux blue, and Krum green.

“Action!”

[Pattinson and I ran in first through the same opening. Harry and Cedric entered the maze.

We ran in tandem for a stretch until the maze branched out into two separate routes. Diggory turned to me and I met his eyes. Both of us focused on the scene and not on the camera recording us overhead.

He gave me a reassuring smile, followed with a nod, brandished his wand - like a gun for some reason - and sprinted left.

I stared at his form until it disappeared around a bend, gripped my own wand, hesitated an instant, shut my eyes, sighed and then just as quickly adopted a decisive frown before setting off in the opposite direction to my next marker.

As soon as I stepped on the red X, the partition on the floor rotated. Pattinson and I were now in the middle ring, while Seydoux and Krum were in the outer. The middle and inner platform stayed still as the outer ring rotated so that when Krum and the Seydoux ran in, it would be an entirely different section of the maze.

To the cameras it would appear as if the magical labyrinth was shifting - especially post CGI.

A few minutes later, the klaxon sounded, signifying that the remaining two players had reached their mark in the mid ring.]

“Si, perfecto. We can now begin the second phase.” Called out over the speakers.

The platform revolved behind us again. A section of the outer ring was wide and open so that the cameras could push in and capture the action in the mid ring. “Remember the order. You will go to your next marker, the jimmy jib will fall, you will each fight your monster, and then we move to the inner ring. Krum is first followed by Diggory, then Fleur, and lastly Harry. Places, everyone, and scene.” Alfonso instructed.

[Krum stumbled his way to his spot, unsteady on his feet, clutching and shaking his head, as if he’s trying to clear it. He then suddenly stands stiffly, swerves his head unnaturally and marches inside. The imperius had taken hold.

The platform we were standing on turned to the next section.

Diggory ran out from a corner and then skidded to a stop. The crane with the blue ball dropped into the maze. There were a series of small nozzles on the floor that fired jets of pyrotechnics. Cedric dove to the floor and rolled to his feet while swishing his wand, “Protego!” He quickly points his wand at the blue ball that represented the blast-ended skrewt, flicked the wand once more and the crane pulled the ball away. “Hagrid and those bloody beasts!” He complained while running ahead.

The platform turned again.

Fleur cautiously glided down her portion of the maze. The ball crane fell again. Fleur pointed her wand at it, gasped, and just as urgently, she swerved it away and spread her arms in a placating gesture.

“First, think of the person who lives in disguise, who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend. The middle of middle and end of the end? And finally, give me the sound often heard. During the search for a hard-to-find word. Now string them together and answer me this. Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?” The prerecorded voice played through the sound system. Fleur Delacour would face the Sphinx riddle.

“Why must you speak anglais?” the ball slowly encroached into her space, “L’araignée! Ze spider!” but she held her ground. The ball then pulled back and away, clearing her path forward.

She rushed to the next marker at a junction between two routes. She braced herself quickly, the stunt rope on her harness pulled hard, yanking her out of frame and sending her sprawling on a crash mat behind a wall. Later, the CGI team would add effects to show that she was struck by a spell.

The platform finally rotated to show my turn. I huffed hard and fast, my wand leveled ahead as I raced to my mark.

The jimmy jib fell suddenly with the blue ball. I rapidly backpedaled a step and brandished my wand. “Expecto-!” Then hesitated. I, as Harry, snarled, realizing it wasn’t a real dementor. “Ridikulus!” The ball snapped back and pulled away.

Lea’s recorded scream blasted through the intercom before I could go down the path I had chosen.

I glanced toward the scream, stared longingly back at the route I was originally going down, before heading towards the cry.

I passed a small alcove with a camera on an arm hidden within it. It was a long corridor, with Fleur collapsed at the end of it. I sprinted, the camera popped out of the alcove and focused on my back. I hit my mark. The stunt line snapped in place. I was ripped off my feet, cartwheeled in midair, and hung upside down. The camera twirled to follow my every move. This was the golden mist trap.]

The klaxon sounded again. “Cut!” Alfonso called out. “We pause. I must review the footage.”

I groaned in discomfort, my hands clasped the anchors of my wires and I pulled on them to alleviate the pressure and stop the harness from digging painfully into my skin.

“‘Aving fun up zere?” I heard the dulcet tones of Lea Seydoux call out to me.

I swiveled my head around until I spotted her reclined comfortably on the crash mat, thoroughly amused at my predicament.

I looked down at her. Lea’s face was flushed from the physical exertion. As she laid back, her breasts sat flatter on her chest and seemed almost ready to spill out over the top of her shirt. I kept staring, her panting, her slightly mussed hair; she looked like pure sex.

Maybe the stunt team’s f*ck up worked in my favour. I actually felt lucky. Dangling upside down in the air meant that the blood was rushing purely to my head and not another extremity.

“Normally I’d say no. But I can’t complain about the view.”

She laughed lightly and flicked her hand in a shooiing motion. “Dégénéré.”

“Does that mean I’m too handsome to stop gawking at?” I teased, though more strained than usual, as I began feeling nauseous.

“No. It means I am staring at ze monkey with ‘iz banana!” She shot back.

I didn’t get an opportunity to defend myself, or indeed, to dig a deeper hole. “Reset!” Alfonso blared over the speaker. “Back to start, we go again.”

Just great. I’d be back trapesing here, and we hadn’t even gotten to the duel between us three guys, or even the acromantula chase.

It was going to be a long week.

Chapter 26: Pulling Out Mall the Stops

Chapter Text

Chapter 15.5: Pulling Out Mall the Stops

Bas’s Caravan, UK. November 2004.

‘Hello, Moto!’ sounded the ringtone of my recently purchased Motorola RAZR. You bet your sweet cheeks I bought the hot pink one, too.

I flicked my thumb and flipped it open with full authority. “New phone, who dis?”

“You know damn well who ‘dis’ is, Bas!” You’d think by now Anita would’ve grown accustomed to my infuriating inflection.

“Ah! My mistake. It’s just that it’s been so long, I forgot who you were. I guess I now know why your last name’s Specter, because you’re a ghost.”

“If I’m dead, then you better hurry up and plan your career’s eulogy alongside mine. I guess I’ll just toss this script I have in the funeral pyre with me.” The sound of ruffling paper came through the speaker.

“Fiiine. I’ll behave.”

“Good doggie.” This bitch! “How clear is your coming week?”

Full disclosure, I had absolutely nothing to do for a little while. But the preceding schedule had been so incredibly draining that I just wanted to kick back for a bit before I was thrown right back into it. “Grueling!” I scooted deeper into my plush pillow, held the phone to my ear using my shoulder, and returned to my copy of Pokemon FireRed. “I’m a busy bee, buzz buzz.”

“You know, that I know, that you’re not telling the truth.” The only thing narrower than her voice was likely her eyes right now.

“And you know, that I know, you just don’t have any proof.” I psyched her out.

“Ok, Bas… if that’s what you want…” it’s a good thing she never tried acting, because that sign was about as plastic as a turtle’s lunch. “At least we won’t have to waste time applying for your Japan visa.”

The lid of my SP slammed shut. This was the opportunity I was waiting for. “Don’t you play with me.”

“Oh, now you’re interested?”

“I swear to Mrs Stephens, this better be what I think it is.”

“Now that was a fast turnabout, wasn’t it? Don’t get furious with me!” She cackled. She’d make a terrible stand-up comic.

“But I thought you said they rejected me because our asking price was too rich for them?” Budget spinoff or not, I had a standard to maintain. Not that the agency would take a low-ball offer either now that I was a hot commodity four movies in.

“I don’t need to attend Hogwarts to work my magic, Bas.” Well, someone liked the smell of their own farts. “I’ve already spoken with David Heyman, and production has approved your leave for five days. Your ticket’s been sent to your email. Get packed and get here. I’ll pick you up at the airport.” Click! She hung up, demand made. Not that I was complaining.

“Cadbury!” I tossed off the blanket, leapt out of bed, and raced out of my room. “Hide the tweed and fish out my shorts. We’re flying to Cali!”

Hawthorne Boulevard, LA. November 2004.

In what felt like no time, though in truth was a twelve hour flight, I’d bid bon voyage to the brisk biting breeze of Britain for the warm whipping winds of the west coast.

I sat shotgun in Anita’s glistening silver Mercedes-Benz CLK soft top convertible. My elbow hung off the door, a pair of black shades shone in the sun, as my already wild hair went feral as she accelerated.

The only thing missing from this music video of California Love was the picturesque columns of towering palm trees the length of Sunset Boulevard.

I lifted and rested my sunglasses on my forehead and surveyed our area.

Drug store. Gun store. Liquor store. Gun store. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

“Here.” She pulled into the empty parking lot of an abandoned but not dilapidated mall. Hawthorne Plaza - I read the sign. There wasn’t anything here except for another car.

“Oh, god. You’re kidnapping me. I knew it!” It was a long flight and the inflight movie sucked. Sue me for having a little fun. I rifled through the glove compartment. “Is this where you’ve hidden the chloroform and dirty rag? Sweet baby Buddha, I’m going to wake up on some perv’s private island, aren’t I? I’m being Epsteined!”

Anita hit the brakes hard enough that the both of us nearly bashed our heads against the dash. “What? No! Where in the world did you even hear about that!?”

Sometimes the best entertainment was the one you made for yourself. I threw my head back and laughed my heart out. At least until Anita reached over and roughly twisted my ear. “I really hate you, you know that!” She put the car back in gear and drove into and up the multi-story parking complex. “We’re meeting the director, Justin Lin, here. They’re scouting this location for the movie. He asked we talk details here before studio interference dictates the conversation.”

“A little covert ops. I like it.”

As we made our way up the winding ramp, I recognized this location as where the first drift battles happen. “Here we go. I hope you’ve gotten all the mischief out of your system.”

“No promises.” I unclipped the seatbelt and made to open the door. Before I could, Anita hefted a gentle hand on my arm.

“Hey. About that Epstein comment… You know I’d never put you in that environment or situation, don’t you?” For the first time since I’d met her, she seemed legitimately worried.

Silly girl.

I flicked her on her forehead and hopped out of the car. “You think I’d make jokes about it if I didn’t?”

Four people met on the roof of a decommissioned mall’s parking structure. We couldn’t possibly look more suspect if we tried.

“Hi, Bas, Anita. Apologies for meeting like this. Oh, by the way, this is the movie’s scriptwriter, Chris Morgan.” Justin Lin made the introductions.

Pleasantries were slow to start and slower to end. Justin Lin stumbled through the weather and how much he appreciated me making my way over. The direction of the ocean breeze was discussed at length, but what wasn’t the direction of the movie or my role in it.

“Is there a reason we’re pulling teeth here?”

Lin and Morgan shared a glance. “W-well, it’s kinda rude if I say ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ right off the bat.”

I frowned. I wasn’t expecting this. I looked to Anita, “we could’ve done this over the phone…”

“I know but....” Said Lin uncomfortably. “…the studio insisted I meet you. I didn’t want to anger them.”

“No issue pissing me off, though?”

“Cut the sh*t!” Jaws gnashing, tail fin pumping, Anita breached the waters of civility in a rampage. Poor minnows hadn’t realized they were swimming with sharks. “This isn’t what we discussed. We didn’t fly all across the Atlantic to be told no! Man up and spit out what the issue is.”

Justin frustratedly scrubbed his face. “You really wanna know?”

“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

“I’m worried that if I hire you, no other casting is going to matter to the studio; that any other storyline I want to tell in the script will be sidelined for yours. And trust me, that script took ages to get where it’s at.” He prodded Chris Morgan. “Tell them what the original script was like.”

Morgan shrugged. “Very 1980s Steven Seagal, low budget, straight to DVD garbage. We’re talking geishas wearing Vietnamese cone hats while roaming between Chinese lion dancers.”

“The only thing these suits know about Asia is Bruce Lee, and Bangkok rub’n’tugs.” Lin finished. “The first time I revised the script, I didn’t even have Sean’s character in it. The main character was-”

“-Han.” Even if I hadn’t seen the original movie many, many times. It was pretty blatant in the script who the story should have been about.

But in today’s Hollywood landscape, even Jackie Chan wasn’t selling tickets without a funny American sidekick.

Anita, still steamed, took over. “And you thought what? That Bas would stroll in, go full diva, and demand you make everything about him?”

“Look at it from my perspective. He’s neither the first, nor the last mega famous teen. They have a pretty well established rep of being dicks. Can you blame me for thinking he’d be any different?”

Oof, ouch. My ego.

“Yes.” Anita didn’t even hesitate.

“You don’t get it. The studio really wants him. They’ll do practically anything so he’ll take top billing.”

“Except pay more.” Anita, sensing her losing grip on her usually professional facade, reeled herself back in and eased the tension.

“Naturally.” Lin’s sardonic smile proved the tactic’s success.

An awkward silence descended on the group. I rattled my brain for a potential solution to this minor crisis.

I liked fast and furious, for the most part. I liked Han. He was my fave character in the franchise behind Letty, but that was mostly because I had a crush on Michelle Rodriguez. My personal affections, however, weren’t the sole, or even main, reason I wanted in on this movie.

This was all for my future as the next big action star. Cars, guns, cardio, laughs, fights, girls, stunts, and a little spice with everything nice.

Tiny as it was, I’d done a romantic role. Remove the fantasy element, and Harry Potter was a serious dramatic performance. With the time I had between my more vital commitment to Potter, Tokyo Drift was the best possible option for me to hit different notes in my range.

The only other production I’d received any interest for that might fulfill a similar requirement was Herbie Fully Loaded.

No way was I going to play third wheel to Lindsay Lohan and a Volkswagen Beetle.

As disastrous as this introduction was, I couldn’t be short-sighted. My longer career was more important than petty indignation.

Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take my pound of flesh later.

“If there was one thing you could take away from Sean’s character arc and return it to Han, what would it be?” I got us restarted.

He thought for a moment. “The love interest. The tension between Han and DK makes more sense if there’s a love triangle involved. We’d have to take her out of highschool though, which leaves Sean without an important tether.”

I shrugged. “Easily fixed. Make the friend group slash Han’s crew more prevalent. Sean’s through-line can be found family instead of insipid teenage lust.”

“Not a bad idea.” Chris Morgan sounded surprised. I wasn’t just a pretty face.

“Studio won’t go for it.” Lin denied.

“They will if Bas Rhys, diva extraordinaire, complains about the script.” All eyes on me. “That is, if you’re being honest about how much they want me.”

“Enough to sell their first-born daughters.” Lin blurted out. “But why would you go through the trouble? Especially at the cost of a shrunken role. What do you get out of this?”

A growing resume with a fat payday. A potential critical and commercial success because my name was on it. A network outside the UK and leverage with another massive movie studio besides WB. A new niche of raving fans, faster retailing (wink wink), the list goes on. There was probably more than even I knew off the top of my head.

Anita inconspicuously tapped my shin with her foot. I heeded her signal and passed the serve to her. “Does it matter? You get your script while keeping Universal happy with you. Our gain is above your pay grade.” She bullied them - but only a little. “This offer is a onetime thing. Take it or leave it.”

“You’re twisting my arm, but I really can’t say no to this deal when you spell it out like that. Can you drive at least?”

I didn’t want to, but I had to make nice. High road and all that nonsense.

Plus, it’s just dumb to be outwardly antagonistic with your director. I’d curse him all I want once he was out of earshot.

I plucked Anita’s keys out of her back pocket and jingled them. “Tell you what, to show you that I can drive, and that there’s no hard feelings, how about I drive all of us? That’s your car down in the lot, yeah?” I’d keep my driving confined to the mall, wouldn’t want to get pulled over by the fuzz.

Lin and Morgan let out a relieved sigh. He approached me, one arm stretched out, and the other scratching the back of his head. “I’m sorry and thanks. Let’s make a movie together.”

I accepted his olive branch. I would ignore grace this one time, though.

We all piled into the Benz. Anita and I were of matching heights, so I didn’t need to adjust the driver’s seat. I keyed the ignition, and the car rumbled to life. Anita, seated behind me, leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You crash it, and you’re buying me a new one.” She had full understanding about what was going to happen.

I started gingerly. Steadily and smoothly, we traversed down the spiral ramp until we reached the lower level. A large open space littered with support columns.

“Not bad, right?” I continued driving down the flat straight.

“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d already gotten your learner’s permit.” Lin commended. The corner came closer.

“Haha, no. I can’t apply for one until next year at the earliest.” My foot fell heavier on the gas. The car accelerated.

“Then where’d you learn to drive? Shouldn’t you slow down for the turn?” His voice picked up pitch as the car picked up speed.

“Rally school.” Brakes? What were those?

I whipped the wheel hard, floored the accel, and power slid into the corner at full speed.

I flicked the clutch, the car lost traction, and everyone lost their minds.

“FUU-!”

“AAaaAAhHH!”

“BAS!”

“WEEEEE!” That last one was me.

The tires squealed like a gazelle running for its life as the engine roared like a rabid roaring lion chasing after it. I redlined.

I played with the throttle, keeping the nose of the car steady, and pointed where I wanted to go. We screeched out of the turn, a cloud of smoke raced behind us. Half way through the straight, though we were very much sideways, I aimed the car at a row of pillars.

I let off the accel. Released the steering, which spun in my loose grip.

Traction returned, I floored it, and whipped the wheel. Left, right, then left again. I slalomed between the supports.

The concrete didn’t hit us, but the G force sure did.

The shattering wail of the engine bounced thunderously off the walls and slammed into our ears. Convertibles allowed for great automotive acoustic appreciation.

The off ramp out of the building was in sight. One last trick for the road.

How about a nice and easy J-turn?

Free of the concrete poles, I raced down the final stretch. I hit the clutch, pulled the e-brake, and pulled the wheel all in the same instant.

The car rotated, spewing a cloud of vaporised rubber all around us. I switched to reverse, put the pedal to metal and broke through the gaseous wall. Backwards.

The suspension worked overtime when the elevation changed.

I turned my head to the side. Justin Lin, sans any colour on his face, stared at me in horror. I stopped the car just a few feet away from theirs.

I was all teeth.

“I’m telling Ben to charge you for a fresh set of tires.” She could try to sound cool all she liked, but I could almost hear the thumping of Anita’s heart.

Chris Morgan, who was in the back with her, hastily unbuckled his belt, jumped over the side of the car and proceeded to evacuate his lunch on the hot asphalt.

My eyes never left Lin. “So tell me, how’d you like-” I affected my best southern accent, “mah riiiide.”

“... I g-g-guess a d-dialect coach is ch-cheaper than a racing pro.” He stuttered.

Another loud retch came from Morgan. I looked at him through the side-view mirror. It wasn’t flesh, but I’d definitely taken a pound from him, if the size of the puddle was any indication.

Chapter 27: Hystery

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Hystery

The Creature Shop, Leavesden. December 2004.

Tenta-vision or tele-squision? I contemplated what name better suited the massive mechanical puppets made to look like the Black Lake’s giant squid.

Today was a bit of a special day at Leavesden, particularly for me. Mrs Stephens was visiting.

As a bit of an early Christmas present for the orphans, Mrs Stephens had asked if the children could visit the set and see what making a movie was like.

I asked Nick Dudman, who was the man in charge of the creatures shop here at the studio where all the animatronics, puppets, models, and various other visual effects fantastic beasts were conceptualized, created and stored, to help give a guided tour of the magical world.

Certainly beat going to the zoo for the twentieth time.

“So if I do this.” Nick fiddled with the elaborate remote control in his hands. The kids looked enraptured as the handful of eight-foot-long tentacles jerked and curled in on themselves, forming irregular circles. There were monitors placed behind a few of them that started playing the raw footage of the four champions underwater. “The squid comes alive!” The kids all whoa’d in awe.

Though the CGI wasn’t even half done, you could still get the gist. Cedric performed a bubble head charm, Fleur struggled against Grindylows, Victor had a sharky grin, and I was led by the nose by Myrtle’s ghost.

Neil Gaiman had gotten the go ahead to use the squid and a bit of imaginative magic to make the scene better than the books, where hundreds of people just stared at water for an hour.

“Now, who wants to see some dragons?”

Arms sprung up in the air with a loud chorus of about twenty ‘Me!’

Mrs Stephens and I lagged back as Nick led them to the giant reptiles.

In the original film we got the ridiculous chase of the Horntail trying to eat Harry while simultaneously destroying the parapets around Hogwarts. No dragon handlers to help corral the thing, and neither Dumbledore nor the teachers did anything except happily plugged their ears and shut their eyes as one of their students was nearly made into a meal. Culminating in the dragon falling away in a never before or again seen chasm under Hogwarts and forgotten from collective consciousness.

From a cinematic standpoint, sure it was cool. But story wise, it eroded Harry’s reasoning for being placed in first position, and further muddied the events of the tournament.

We reached the large space where the four different species of dragons were being herded. My gnarly looking Horntail, the vibrant Chinese Fireball, as well as the Welsh Green and Swedish Shortsnout. Each was wonderfully unique and distinct in design.

Neil had a very simple and elegant solution. Instead of just one dragon, have four. Each contestant also got to show off different branches of magic.

Fleur got charms, Krum got curses, Cedric had transfiguration, and I, of course, flew.

“Stand back, everyone!” Nick flipped a switch. The maw of one of the lizards shot open and spewed a plume of flame, much to the children’s manic excitement.

How’s that for cinema?

Mrs Stephens tugged on my arm. I signaled Nick that we were stepping aside for a moment, which he acknowledged with a thumbs up and happily continued entertaining the orphans.

Guess it was time for a more serious conversation.

Safely away from eager ears, I asked, “So what did the doctors say?”

Silence hung in the air, and then Mrs Stephens broke down, the weight of years of unfulfilled dreams crashing over her. “I held out hope for so long, thinking maybe one day... but.” She descended into sobs.

Immediately, I wrapped her tight in my arms and pulled her trembling figure into an embrace. “Of all things, why a hysterectomy?” She continued to lament. Her voice was wet and thick with anguish. “All I’ve ever wanted was a family of my own, and now that I’m finally in a position to have it, it’s stripped away from me!”

What could I possibly say?

I soothingly rubbed her back, whispered soothing words in her ear as she cried softly into my chest. It wasn’t long, but I let her have a good cry on me. A little while later, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her tears. “Oh, dear. That really got away from me, didn’t it?” She tutted and tried to wipe away the fluids staining my shirt. “I’m sorry, Bas. I’ve ruined your clothes.”

“You haven’t ruined anything. I know it’s not the same, but for me and those kids out there too, you’re more family than we’d ever known before. And believe me when I say you’re no less of a mother just because we don’t share blood.”

“Oh, Bas!”

I pulled her in again and tucked her under my arm. I reached back and plucked out my wallet. With a twist of my wrist, I flicked it open. “Remember this?” our photo from the pier. A brittle smile stole across her face and she gently poked the polaroid.

“Of course, I do. My own version is framed on my bedside table. I’m forced to look at that stupid face of yours every night before I fall asleep.” At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

“And that’s the silver lining, isn’t it? What if you had a kid, and they turned out even remotely like me? Can you imagine that?” I self-deprecated to cheer her up.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were glistening, her lips were trembling, but she still smiled. She reached over, cupped the side of my face, and pressed a kiss on my cheek. “No I can’t, Bas. You’re one of a kind.”

Leavesden Studio, UK. December 2004.

The movie was officially less than a year away from its scheduled release in November of ‘05. It was the most VFX and CGI heavy movie so far, so the post-production process had already commenced; and would also take an inordinate amount for completion and refinement. We were getting pretty down to the wire. Especially considering we still had two months of more filming scheduled.

Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be able to complete their job until and unless we finished filming all the shots.

Alfonso had requisitioned a specialized slow-motion camera for this shoot. He wanted to frame this shot like a renaissance painting. Symbolizing the numb state of Harry’s mind as the world around him zoomed away.

Today’s call sheet was utterly stacked. All the heavy hitters were packed into the spacious infirmary.

The scene was blocked as a carefully choreographed hurricane of organized chaos. Sadly, while the intricacy of the scene would look phenomenal when put to the screen - at least if it looked anything like Alfonso’s storyboards - it required take after take after take to get right.

My ass was chafing something fierce from being stuck in my position on the bed. Most people might not complain about that, but I also spent the morning in make-up getting all my battle damage appropriately haggard; as well as accurate for scene continuity.

I really hoped I didn’t develop hemorrhoids or something from sitting for so long. I’d rather be strung up on the wires again.

[The camera, with the cinematographer and Alfonso next to him, was pushed right up to my face for an extreme close-up.

I schooled my expression into a thousand-yard-stare directly into the lens. There was a bright light burning directly behind that would force my pupils to shrink. Deep, dark bags expanded under my eyes courtesy of the strong overhead lights and make-up.

The camera slowly pulled back, as the entire rig reversed slowly on its rails.

The cot I was laid in became visible. I made myself begin to shiver ever so lightly, my hands fisted the sheets as if I was trying to prevent myself from showing so.

Pulling back further, Gambon as Dumbledore, was impassionately arguing with a blubbering Cornelius Fudge, while Rickman as Snape pulled up his sleeve to show the dark mark.

I continued staring unblinkingly into the light. The brightness and the wind drying my eyes out; compelling my tear ducts to activate, to turn them glassy.

The camera continued its backwards trajectory, widening the frame. A second cot became visible to the side. Pattinson, as Diggory, lay blank eyed and comatose, Amos Diggory bawling over his chest, while a teary-eyed Sprout pulled a white sheet over his face.

Pomfrey, wand held aloft, marched purposefully across from one end of the frame to the other; Brendan Gleeson, as Mad-eye Moody, was hooked up to a wire harness and was floated along behind her to an empty bed.

I kept my expression and eye contact where it was, even as the camera would lose sight of me for a fleeting moment.

Emma, Rupert, and Maggie Smith, reprising Hermione, Ron, and McGonagall respectively, entered the scene.

McGonagall clutched at an angry Ron’s jumper, holding him back, while a tearful Hermione bounced in place, held there by the sheer power of authority. All three concentrated their gazes in my direction.

I unwaveringly kept burning a hole into the camera lens. I shivered more aggressively, no longer shaking as imperceptibly as earlier.

The camera reached its terminus; just over the shoulder of Bill and Molly Weasley. Domhnall Gleeson (who is Brendan’s son) pointed at me. Julie Walters, as Molly followed Bill’s finger, where she saw me slowly lose my battle with composure.

Seeing that, she pushed through the crowd in a mad dash. The camera accompanied her at the same pace.

Just as she initiated her embrace, Molly swiped her wand around her back. The curtains pulled close around my bed before the camera - and thus the prying eyes of the crowd - could intrude into the intimate moment.

The rig pushed through, the fabric caressing the lens as Molly and I had our moment.

She cradled me firmly in her arms, and allowing Harry, for the first time in his memory, to feel the loving hug of mother. Consolingly, she rubbed my back, pressed her cheek into the top of my head and whispered commiserations.

I let myself lose the battle with my emotions then. I thought of Mrs Stephens.

My hands sprang up. I entangled my fingers desperately into the mesh of her knitted cardigan. I let my eyes close.

I scrunched my face with all the pain I could muster. At this point, I didn’t even feel sure if this was real or not. Tears streamed down my cheeks, my glasses skewed as I burrowed deeper into the embrace. Julie Walters tightened her arms around me.

“I’m right here, dear boy. Shh shh shh.” She attempted to soothe me. My shoulders shook hard, and I heaved my chest as I cried. I was still Harry though, so I refused to bawl out or wail. I just silently sobbed, whimperingly, hissingly, as Julie continued to comfort me. “It’ll all be ok. I promise. I promise.” Her voice began to waver too, but she held strong.]

If this didn’t get final cut, nothing would.

Chapter 28: Funny Face

Chapter Text

Chapter 16.5: Funny Face

Leavesden Studios, UK. April 2005.

“Turn to the left, then turn to the right. Now strike a pose.” You’d think with filming now completely and totally finished, there wouldn’t be so many cameras pointed in my face.

Snap, snap, snap! The shuttering lens of the photographer’s camera clicked out louder than rapid fire artillery.

Oops the owl, one of the seven snowy owls that played Hedwig, flapped his wings irritably, nearly knocking the patterned cloth off my head. “You are scaring the bird, Bas. Hold it more gently.”

Motherf*cker, this was your fault! “The thrashing had less to do with me and more to do with that cannon blasting in our direction.” My patience was running thinner than the band of protective leather around my forearm, stopping an angry raptor from digging into my tender flesh.

“Canon? But I am using a Sony.” I would have paid to see that thing flash her blind. No such luck though, because she was a little too good at her job.

The deal between Warner Bros. and Uniqlo was hot out of the oven and ready to serve. But before I could get my slice of that cake, we’d have to put a little bit of icing on it. Which is precisely what this Harry Potter themed photoshoot for the new line of Uniqlo fall catalogue being shot was.

Me taking first billing also tended to mean that I’d be the first up for slaughter.

So here I was, a dinosaur in one hand and a wooden stick in the other, posing while frolicking in an artificial forest in an advertisem*nt for the new line of sleepwear, which included the hooded robe I was wearing with tiny graphics like lightning bolts, glasses, snitches, and other various runic symbols - being stylized as the invisibility cloak.

“Now for the closeup.” I did my best blue steel for the camera as she zoomed in to get an excellent shot of the gold wire frames perched halfway down my nose. “None of that. Just smile.”

I tucked my wand behind my ear, hooked one finger on the inside of my cheek, and stretched it out. How’s that for a smile?

Schadenfreude was the word of the day. I very much was deriving joy from watching my co-stars suffer through the same fate that I had been.

Any child actor who would be on screen for over 10 seconds had been drafted.

Next in line were the sports jerseys, which would have four specific variations according to the different Hogwarts houses. And who better to showcase that than Harry Potter’s quidditch team? The three chaser girls, me and the twins, were beaten into position.

The six of us stood in the narrow tunnel that was the entrance to the quidditch pitch, with our flying brooms in hand.

We were all decked out in a pair of white track pants with red and gold lettering spelling out Gryffindor all the way down the side of the leg. Up top, we were wearing red sweatshirts emblazoned with the house crest on the front and the different quidditch positions arched across the back. Seeker, beater, chaser, and keeper.

Mine, though, was a little different and had sprung a leak in my colleagues’ egos. Streaked across the length between my shoulder-blades was ‘Potter’ in bold letters.

Oliver Phelps leaned on his broom and addressed his brother. “Reckon we ought to pants him again?” Good thing I hadn’t gone commando today.

Twin number two, James teased the waist of my sweats with the bristles of his broom. “Nah, mate. I wanted a laugh, but the way the girls back there giggled wasn’t what I was looking for. Couldn’t keep their eyes off Mr Tight Arse over here.”

“Liked what they saw, huh?” I swatted the prop away.

“Yes, we did - I mean no, we didn’t-! We didn’t linger, ok!” The actress playing Katie Bell fumbled over herself.

The catcalls and wolf whistles that descended on the poor girl suddenly transformed the shoot into a zoo. My voice included. What? I needn’t be the (literal) butt of every joke, must I?

The flashing lights of the camera strobed as we moved this Gryffindor party to the common room.

The dress code at this shindig was lounge and leisure. Hoodies, shorts, loose fit home clothes, and the sort of clothes most would wear on a day-to-day basis. Not a single cut of fabric without the loud reminders that these clothes were indeed Harry Potter themed.

Though Harry Potter wasn’t the only one here.

Front and center were the two youngest Weasleys, who were very much the focus of this particular scene.

Rupert and Karen Gillan were stood on a table placed in front of the fireplace, in what were obviously Weasley sweaters.

Another offering being made available in all twenty-six letters of the alphabet.

The pair of redheads dynamically play dueled each other with their wands while the rest of us in the peanut gallery pretended to have a good time.

This included any student at Hogwarts who had a named part, from Alicia Spinnet to Zacharias Smith, and the Patil twins sandwiched in-between. I threw my arm over Dan Radcliffe next to me as we listened to the awkward shuffling of the duo’s feet. “I wish they’d at least play some music over the speakers.”

“Wouldn’t have helped. Remember the dance lessons? These two couldn’t find a beat by accident.”

Karen pinned me with a glare, “if you weren’t the reason we’re all getting paid for this, I’d toss my boot at you.”

“Shoe won’t get through that thick skull of his. I’ve got something better.” Rupert, with the grace of a luchador, leapt from the table.

I wasn’t sure if the snaps that followed were from the cameras or from the rattling furniture.

Gryffindor wasn’t the only house being advertised. The purposeful strike of clacks as polished shoes met stone steps debuted the Slytherins’ time in the limelight.

Uniqlo was also launching a selection of formal wear. Crisp shirts, sleek trousers, dark jackets, and the aforementioned shiny shoes.

Felton condescendingly buffed his nails on his jacket while being surrounded by Draco’s posse.

The actress playing Pansy draped herself over him. She lifted her leg a little to show off the Slytherin skirts and stockings. Goyle and Crabbe sat by their legs at the foot of the Hogwarts staircase.

There wasn’t a pastier rap group in all the world. It was missing just the one thing.

“Needs more leather!” Felton flinched. I’d taken great pleasure in introducing him to the latest fan fiction craze that was leather pants Draco.

Poor guy had yet to recover from the horrors of discovering that particular trope.

“I’m going to find the highest point on Leavesden, and throw you off of it, Bas.”

Speaking of high places, the next stop on our photography tour ended up being at the owlery set, for a more intimate set of photographs. The dozens of wide eyes staring at them, none of which belong to predatory birds, heavily stymied any real potential for romance, I imagine.

But as Pattinson had proven earlier, and I knew would prove in the future too, he was a pro. He ignored everything and with affected affection placed his palm on Katie Leung’s cheek just below her ear to highlight her Ravenclaw themed earrings.

Katie as Cho was an important inclusion in the photo set not only because she was one of the few prominent Ravenclaws in the story so far but also because she was the soul, token, Asian character who could be used for representation in Uniqlo’s currently established Asian markets as well. The two looked mighty cozy as she pretended to adjust Cedric’s Hufflepuff themed scarf around his collar.

While watching the fake couple, I couldn't help but feel sorry for China, as they had only just managed to prevent a SARS outbreak, but now faced the unstoppable spread of yellow fever.

But as far as Hogwarts’ heartstrings were concerned, no one could tug them harder than Hermione.

I knew I featured on the pin boards of teen girls everywhere, but I wasn’t oblivious or arrogant enough to believe that the number of people who had Emma’s face plastered on their wall didn’t absolutely dwarf mine.

Like the rows and shelves of tomes behind us, Rupert and I were little better than background decoration for the focus shot on Emma as Hermione.

A Hogwarts themed school bag was propped up on some library books in the foreground while Emma tried and failed to act cutesy.

Despite its relative simplicity out of all the sessions so far, this set of photos was taking the longest. Like the wand she was chewing on, Emma’s smile was wooden.

Rupert had taken his own rucksack, fluffed it, and unceremoniously dropped his head on it and made the bag a makeshift pillow. You’d think the photographer would have smacked him awake, but they’d only praised his character work and happily let the little bugger take a nap on the job.

Which was not a privilege I was allowed to experience.

The only thing serving as a distraction was the quill in my hand, but by now I’d fiddled with it as much as I could, short of stabbing myself with its pointy end to keep me awake.

I rested one side of my face in my palm and stared at Emma as she tried to show off the clips in her hair. My eyes drifted to the nape of her neck. Completely undefended. My gaze darted to the feathered quill I was twirling between my fingers.

How could I possibly resist?

I did something I wasn’t supposed to do and stared into the camera lens. This immediately caught the photographer’s attention. She frowned at me and tilted her head in confusion.

I put one finger over my lips and silently urged everyone to keep quiet so that Emma wouldn’t notice.

With zero decibels and less professionalism, I mouthed the words ‘Take the picture.’

Even though her brain might not have fully caught up, I knew well that the photographer’s trigger finger was itchier than the feather I tickled Emma’s neck with.

“Ah!” Emma gasped. Her hand clamped over the spot. She recoiled, and her eyes and mouth opened in wide circles.

Click!

Quicker than a whip, she turned to face me. I taunted her by waving the feather. Her brows fell and her lips pouted as she set her expression in a cute scowl.

Click!

The way her wavy locks flew, I’m sure the clips would be far more noticeable.

Her free hand struck out as she tried to snatch the quill away from me. I rocked back in my chair, tore my hand out of reach, and allowed a broad, toothy smirk to spill out.

With no other form of retribution available to her, Emma defaulted to her last resort. She stuck her tongue out at me.

Click!

“Why do you have to bully me all the time?”

“I don’t have to, Emma. I just choose to.”

“Ugh! you’re such a boy. Now we’ll have to take the pictures all over again!”

I wiggled the feather in front of her face and gestured to the staff, who were eagerly poring over the latest batch of images that they’d sneakily captured. “Au contraire. Something tells me we’re done.”

Chapter 29: Caboose Fronting

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Caboose Fronting

Warner Brothers Offices, LA. August 2005.

What happens when you take a goose and push it away from the front?

Well, according to my dialect coach, the answer to that riddle was: you get a Texan accent.

“So when you try to say the letter ‘i’ or whenever you’re trying to sound out a word with that vowel, you’ve got to drop the second half of your pronunciation. For example, what organ gives you vision?”

“Eye.”

“See? You say it like ‘aye’ but in a southern accent, you sort of stop halfway.”

“Ah?” I felt like a real ah-ss.

“Very good!” clearly she was a believer of positive reinforcement, but I was securely in the camp of growth through negative feedback. Oh Dae Su, Cadbury, Anita, and I’d wager even Alan Rickman could attest to that.

Couldn’t blame her, though. This whole southern accent thing was something that was sprung on both of us with no real forethought or warning.

A week from shooting and an executive producer had suddenly gotten the bright idea that my character, Sean Boswell, should have a more patriotic palate.

Something that said that I wasn’t a posh little British schoolboy, but was in actuality a rootin’ tootin’, gun toting, red white and blue-blooded good ol’ boy. And like the toady little yes men one usually finds in the crevices of Hollywood, they all hopped to the big man’s bidding.

When I questioned what purpose it served - especially considering that I had cultivated a generic, internationally accepted, American accent by spending a quarter of every year of the last five years in California - they gave me the absurd explanation that I had to sound different from all the Asian people speaking perfectly serviceable English.

So here I was, learning about diphthongs like a dipsh*t.

“Knock, knock.” Speaking of, here was king dipsh*t himself. The same exec who’d stuck me in this room. Well, far be it from me to not give the man what he wants. “I trust the lessons are going well?”

“Howdy, pardner.” Even if I had a cowboy hat, I wouldn’t tip it in his direction.

“That’s a stereotype, Bas. We really shouldn’t perpetuate it.” Poor woman, I hope your next client is more agreeable than I was.

I donned my best impression of Matthew McConaughey and got to work. “Hwell, the lady here’s sweeter’n tea. But I reckon she’s fixin’ to throw a conniption at the lack of learnin’ goin’ on in this skoo-haw.” Translation: While the individual you have hired is doing an admirable job, my unwillingness to participate with sincerity will more than likely drive her to frustration.

“You sound like Yosemite Sam.”

“Dad gum it! It takes more’n two shakes of a rabbit’s ass to plant a field full o’ corn.” Please do not mistake my unwillingness as inability. If you had been better organized and had relayed your intentions for the character at an earlier opportunity, perhaps we would have actually had time for me to properly acquaint myself with this accent.

“You’re not wrong, but I have no idea what region of the south you’re channeling anymore.”

“If’n ya’ll insist on tugging the reigns of this here horse, won’t take long till the entire valley knows yer all hat’n no cattle.” Should you continue to persist with this asinine idea, the movie will lose all authenticity with our audience.

“I give up!”

“So hwat’s it gonna be, pardner? We gon’ get along to get along, or is it high noon?” I’m prepared to fight over this decision of yours.

Somehow, I went from charming southern drawl to blazing saddles. Told you I’d need more practice than a week. My soon to be ex-teacher buried her face in her hands.

“I… uh… well. Probably best we shelve this idea, don’t you think, Bas? International audiences might complain about regional dialects.”

“Alright, alright, alriiight.” f*ck you, and have a nice day.

Santa Fe, California. August 2005.

To most people, it would make sense that at fifteen they would find themselves at a high school first thing in the morning.

It was strange to think that Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo High would be the first proper school I stepped foot into since my days back at the orphanage, even if I was restricted to the carpark. There weren’t any teachers here to take attendance, but as I placidly watched the production assistants scurrying underfoot, I was more than ready to take class.

Even though the fall semester wouldn’t start for another couple of weeks, I found myself surrounded by students my age.

None of whom (thankfully) suffered from 30-year-old teenager syndrome.

“Gather round guys.” Justin Lin, if the headphones around his neck and the cap on his head were any indication, was in full director mode. “We’ve pretty much got the shots for this scene already, but I’d like a few more takes for posterity.” My two co-stars and I huddled with Justin next to the bright red Dodge Viper and my dusty old Monte Carlo.

“Hey,” I butted in. “If that’s the case, how about we change up the scene a smidgen?”

“I mean… yeah. I don’t see why not.” I gave the two teens acting beside me a thumbs up at Justin’s approval. “So, what did you have in mind?”

Obviously, I’d discussed my idea with them ahead of time, so they weren’t caught off guard. Both were completely on board. After all, what fresh young actor wouldn’t welcome the opportunity for more nuanced character work, more lines, and screen time?

“For starters, maybe we don’t have the sixteen-year-old girl offer to prostitute herself out?”

Maybe it hadn’t quite clicked for anyone until now, but my bluntly spelling it brought grimaces to faces. “... Fair point. I guess you have a fix for it?”

“I’ll never point out a problem I can’t give you the solution for.”

“What are you? A used car salesman?”

“Scott!” The boy hired to play the stereotypical bully jumped in his baseball uniform when I abruptly startled him. “Who is your character?”

“Um… a big dumb jock?”

I snapped my fingers, “precisely! And who is it that enjoys dating the big dumb jocks?”

“The mean girls.” Katrina, who played little miss popular, chimed in. “And they hate it when their boyfriends aren’t giving them attention.” Clearly, we rehearsed more than just the script.

“That’s experience talking there, Justin.” I threw my thumb at her. “So enlighten us. What would a girl like you do to get a stupid boy’s attention?”

Her smile was wide and terrifying. “Find an even stupider boy to make my beau jealous. And when I get what I want, I kick that other loser to the curb.”

I grandly gestured down my torso. “Entre moi. The idiot who believed that a cute girl was hitting on him because he was, in his own mind, just that cool. But in reality is just as cringy as every other high school kid.”

Justin looked at all three of our hopeful faces, rubbed his temples, sighed. “Alright. I’m sold.” More like fed up.

He twirled his finger in the air and adjusted his headphones. “Let’s run it and see how it goes. Places everyone.”

[I stood on my mark, adjusted the strap on my shoulder, and made my way towards the car. The camera trailed behind me. I turned my head, and the lens followed my line of sight.

The camera panned up her legs, but since the costume department had elected not to raid the Playboy Mansion’s wardrobe this time, instead of getting an upshot of her miniskirt, she wore a pair of daisy dukes and a tight shirt that got the point across without making her look like a p*rnstar.

I quickly averted my gaze when she caught me staring at her sitting on top of the Viper. I opened the door of my car and chucked my bag in.

“Nice ride.”

My eyes shot up to my eyebrows in surprise, but as I turned to face mean girl, I schooled my expression into a small grin. “Does the job.” I affectionately thumped the hood of the Monte Carlo.

She opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden cheer behind us stole our attention.

We both glanced back and saw dumb jock and posse cheering. Mean girl narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips and double backed to stare at me. “Let me guess, pizza delivery.”

Amused, I blew a puff of air out of my nose. “Sure.” I went with the bit. Caveman brain activate. Girl talk about car, girl cool. Cool girl laugh at joke, girl like me. Girl like me equal girl sex me. “How about I come around your place with an order of extra sausage?”

“Ew! You’re like, so gross!” She pretended I didn’t totally blunder my attempt at flirting and laughed uproariously.

The camera rack-focused, blurring the two of us in the foreground and zooming into dumb jock who suddenly noticed what was happening. And like every territorial terrier, he came running out to mark his territory by pissing on his property.

“What do you think you’re doing talking to him?”

She rolled her eyes, hopped off the Viper, and took two exaggerated steps to approach me. “I just said I like his car.” She ran a poisoned finger over the vehicle’s hood, getting dangerously close to me, until she trailed her nail over my clavicle. “Besides, I can talk to and make friends with whoever I want.”

He circled the Viper, snatched her arm, and pulled her away. “Don’t touch him. You’ll catch something.” Ouch. “Beat it trash. Don’t you have a trailer that needs pulling somewhere?”

I scoffed. The Monte Carlo had a ten liter V8 engine putting down seven hundred horse power on to racing slicks. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that a naturally aspirated sports car could compete. “Even if I had to haul a double wide, I ain’t losing to your hotwheel.”

Pride sufficiently attacked, dumb jock defended his hurt ego. “My beast has a broiler exhaust system,” like that mattered, “pushing out five hundred horses.” See what I mean? “I’d leave you in my rear-view mirror in four seconds.”

“Wow!” I stifled a laugh and feigned being impressed. “You read the brochure!” I got into my car, keyed the ignition, and reversed out of the parking space.

I leaned out of the window and smirked at his reddening face. “Tell mommy I think her Viper’s cute.” I shifted into first and leisurely drove off.

I inched towards the predefined marker. Dumb jock would be filmed throwing the ball in a different scene, because in order to smash through the breakaway glass an air cannon would be used for my interior shot.

The launched baseball shattered the rear window. I flinched as a glass rained behind me and the ball crashed into the dash. “Motherf-!” No f-bombs in this PG-13 movie.

I nabbed the ball, leapt out of the car, and slammed the door shut. I reached the back end of the Monte Carlo clenched my jaw when I saw the damage and glared at dumb jock and posse hollering and high-fiving at each other. “Whoops, my hand slipped.”

They jeered at me as I marched towards them. “I don’t care how much you like playing with slippery balls, you’re still paying for that.”

He turned out his pockets. “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just pawn your car off when I win it off you after I beat you in a race.”

“Hell no! I’m not putting up eighty grand against that rust bucket.” He laughed me off.

Seeing my chance disappearing, I glanced at mean girl, who was clearly enjoying two boys fight over her - if I was reading her psycho expression right. I realized what perverted game she was playing. Time to push some buttons. “Guess he likes the car more than you, huh?”

That smug grin immediately fell off the mean girl’s face. She whipped around and pressed her hand on dumb jock’s chest. “Do it, babe. For me.” might be a controversial take, but manipulative bitch was a better look than a raging whor*.

I tossed the ball up and down in my hand. “Guess I’m not the only one with your junk clenched in my fist.”

Cue dramatic music and closeup dolly zooms.

The race was on.]

Chapter 30: Crash Test Dummy

Chapter Text

Chapter 17.5: Crash Test Dummy

Santa Fe, California. August 2005.

Arse over tea kettle was becoming less of an accident and more of a lifestyle for me.

Between wire work, animatronic creatures, underwater sequences, and now car crash stunts, I spent just as much time right side up as upside down.

When shooting auto crashes for film and television, the actual stunts were performed by either stunt drivers or mechanical rigs. This was, of course, discounting movies that drowned themselves and their budgets in CGI. Then the actors would be filmed on a soundstage wrapped in green screen in what was called a ‘process car/rig’.

Have you ever been to the mall and been annoying enough that your parents put you on those kiddy rides so they could get fifteen minutes of peace? Think the grown-up version of that.

Barring a few rare cases, this process was the norm. “Bas, please perform the final safety checks. If you die, we’ll be joining you. And no pressure, but I like being alive.” The small earpiece crackled to life. I was very much determined to establish myself as one of those rare cases.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the disposable Monte Carlo. To ensure that I didn’t burst into flames or anything, it had been stripped of all electrical equipment and drained of all fluids. It was basically furniture at this point. A steel rollover cage reinforced piece of furniture.

I grabbed the steering wheel and jerked myself forward as hard as I could. The harness hidden under my padded baggy shirt, tethered to the cage, as well as the safety straps lashed over my lap and legs ensured I barely budged an inch. I glanced behind me and extended my arm to knock on the rear passenger window. They replaced the glass on the rear windows, including the baseball hole, with strong plastic that wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces. The front had only the safety nets over them, and instead of a windshield there was a hood mounted camera rig pointed at my face for a clean shot.

I gave the ok to the crew watching me on the monitor. “All set! Let’s roll!” Literally.

The stunt team had borrowed a rollover crash simulator from a local car safety testing facility.

The whine of gears turning sent my heart into my throat. The car with me inside it began tilting. I felt that same plunging nervousness in my gut as if I was reaching the apex of a rollercoaster.

The machine beneath me whirred to life and began accelerating up to the calculated speed. The sudden vibration signalled my action.

I clenched my hand around the steering wheel, strained my face as if I was trying to tame the car as it swerved, and looked just beyond the camera. “Oh, sh-!” Then, without warning, the machine came to a sudden halt. In that split second, I felt the jolt, like the world had turned on its head.

The car launched into a barrel roll over a prepared sand pit, and my stomach somersaulted with the car.

Gravity lost its hold on me, then came back with a vengeance.

Physics reasserted itself. My body rocked hard as the fender crumpled under the impact, but before I could be rag dolled out, the harness and straps embraced me possessively; the g-forces and squeezed me right back into the leather.

The world around me devolved into a hurricane of swirling dust and colour. I thought I would’ve been able to maintain more control, but the adrenaline coursing through me and the crash itself had me thrashing in my restraints.

Once, twice, we flipped.

The sharp sound of metal turning to shrapnel was the soundtrack of the car tearing itself apart until a muffled thud punctuated the wreck coming to a stop in a cloud of dust.

Only when my eyes stilled did I find my breath restarting. “ight-? Ba… re yo… alr- Bas, are you alright!?” I guess hearing was the last sense to come back because I swear I could taste my breakfast.

As I came to, butt squarely facing the sky, I turned my heavy, blood filled head to the side.

From between the safety net, I saw a dusty pair of sneakers, a hairy arm unlatching the door, and the bottom half of a fire hydrant.

Rescue was just one middle-aged man away.

I breathed a sigh of relief as higher thought also returned after being made to flee by my lizard brain.

I looked down the lens of the camera, gave a shaky peace sign, and said, “can we do that again?” Maybe I spoke too soon about higher thought.

Unstrapped successfully, I felt two sets of strong hands yank me out and set me back on my feet. A third, very familiar pair began patting me down and dusting me off.

“Hey, Cadbury, I’m okay.” I soothed her. Outsiders wouldn’t be able to tell, what with her religiously stoic demeanour, but the slight tremble in her hands clued me in.

“I’m afraid not, Mr Rhys. There appears to be something wrong with your head.”

Urgently, I reached up and felt around, trying to see if I was bleeding or had a wound. “What’s wrong?” I didn’t feel any pain.

“It is evident that the part of your brain that prevents you from doing stupid things is broken.” I shouldn’t have expected any less.

“Stop fooling around, Cadbury.” I playfully swatted away her frantic fingers. “C’mon. Let’s go see how the shot turned out.” The viselike grip on my shoulders reminded me just how strong my nanny was. I wasn’t going anywhere, apparently.

“You are not to even consider moving a single muscle fibre until and unless the physician proffers you a clean bill of health. Do I make myself clear?” she turned to the med tech who’d made their way over and immediately began taking my vitals. “You let him leave with so much as a scratch, and I assure you, doctor, the next take will feature you.” The audible gulp could’ve been either one of us.

The doctor, under my au pair’s stern gaze, conducted a thorough examination and gave me the A-OK after assessing that there were no signs of trauma.

Walking away from the crash site, production graciously gave me a hero’s welcome. More specifically, they hailed me with fiery applause and an icy drink.

I made a bee-line towards Justin to review the footage. I focused on the playback and studied my performance. “Looking good? Or do I need to take another ride?” So that’s what I looked like when I was actually scared. Once the CGI debris and product placement were added in, the shot would look dope.

“You’d actually go through that again?” Lin seemed surprised, though I don’t know why.

“Yeah, if I needed to.”

“… No man, the shot’s perfect.” God, save me from this awkward conversation.

“The boy who lives!” Ask and ye shall receive. The joke wasn’t a surprise. I barely stopped a groan. What was a surprise, however, was the presence of the main cast, who I wasn’t expecting to meet till next week.

“What are you all doing here?” I blurted out, but I didn’t forget my manners for long. I approached my colleagues and immediately got to shaking hands.

Sung Kang, better known as Han, was the first to greet me. “We all had the same idea and came to see whether or not we’d have jobs tomorrow.” the just in case you died was louder left unsaid. Cheeky bitch. Someone was already in character.

“Then I’m guessing you won’t mind if I bring popcorn for when we film Han’s crash.”

He laughed, “Sure, man. I’ll even share it with you. Unlike you, I’m very comfortable just letting the stunt doubles do their job.”

“Harry f*ckin’ Potter, man!” I smoothly shifted from handshake to dap. Pop!

“Li’l Bow Wow.” I reciprocated.

“Ain’t a li’l no more. It’s just Bow Wow now.”

“Then feel free to call me Bas.”

“Cool, B. Let’s get a photo together. I’m gonna put it on my Myspace page.” …right.

“You should use Facebook.” Keiko Kitagawa, who played my Japanese classmate and gateway to Han’s crew, piped up. “It is also very famous in Japan. Just like Harry Potter.”

“Face-who? Ain’t nobody gonna use that sh*t.” Bow Wow barked confidently, incorrect.

Ignoring him, I took Keiko’s outstretched hand. “It is nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Sailor Mars.”

She gasped, pleasantly surprised that I’d done my homework on her, then teased me with a fake scowl. “Mars janai. Keiko desu!”

The intro train kept chugging along as I chuckled down the parade line. Brian Tee was next, and DK’s smile came with dimples deeper than the ditch I’d left the car in. “Man, they’ve got you playing any and every role a Japanese man can get, huh? A yakuza member, a sushi chef, and even a salaryman who runs away from Godzilla.”

Those dimples disappeared so fast (and furious), “you know who I am, too?”

“Mhm.” I continued down the line and met the actors playing both DK and Han’s right-hand men. “I’ve seen each Austin Powers movie like twenty times.”

I knew I was being unctuous. But I was a firm believer that offscreen chemistry was visible on screen. So, best foot forward and all that.

Intellectually, I recognised the script had gone through something of a minor overhaul, but with the handful of scenes I’d filmed so far, I’d not really seen much except for a few dialogue tweaks. Standing in front of me, however, was the first bit of proof of that promised change.

“And you are?” I prompted. Instead of the incredibly out-of-place Australian played by Nathalie Kelley, was a svelte Asian woman closer in appearance to Han and DK.

“Sonoya Mizuno.” Japanese name, British voice, and a hafu face.

I recognised her from my time before Bas. She was in Ex-machina as the dancing android, had a role in Crazy Rich Asians, and was also going to play a part in the Game of Thrones prequel, though I never got a chance to watch that before my impromptu allergic reaction.

“Pleasure. Now that we all know each other, mind filling me in on why the main cast is all here together?”

“I got word last night that all the drift cars are finally ready.” Justin Lin clarified the situation. “I thought it’d be fun if we all headed to the warehouse together and got acquainted with our new toys.”

The shutters rolled up with a loud rattle, the fluorescent lights flicked on with a deep buzz, and our awe rang across the showroom. Nissan 350z, Mazda RX7, Skyline R34, and many more. Each with five to six identical duplicates, all riced enough to run a Chinese buffet.

Bow Wow approached the legendary bright orange and black Veilside RX7 and whistled… couldn’t blame him. “Now this must be my ride!” He clicked the button on his key fob, but the alarm didn’t come from the Mazda.

Sung Kang unlocked it instead, hopped in, and roared the engine to life. “Not quite.” He pointed out the giant green, hulk themed MPV. “Your monster’s over there.”

“Man, this is some bullsh-!”

I reflexively caught the two keys tossed at me. I opened my palm. One logo was Mitsubishi, and the other was a stylized ‘S’.

I questioned Justin with a tilt of my head.

He pointed at the bright red Evo and the blue Nissan Silvia. “One gets trashed, the other gets the spotlight. Your choice, which is which.”

The red Mitsubishi was iconic, I liked it. But, as I approached the blue Silvia S15 Spec-R. There was a certain fizzing in my belly. “Mona Lisa.” I breathed out. When I sat inside, I could practically feel that car mould itself around me. Yeah, I knew which one I was picking.

Maybe I did have a concussion, because I think I just heard the Teriyaki Boyz suddenly playing in my head.

Chapter 31: Twinkie's Delivery Service

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Twinkie’s Delivery Service

Hawthorne Plaza, LA. September 2005.

[I was inside Hulk with two other people.

Twinkie (Bow Wow) and Reiko (Keiko Kitagawa) introduced me, Sean, to Tokyo's underground drift scene after I hopped out of the chunky green family machine.

Eyebrows up, jaw down, the camera tracked the three of us as I awed at the exotic car scene.

ABCs, SEAs, and ABGs disguised vaguely as Japanese gyarus - the realities of open casting calls outside of the related countries - dressed in skimpy outfits swam across the frame in front of us.

I dipped my head, trying to catch a hint of a little something something under those bouncy nano skirts.

“Oi!” Reiko snatched my ear and pulled my head out of the gutter.

A wry smile stole across my face when Twinkie jumped to my defense, threw his arm over Reiko’s shoulder and tugged her away. “It’s his first time. Let the man explore Japan’s oceans, girl.”

“Hentai-yaro!” I rubbed my ear as the two threw me into the deep end. Clean engines rumbled with their hoods up, fat speakers pumped heavy bass, and party-goers bounced in clashing rhythms as they pretended that music played for their enjoyment.

My roving eyes and the rotating camera stopped when I saw her. Dressed in near the same outfit as when I’d caught my dad on a date with her on my arrival in Tokyo.

She leaned on a pillar as smoke lazily trailed from the cigarette hanging loosely off her lip.

I don’t know if it was plain curiosity or just the comfort of spotting a familiar face, but I was compelled to approach.

“Konnichiwa.” I awkwardly stumbled through the greeting.

She frowned at me for disturbing her peace, but her half-lidded eyes opened fractionally in recognition. “You shouldn’t bother. I can speak English.”

I smiled at her in thanks, “I was hoping. Either way, it doesn’t hurt to get a little practice in. I need all the help I can get.”

She scoffed, “good luck getting that here.”

“Hey, at least I’m tryin’!”

“I suppose so… Sean, right?” Her voice was soft, raspy, and tired more than anything else.

I perked up. “How’d you know my name?”

“Your father mentioned you.”

“You guys uh… talked?”

She chuckled quietly, in amusem*nt, at my assumptions about her job. Two fingers pinched the cig’s filter, and she took a drag. “You’d be surprised how much of my time is just spent talking.” She blew the answer at me in a cloud of acrid smoke. “Just like you came to me, too. Old or young, lonely men are lonely men.”

A little embarrassed, I scratched the back of my head. Seeking to change the topic, I pointed at her car. “This your ride?” A Mazda RX8 is powder blue, complementary to Han’s own orange RX7. Funny how that worked out, huh? “Never seen so many flashy cars with such little engines.” I dusted my hands on my jeans and put one out for her to shake. “You know my name, but I never caught yours.”

“It’s Neela.” She ignored my hand and instead reached over and pinched my cheek. “You’re used to straighter roads. Our cars need to journey on much more twisted lanes.” Somehow, I doubt she was talking just about racing.

Before we could get deeper into conversation, we were rudely interrupted. DK rested his head on her shoulder and mean-mugged me with his most insufferable, smug smirk.

“Takashi!” she reprimanded him when he likely cussed me out in Japanese.

Han, smooth as ever, tossing some snack into his mouth, moseyed on over to the scene. “Never can stop yourself from messing with foreigners, can you, D?”

“I might not speak the language yet, but that sure didn’t sound like Japan’s legendary hospitality.”

DK laid a slimy kiss on Neela’s neck. “Understand now, Gaijin?”

“Not really. We were just talking, is all.”

“If you want to talk to one of my girls, you have to pay. Gaijin price is double.” Shamefaced, Neela averted her eyes and turned her head away. He ran his hands over her stomach. “Want her for tonight?”

“No, he doesn’t!” Reiko teleported in between us.

Twinkie nabbed my shoulder, spun me around, dragged me away, “The hell is you doin’, man? He’s Yakuza!” he hissed.

“Know who I am now, boy?” DK taunted. Well, if he wanted to continue our pleasant conversation, who was I to deny him?

I turned on my heel, slipped out from Twinkie’s grip, and dodged past Reiko. “The lost Japanese member of the Backstreet Boys.” Twinkie threw his hands up in frustration. “Or maybe one of the Spice Girls?”

In that pin drop moment, only Han had the balls to snort out a laugh. “C’mon, D. We’ve wasted enough time with tourists. Time to race.” He broke the tense standoff and the two sides moved away from each other.

Reiko and Twinkie pushed me back while reprimanding me, as DK’s crew gestured rudely at us. “Hey good luck, Scary Spice!” The only thing smart about me was my mouth.

With the way DK suddenly pirouetted, he might very well have been a backup dancer.

He stuck his face close enough to mine that a change in the soundtrack could imply this was a romantic scene.

“You’re the one that’s lucky, because I’m about to race.”

“I could take you.”

“Easy to sound co*cky when you have no ride.” Had Grindr been a thing already, no doubt the screenwriter would’ve been on it.

“Take mine.” The camera smash cut to Han, tossing his keys and quickly panned to me, catching them mid air.

“Let’s race.”]

Rhys Millen and the wonderful stunt team would be in charge of running the drift scene. As much as I’d like to be the one behind the wheel, I didn’t have the skills yet to be on the same stage as the pros. I’d get my opportunity later.

The final stages of the replica Shibuya set were under way and so was the finalization of the car choreography. The ‘careography’ if you will.

In the meantime, the car I was being allowed to drive was the totalled red Mitsubishi up the spiral ramp of the mall.

[I jerked the wheel to the side as I heard the twisted metal and plastic of the once pristine car scraping against concrete, leaving a long red gash on the white paint of the wall.

The car shuddered to a halting stop.

I yanked the keys out, shouldered the damaged door, and extricated myself from it.

“Poor Mona Lisa.” Twinkie despondently lamented with a disappointed shake of his head.

“Do you know how long it took me to tune that thing!?” Reiko furiously clenched my collar and shook my head.

Han casually circled the heap. Hand in pocket and his eyes shifting up and down the shattered red body of the Evo.

With a wince, I offered him the keys.

“Nah, you keep that.” He raised one hand and waved me off. “Ever heard of you break it? You buy it?”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can afford any of this.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “So would you prefer I break or buy you, then?” The serious threat sounded so very casual.

Bewilderment spread across my face. I gulped lightly and stuttered out. “...buy?”

“Your choice.” He swirled around and made his way to the party, leaving the three of us in our own little corner of misery. He pointed at my (hopefully still) friends and the two teenage members of his crew. “You both keep an eye on him. I don’t care if he skips class, just make sure he doesn’t skip town.”]

Narita International Airport, Tokyo. October 2005.

Hrrngh! I groaned like a middle-aged man getting off a sofa after an extended session of sitting. Knees bent, arms tense, I deposited Anita’s insanely heavy suitcase on to her rattling trolley. The bulbous slab of luggage looked ridiculous next to mine and Cadbury’s more sensible selection.

“God, you must have paid more for excess baggage than the first class upgrade.”

She gripped the release lever and pushed her way to the customs channel from our baggage claim belt. I put Cadbury’s handbag on the upper shelf and followed behind Anita. “Well, some of us have to pack our clothes, and not just turn up at the nearest Uniqlo retail store with our special privilege card that lets us take anything and everything for free.”

Fair enough.

As we reached the arrival gate, we were greeted by the presence of airport security in full force. “I knew it wasn’t just clothes! C’mon Cadbury, let’s bail. We can’t beat a ninety-nine percent conviction rate. We need to be on the outside so we can get Anita out from the inside.” I made to pull away and distance us from my agent. Anita helped by throwing a surprisingly flexible sidekick on my thigh. Clearly pilates was paying off.

“They’re here for you, fool!”

The indignity! “What did I do!?”

“Be famous. Or did tumbling around in crashing cars knock your memories of Harry Potter out of your ears?”

A sharply dressed uniformed man, complete with flat cap and white gloves, beckoned us down a side hallway. “Follow, please.”

“I guess they don’t want your chaos impeding all the other passengers.” Anita shook her head with a sigh. “What a diva you are.”

As we strode down, the lone sound of footsteps and creaky wheels was slowly joined by the rising hum of activity. The sliding doors opened, and Narita turned into a frenzy of fans and flashing lights.

I threw my hand up in front of my face to block out the strobing. The neon zoo of Shinjuku was more excited about my arrival than I realised. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, posters and cutouts of my face waved like conquering flags. I couldn’t help but revel in the spectacle. I threw up a peace sign, soaking it all in.

Anita shot me an amused glance. “Remember why we’re here, Bas. This isn’t a concert.”

Airport security cleared a path through the howling throng. “I should say something, shouldn’t I? They came all this way for me.”

Cadbury reached over and pulled out a pocket size Japanese phrase book. My robot had upgraded herself and added a translation function, it seemed.

I flipped through and found an appropriate phrase. I cupped my hands around my mouth, took a deep breath, and bellowed out, “Nihon ga suki!”

The crowd surged forward, and airport security was the only reason I wasn’t trampled into mochi.

Shuujin Academy, Tokyo. October 2005.

You don’t know what getting high was like until you got that first hit of fame. Shad “Bow Wow” Moss reflected. He’d gotten that first sweet taste of it when he won a billboard music award and Nickelodeon kid’s choice award a few years back in ‘01.

But, as he craned his neck up to stare at hundreds of heads peeking out from the building’s windows, he’d never experienced anything like this.

Five floors of whack a mole. He should write that down in his rhyme book later.

He and the other student actors had arrived at a Japanese academy to film the interior school shots for the movie. The teachers had come out to greet them with a few of those honor roll types, and while there were a few curious looks, no one really cared that they were here.

At least until B showed up. Then the quiet little Asians turned into an Atlanta crowd at an Outkast show. Even a local news crew showed up.

Like Mike didn’t have sh*t on Harry Potter.

B and his team go to work pretty quick. He took photos with fans, accepted gifts, gave an interview. All the while he, the Universal crew, and even Keiko - the actual Japanese celebrity, stood on the sidelines.

And it wasn’t like anyone had the authority to complain about the favoritism sh*t, either. The way he heard it told, the Japanese government had denied Universal a filming permit. So the solution becomes to build an expensive replica set and hire more extras, right? Wrong!

B makes one phone call to his Japanese brand sponsor and they organise an entire f*cking ad campaign for some back to school collection in return for product placement in the movie. He had to call room service twice last night just to get a damn pizza!

And hey, if the school takes an under the table payment to let Universal shoot the school scenes under the guise of B filming Uniqlo ads, no one was gonna snitch.

It took a while, but with introductions out of the way, Universal could move in and stage the set inside. He saddled up to Keiko and began working his charm. “Kinda makes you hate him a little, huh?”

She looked at him with surprise. “You are jealous?”

“You ain’t? Look around. The only ones paying us any attention right now are each other.” Keep it smooth Bow. A bunch of giggles suddenly poured out as Bas stepped out dressed in a full Gakuran - Japanese school uniform. “Spotlight’s totally on him.”

She tilted her head, pursed her lips, stared B down, and hummed. “I actually find it quite attractive.”

“Keiko! You’re up!” Justin called her and she walked off without a second look at him.

Shad had to sit there and wait his turn as B and Keiko filmed Sean’s first day at school.

[Uwabaki! Teacher called out.

Uwabaki? Sean stayed confused.

“She means slippers.” Reiko offered.

“Reiko-chan, onegai!” and she was immediately made responsible for the foreigner.

Sean, with a little relief, sat on the chair next to Reiko’s table. “Books?” she asked.

“Oh! Uh…” Bas fished around in his bag and pulled out a pocketbook. Wait. That wasn’t in the script, Shad thought, he was just meant to say no.

“No!” Reiko pointed at the textbook in front of her, “like this one.”

“In that case, I was always taught that sharing is caring.” He pulled their tables close to each other and tugged his chair right up to hers till their shoulders were almost touching. He flipped open the pocket phrase book and read out. “Arigato Gozaimasu.”

Shad couldn’t help but notice the blush that spread across Keiko’s face. She tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered, “You are welcome.” ]

This guy just improvised an entire scene out of his ass, and he didn’t think Keiko was acting that much anymore either.

Clearly this dawg was bow wowing up the wrong tree.

Chapter 32: Tofu Or Not Tofu? That’s a Dumb Question.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18.5: Tofu Or Not Tofu? That’s a Dumb Question.

Yongen Jaya, Tokyo. October 2005.

Let me paint a picture for you. A large individual with a bountiful bosom cradles a much smaller person, swaddled only in a towel, in their arms out of a bath.

If you pictured a mother carrying out her fresh new baby from the shower, then you’d be as far off as my dangling feet were from the ground.

[Local celebrity and legendary sumo wrestler, Konishiki, heretofore known as paw-man as per his credits title, gripped me under my arms and held me at full arm’s length as he casually walked me out of the bathhouse.

Knees kicking, arms twisting, I wriggled in his grasp like an unruly pet.

The soft cloth of the curtain doors wiped my back as I stumbled when he deposited me barefoot on the asphalt.

Dipping into the waistband of his robe, paw-man pulled out a wad of cash and tossed it at an amused Han while throwing me a dirty look. “Shoganai-na…”

Cash pocketed, Han returned my scowl with a smirk.

He chucked his keys, and I jerked reflexively to catch them. I just as quickly had to grab the hem of my towel as I felt it slip from my hip.

“I’m not sure I want a job that leaves my butt blowing in the breeze.”

Han hopped off the hood of his car. “You act like I’m giving you a choice. You’re my delivery boy, now. I don’t care if you’re taking a test or in bed with Beyonce. I call, you pick up before the second ring.” He opened the passenger side door and made to enter it. “Now get back in there and put your clothes on. I don’t want your raw skin touching my seats.”]

Mouth open, and next dialogue on the tip of my tongue, the world suddenly went dark. I felt the fabric of a dark piece of cloth thrown over my head and body.

I heard the urgent rattle of the side door of a car open, when a burly pair of arms pushed me in.

What the f*ck? Was I filming Tokyo Drift or Taken?

Slam! The door slid shut. Tthpth! I spat out some lint that invaded my mouth as I ejected my head from the rumpled cotton. “Oi, mate!” The British in me popped out, too. “I know taekwondo!”

When my vision cleared, I saw the slimiest human being imaginable. I felt a shiver of pure fear race up my spine. Thwack! “Don’t think for one moment that I can’t read your mind like an open book!” Anita, my agent, beat me up.

In all the bustle, my towel had slipped clear off, leaving me in only my skin tight underwear.

“Assault, abduction - of a half naked minor no less. Quite a wrap sheet you’re building. I wonder what the police would have to say about our current predicament.”

She rolled her eyes and pointed a slender finger out the tinted window. “They look a little busy.”

True enough, two police officers were putting one of our local Japanese crew members in handcuffs. He was the substitute director, which was our tongue-in-cheek way of saying the guy the studio had hired to take the fall if the cops ever caught us filming outside. Justin Lin would get to taste another day of free Tokyo air.

A permit to shoot within private premises was one thing. The Japanese government was not keen to grant us public filming rights.

“I know I’m stripped down to my skivvies, but the cops wouldn’t book me unless I’d set up the full fruit stand outside. Why am I getting the human trafficking treatment?”

“Justin is… nice enough. But there’s a distinction between a no-name director getting his face on the back pages of a regional newspaper, and an international star getting his scrawny ass plastered all over the front cover of every tabloid you can think of.”

“Easy way of getting attention, though, eh?”

Cadbury, who had stealthily been sitting shotgun, reached down and handed me my lost towel. “Cover up, Mr Rhys. Your shame is showing.”

Kichijoji, Tokyo. October 2005.

[Han and I rocked up to the back streets of the bar district during broad daylight - in my blue Silvia this time.

“Time to earn your ride, delivery boy.” He jutted his chin at the food cart parked a few metres ahead of us. “There’s the customer.” He bent down between his legs and picked up a white packet. “Here’s the grub.” He plonked it on my lap.

I shot him a suspicious look, spread the bag open, and peeked inside with the camera to find three white plastic bowls with clear covers littered with Japanese characters. “Tofu?”

Han turned away from me with a shrug and focused on the pair of graceful legs poking out from below the curtain. “Not what I would call it.”

I squinted and brought the box closer. “Wait, is this spe-!?”

“Tofu. You said it yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer doing this at night or something?”

“Police don’t look for drunks at mid-day.” Funnily enough, that was the same reason we were filming at this time, too. “I don’t pay you to ask questions.”

“You don’t pay me at all!”

“Get going.”

Contraband in hand, I approached and ducked under the yatai.

Neela greeted me with a sarcastic remark. “Seems like someone’s learned to turn a corner.”

“And maybe someone might wanna learn how to drive a little straighter.” I passed her the bag. She used a single slender finger to pry it open and confirmed the contents.

“Aww. So sweet, worried about me?” She was being facetious.

“Yes.” I wasn’t.

She looked taken aback. “Well…” her tone softened. “Don’t be. I have a strict soybean allergy.”

“Then why all this?”

“Debts don’t pay themselves. You think I do what DK tells me because I like him?”

“Then why not just ask Han? You and I both know he’d do it without a thought. For you especially.”

She reached over and pinched my cheek again. “That’s not clearing a debt, it’s shifting it. You’re not from here, so you don’t understand. In Japan we take responsibility for our own actions.” She slid from her stool and stood up. She pressed up against me. The camera zoomed for an extreme closeup of her lips ghosting over my ear. “Your reward only comes through your own risk.” And with that, she walked out.

I watched her retreat for a while, then readied to leave as well. A throat clearing caught my attention.

“Okane.” The cart owner had his hand out, waiting for payment.

She’d left without paying. Son of a bitch!]

Scene done, the crew wasted no time in packing up and shipping out before the authorities had any inkling we’d been here.

I was happy with the scene, but that last line of dialogue struck a chord with me and kept repeating in my head.

“My risk, my reward, huh?”

Anita’s Hotel Room, Tokyo. October 2005.

What a view.

Anita stood in front of her ceiling height window and just stared at the shimmering chaos of Tokyo’s skyline that blinded even the stars.

She tugged her bathrobe around her tighter and sighed.

When she’d started at Endeavor just a scant few years ago, she’d had big dreams. But like milk, when left out too long, sometimes it turned sour.

Straying hands, poison tongues, backbiting, and even a little frontbiting, if such a thing was possible. It was a lonely, stressful fight for survival.

There had come a point where, if Anita Specter wanted her name known as more than just another lowly mortal in the city of angels, she’d have to go more than just ankle deep in the mire of sleaze that was Hollywood.

Knock knock knock. “Room service!” Then he’d come into her life. Nothing was the same.

She marched to and opened her suite’s door. “Don’t insult the lovely housekeeping staff and their impeccable manners.”

There he was. Even cut shorter, his hair was stylishly ruffled. Those glittering green eyes that used to glance up at her so mischievously now pierced her head on. His full lips stretched across his sharp jaw into a smile wide enough that she could see her reflection in his bright white teeth. He always smiled at her. It never failed to make her warm.

When had her clever boy turned into this charming man? At least his cheeks were still a little chubby and ripe for a good pinch.

He whistled. “That’s some avant-garde style.” He pointed at the coiled towel drying her hair on her head. “Wrong part of Asia to wear a turban, though.”

He always ruined a wonderful moment by opening his mouth. “Get in here!”

As soon as the door shut, his feet were out of their shoes, off the floor, and hopping on the freshly made sheets of her once pristine bed.

“One more crease on my bed, Bas, and I swear I’ll cancel karaoke.” Immediately, he folded his legs and sat like a yogi; maybe she ought to make him a turban, too.

On second thought, no. She thought better of it. The little bastard would happily wear it out in public - immune to embarrassment as he was.

“Mind telling me why you’re here so early? We weren’t supposed to meet everyone for another hour.” Anita moved to the bathroom and began putting her face on.

“You see. I was thinking…” uh-oh. It wasn’t ever good when he did that.

“How many times have I told you to leave that to me? That’s my job, not yours.”

“Do you wanna hear me out? Or should I just go ahead and do what I want without filling anyone in?” Oh, and he’d do it, too. No such thing as an idle threat with Bas.

Her mascara done, she stomped back into the room and planted herself in front of him. “Lay it on me.”

“You know how I don’t have a morality clause in my contracts?” Well, wasn’t that just the most auspicious start to a conversation?

She felt one of her brows rise. “So, how exactly do you want to take advantage of that?”

“Not gonna ask if I’ve already done something insane?” Her Bas was stupid, but he wasn’t dumb.

“No. I trust you.” there’s that smile again.

He took a breath. Not even a blink, but something in his face changed. He looked…real. No mask.

“I want to do something that might put my current image in jeopardy.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t stay young forever. I’ve gotta admit, I’m scared that neither Goblet, the subsequent Harry Potter films, or even TD won’t get the reception I feel they deserve, and it’ll be my fault they don’t. The movies are growing up, but the image people have of me isn’t.”

It was strange seeing the effortlessly confident Bas Rhys so suddenly unsure of himself. “How precisely does the morality clause factor into this?”

“It’s my way of throwing a bucket of water on the collective awareness. Just look at Macaulay Culkin. You couldn’t turn the TV channel twice before catching something he was on when he was a kid.”

His train of thought was easily picked up. “But as he got older, the public couldn’t reconcile his new image, and now he does sh*tty little cameos and commercials.”

“I don’t want that to happen to me.” She didn’t see fear in him anymore. Just determination. “The only way I’m gonna die is mid-take; preferably during a sex scene.”

Nevermind.

“I hear you, Bas.”

“You’re on board?” She’d only give up the day he does.

She ran her fingers through his soft waves. “The only way you’re getting rid of me is if that scene is in a p*rno and not an Oscar bait movie.”

“Awesome! We’ll call Heyman and pen the deets when we get back home. For now, it’s time for karaoke!”

Ugh. “I don’t understand why you’re so eager. Besides Mariah Carey and some Celine Dion, the track list is all local. Your voice isn’t hitting those high notes.”

“We’re in Japan. Not hitting up a karaoke party is as much of a sin as skipping out on sushi. Plus, don’t worry, Keiko told me she’d help me pick songs with English in them. There’s this singer that she loves, Miki Matsubura.”

“Oh, yeah? I bet that singer isn’t the only thing she loves. No doubt she wants to help you.”

She shut the door, and they strolled down the hall. “Gotta get practice for those sex scenes somehow.” Yuck.

“Is it too late to back out of our deal?”

He laughed, snatched her hand, and raced them down the corridor. “I know just the song that’ll cheer you up.”

“Is this also by Miki whoever?”

“Yeah.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “It’s called Stay With Me.”

Chapter 33: Final-D

Chapter Text

DISCLAIMER

This chapter contains explicit sex with an adult woman.

Chapter 18X: Final-D

Universal Studios, LA. November 2005.

It wasn’t long after the aeroplane’s landing tyres kissed the tarmac at LAX’s runway that the tires of my personal blue Silvia S-15 were grinding sideways across the set for one of the last shoots for the movie.

I couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, a burst of excitement fizzing in my danglies, and even a quick brushstroke of melancholy as I caressed my thumb over the sleek leather of the steering wheel. Today was probably the last time I’d ever sit in this car.

Universal would have happily sold it to me had I asked. No sane business would deny themselves an opportunity to recoup costs.

But one conversation with Ben Wyatt sucked the petrol straight out of that engine.

Loathe as I was to debase myself by acquiescing to reason, my financial manager made some good points. I had no license yet. The car wasn’t even road legal in the states and was due to be shipped back to Japan, but most importantly, there wasn’t anywhere I was going to be driving that much until I finished Potter.

Whatever, I’d just buy it off of whichever granny had it collecting dust in her garage in a few years, if I still cared enough.

“Can you please not try to make my stomach flip this take?” Sonoya, the actress, dressed as Neela, the pro complained while nervously tapping her thumping chest from the passenger seat beside me. Guess my rapacious appetite for peril had rubbed off. Admirable, but stupid. I would know.

I glanced at the subtle flutter in her feet. “Aren’t hookers meant to have strong knees and tough tummies?”

“Oh, you want to see my guts? Keep driving the way you do, and I’ll make sure you see breakfast, lunch, dinner, and breakfast again.”

“Yummy.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated.

While Keiichi Tsuchiya, the original drift king, the real tofu delivery boy, was here, his cameo as a pier side fisherman wasn’t the only role he played. Generously, he’d shown me a few of his tricks.

I approached the corner with a speed that bordered on reckless, especially for the extras who had to jump out of the way. Their life, and my career, flashed before our eyes.

In quick succession, I flicked the steering wheel, Sonoya clutched the handlebar, and the car slid into oversteer. Silvia’s tyres squealed in protest as I powered through the asphalt of the fake Shibuya crossing.

Panicked faces reflected off the pristine body paint of the car alongside the towering green screen platforms surrounding us, reaching sixty feet high. Plate shots taken in Japan promised to transform this plastic Santa Fe set into a seamless recreation of the bustling Shibuya streets.

The car’s butt kicked out, and the G-forces kicked our butts as I controlled the car’s nose through the corner. I feathered the throttle and clutch as my feet danced on the pedals. With every twitch and tickle of my muscles, I forced the car to the edge of destruction.

Now, as much as I’d like to blow smoke up my tailpipe, I wasn’t alone in this rubber scented skate session.

My chase car was a slate grey mini-cooper with a Russian arm camera rig that filmed the entire journey. Unbalanced, but still just as poised as me. And neither could I fail to mention the driver tucked into a go-kart, catching us from low angles with a go-pro style camera attached to his helmeted noggin.

Not exactly rainbow road, but damned if I wasn’t in my version of Mario Kart.

As I reached the exit of the corner and shot frame, I eased off the accel and counter-steered till I went from Tokyo Drift to - much to my co-pilots relief - driving Ms Daisy.

The crowd erupted in cheers as I completed the drift, the sound of engines being replaced with cheering spectators echoing off the walls of the makeshift Shibuya crossing. With a grin, I glanced over at Sonoya, who gripped the edge of her seat with white-knuckled intensity. “What’s for lunch?”

The answer was nothing, since she stumbled out on wobbly legs without giving me an answer.

I stayed inside for a moment longer. I pressed myself back into the hard chair and ran my hand over the barebones dash. “Thanks.” Stepping out of the car and shutting the door behind me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of closure wash over me. And just like the car door shut with a thud, I shut the chapter on my time with Tokyo Drift. “See ya!”

Unce! Unce! Unce!

Every and any person who’d ever placed the soles of their new and expensive shoes over the threshold of a dingy nightclub’s suspiciously sticky floors would recognize the sound of a party in full swing.

I hadn’t done so for longer than I’d been alive, but I was having a great time pumping my fists in lieu of actually dancing with any iota of rhythm.

The film was a wrap, and it was time for a faux Shibuya block party.

Vin Diesel’s presence was fuel to the fire. We’d somehow turned an impromptu cameo scene courtesy of those from up on high at Universal into a high octane bash.

Guess Universal had indeed found an equitable way of getting rid of Riddick.

Sung Kang was on fire still, but this time, he was burning up the dance floor rather than in his upturned wreck. Cast and crew alike were sipping on cerveza and tucking into tacos from the truck that’d been added to the lineup of vehicles. Precious few others would work so hard so far past midnight, but still such a long hike away from dawn.

No complaints from me, though. A perfectly crunchy and pocket sized bite of heat in hand only added to the already sweltering press of bodies.

And such a lovely body it was.

Her movements were fluid and mesmerizing, drawing me in with every sway of her hips. As she danced closer, our bodies moved in sync, the heat between us palpable in the crowded room.

Her hair whipped back and forth as she moved, a sensual dance that mirrored the pulsating beat of the music. I couldn’t help but be captivated by her, losing myself in her rhythm.

As she pressed up on me, I traced her soft but firm figure on my fingers. Her silky smooth skin was slick with sweat, but I couldn’t even smell a hint of that sweet odor on her.

I leaned in closer. Her breath hitched as my lips tickled the line of her jaw. I inhaled, but all I got was a lungful of shampoo. I didn’t get a hint of her essence, even when she lifted her arm to pull me in for a kiss.

She tasted like lime instead of beer.

No Asian flush. She wasn’t drunk in the least. Neither of us had been indulging.

The longer she squirmed all over me, the longer I grew, too. Let’s just say I had three fists pumping in the air.

Let me fill you in on a little secret about me - I didn’t enjoy pulling out. As I felt Bas junior ensconced so safely between Keiko’s deceptively pert cheeks, I wanted to remain there as long as possible. Only issue was, as far as pulling out went, the hard stuff was coming out now.

Unsurprisingly, a Hollywood party wasn’t complete without copious consumption of hard liquor and harder drugs.

Not my scene now, before, or ever. It was time to skedaddle.

“Hey, I think it’s best we leave.” Her neck flinched as my warm breath blew in her ear.

“You do? I thought big American parties only end when the police come.”

I held her jaw and turned her to face the hotbox situation happening inside the hulk-mobile. “At the rate they’re going, that’s gonna happen, eventually. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, and you’ve got societal standards to adhere to.”

“I thought it smelled like cheap shu mai.” I almost kissed her nose when she scrunched it.

“C’mon.” I interlocked our fingers and urged her out of the set. I texted the driver Cadbury had assigned for my conveyance - because obviously I wasn’t here without permission. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel.”

“Probably for the best. I have a flight back to Japan tomorrow… or today?”

We giggled as we cozily trampled down the hall of her hotel. Hopefully, the doors were thick enough that we didn’t disturb any of the other guests.

She slotted in her key card, and the door unlocked with a beep and a click.

Before she could swan in, I leaned on the door frame, snatched her hand, and pulled her in for another kiss.

“Mmm!” I felt two somethings poke my chest. I knew if my hands were free, I’d be unable to resist tuning into Tokyo.

We pulled apart with a moist squelch of our lips. I swallowed her satisfied sigh. “I’m gonna miss you.” Even more than the car.

Her brows twisted, head tilted, and puffy lips pouted. “Planning on going somewhere?”

“Home?”

“No.” She faced me and walked deeper into the room.

“What about your flight?” My feet shuffled in without me saying so.

“Why sleep now when I can sleep on the plane?” The door shut behind me and her shirt rose in front of me. Those boyish clothes hid something so very feminine. Perky and petite. I couldn’t resist even if I wanted to. Like gingerbread crumbs, she laid pieces of her clothing on the floor like a trail. “Come.” I bet we would.

My ass hurt. The narrow porcelain lip of the bathtub I was perched on dug uncomfortably into my keester. But I didn’t dare move.

“Oh fu-!” My back curled without my input in response to Keiko driving my member deeper inside of her hot, salivating, writhing mouth. One hand and leg scrambled across the bath wall, as I desperately sought purchase or grip to keep me from tipping over. Though, as I threw my head back and moaned in pleasure, I felt it a futile effort.

The sloppy sloshing of her eager lips pistoning wetly over, under, across, and all around my beyond erect penis was arguably the best fellati* I’d ever received.

She was on her knees in the half filled tub. Our rampant love long ago flooded the floors with overflow.

My other hand held the bun of her hair tight. I pushed and pulled at the silky black tresses, encouraging her to keep pumping her heavenly mouth.

Her elbows rested on my flexing thighs. One hand expertly cradled, caressed, and clasped my balls. The other arm wrapped around my waist to pull me in - or rather draw herself even rougher into me.

I traced the droplets of moisture on her defined back and rippling rear. They journeyed all over her alabaster satin skin till they collected like a dollop of honey on the crinkled nipples of her swaying breasts.

I wanted so much to pinch them, roll them, suck them, and worship them.

But she had me paralyzed in pleasure with each and every hollow cheeked inhale of my penis. “Ke-Keiko, I’m gonna-!”

I felt her nails claw at the small of my back. I felt the head of my dick be swallowed by the undulating flesh of her throat as she slammed her face all the way down my shaft till her nose poked into my trimmed bush.

Glurgkh! She choked me down and wriggled her head like an animal. “Aah!” I shivered. I curled even more when pulses of euphoria throbbed over my body.

Keiko slowly, sensually, with a tight seal around my co*ck, pulled her head back. A loud pop revealed my spit soaked rod.

My breath shuddered. I rushed to catch my breath in the aftermath of my climax.

Keiko looked at me. She opened her mouth wide. Every drop of sem*n I shot into her pooled inside of her mouth as her tongue greedily wriggled, and savoured my flavour with every taste bud.

She closed her mouth; she scrunched her pretty eyes in effort and gulped audibly. Once again, she opened up. Empty. The opposite of my now suddenly very full balls.

“I love natto.” I don’t know if she meant the soy based Japanese breakfast item, or if she was saying nut in her accented English.

Either way - I slid back into the tub, she clambered over me, her plush thighs trapping me between them, and she speared her drenched puss* on my spit-shined erection - I’d give her as much natto as she wanted, wherever she wanted.

Chapter 34: Hard Pressed

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Hard Pressed

Leicester Square, London, UK. November 2005

Fame held a hell of a lot of advantages. The money in relation to the effort - at least when you get as lucky as I did, or are the product of nepotism - is fairly unbeatable. As I grow older, I personally was thankful for the women, too. But I’m vehemently not a fan of fame, for fame’s sake.

The Kardashian model of clout, as a poignant example, didn’t suit me. And neither does the pointless exercise that is the red carpet premiere.

The world around me seemed determined to induce some form of epilepsy in me through the combination of flashing lights, shuttering cameras, and the irritatingly vapid nattering of nasally gossip mongers with mics.

“Your smile is falling.” Came the loin-stirringly delicious voice of my date tonight, Gemma Arterton.

The sting of Keiko’s return to Japan was lessened by my reunion with Gemma. You’ve no doubt heard of attention deficit hyperactive disorder, more colloquially referred to as ADHD. Well, it seemed I’d developed or contracted a more specific strain of the syndrome - attention deficit f*ckboy disorder.

“I can’t help it. My cheeks hurt.” I fixed my smile to be a bit brighter, intoning my complaint through my clenched teeth.

Gemma shifted her position slightly, the arm not currently locked with my own, raised up and rested itself lightly on my lapel. She raised her knee, parting the slit in her silky black dress, to reveal her gorgeously toned leg.

Poor manners on her part, showing off my dinner like that.

She, herself, wasn’t interested in smiling. Her face vacillated between different levels of sexy pouting as she shifted her gaze from one flashing camera to the next. Clearly, someone knew their favourite angle, and wanted each publication to receive it.

Just like the rest of the cast I was inevitably going to run into, tonight was the first time I was seeing her in months. Zoom doesn’t exist yet, and Skype is far worse than you remember. I wanted to take her to the New York premiere in a few days too, but she was in the midst of filming her very first major role with the BBC (alongside Maggie Smith, funnily enough), and so didn’t have the luxury of jet-setting around the globe with me.

Either way, I’d make the most of our brief time together.

“You should’ve smoldered like I suggested. It takes far fewer muscles on your face.”

Out of respect for general decorum, I’d held myself back quite a bit. Her dress was very backless, and tantalizingly risqué. I figured a little payback for her cheek was in order. I untangled my arm from hers and tucked it behind her upper back. She side-eyed me questioningly. I just continued to smile and wave.

Luckily for my hormone induced shenanigans, there was very little space between our backs and the giant movie poster with my face plastered on it, so no cameras would pick up my teasing.

I began at her shoulder blades. My fingers licked their way down her spine, a river of gooseflesh following in their wake, until I reached the hemline of her dress just over the cleft of her buttocks. She had two cute little dimples there that I proceeded to tickle.

A low growl rumbled in the back of her throat. She shifted in what seemed like discomfort, but I knew far more intimately to be her telltale signs of arousal. Looks like someone had a slight exhibitionist streak in them.

The hand resting on my chest tightened, and she pressed her nails into my skin as a warning.

Better than doing what I really wanted to and slide my finger down the crack of that ass - it took every ounce of restraint in me to not do precisely that.

“Let’s let someone else get a turn for photos, shall we?” I put some pressure on where my hand was resting, and guided her down the red carpet.

She leaned into me, turned her mouth up towards my ear and whispered, “You’ll very much be paying for that tonight.” Her voice was warm and breathy.

“Promise?” I wanted to make it hot and sweaty.

I scanned around the area to see who else had arrived. Felton had just pulled up with a couple of the other guys, like Radcliffe and Alfie Enoch (the actor for Dean Thomas) and were being actively manhandled by fans.

I saw Pattinson posing for pictures in an eye-wateringly garish red velvet jacket. I don’t know if he’d woken up from a nap, or just got done f*cking, but that guy’s hair was a mess.

It was both a blow and reprieve for my ego that I wasn’t the only young man on the cast actively generating interest of the carnal variety. All those push-ups before the shirtless scene in the prefect’s bath, and the towel scene with Konishiki, and I could have just as easily gotten the same frothing response from my raving fans with a pair of glasses instead.

“Searching for someone in particular?” Gemma asked.

“My two little minions.” I’d missed them more than I’d realized and the incredibly infrequent phone conversations of five-minute catch-ups weren’t satisfactory in filling that hole.

I’m not sure how my poor delicate heart could take the separation at the end of the series. What I knew was that if they didn’t weep for me, I’d be more heartbroken than anything.

“Why? Worried they might get swallowed up by the crowd?” She teased.

“No, the rabid fans are manageable. I’m more concerned they’ll get trapped by the sleazebags who run this operation.”

“LA isn’t good for you, Bas. It’s corrupting your way of thinking. We’re in the heart of London, and the British, for all our faults, are far more concerned with keeping up appearances than Americans are. Never know when royalty might pop in, so we keep to our best behaviour.” She jokingly admonished, but there was definitely a sense of ‘stay close,’ in her undertone.

“As long as they don’t send over Prince Andrew.” I finally spotted Emma and Rupert. “Found them.”

“And not a moment too soon.” She pointed out their awkward body language; Emma was self consciously rubbing her arm, while even the ever jovial Rupert was frowning. “What in the world is that reporter asking them?”

“Only one way to find out. He better hope his insurance covers the damage I’m about to do.” I strode over urgently and inserted myself into the conversation. “Why the long faces guys? Getting detention?”

Have you ever met a relative or close friend after a really long time? It never mattered how bloodshot your eyes were, or how unbrushed your teeth would be after spending hours traveling. The moment you met them again, both would be shining brighter than the fluorescent lights at the airport arrival hall.

Though, of course, some cologne drenched douchebag gormlessly gawking with a camera always had to get in the way.

“We’re getting lucky tonight!” The middle-aged, and clearly American, reporter hollered out flamboyantly. He rudely turned his back to us and addressed the camera instead. “All three stars of the Harry Potter movies are here to answer our burning questions!”

While he was blabbering away at the camera, I turned to my two co-stars and raised my eyebrows in inquiry.

Emma had saddled up right next to me and reached for my free arm while Rupert sandwiched her from the other side. Emma pursed her lips and shook her head, refusing to answer, so I looked to Rupert, who mouthed the word ‘perv’.

I squeezed out from both girl’s grip, handed Emma off to Gemma, who graciously tucked her into her shoulder. “Are you actually going to bother asking us a question?”

The reporter immediately turned around and thrust the mic in my face. The E! Channel - should’ve known. “This is Jerry Penacoli with E! How’s Harry Potter feeling tonight?”

“You could call me by my real name. Do you know it?” My face and tone were as innocent as I could be bothered to affect; my intent, however, was clearly hostile.

“How couldn’t we? Bas Rhys himself!” I’d have been less irritated by the response had he not pronounced it ‘Bass Rice’, as if I was an item on a nearby restaurant’s menu. I’d done a few interviews over the years, and by this point, was a household name. The correct ‘Baz Reese’ pronunciation of my name was well known.

“Not quite right, I’m afraid. But ‘e’ for effort.”

“Don’t you mean ‘a’ for effort?”

“No.” I heard the three snickering behind me.

A lack of shame and general disregard for personal space proved to be a potent co*cktail. His mic practically shoved itself down my throat. “Word on the street is that Harry Potter’s been racing cars around Japan. What’s more exciting, that or brooms?”

I’d better dig through Cadbury’s bag for the small bottle of hand sanitizer. The slime on this guy’s fingers threatened to stain my hand as I pushed the mic away from my face. “Before we get to my question, I think I interrupted your interview with my two co-stars. Why don’t you repeat that particular set of questions for me?”

“Oh, well, Emma and I were just having a little girl talk! She’s really started filling out her dresses so the boys must be absolutely throwing themselves at her.” …did this fifty-year-old man really just ask that of a fifteen-year-old girl?

“Are you, as an adult in an extremely public setting, asking a teen girl if she’s sexually active?” I knew I was exaggerating a bit; but honestly, the question wasn’t that far off and there’s little point providing pervs with mercy.

“No! Nothing that invasive!” He floundered for a moment. “It’s just that she’s a budding young woman, and many of her fans are curious about how she might be dealing with the attention.” He tried to explain.

“... budding?” I made to corner the old lech, “as in breasts budding?” I felt Emma’s leg impact my calf. It was a good thing the camera would only show us from the waist up. “Did you bother asking Rupert the same thing?”

“About breasts!?” The reporter was clearly getting flustered and blurted out. “Wai-!” he tried, realizing what he just implied.

“No, about his armpit hair. What do you think?” I butted in again.

“He didn’t!” Rupert chimed in. Someone else was finally getting in on the joke with me. “I bought hair gel and everything. He didn’t even care!” My man.

I looked back. Both the kids had swapped out their aggrieved expressions for a more amused mien.

The reporter, on the other hand, was suddenly very wooden. “H-how about we ignore that question then and I ask something more agreeable?”

I studied him for a moment. Do I do the polite thing and relax? Nah. “On your website, you people have a countdown, don’t you?” They weren’t the only ones, but I decided to make an example. “Of when we each become legal.” I clarified.

He shut up for the first time. He knew they did and couldn’t contradict.

“I’m not inclined to give an interview to someone so eager to molest my teenage friends.” I turned away without another word while fixing my cuffs… I’d probably also have to check the back of my trousers later for footprints, too.

I extended my arm out and Emma latched on and entwined her fingers in mine. I looked to Gemma, and gestured towards Rupert, getting the clue she sauntered over to him and locked arms. She whispered something to him while fixing his dinner jacket. Given that he rubbed the back of his head and blushed as red as his hair, he was clearly pleased.

“Thanks.” Emma said, finding her lost voice. “I was struggling to answer his questions while still remaining cordial.”

“Why were you wasting your energy on a wanker like that?”

“That’s what my publicist tells me to do. She says it’s good for my image.” She sighed out.

“We need to find you a new one, then.” Bottom-feeders don’t enjoy swimming with sharks. Anita wasn’t liable to give Emma such sh*t advice.

“Don’t pretend you know what you’re doing.” She bantered back. “For the foreseeable future, I’m going to have to look out for articles mentioning me and armpit hair in the same sentence!” She almost yelled in scandal. I laughed. Their voices felt like home.

Chapter 35: Grint Chocolate Chip

Chapter Text

Chapter 19.5: Grint Chocolate Chip

WB Offices London, UK. December 2005.

Was there a curse on the movies or something? Rupert couldn’t help but have that thought as he shook the new director’s hand. “Nice to meet you, David Yates.” Were they going to have another major production change after two more movies? Ay-yay-yay.

Cuaron was great. He was creative and set the standard, but Rupert understood that the creative types had itchy feet and took off running the moment they got a fresh new pair of fleets.

Money wasn’t a good motivator after you’d already made it for people like him.

“Great to have you on board.” Rupert glanced at his two co-stars, welcoming the fresh addition to the team. He caught Bas’ eyes as Emma politely shook Yate’s hand. He didn’t know how the guy kept up these charades. Bas looked pointedly at him and jerked his head at Yates. And Rupert hated how he’d been dragged into Bas’ schmoozery, too.

But friends were friends. Sometimes you just listen to the guy with the idea and hope for the best.

“I really liked The Girl in the Cafe.” He’d said it blunter than a sledgehammer and laid it out thicker than pig sh*t, but Yate’s smile, Bas’ wink, and Emma’s approving nod probably meant he did it right.

In truth, he enjoyed the movie. Out of the three of them Emma was busier, burying her nose in her textbooks and huffing the benzene, and Bas had very little interest in television films. So the axe fell on Rupert’s ginger head to watch and compliment their new director’s most recent work.

“That’s very kind of you, Rupert. I’m rather proud of it myself - which I should be. It got me this job after all!” Rupert knew his smile was about as genuine as Yates’ laugh. Bas’ smirk wasn’t half as nice as his own, though. Rupert could practically hear his bud’s eyes straining not to roll behind Yates’ back. “Mr Heyman was effusive in his praise for my nuanced storytelling and atmosphere creation. He said that our franchise was ideal for my creative lens.” Rupert smirked right back at Bas when Yates suddenly turned around and made his nervous appeal to the others. Bas had immediately schooled his expression and nodded along jovially.

“Then I just might need to check it out if Grint likes it.” Bloke could bloody well act when he wanted to, couldn’t he? But with the way he was hamming it up now, they’d have to do a retake for sure.

What a liar he was, though. He’d never watch that movie. Bas had confided in him why he thought Yates had been brought on.

According to Bas, while his work was probably alright, Yates was more likely brought on because the studio was sure that the Harry Potter franchise is so big that the director’s name doesn’t matter anymore. So they chose a guy who can sort of mimic Cuaron’s aesthetic on the cheap and who can also work on a tight timeframe.

His mate could be pretty mean spirited. Must be all that time in Hollywood rubbing off on him.

Rupert felt his expression falter a little at that thought. He brought his hands around his back and clenched his hands. He knew it wasn’t fair - blaming Bas for the opportunities he gets versus the one Rupert had.

It was almost funny if the joke wasn’t at his expense. Both he and Bas had gotten movies filmed from behind the wheel of a car - practically at the same time as well. Yet, while his was a quaint little indie filmed at home. Bas had his turn racing a car down the crowded streets of Tokyo.

At least his would come out months before the Hollywood hullabaloo swallowed all the air in the room.

“Lovely to meet you all. You kids run along, now. Plenty of work to be done before we get you back in front of cameras.”

Just the lights and action missing. That was probably it, huh?

Rupert loved what he’d done, sure, but which one sounded like the bigger blockbuster? Driving Lessons or Tokyo Drift?

A clammy hand slapped wetly on his forehead. “Are you feeling ill, Rupert? You’ve been rather quiet.” Emma seriously needed to go see a doctor. Why did she sweat so damn much?

“M’fine.” He grabbed her wrist and pried her hand away. “And keep these juicy sausages away from my face, thanks. I just got rid of my spots.”

Haw! Affronted, Emma snatched her hand back and gasped. “Boys are the worst! Show them even a bit of compassion and they scratch like frightened cats. Hmph! See if I ever ask after your health again.”

“Lay off him.” Bas held her wrists and started waving her hands about as she tried to tug them away. “He’s probably just worried about the films.”

That was scarily on-point.

“It’s literally Mr Yates’ first day, give him a chance at least.” Emma, by this time, had stopped tugging away and tried to smear her hands on Bas instead.

“That too.” He easily and playfully continued to fend her off. “His other movie comes out soon, as well.”

It was frustrating. How do you stay cross with someone when they get you? At least let a bloke stew in anger for five minutes before you knock him off the stove.

“Not to mention he’s only got Julie Walters to take as a date to the premiere.”

Oi! Rupert demanded the immediate return of the good feelings he had in his heart. “Keep talking, and I’ll stick you in a frock and heels. Then we’ll see who’s my date.”

“Only if you promise to buy dinner first.”

“Aren’t you two just the most progressive young men in Britain?”

“I don’t think we’re stealing that feather crown from Elton John anytime soon.” Rupert heard his own laughter join theirs.

“Take it easy, rocket man. The movie’ll do great, don’t worry.”

Rupert knew he was two years older than him, but truthfully, Bas’ effortless charm really made him feel like an older brother sometimes. Who else could get you in and kick you out of the doldrums so easily?

Emma twisted and somehow entangled herself in Bas’ arms. He held her closer. “I prefer tiny dancer.”

She’d never been shy, Emma, but recently Rupert had noticed she’d been eager for more contact with Bas. Another insecurity to add to the list he had hidden away in the back of his mind, Rupert thought. Hermione seemed more into Harry than Ron these days, even if the books and scripts said otherwise.

Now that he thought about it, she’d been like this since around the pool party last summer, maybe.

And there were all those barmy rumours about Bas sneaking away with Gemma. Sure, they’d attended Goblet’s screening together, but that didn’t mean they’d done anything, did it?

Too many gum flapping gossipers these days.

“Alright guys, I’ll catch you soon. I’ve got my meeting with Jo now.”

See? Bas had been having these behind closed doors rendezvous with JK Rowling for years now. Soon enough there’d be even more sh*t slinging at Bas and how he’s being ensnared by Rowling. Like the incident where he broke his arm - some nosey newsy would report how Bas did it at her urging in a few years.

Bas was crazy. But not quite so far round the bend.

“But you haven’t even given us our souvenirs from Japan yet!” Emma complained. She was right - someone had promised Rupert a samurai sword. And he sure as sushi wasn’t slashing one around his room so far. “You promised you’d get me original copies of Sawako Ariyoshi books.”

“And my Katana!”

“Yes, yes. I’ve got all your gifts wrapped and ready. You’ll find them under your trees at Christmas. Now if you’ll excuse me, I also need to listen to Jo asking me for things.”

“Actually, Bas. Before you disappear.” Rupert stopped him from leaving. “I’d actually like to talk to JK before you both barricade yourselves.”

“Oh? What about?” Rupert averted his friend’s concerned stare. How do you tell someone you’re jealous of them and resentful of their success?

“It’s a bit private, mate. I just want to talk about Ron with her.” Because if Rupert caved and brought the issue to Bas, he knew he’d hear the right things and be given the best solutions.

But sometimes a man needs to solve his own problems.

“... Fine then, keep your secrets. C’mon Watson, let’s go see if we can’t sleuth out some snacks.” He chucked his arm over her shoulder and dragged Emma away, who no doubt had her own questions plaguing the forefront of her overactive mind. “And tell Jo I’ll be there in thirty; that enough time for you?”

“That’s perfect, mate. Thanks.”

He’d been inside a hundred times before, but Rupert didn’t know why the door to JK Rowling’s office felt like an impenetrable portcullis today.

Get it together, Grint. It’s just another conversation. Deep breath, knob turned, and greeting called. “Hello?”

“Finally, you’re here!” Something told Rupert JK hadn’t seen just who’d entered her domain. Probably the precarious pile of teetering papers on her desk she had her head hidden behind.

“It’s Ru-”

“That’s a wonderful anecdote, dear boy, but we really must be getting to work. Now, first off, I’m having a hell of a time cluing Neil on the significance of Phineas without giving away the whole gag. And I know, I know what you’re going to say, but it doesn’t mean I can’t bitch a little.”

“No, I’m no-”

“Oh, very well. On to more pertinent topics. Do you remember that girl I told you about? The one with the eating disorder in the hospital who I’ve made a bit of a penpal of? Well, she’s been recovering splendidly over the last few months and has recently intimated that she’d like to audition for the role of Luna Lovegood. I, of course, encouraged her fully, but I’d hoped you might take some time and sit in on her casting. Perhaps read a scene with her? I know you’d make her feel comfortable and I’m sure she’d be well suited to the part.”

She sure loved to talk, didn’t she? Only one foot in the door and Rupert felt his ears ready to fall off.

Bas really wasn’t kidding when he said she’d want him to do things. Help with the screenplay, help with the casting; god only knows what else. How many bloody hats did the mad lad have to wear?

“Er… I’m not Bas.” Her head popped out, her eyes nearly followed suit.

“Rupert! When did you get here? Where did Bas go?”

“I’ve been here the whole time, Bas was- nevermind. Do you have a mo’? There’s something I wanted to talk about.”

“Say no more. I did say my door was always open.” She circled her desk, put a comforting hand on Rupert’s shoulder, and guided them to the softer chairs surrounding the coffee table. “So. What’s got your goat?”

“It’s about Ron. I’m just struggling some with his character.” Rupert shied away from her penetrating gaze, choosing instead to focus on his twiddling fingers.

He couldn’t see her face, but he caught her shifting one leg over the other. “What aspect of it?”

“I just…. don’t understand his role anymore. Why does Harry need him? Why does Hermione need him? Why does the story need him? What’s the point?”

Rupert plucked up the courage to look up. Rowling was looking at him with narrowed eyes and a hand stroking her jaw. “Rupert, do you remember the first three movies? Their scripts?”

He nodded, “yeah ‘course.”

“Then you must remember how many of your lines were changed from the books. Kloves asked me the same questions you did.” Rupert had no doubt, the original screenwriter really didn’t like the character, they all knew that. “Do you know what my answer was? If he’s so unimportant, why do you keep feeding his moments to Hermione?”

Well, when you put it like that… “I guess my question does sound silly, huh?”

“Not at all. I’ll be honest with you, dear, as long as you’re honest with me. Is this about Ron or is this about Rupert?”

Rupert’s eyes immediately darted back to his fidgety digits. “Bas casts a long shadow.” Rupert didn’t know why, but that felt both good and horrid to admit.

Hmm. “Do you know why?”

If he did, Rupert wouldn’t be here. “Nuh-uh.”

“It’s because he puts himself out there more than anyone else. That, and he’s more than a little insane. Unfortunately for you, you’re a bright young man with a good head on his shoulders.”

Did she slap his face or caress it? Either way, Rupert was confused. “Then what do I do?”

“What you’ve already been doing. Working hard. As far as I can tell, you’re doing more for your career than just about anyone else. You’re still young Rupert. You’ll find your edge.”

“And Bas?”

“Don’t play with naked blades. You’ll only cut yourself.”

It was strange. Somehow, knowing that Bas was the problem and not Rupert made him feel better.

Welp. Time to go swing his own sword.

Chapter 36: I’m Not a Businessman. I’m a Business, Man!

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: I’m Not a Businessman. I’m a Business, Man!

Dunshire Equities, LA. January 2006

“I thought you had a heart full of gold! I was wrong! All you have is a mind full of asses!”

Anita Specter, my agent and personal attack shark, had turned her teeth against me.

What I assumed was meant to be a start of the year business meeting with my inner circle ended up being an ambush. No more late night meetings. I’m making sure from now on they’d be during the day and in public spaces.

I tried to defend myself, but even years of martial arts weren’t able to stop Anita’s relentless barrage on my body with a rolled-up magazine.

“Ow! Woman, stop!” I attempted to shield myself, but she was too quick for me.

“You’re a butthead! That’s all you are! A butthead, you hear me!?” she wailed while unleashing the fury of teen vogue upon me. I have to give it up to her though - even in her rage, she kept her mind on the job. She didn’t strike my face - our collective moneymaker - even once. What a pro. I’m glad I hired her.

I threw myself on the couch, used a cushion as a barrier against Anita, and beseeched Ben Wyatt, my financial manager. “Help! Man down!”

“Don’t even bother. You deserve every bit of that.” He abandoned me, not even bothering to call the police. He just reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table strewn with empty pizza boxes, official-looking papers, and, much to my dawning horror, a pile of more entertainment magazines. “Just take your punishment. Then maybe we can try to talk some sense into you.” He poured himself a double, loosened his tie, and leaned back to watch the show.

“But what did I even do!?” I begged for a little context. I’d done plenty that deserved this beating. I just needed to know what specifically, so that I didn’t walk myself into another one that was completely unrelated.

“This!” Her weapon was chucked at me and unfurled. ‘Playboy Potter?’ stamped across the front cover of the magazine with three pictures of me with three different women.

Emma clinging to me at the red carpet, Keiko cozying up to me between takes, and most worryingly me dancing with Gemma on set.

“Ooohh…”

“oOohH” Anita mockingly imitated. Ben snorted through his nose at that.

“How’d they even get the one with Gemma?” I questioned.

“That’s your take away from this?” Anita scolded. “You’re more concerned with the mystery of how someone snuck a celebrity photo, rather than the fact that you put yourself in that position to begin with?”

“Well… yeah? Tokyo Drift notwithstanding, it was a closed set at Leavesden. I don’t understand how anyone got in.”

“Movie studios aren’t airports, security isn’t that tight.” She stole the magazine back, flipped to the article, and pushed back into my grip. “And what’s this about a pool party?”

I read through the paragraph speculating about an unsanctioned party I made happen. The grainy photos of Gemma on my back didn’t help. “This sounds a lot more salacious than it really was. We were just hanging out. I don’t see what the big deal is.” I tried to brush it off.

Mercifully, nothing concrete about me shacking up with either Gemma or Keiko. I’d be in serious trouble then. I guess the security team wasn’t totally useless.

“You think we don’t know about Arterton or the Asian? Cadbury goes everywhere you do, butthead.” My snoopy nanny shifted uncomfortably at Anita’s proclamation, revealing her indiscretion. “That cougar popped your cherry like a bad pimple.”

Ben spat out his drink.

“Cougar!? She’s only like four years older than me.” First physical abuse and now verbal; I clutched the cushion to my chest.

“You weren’t quite as careful as you think, Mr Rhys.” Cadbury inserted herself into the conversation. “I’ve had to intercede on your behalf multiple times since last summer, not always successfully, I should add. Ms Watson is aware of your clandestine affair with Ms Arterton.”

“How!? When!?” I panicked. My eyes shifted while I searched my memory, but I only saw images of jiggling flesh."... Where?

“She endeavored to hunt you down for her regularly scheduled tutoring session, as you were running late.” Cadbury clarified. “She caught you in flagranti in your dressing room. I, of course, extracted a promise of secrecy to which she acceded out of respect for your personal privacy.”

“Okay, fine. So maybe I had relations with Gemma.” Anita brandished her weapon again, “Yes, fine! Keiko too - you knew that already.” I pointed to my photo with Emma, “but I certainly didn’t do anything with her!”

“Not yet, you mean.” Anita was not letting me off the hook at all. She knew me too well. “Emma clearly has a thing for you.”

“Really?” I pursed my lips, averted my eyes, and scratched my cheek.

“Your ignorance rings false, Mr Rhys.” Cadbury helped.

“And then there’s that other girl you’ve been mooning at… the French one. Their breakfast comprises cigarettes, coffee, and coitus.” Anita continued with casual racism. “Are you telling me you’d say no to either of them?”

“I’m an orphan, so Oliver Twist taught me everything I know. When I’m offered a bowl of food, I don’t sit satisfied. I say ‘please may I have some more.‘“

Anita shoved her face into her hands, sighed, and flopped onto the couch beside me. She turned to me and looked so sad. I found my cheeks squished between her hands. “You used to be so sweet, so innocent…”

I gasped in shock, “you take that back! I never was!”

“No… no, I suppose you weren’t. But at least you pretended in public.” She hooked her arm around my neck and tucked me under her shoulder in a hug. “Understand something, Bas. You have to be more responsible for the way you behave - at least where people can see you.” She began explaining, without violence this time. “You, especially, have to be incredibly cautious; your audience is children, teens, and their mothers. Even a photo of you holding hands with a girl might as well be a full-blown sex tape to these people.”

“Uniqlo isn’t happy about this either.” Ben chose to pile on. “The Golden Trio is the face of their merchandise line of clothing and accessories. They’ve expressed their considerable disappointment and have urged me to ensure you understand the value your ‘idol’ status holds in their part of the world. Nothing is allowed to tarnish that; they don’t want you to be seen dating anyone at all, because you’d lose attainability to the average consumer.”

“That’s f*cking crazy, man.” I couldn’t help but retort. I wasn’t planning on living my life by the rigid standard of conservative Japanese propriety.

“I don’t disagree.” Ben commiserated. “But it’s your own money you’re fighting against.”

“Puberty is the likely explanation for it, but as it stands, it’s clear that women are your vice,” Anita spoke.

“We all have our faults.” I had to justify my embarrassment somehow.

“Which is simultaneously the least harmful to your personal health, yet also arguably the most damaging to your public standing.” Anita finished.

“Better than drugs, booze, or clout addiction.” Ben added with a tip of his glass in my direction.

“Thank y-“

Ben threw back his shot. “And you seem to like the older ladies; not being a pedo is good too. Lord knows we have too many of those in this part of the world.” C’mon man.

“Orphans and mommy issues. Makes total sense.” Anita teased.

“You people need to chill! Give me a break already.”

“In my many decades of being an au pair, I have worked for several wealthy and influential families. Each of whom has had deep dark secrets that I shan’t share. A majority of them were sexual in nature - as they very much tend to be,” Cadbury suddenly piped up. All three of our heads immediately swung in her direction as she began her bizarre speech. “Mr Rh - Bas - has always been a precocious sort, and I feared his psychosexual development would be too early, which is why I added parental blocks to all of his media and internet capable electronics.”

“That was you!?”

“Evidently, this proved ineffectual, and he has carried on regardless. As such, I feel it is my responsibility to suggest what I have personally experienced to be the most surefire answer to our current predicament. We do what every deviant with a need for privacy and the means to achieve it has done since time immemorial, and get him a mistress. Someone hired specifically to take care of his carnal attention, while disguised as someone innocuous, such as a secretary or personal assistant of some sort.”

Jaws were on the floor.

“That works?” I couldn’t believe Anita was even considering this. It was only a couple of casual relationships!

“I can assure you it most certainly does.” Cadbury stated matter-of-factly.

“L-lets keep that on the back burner. At least let my hormones settle.” I shot the idea down. I’m a pervert sure, but damned if I’m going to feed myself that level of degeneracy.

… Maybe Anita was right. I am a butthead.

I’d better switch topics before we dove even deeper into this rabbit hole straight to hell. “Now that we’ve sorted that, let’s get down to business.”

Ben, finally feeling like I’d taken as much of a pummeling as I’d deserved, decided to throw me a bone.

“Good idea. I’d like to go home for once.”

“Excellent! Then let’s make this quick, use any liquid cash I have to short the American housing market starting next year.” I ordered.

Ben stopped short, poured himself another double, swallowed it down, and collapsed in his seat. “I guess I’m sleeping here tonight.”

“Can he even do that?” Anita asked Ben, unsure of the details, but clearly aware that, from her perspective, I was asking for something ridiculous.

Little did they know.

“He can. No way I’m letting it happen, though. Bas, what you’re asking is insane, you don’t bet against the winning horse. The housing market and mortgage-backed securities are the single most reliable and secure investment instrument in existence. I’m not letting you flush your money away.”

“You said something similar when I made you put money into my other investments. As far as you’ve summarized in my financial statements, they seem to be doing pretty damn well.”

“Playing Devil’s advocate is part of my job so that you understand the risks of anything you do with your money. I never fought you on your decisions before this because they made sense to me. Your face sells merch, so you buy into the company that makes it. You have a career in movies, so you also buy into a company that distributes them. Those are sound and viable. What you want to do now, it’s not sensible.” He ranted.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Ben. You’ll put my money where I tell you to.”

“Or what? You’ll fire me and find someone else who will?” Clearly, the booze was affecting him.

“No.” I stated. “You have my back and I trust that. All I’m asking is for you to trust me, too.”

Ben immediately deflated. “Damn it.” He breathed out. “Fine, if you’re gonna make me do this, I’m going to detail everything you stand to lose.”

Ben stood, went behind his desk, pulled out a file - presumably a summary of my assets - and brought it to the table. “You basically pissed away the salary from your first movie, and Love, Actually was chump change - 350K in earnings. So we’ll start with Potter two. 3 million dollars for that was your salary. You were required to contribute 15% of your salary to the Coogan security fund, allocate 17% of your salary for taxes, which includes all the back end accounting I had to do to minimize it, pay 10% to CAA and Anita as your agency, and I receive another 10% as my fee - making it a total of 52%. Your end of day take home is 48% of whatever you make for each movie. This translates to 1.44 million for Chamber of Secrets.”

I nodded along, already knowing all this, but Ben needed to get it off his chest.

“Then we come to your contract for the next three Potter films; 40 million total for movies three, four, and five. Out of which you’ve earned 8 million for Prisoner and 12 million for Goblet, so far. But that’s not all, is it? Out of that 8 million salary, you took half and put it back into funding the production of PoA - netting you 3.1% of all box office earnings for that movie. A movie which made a billion dollars; you made 31 million dollars off that movie. So, you got 1.92 million from your base salary after all taxes and obligations, and 23.25 million after I paid your taxes and charges on your investment return.”

“Sounds about right.” I tried to wrap up, but was quickly interrupted.

“I’m not done. Now, we come to your most recent projects. For Tokyo Drift, you took what they could afford and your ultimate take home hit a million. Goblet got you 12 mil in wages, 6 of that reinvested into production with a 150 million dollar budget, netting you a 4% stake. Anita, how much is the movie set to make?”

“We’ll cross a billion.” She said confidently.

“Right, that means, come this April, after all your taxes and other financial obligations are paid, you get 2.88 million in salary, and somewhere around 30 million in ROI.” Ben took a breath. “On top of that, the remaining 20 million in salary less the taxes and an additional 6 million you’re using to fund the next movie, since David Heyman is setting a cap on your contribution, gives you another 6.72 million.”

“I’m swimming in doubloons. I get it.”

“That’s over 67 million in liquid cash. You’ve not counted your Uniqlo endorsem*nt and other company shares since you’ve put money into them. You’ve barely let a penny sit in your bank account for five minutes before reinvesting where you can. Fast Retailing Co., Netflix, and the little you had to spare went into a few key blue chip funds I picked out. The numbers are still pouring in between growth, dividends, minus the capital gains you have to pay out-”

“Yeah, I can do basic math. My net worth as of today is right around 160 million dollars.”

“That is an unfathomable amount of moolah, Bas, that you’ve pulled out of your ass in five years from nothing!” I could probably have pulled even more with the benefit of my life hack, but I wasn’t here to min max wolf of wall street. I had the first pieces of a plan that I needed to put together. “You want me to take all of that and throw it into a pit? You still wanna go through with it?”

“Well, I’d rather you not touch the Uniqlo and Netflix stuff, but my next batch of movie earnings and whatever else I can spare is fair game, so a cool 50 milli should suffice. I can swing that even with premium payments, yeah?”

Ben was all business. Despite his clear apprehension, I knew he’d do what I told him - I wasn’t giving him a choice, anyway. “How much do you exactly expect to make from this?”

“Probably somewhere around five times what I put in - net profit. The frauds running the economy into the ground are going to have to pay me at least that much.”

“I think I’m gonna hurl.” Anita was understandably looking a little green.

Chapter 37: Shoe on the Other Foot

Chapter Text

Chapter 20.5: Shoe on the Other Foot

WB Offices London, January 2006.

A whistle, a tumbleweed, and three pairs of twitchy eyes. I could practically hear the theme song of ‘The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly’ blaring across the confined office room I was in.

The scrape of my chair on the hardwood pierced through the silence like a hawk screeching in the noon sky.

“Sirius is a deeply troubled and conflicted individual. He’s haunted by his past, burdened by guilt, and desperate for redemption. He’s not nearly put well enough together to have such a sensible outlook on life.” JK Rowling immediately fired from the hip.

Her aim must have been bad because Neil Gaiman easily dodged that bullet. “He fights with Molly, he fights with Kreacher, he fights with Snape. The only time he shouldn’t actively try to gnaw his own paw off while stuck in a cage is when he’s with Harry.”

“But the shadows of his past cover Harry in a deeper darkness than even the walls of Grimmauld. He’s never in his right mind around Harry.” Jo reloaded.

“And in doing so, he diminishes all the goodwill he has generated with the audience over the last two books.” Neil fingered the trigger of his own gun.

“But it’s not book accurate.” Pew! A bullet whizzed past carrying a bad argument.

“This isn’t the same man who ate rats in a cave for his godson. You’re not book accurate.” The good argument struck true.

Did that make me the ugly argument? I’ll never forgive them for this.

“Bas!”

“Bas!”

I suddenly found myself in their crosshairs. I practically went cross-eyed, staring down the barrels of both their guns. I couldn’t remain unarmed in the face of such adversity. I glanced at my hand, curled all but my index finger and thumb, created my own pea-shooter and pointed it at myself. “Alright! Nobody moves or the kid gets it!”

“You scummy little troll. Take this seriously, will you? You’re the one who forced us into this meeting in the first place.” Troll was it? I guess I really am the ugly.

“Pull that trigger already and join us in hell.” Neil proved that he’d make a horrible hostage negotiator.

Both these so-called adults had more than a quarter century on me, and yet I was the one who had to play the grown up. Begrudgingly, I holstered my weapon. No finger banging today. I missed Gemma and Keiko.

“You may not like what I have to say, Jo. Neil’s right.” A softer Sirius than the morose marauder from the books played a lot better with audiences. The original version of Phoenix - which I could argue was the best of all the adaptations - felt so much more heart wrenching than the books did. “Plus, we’ve got Gary Oldman rocking a full stache, might as well put him to work. If anyone can pull off both gentle and caring while also being a manic-depressive, he can.”

JK had streamlined this version of the book, cut out some unnecessary characters like Grawp, optimised the DoM heist, and even closed the RoR reveal loophole. But at the time of our initial discussion, the book was so near to release that she had no opportunity to really do much beyond that.

I wanted the screenplay to be just as much improved, which was a tall order considering how good the OG movie was. Funny, since it was also the one movie Steve Kloves hadn’t been involved with.

But Neil was more than up to the task. I’d help him.

Rowling narrowed her eyes and her gaze bounced between Neil and I. “I see how it is. Men are all the same. The moment they find a new model, they’re ready to chuck out the older, faithful one like yesterday’s garbage.”

Neil made an uncomfortable face, though appropriate for the situation, and scooted his chair back. “Right, I’m not touching that.”

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that. You know that you’re my one and only.” I tried for puppy dog, but I feared it came off more weasel-ish. Don’t ask Y.

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Darling then.”

“You really don’t know when to stop digging, do you?” Neil recoiled further away.

“You’re pushing it, Bas.” A painted nail with polish matching the colour of the massive emerald on her ring pointed at me.

Looking at the digit, I took out my own. This time, though, instead of just a run-of-the-mill revolver, I pulled out a nuke. I leaned closer to Jo and curled my pinky around her extended finger. Don’t forget our deal now, Joanne.

“I break bones, I break rules, but I don’t break promises.”

Her tense shoulders sagged. I held in a wince as the skin from my knuckle pinched under the ridged gold of her band when she wrapped her finger around mine. “Okay, dear boy, okay. Just don’t break my heart.”

The last squeeze I gave her before pulling my hand away was answer enough.

“Er… So are we going with sympathetic Sirius or sulky Sirius?”

“We bow to the wisdom of your dream.” I answered, and we were all in agreement.

Something told me we were going to need our unity in the days ahead.

WB Offices London, January 2006.

If I told you that I had a train of blonde girls lined up for a mile to meet me, you’d think I was firmly in the realm of hyperbole. But the very real fact was that hundreds of aspiring young girls had subjected themselves, and us, to the gruelling audition process for one Luna Lovegood.

As much as I wished I could wand wave the entire process, I had no choice but to immolate myself in the grief of these bright-eyed young women, as one after the other they were politely rejected. Even future Hollywood A-lister Saoirse Ronan wasn’t immune to the chopping block. Telling a girl she wasn’t tall enough to ride the coaster despite her talent didn’t soften the blow at all.

But as the days progressed and the callbacks returned, we slowly but steadily waded our way towards the foregone conclusion. Neither my foreknowledge nor JK’s bias would have had it any other way.

[I stood in the corner of the small audition room as I waited for my cue. Rowling, Yates, the casting director Fiona Weir, and a smattering of other production staff sat behind the camcorder resting on a tripod.

The focus was all on Evanna Lynch as she gave her final round performance for the part. I was merely a prop for today.

She pretended to pet an invisible, skeletal, winged horse. I took one loud step. “Hello, Harry Potter.” came the easily recognisable flighty Irish intonation.

I hesitated, caught off guard by her realising it was me without even looking, but moved to join her.

Barefooted, I noticed her wiggle her toes. “Your feet - aren’t they... cold?”

She continued petting the non-existent thestral. She kept her expression content, but her gaze was away. “A bit. Unfortunately, all my shoes have mysteriously disappeared…” Those striking eyes suddenly gained focus and pinned me in place. She leaned in and spoke low. “I suspect Nargles are behind it.”

I nodded uncertainly, then jerked my head at the imaginary creature. “What are they?”

“They’re called Thestrals. They’re quite gentle, really, but most people avoid them because they’re a bit…” she turned away and unfocused on the creature again.

“Different.” I sighed. She nodded. We paused.

“But... why couldn’t the others see them?”

“They can only be seen by people who have seen death.”

“Cedric…” I whispered under my breath. I frowned and caught her looking at me, as unfazed as ever. She’d opened her eyes a little wider, making it look like she wasn’t quite all there. “You’ve known someone who’s died, then?”

Her striking silver eyes bore into my own green ones. “My Mum.” She turned away and a small smile tickled her lips as she remembered a family member who wasn’t real. “She was quite an extraordinary witch, but she did like to experiment. One day, one of her spells went rather badly wrong. I was nine.”

“I’m sorry.” For asking, for knowing, for bringing it up because Harry would know how it felt.

Her voice never wavered, and she continued conversationally. “Yes, it was rather horrible. I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But, I’ve got Dad. We both believe you, by the way.” I tilted my head in confusion. She tilted her head in amusem*nt. “That He Who Must Not Be Named is back, and you fought him and now the Ministry is conspiring with the Daily Prophet against you and Dumbledore.”

With a wry smile, I straightened my neck and so did she. “Thanks. Seems you’re about the only one.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true... But I suppose that’s how he wants you to feel.”

“What do you mean?”

She started her line of dialogue by keeping her head where it was, but her pupils shifted as if searching for a thought. “Well, if I were You-Know-Who... I’d want you to be cut off from everyone else.” Her haze moved up as my eyebrows did. “Because if it’s just you alone... you’re not as much of a threat.” Her radiant smile cleared my expression from consternation to clarity.

The scene ended here in the script.

She’d done a stellar job, but the fact of the matter was the people judging her today weren’t all the same from the original timeline.

Different people had different aspects they valued in a performance. So while I could say, and even push, for her to be hired, it wasn’t solely my decision, despite knowing that she’d be perfect for the part.

But I always was a person of action rather than words. And I very much appreciated the weight a good unique selling point carried.

So why not give Evanna hers?

She knew the books in and out; she knew the character in and out. Aside from myself, I could confidently say she was the biggest potential fan on the cast. Time for her to prove it.

The show wasn’t over till the fat lady sang. And Adele wouldn’t be famous for another two years.

I toed off my shoes and nudged them towards her. “C’mon, let’s head back to the castle. I’ll walk you.”

Her serene expression morphed into shock. But Evanna clued in quickly and continued our extended round of charades. She pondered for a moment from behind her curtain of wispy golden locks. “That’s rather kind of you, Harry Potter. But you should wear your shoes. Wrackspurts don’t like me as much as they do you.”

“Er… I think I can survive a few…um yeah. I’ve got socks on, anyway.”

“Dad warned me that boys can be stubborn. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down, Harry.” With that, she slipped her right foot into my shoe and kicked the left loafer over to me. “Let’s not dilly-dally any longer. I hear we have treacle tart for pudding today.”

She turned on her singular booted heel, snatched my arm, and pulled me forward. I stumbled and slid my foot into the leftover shoe.

She flounced happily, and I hopped clumsily on lopsided feet to the imaginary castle in the room’s corner.]

As our impromptu improv closed, the both of us witnessed the crew shoot each other rather surprised and impressed glances.

The crumple-horned snorkack was in the bag.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I returned Evanna’s grateful grin with a satisfied smirk of my own.

“I had a hunch you could handle it. Proved me right, didn’t you?”

“Even if I didn’t get the part-”

“It’s yours, trust me.”

She lifted her foot and my shoe hung swaying off her toes, “- at least I got a souvenir. Would you mind terribly signing it?”

“You know you’re not keeping that, right?”

Chapter 38: Sponsored by Strepsils

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Sponsored by Strepsils

Leavesden Studios, UK. February 2006.

[Head resting on my hands folded behind them, my feet crossed and kicked up as I laid back. You’d think I was chilling in a hammock and not in the middle of a flower bed.

The crackling static of a television set blinking on was followed by the voice on the news.

My program was on, so I gingerly and quietly scooted up till my eyes peeled just over the windowsill and into the Dursley’s living room.

In the books they were hydrangeas. The set designer had instead used bright, tall sunflowers. Because nothing said cheery quite like vibrant yellow heads facing the sun - and nothing contrasted as well as a lonely boy facing the exact opposite direction - as the reflection of gloomy news played on my specs.

Crack! The SFX of Mandungus Fletcher apparating popped like a gunshot over the speakers.

Startled by the noise, I quickly whipped out my wand.

The rattle of the window opening behind me signalled I wasn’t the only one who heard that. “What are you doing under our window, boy? And put that bloody thing away!” Richard Griffiths looking particularly walrusy in his Vernon outfit scolded, with his torso half out the window.

“Listening to the news,” I lowered the wand, along with my spirits.

“Listening to the news! Again?”

“Well, it changes every day, you see,” Sass, thy name is Harry.

I dodged out of the way of a meaty paw as Vernon swiped at my throat. “Don’t you be clever with me, boy!” He snarled.

“We know you’re up to something funny,” Fiona Shaw, who for some reason was being showcased in a surprisingly snug floral frock, also poked her head out and squeezed herself in the window frame over Vernon. “We’re not stupid, you know,”

“Well, that’s news to me,” with a curled lip and a mean glare, I turned and stepped away from them. My rendition of Harry wasn’t so much of a little sh*t, but more a heaping pile when I wanted him to be.]

“Cut!” came the comforting command from behind the camera. Being back at work again was a blessing.

As we waited for Yates’ review, I approached my previous marker and leaned on the fabricated wall of Privet number four.

“You’ve got a bit of dirt on you.” Richard pointed out.

“Sorry?” Yates popped up mistakenly.

“Nothing, David. The mics accidentally picked up something they shouldn’t have.” I explained. “Go back to your review and let us know the verdict.”

Richard’s bearish hands kindly and softly patted the soil off me. “Thanks.” Even five years on from our first meeting, Richard remained just as caring as he had when we’d first met.

“Think nothing of it. Getting dirty is a young man’s game. The least we senior citizens can do is clean you up when you need it.”

With a smile, I dipped my head in gratitude as he finished dusting me off. I glanced at Fiona Shaw, resting comfortably on him. “I’d tidy you up, too. But I wager you’re enjoying what’s covering you.”

Richard guffawed, and Fiona gasped. “Excuse me! I certainly didn’t pick this tarty attire out for myself.” True enough, the sleeveless dress was very much the costume department’s decision.

“Don’t be mad. You look nice. I work out eight days a week and even I feel jealous of how toned your shoulders are.”

“Oh, please! I look like I’m knee high in a midlife crisis.”

“What was the name of your role again?” I teased. “Mrs Dursley… or was it Mrs Robinson?”

I guess Richard had missed a spot, as there was a small poof of dirt when she thumped my arm.

Bas’ Caravan, Leavesden. February 2006.

Perhaps it was time I reevaluated my lifestyle, because it seemed that every time I entered my mobile home, I was sweaty and steamy.

Though recently the only woman around me in this state was Cadbury, so my preferred method of cardio wasn’t available to me. There wasn’t a pool anymore either due to the distinct lack of any water scenes in this movie; so I’d been forced to take up running.

I clambered tiredly up the few steps into my RV. As a bead of sweat dripped off my nose, I caught the scent of warm scones and hot tea.

“Your breakfast, Mr Rhys.” Dieting was also a new part of my routine.

“I’m skipping one meal a day, Cad, you know that. You refuse to let me go to bed without a full stomach, and you tempting me with buttery goodness doesn’t help me restrain myself till lunch.”

“Then it is your own misapprehension that leads you to believe I will allow such negligence. Makeup and an appropriate wardrobe will more than suffice in making you look emaciated.” She was adamant, but she was still wrong.

“All it’ll take is one set on the bench press too many, and I’ll suddenly be more Rambo than Harry.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re skin and bones.”

“Not yet, but I will be. How can I convince anyone that I’m a deprived orphan in my current state? My weight needs to take a hike.” I plonked myself on the soft bench, much to the reprieve of my burning quads. I pushed away the tray of sugary fare.

Cadbury scowled - or at least as much as she could affect a frown on her metallic face - and turned away. “Is it really necessary to go this far?”

She poured a glass of water and rummaged around the cupboard for a small medicine bottle. She handed me my multivitamins.

“Only if I want to prove that I give a sh*t.”

Leavesden Studio, UK. March 2006.

I gargled the lukewarm ginger tea to soothe my overwrought throat and swallowed. I handed the cup to a waiting stagehand, who scurried off in a hurry.

I hopped up on one leg and shook my hands to get into the correct mindset before the scene restarted. The assistant director brought the slate to the camera and clacked it. “Action!”

[I turned the doorknob and entered the room. Emma - or rather - Hermione rushed in, hugged me tight, and began babbling. I pretended that I was about to hug her in reflex, but stayed my arms and dropped them back down to my sides.

“HARRY! Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless - but we couldn’t tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t, oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to tell us - the dementors! When we heard - and that Ministry hearing - it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it all up, they can’t expel you, they just can’t, there’s provision in the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations -”

“Hermione was going spare. She kept saying you’d do something stupid if you were stuck all on your own without news, but Dumbledore made us -” Rupert as Ron was all smiles as he put his hand on my shoulder.

I shrugged his hand off, “- swear not to tell me. Yeah, Hermione’s already said.” I kept my face stony, jaw clenched, my voice rumbled with restrained rage.

Gripping her forearms from around my neck, I peeled Hermione off of me and guided her away. Ron started looking worried and shifted to the side as I passed them, while Hermione went from confused to steadily wary. I entered deeper into the room and hit my marker on the other end. I kept my back turned to the two. “So why’s Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the dark? Doesn’t think he can trust me anymore?”

The camera moved into its new spot; from behind the two to see me come in, it moved to the side to get a wide shot of the three of us on two opposing sides to symbolise the adversary between the characters.

“We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was going on, but he just made us swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote. He said the owls might be intercepted -” Ron explained anxiously. He brought his hands up to his sides, palms facing out in a non-threatening stance.

Hermione released her lips from between her teeth. “Harry, we wanted to tell you, we really did -” she tried desperately. Her arm rubbed the other in an effort to try to comfort herself. Her eyes began growing misty.

The camera continued to pan around as they said their lines, it stopped once it reached my end of the room.

The scene was framed meticulously. I took up nearly a third of the entire shot, with a closeup of my face. Ron and Hermione were visible in the background over my shoulder in a rack-focus.

I began with my eyes shut and teeth clenched. With every concerned excuse from their mouth, I morphed my expression.

My frown deepened until my brows couldn’t pinch further. My lips went from pursed to actively snarling, but as the last justification left her mouth, I snapped my eyes open and spun. The camera behind me caught as the two flinched at my action. I exploded.

“CAN’T’VE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR YOU’D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU SWEAR-!”

The set shook, the lights flickered, and the glass in the room rattled as the VFX team operated on cue. As if affecting accidental magic.

The shouting match began in earnest.

As I progressed with the tirade the set and my costars responded. Hermione hugged herself tighter, while Ron slightly shielded her with his shoulder, his arms still held in surrender.

The camera stayed behind my shoulder, but panned up slightly every moment.

I walked forward with every recrimination screaming out of my throat. They stepped back. The lights dimmed a little, every moment darkening the room. I grew larger in frame while they shrunk into a corner. Giving the illusion that I was looking over my friends.

“WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME! BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON?”

“Harry, we’re really sorry!” Hermione had pulled into herself completely but stared pleadingly at me as she shed tears.]

“Cut! That was the one! Good job. Let’s take a break, everyone.”

I relaxed and let my shoulders droop from the released tension. “Phew.” I barely managed to rasp out.

I flopped recklessly on to the bed behind me and grained at the pain in my throat. The mattress dipped beside me; I felt the heat from her body so close to my hands when she sat down next to me.

The cool touch of her fingers caressed my warm neck. I inhaled in surprise at that and my nose filled with the sweet smell of her perfume. Bergamot and Vanilla. The same base notes of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle that I’d bought her.

Since our conversation at the red carpet premiere for Goblet, I’d pushed for Emma to get rid of her agent in favour of Anita. It was my hope that by getting her a brand deal with Chanel like she’d had in another life (if a bit earlier this time around), it’d be the final push she needed to ditch the potential Weinstein feeder.

I opened my eyes to find Emma’s face a scant few inches from my own.

“Your tonsils are completely swollen!” She rubbed the side of my neck in small circles.

“Mmm. Keep doing that.” I continued to gaze into her eyes as she massaged my ache. I saw the tear tracks staining her cheeks, so I rose the cuff of my sleeve and wiped them away gently. She smiled and gently leaned into my palm.

Momentarily, we were the only two people in the room.

But that illusion shattered rather quickly.

“If we have to shoot that scene again, I’m bloody well wearing earplugs.” Rupert grimaced as he wiggled his finger in his ear. “Got a magnificent set of lungs on you, huh?”

Way to ruin the moment, Grint.

Chapter 39: Naked Attrition

Chapter Text

Chapter 21.5: Naked Attrition

Laco*ck Abbey, UK. March 2006.

“Anger is… easy.” Rickman said calmly.

But the ever so slightly too firm grip on the nape of my neck might reveal more complex emotions. “Just go red in the face and rip your vocal cords to shreds. There’s no art in that.”

Water cascaded down my hairline, drenching my face as I struggled to keep it out of my eyes. “Someone’s been reviewing my footage, I see.” I spat out some of the horrible tasting water as a few rivulets invaded my mouth. The cloudy pensieve water may look like it came out of a fresh, young coconut, but I assure you it tasted more like something from the bottom of a shower drain.

“Of course you take valid critique and contort it into personal flattery. It’s a wonder I’m able to hold your fat head aloft at all, Bas. Perhaps I need to wring out your ears.” My bones clatter and water splattered as Alan shook me like a dying tv remote. “Rage is merely a symptom, the true malady of the mind is hatred, betrayal, and suffering. Feel those first, and anger will seep through entirely on its own. Otherwise, we may as well replace you with a stump with a frown painted on it.”

“Is anger also contagious? Because I think I’m catching it from you.” I imagine this is what my voice would sound like if I got stuck inside an operational washing machine. I couldn’t sing to save my life, but suddenly I was capable of a wonderful vibrato. “This your way of telling me your surgery didn’t go well?”

“Precisely the opposite. I’m now cancer free.”

“And prostate free.”

“... Thank you for that.” Sarcasm, the coward’s lie. “But also thank you for the flowers, well wishes, and other assorted presents you had delivered during my convalescence. Though I’m still unsure why you sent me so much ice cream.”

“Oh, I sent that because I heard it’s good for after your tonsils are removed, and I figured it might also help the same way after your specific -ectomy.”

“The throat-” I felt his hand clamp around mine again, “is considerably north of the lower intestine.”

“It’s all the same digestive tract. I hope you asked the docs to take a gander at the rest of your decrepit body, too. Never know when you might pop a pancreas.” Subtle, this was not.

“Unless you have a medical degree hidden somewhere, I’m more inclined to listen to my physician when he says any metastatic action from prostate to pancreas is exceedingly rare.”

“Does it really hurt to make sure?” I pushed. “As far as I know, I’m the one getting hit with more licks than you cancer patients. Maggie Smith’s still a little awkward with me when I told everyone to get their breasts and prostates checked. She still made an appointment despite that.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll ask during my upcoming check-up. Now hold your tongue, and hold your breath. Time for take two.”

[Splash! I was dunked into the pensieve. I stared into the lens underwater for about twenty seconds before being yanked out by Snape.