**November 2001 — Leavesden Studios, Quidditch Pitch Set**
The Quidditch pitch was one of the most impressive sets at Leavesden—full-scale goal posts, artificial grass that looked real enough to fool anyone, and positioning rigs that would allow them to film the flying sequences later with green screen.
Today, though, we were filming on the ground. The scene where Draco and the Slytherin team show off their new Nimbus 2001 brooms, courtesy of Lucius Malfoy's generous donation to the team.
I was already in costume—Slytherin Quidditch robes in dark green, perfectly tailored, with "MALFOY" embroidered on the back. My platinum blonde hair was slicked back as always. The other Slytherin actors—Jamie Waylett (Crabbe), Josh Herdman (Goyle), and the rest of the team—were gathered around me, all of us holding the sleek black Nimbus 2001 brooms.
Across from us, the Gryffindor team: Oliver Wood (Sean Biggerstaff), Fred and George Weasley (James and Oliver Phelps), and the rest, all in their scarlet robes. Daniel, Rupert, and Emma were there too, in regular Gryffindor uniforms, watching from the sidelines as their team practiced.
"Alright, everyone!" Chris Columbus called out, walking onto the pitch with his megaphone. "This is a deceptively simple scene, but it's important. This is where we see the class divide at Hogwarts made explicit. The Malfoys can buy their way onto the team. The Weasleys can't even afford new wands. Henry—" he turned to me, "—Draco is at his most casually cruel here. It's not angry cruelty, it's *bored* cruelty. Like stepping on an ant."
"Understood."
"And the M-word—" Chris's expression became serious. "Mudblood. It's the wizarding equivalent of a racial slur. I need you to deliver it with the kind of casual contempt that shows Draco doesn't even think twice about using it. It's just a fact to him."
I nodded, already feeling myself slip into Draco's mindset.
*Mudblood. Dirty blood. Less than human. That's what Draco believes because that's what Lucius taught him. He doesn't say it with venom—he says it like he'd describe the weather.*
"Emma," Chris continued, turning to her, "Hermione's been called this before, but not to her face by someone at school. I want to see the impact—the shock, the hurt, the anger."
Emma nodded, her expression already shifting toward Hermione's determined bravery mixed with vulnerability.
"Rupert, you're going to try to curse Draco. The wand backfires and you spend the rest of the scene vomiting slugs. We'll do the slug effects in post, but I need you to really sell the physical comedy of it."
"Gross," Rupert said, but he was grinning. "How long am I throwing up slugs?"
"Until Draco and the Slytherins walk away laughing. Speaking of which—" Chris turned back to me and the Slytherin team, "—your laugh can't be evil villain laughter. It has to be genuine amusement, like you're watching something hilarious happen to someone you don't consider worth caring about."
"Got it."
"Positions, everyone!"
---
We took our places. The Slytherin team lined up on one side of the pitch, brooms in hand, exuding confidence. The Gryffindor team was on the other side, looking defensive and annoyed.
I stood at the center of my team, Crabbe and Goyle flanking me like bodyguards, the rest of the Slytherins fanned out behind us.
"Rolling!" the AD called.
"Action!"
I walked forward with Draco's distinctive swagger—not quite a strut, but the kind of walk that said *I own this space and everyone in it.*
Oliver Wood stepped forward from the Gryffindor side, protective of his team. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
I stopped, looked at him with mild surprise, as if I couldn't believe someone was questioning my presence.
"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Wood." I said it like I was explaining something obvious to a child. "I thought I'd show the team our new brooms."
I gestured casually, and the Slytherin team moved forward in formation, all of us holding our Nimbus 2001s at exactly the same angle—a coordinated show of wealth and power.
The Gryffindors stared, and I could see the exact moment Oliver realized what he was looking at.
"Those are Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones!" Ron's voice came from the sidelines, a mixture of awe and envy. "How did you get those?"
I turned to face him slowly, letting a cold smile cross my face.
"A gift from my father." I examined the broom like it was a fine piece of art. "You see, unlike some, my father can *afford* the best."
I let the implication hang in the air. *Unlike your father, Weasley. Unlike you.*
Several Slytherins snickered behind me.
Emma stepped forward now, Hermione's righteous anger fully engaged. "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent."
I turned to her slowly, and for a moment, I let Draco's mask slip—let real disdain show through.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."
I delivered the line with casual dismissiveness, like I was commenting on the weather. Not shouted, not angry—just stated as fact. *You're less than me, and everyone knows it.*
The entire pitch went silent.
Emma's face transformed—shock, hurt, and fury all mixing together. Her eyes went wide, like she'd been slapped.
"Cut!" Chris called immediately. "That was perfect, Henry. Absolutely perfect. The casual cruelty was exactly right. Emma, excellent reaction. Let's go again, same energy."
We reset and ran it twice more, each take slightly different but maintaining that same core of Draco's effortless superiority mixed with thoughtless cruelty.
On the fourth take, Chris called for the full sequence: "This time we're running it all the way through. Ron attempts the curse, wand backfires, slug vomiting begins. Slytherins react and walk away. Everyone ready?"
We started from the top again.
The dialogue played out the same—the broom reveal, my casual dismissal of the Weasleys' poverty, Hermione's defense of Gryffindor's merit-based team.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."
This time, Ron exploded forward, pulling out his wand—which was battered, held together with Spellotape after breaking earlier in the film.
"You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" he shouted, pointing his broken wand directly at me. "Eat slugs!"
There was a flash of light (added in post-production), and then—
Nothing happened to me.
Instead, Rupert's face went green. His eyes widened in horror. He clapped a hand over his mouth.
And then he bent over and mimed vomiting spectacularly.
I stared for a moment—genuine surprise on Draco's face, because this wasn't what was supposed to happen. Then, slowly, that surprise transformed into delighted amusement.
"Oh, this is brilliant," I said, and I let myself laugh—not an evil laugh, but genuine teenage-boy laughter at seeing something ridiculous happen to someone I didn't like.
The other Slytherins joined in, all of us laughing while Rupert continued his exaggerated dry-heaving on the ground.
I walked past the Gryffindors, not even bothering to acknowledge them further, my team following behind me. As we passed, I glanced down at Rupert one more time and added, with perfect timing:
"Better out than in, Weasley."
More laughter from the Slytherins as we walked off the pitch, leaving the Gryffindors to deal with Ron's slug situation.
"Cut!" Chris called. "That was fantastic! Henry, that last line—'Better out than in'—was that scripted?"
"No, improvised. It felt like something Draco would say."
"It's perfect. We're keeping it. Rupert, excellent physical comedy. Emma, your reaction to the slur was heartbreaking. Daniel, good protective energy. Everyone, brilliant work."
---
As we broke for lunch, I was walking back to my trailer when Alan Rickman fell into step beside me.
"That word," he said quietly. "Mudblood. You delivered it with remarkable nuance."
"Thank you, Professor— Alan."
"Most young actors would have played it with obvious venom. You played it with casual contempt, which is far more disturbing. That shows a deep understanding of how prejudice actually works."
I thought about that. "Draco doesn't think he's being cruel when he says it. He thinks he's stating a fact. That's what makes it so terrible."
Alan studied me with those dark, intelligent eyes. "You're fourteen years old and you understand that the most dangerous bigotry is the kind that doesn't recognize itself as bigotry."
"It's not complicated. Draco was raised to believe Muggle-borns are inferior. It's not hate to him—it's just how the world is. That's scarier than if he was actively hateful."
"Exactly." Alan was quiet for a moment. "Be careful with that understanding, Henry. It serves you well as an actor, but don't ever internalize Draco's worldview. I've seen actors get lost in their characters, especially characters with such ugly beliefs."
"I'm playing a role," I assured him. "I know the difference."
"I'm sure you do. But still—" he placed a hand on my shoulder, "—remember that you're Henry Cavendish, not Draco Malfoy. One is a good person playing someone terrible. Don't ever confuse the two."
"I won't. I promise."
He nodded and walked away, leaving me standing there processing the conversation.
*Alan Rickman just gave me acting advice about not losing myself in a character. Alan Rickman is looking out for me.*
*This timeline is wild.*
---
**Later That Afternoon — Emma's Trailer**
There was a knock on my trailer door during the afternoon break. I opened it to find Emma standing there, looking uncertain.
"Can we talk?" she asked.
*Oh no. Here we go.*
"Of course. Come in."
She stepped inside, and I gestured to the small couch. We sat, maintaining a careful distance.
"That scene this morning," she started, not quite meeting my eyes. "When you called Hermione... that word. You sounded so *mean*."
"It's acting, Emma. You know that."
"I know. But it still felt..." she trailed off, struggling to find words. "It felt real. Like you actually thought those things."
I turned to face her fully. "Emma, look at me."
She did, those brown eyes uncertain.
"I don't believe any of that. Not a word of it. Draco Malfoy is a bigot who learned his prejudice from his father. But *I'm* not Draco. I think Hermione is brilliant. I think Muggle-borns—if they were real—would be just as valuable as anyone else. What I said in that scene? That's what the *character* believes, not what *I* believe."
She relaxed slightly. "So you don't actually think I'm... I mean, that Hermione is..."
"Hermione Granger is one of the smartest characters in the entire series," I said firmly. "She's brave, loyal, clever, and saves Harry's life about a dozen times. Draco's an idiot for not recognizing that. But I'm not Draco."
Emma smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."
"Of course. And Emma? If a scene ever gets too intense, if anything I do as Draco makes you genuinely uncomfortable, you can always talk to me. We can work it out, or talk to Chris, or whatever you need."
"You're really nice," she said, and there was that breathless quality in her voice again. "Not like Draco at all."
*Professional distance. Maintain professional distance.*
"Just trying to be a good colleague," I said, deliberately using professional language. "We're going to be working together for a decade. We should be able to talk about this stuff."
"Right. Colleagues." But her face fell slightly.
*Good. She's getting the message. This is a work relationship, nothing more.*
"Anything else you wanted to talk about?" I asked.
"No, that was it. Thanks, Henry." She stood to leave, then paused at the door. "You're really good at being mean."
"Thanks?"
She laughed. "I mean it as a compliment. You make Draco feel real, not like a cartoon villain."
"That's the goal. Draco's not evil—he's a product of his environment. That's more interesting to play."
After she left, I sat back and thought about the day.
*The Mudblood scene is done. One of Draco's most iconic moments of casual cruelty, captured on film.*
*Now I just have to do this about a hundred more times over the next decade, making sure I play the character truthfully while not becoming him.*
*No pressure.*
I pulled out my phone and texted David: *Filming the ugly stuff today. Makes me appreciate that music will let me be myself instead of playing villains.*
His response came quickly: *Two months until we're ready to show the record label the new recordings. Your voice is almost there.*
I smiled.
—
**December 2001 — Leavesden Studios, Corridor Set**
The corridor set was dressed to look like the dungeon passages near the Slytherin common room—stone walls, flickering torches, the kind of atmospheric gloom that suggested centuries of dark magic.
I was in full Draco costume, standing with Jamie Waylett and Josh Herdman, who played Crabbe and Goyle. We were waiting for Chris Columbus to finish setting up the shot where we'd encounter "Crabbe and Goyle" (actually Harry and Ron under Polyjuice Potion) in the corridor.
"Alright, everyone," Chris called out, gathering the young actors. "This scene is tricky because we're essentially filming it twice. First, we'll do a rehearsal run with Daniel and Rupert actually playing the scene—this is so Jamie and Josh can see exactly how Harry and Ron would move and behave while pretending to be Crabbe and Goyle. Then we'll film the actual scene with Jamie and Josh mimicking what Daniel and Rupert just did."
Daniel and Rupert joined us, both looking slightly nervous.
"The key," Chris continued, "is that Harry and Ron are *bad* at pretending to be Crabbe and Goyle. They're too polite, too articulate, too... themselves. Draco doesn't quite realize something's wrong, but he notices they're acting odd. Jamie, Josh—watch carefully how Daniel and Rupert play this, then you'll need to copy their mannerisms exactly."
"So we're playing characters playing other characters?" Josh asked.
"Exactly. It's acting inception."
"Right," Rupert said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's show them how it's done."
---
**Practice Run — Daniel and Rupert**
We reset to the beginning of the scene. Daniel and Rupert were now in Crabbe and Goyle's costumes, looking absurdly out of place—Daniel was too small for Crabbe's bulk, Rupert too tall and gangly for Goyle's squat frame.
"Rolling!" the AD called. "Rehearsal take one!"
"Action!"
I walked down the corridor with my usual Draco swagger, then stopped when I saw "Crabbe and Goyle" standing awkwardly ahead.
"There you are," I said with annoyance. "Where have you been? We've been looking for you."
Daniel-as-Crabbe and Rupert-as-Goyle exchanged nervous glances—too nervous, too obviously hiding something.
"We got... lost," Daniel said, his voice pitched slightly lower to sound more like Crabbe, but still fundamentally Daniel.
I studied them, Draco's aristocratic disdain mixed with confusion. Something was off.
Then I noticed: Daniel was still wearing Harry's glasses.
*Perfect. This is where Tom Felton improvised that brilliant line in the original.*
I stepped closer, peering at "Goyle."
"I didn't know you could read," I said slowly, gesturing to the glasses.
Daniel's hand flew up to his face, realizing his mistake. He yanked the glasses off and shoved them in his pocket.
"I was just... the print was so small..."
"Must've been small," I drawled, letting skepticism drip from every word.
Chris didn't call cut, so I kept going, building on the improvisation.
"Actually, when did you learn to string a complete sentence together? Normally you just grunt."
Rupert-as-Goyle made an exaggerated grunt, and I could see him fighting not to laugh.
"That's more like it," I said, satisfied. "Come on, both of you."
"Cut!" Chris called, grinning. "That was perfect! Henry, that improvisation about the glasses—'I didn't know you could read'—that's brilliant. And then the bit about stringing sentences together? Even better. We're keeping all of it."
I turned to Jamie and Josh. "Did you catch all that?"
"The glasses thing was genius," Jamie said. "And the way you looked at them—like you were *this close* to figuring out something was wrong but your ego wouldn't let you believe Crabbe and Goyle could possibly deceive you."
"Exactly. Draco's too confident in his own intelligence to imagine his 'dumb' friends pulling one over on him."
Josh was taking notes. "So we need to play it like Harry and Ron—too polite, too nervous, speaking in complete sentences, but trying really hard to be brutish?"
"Right," Daniel said. "Harry's terrified of being discovered. Ron's trying to act tough but doesn't quite know how to do 'Goyle' properly. We're both way too articulate."
"And the glasses mistake?" Jamie asked.
"Pure panic," Daniel demonstrated. "Harry completely forgot he was wearing them. When Draco notices, there's this moment of *oh shit* before he tries to cover."
"Got it."
We ran through the practice scene two more times, with Daniel and Rupert refining their performances of Harry-and-Ron-trying-to-be-Crabbe-and-Goyle. Each take, they added little details—awkward pauses, overly formal language, physical discomfort with the larger bodies they were inhabiting.
Jamie and Josh watched intently, occasionally mimicking movements to lock them into muscle memory.
---
**The Real Take**
"Alright," Chris announced. "Daniel, Rupert—off set. Jamie, Josh—you're up. Remember everything you just watched. Henry, same energy, same improvisations. Let's make some magic."
Jamie and Josh moved into position, now fully in costume as Crabbe and Goyle. But their body language was all wrong—too uncertain, too tentative. Exactly right for Harry and Ron trying to inhabit these larger, more brutish bodies.
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
I walked down the corridor, stopped when I saw them.
"There you are," I said, same annoyance but slightly heightened since this was the real take. "Where have you been?"
Jamie-as-Harry-as-Crabbe shifted nervously. His shoulders were hunched, trying to make himself smaller—Harry's insecurity showing through Crabbe's bulk.
"We got lost," he said, and his voice was pitched to sound like Crabbe, but there was a tremor of fear underneath that Crabbe would never have.
I studied them, letting Draco's confusion show. Something was definitely off.
That's when I noticed—Jamie was wearing the glasses.
I stepped closer, and this time I really committed to the improvisation. I reached out and tapped the glasses with one finger, my expression shifting from confusion to mocking realization.
"I didn't know you could read," I said, my voice dripping with false amazement. "Or have you been hiding a secret love of literature all these years, Goyle?"
Jamie's hand shot up to grab the glasses, fumbling with them before managing to shove them into his pocket. His panic was perfect—pure Harry, barely disguised.
"The print... it was very small..."
"Fascinating," I said, circling him slowly like a predator. "And since when do you speak in complete sentences? Usually you communicate primarily through grunts and the occasional monosyllable."
Josh-as-Ron-as-Crabbe let out an exaggerated grunt, but it was too performative—Ron trying to imitate Crabbe without really understanding how Crabbe actually grunted.
I paused, staring at him. "That didn't sound right either."
Another grunt, this one even more forced.
"That's worse. Stop trying, you're making it weird." I shook my head, aristocratic disdain fully engaged. "Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with you two today. Did you hit your heads? Eat something questionable from the kitchens?"
Jamie and Josh exchanged panicked glances—too obviously panicked, their faces showing way more emotion than Crabbe and Goyle typically managed.
"We're fine," Jamie said quickly. Too quickly.
"'We're fine,'" I repeated, mimicking his tone with exaggerated politeness. "Since when do you use the word 'fine'? Next you'll be saying 'splendid' or 'marvelous.'"
I studied them both for another moment, then seemed to dismiss my suspicions with a shake of my head.
"Never mind. Come on, both of you.'" I started walking, then paused and looked back. "And Goyle? Try to remember you're supposed to be stupid. This new articulate version is deeply unsettling."
"Cut!" Chris called, and the entire crew burst into applause.
"That was brilliant!" Chris was grinning ear to ear. "Henry, every single addition you made—tapping the glasses, the 'secret love of literature,' the comment about grunts sounding wrong, the 'deeply unsettling'—all of it was perfect. It adds so much texture to the scene."
"It felt right for Draco," I said. "He's observant enough to notice something's off, but too arrogant to consider that Crabbe and Goyle might be imposters. He'd rather believe they've suddenly become weird than believe someone outsmarted him."
Alan Rickman had been watching from the side. "That's sophisticated character work, Henry. You're showing Draco's intelligence and his blind spots simultaneously."
"It's more interesting than just playing him as a bully. He's smart—he's just trapped by his own prejudices and arrogance."
"Indeed." Alan turned to Jamie and Josh. "And you two—excellent work mimicking Daniel and Rupert. The subtle wrongness of your movements, the overly careful speech patterns—very well observed."
---
**Corridor Scene Part Two — Percy Weasley**
The next setup was just down the corridor. Percy Weasley (played by Chris Rankin) would encounter us, and Draco would dismiss him with casual rudeness while "Crabbe and Goyle" had to keep their cover.
Chris Rankin joined us, already in full Percy mode—pompous, self-important, clutching a stack of papers.
"This is a short scene," Chris Columbus explained, "but it's important for establishing the dynamic. Percy is a prefect trying to assert authority. Draco completely ignores that authority because he doesn't respect anyone who earned their position rather than buying it. Crabbe and Goyle—well, Harry and Ron pretending to be Crabbe and Goyle—are just trying not to blow their cover."
We took positions. I was flanked by Jamie and Josh, walking down the corridor like I owned it.
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
Percy rounded the corner, saw us, and immediately puffed up with prefect authority.
"Malfoy," he said officiously. "What are you doing in this corridor? Classes ended twenty minutes ago. Students should be in their common rooms or the library."
I didn't even slow down, barely glancing at him.
"Weasley," I said, his surname delivered like I was identifying an unpleasant smell. "How delightful. I was just heading to the common room with Crabbe and Goyle. Any other pressing concerns, or can we proceed with our day?"
Percy stepped in front of us, blocking the way. "As a prefect, I need to know—"
"As a prefect," I interrupted, "you need to learn your place. Some of us have actual appointments. With important people. Who don't have time for power-hungry prefects playing at authority."
I stepped around him, gesturing for Jamie and Josh to follow.
Percy sputtered. "I could take points from Slytherin—"
I turned back, one eyebrow raised. "Could you? How fascinating. I'm sure Professor Snape would be *thrilled* to hear you're harassing students for walking down a corridor. Do let me know how that conversation goes."
Percy deflated slightly, knowing he'd lost.
I smirked and continued walking.
"Cut!" Chris called. "Perfect! The disdain was exactly right. Percy trying to assert authority, Draco completely dismissing him without even breaking stride. Great work, everyone."
"Should I have been nastier?" I asked.
"No, this was better. Draco doesn't need to be nasty—he just needs to show that Percy doesn't even register as worth his time. The casual dismissal is more insulting than active cruelty."
Chris Rankin grinned. "Thanks for making Percy look pathetic."
"Percy makes himself look pathetic," I said. "Draco just points it out."
---
**December 2001 — Slytherin Common Room Set**
The Slytherin common room was one of my favorite sets—all dark green leather, silver accents, the underwater quality of light filtered through the lake above. It felt properly menacing and atmospheric, exactly how I'd imagined it from the books.
Today we were filming the actual interrogation scene—Harry and Ron (disguised as Crabbe and Goyle) trying to get information from Draco about the Chamber of Secrets.
"This is the heart of the Polyjuice subplot," Chris Columbus explained to the gathered cast. "Harry and Ron have taken an enormous risk to get here. They need Draco to confess to being the Heir of Slytherin. But of course, he's not—he's just a bigoted bully who's happy the Chamber is open, even though he has nothing to do with it."
I was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, the perfect Malfoy patriarch-in-training posture. Jamie and Josh (as Harry and Ron pretending to be Crabbe and Goyle) were standing nearby, trying to look casual and failing.
"The key to this scene," Chris continued, "is that Draco is showing off. He thinks he's talking to his loyal, stupid friends. He's bragging, revealing his true feelings because he doesn't think Crabbe and Goyle have the intelligence to judge him for it. Henry, I want to see Draco at his most unguarded—this is who he really is when he thinks no one important is watching."
"So honest cruelty rather than performed cruelty," I said.
"Exactly."
We rehearsed the blocking—me in the chair, Jamie and Josh positioned where they could react but also observe, trying to steer the conversation without being obvious.
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
I was examining my fingernails with bored aristocratic disdain when Jamie-as-Harry-as-Crabbe spoke up:
"So, uh, Draco... the Chamber of Secrets. That's pretty interesting, innit?"
I looked up slowly, a smile spreading across my face—not a nice smile, but the smile of someone who's been waiting to talk about something exciting and finally has an audience.
"Interesting?" I leaned forward. "It's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The Heir of Slytherin returning after all these years? Opening the Chamber, releasing the monster? I wish I knew who it was. I'd help them."
Jamie and Josh exchanged quick glances—Harry and Ron realizing they might actually get information.
"You would?" Josh-as-Ron-as-Goyle ventured. "Even though people could die?"
I waved a hand dismissively. "The right people. Mudbloods, obviously. That's rather the point, isn't it? Cleaning out the school, getting rid of the riffraff. Restoring Hogwarts to what it should be—pure-bloods only."
The casual way I said it—like I was discussing the weather—made it even more chilling. This wasn't angry ranting. This was sincere belief.
"Father says it happened before, fifty years ago," I continued, settling back in my chair. "Some Mudblood died, I think. Girl in the bathroom. Can you imagine? Dying in a bathroom. How pathetic."
Jamie's face showed a flash of horror—pure Harry, mourning someone he'd never met—before he caught himself and tried to look appropriately Crabbe-like (which was to say, confused and blank).
"Do you know who opened it last time?" Josh asked, trying to sound casual.
"No idea. Father says the person was never caught. Probably too clever. Though I imagine they'd have to be a proper pure-blood, descended from Slytherin himself." I paused, a thoughtful expression crossing my face. "Pity I'm not the Heir. I'd have opened it last year. Can you imagine the look on Granger's face when—"
I stopped, my eyes narrowing as I looked at "Crabbe."
"Crabbe, why do you look upset? You're not going soft on Mudbloods, are you?"
Jamie quickly rearranged his features into something approximating Crabbe's usual vacant expression.
"No! No, I just... thought about her dying and... it would be messy. Blood everywhere."
I relaxed. "Ah. Yes, that would be unfortunate. One wouldn't want to step in it."
The sheer callousness of that line—worrying about stepping in blood rather than the death itself—landed perfectly.
"Cut!" Chris called. "That was excellent, but let's do it again. Henry, this time I want you to be even more excited when you talk about the Chamber. Like a child talking about Christmas morning."
---
We ran the scene four more times, each take exploring different shades of Draco's cruelty and enthusiasm.
On take three, I added a moment where I stood up and paced, too excited to sit still:
"Can you imagine if it was me? If I was the Heir? The look on Father's face—finally, a Malfoy living up to Slytherin's legacy. Not just talking about pure-blood supremacy, but actually *doing* something about it."
On take five, I played it colder, more calculated:
"Whoever it is, they're smart enough to let others take the blame. That's good strategy. Why expose yourself when you can let suspicion fall on half-bloods and blood traitors instead? It's rather elegant, really."
After the fifth take, Chris called for a break.
Alan Rickman appeared beside me as I grabbed water from the craft services table.
"That scene," he said quietly. "The way you play Draco's genuine belief in blood purity—it's uncomfortable to watch. Which means you're doing it right."
"He really believes it," I said. "That's what makes him dangerous. He's not trying to be evil. He genuinely thinks Muggle-borns are inferior and that hurting them is justified."
"Yes. And the tragedy is that he's fourteen years old, parroting beliefs his father taught him, with no real understanding of what he's saying. When he talks about the dead girl in the bathroom as 'pathetic'—"
"He has no concept of death as real," I finished. "It's abstract to him. He's never lost anyone, never experienced real consequences. Death is just a word, something that happens to other people. Lesser people."
Alan studied me with those penetrating dark eyes. "You understand Draco's psychology remarkably well for someone who's fourteen yourself."
*Because I'm not fourteen. I'm forty-five. But we're not going to discuss that.*
"I just think about what shapes a person," I said. "Draco's been taught that he's superior his entire life. His father is powerful and respected. His mother dotes on him. He's wealthy, privileged, and has never been told 'no' about anything that matters. Why wouldn't he believe he's better than everyone else? All the evidence of his life supports it."
"Until it doesn't," Alan said softly. "Until he's forced to actually do violence himself, until he sees what these beliefs lead to in practice. That's when Draco will have to choose who he really is."
"That's books six and seven," I said. "We're only on book two."
"But you're already playing him with that future arc in mind. I can see it—the moments of doubt you let flash through, so quick Draco himself doesn't notice them. The split-second hesitation before he says something particularly cruel. You're laying groundwork for a redemption arc that won't happen for years."
*Because I know it's coming. I know Draco will eventually choose to lie to Bellatrix about recognizing Harry. I know he'll be saved by Harry in the Room of Requirement. I know his arc ends with him getting a second chance.*
*But I can't tell Alan that.*
"I'm just trying to make him human," I said. "Villains are boring if they're purely evil. Draco's not a villain—he's a kid who was taught wrong. There's a difference."
"Indeed there is." Alan placed a hand on my shoulder. "Keep that perspective, Henry. It will serve you well."
---
**Final Take — The Reveal**
The last setup of the day was the moment Harry and Ron start to transform back, forcing them to flee the common room before Draco realizes who they really are.
"This is comedy timing," Chris explained. "Harry and Ron are panicking, trying to come up with excuses to leave while their Polyjuice starts wearing off. Draco notices something's wrong but still can't quite figure it out. It's absurd and tense at the same time."
We reset to mid-conversation. I was still in my chair, looking smug and comfortable.
"—and that's why Father says the Ministry is full of blood traitors and Mudblood sympathizers," I was saying, gesturing expansively. "They should be cleaning out the undesirables, not protecting them—"
I stopped, noticing "Goyle" suddenly clutch his stomach.
"What's wrong with you?"
Josh-as-Ron grimaced. "Stomach ache. Bad kipper at breakfast."
"You look odd." I stood, walking closer to examine him. "Your face is... are you getting shorter?"
"No!" Josh said too quickly. "Just... hunching. From the pain."
I turned to "Crabbe," who was also looking increasingly uncomfortable, his features starting to shift subtly.
"And you're turning red. Are you having an allergic reaction to something?"
"We should go," Jamie said urgently, grabbing Josh's arm. "Hospital wing. Before we... vomit everywhere."
"Don't you dare vomit in the common room!" I said, horrified. "These are Persian rugs! Do you have any idea what my father paid for—"
But they were already running for the door, moving with uncoordinated panic.
I stared after them, completely baffled.
"Sometimes I think you two share a single brain cell," I muttered, sitting back down in my chair and returning to my previous pose of aristocratic disdain. "And it's not working properly."
"Cut!" Chris called. "Perfect! That's a wrap on the Polyjuice scenes!"
The crew applauded as we all relaxed, dropping character.
Daniel and Rupert had been watching from behind the cameras. They came over, both grinning.
"That was brilliant," Daniel said. "The bits you added—asking if Goyle was getting shorter, the Persian rugs comment—those made it so much funnier."
"Draco would absolutely care more about expensive rugs than his friends' health," I said. "Priorities."
Rupert shook his head in admiration. "You're really good at improv. Most of the best bits in your scenes aren't even scripted."
"I just listen to what the character would say in the moment. If something feels right, I try it. If Chris doesn't like it, he'll tell me."
Jamie and Josh came over, both looking exhausted.
"That was harder than I thought it would be," Jamie admitted. "Playing Harry playing Crabbe—there were so many layers to keep track of."
"You both did great," I assured them. "The panic when Draco started noticing something was wrong felt totally real."
"That's because it WAS real panic," Josh laughed. "You kept adding new things we had to react to. The height comment? That wasn't in rehearsal!"
"Sorry about that. I was in the moment."
"Don't apologize," Chris Columbus said, joining our group. "That's exactly the kind of spontaneity that makes these scenes feel alive. Henry, your instincts are excellent. You know when to stick to the script and when to play."
"Thank you."
"And more importantly," Chris continued, "you understand Draco deeply enough that every improvisation feels true to character. That's rare, especially in young actors. Most improv from fourteen-year-olds is just random nonsense. Yours is character-driven."
*Because I'm not really fourteen. But again, not discussing that.*
---
As we wrapped for the day, I found myself thinking about the scenes we'd just filmed.
In my previous timeline, Tom Felton's "I didn't know you could read" had become one of the most beloved improvised lines in the entire franchise. It was perfect—cruel, funny, and completely in character.
But now I'd expanded on it, added layers, made the scene even richer. The bits about grunts sounding wrong, the Persian rugs, asking if Goyle was getting shorter—all of it felt like natural Draco moments that could become just as quotable.
*I'm not just replicating what Tom Felton did. I'm taking it further. Making Draco mine in a way that honors the original but elevates it.*
*That's the goal. Not to copy, but to improve. To take advantage of knowing what worked and make it work even better.*
Margaret had texted during the break: *Warner Bros approved Pirates schedule. You're officially Will Turner. Congratulations.*
I stared at the text, feeling the weight of what I'd just committed to.
*Draco Malfoy and Will Turner.*
*Two of the biggest franchises in cinema history.*
*Both of them mine.*
Emma appeared beside me, making me jump slightly.
"Sorry! Didn't mean to startle you." She smiled. "I just wanted to say, watching you work today was really impressive. The way you just... created new lines that felt like they'd always been part of the script."
"Thanks, Emma. You're doing great work too."
"It's easier when you have scene partners who make you better. Daniel and Rupert are good, but you..." she paused, seeming to search for words. "You make everyone around you step up their game. It's kind of intimidating, actually."
*Professional distance. Keep it professional.*
"We're all learning together," I said. "None of us have done anything like this before."
"You have, though. The Oscar, the other films—you've done so much more than the rest of us."
"Different kinds of projects. This is my first franchise, just like it's yours. We're all figuring it out."
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I guess that's true. Still, thanks for being so good at this. It makes me want to be better."
After she left, I packed up my things and headed out with my mother, who'd been reading in my trailer all day.
"How was filming?" she asked as we walked to the car.
"Good. Complex. We filmed the same scene multiple times with different actors playing different versions of characters. Very meta."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"I love it. This is what I'm supposed to be doing, Mum. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. When I'm performing, everything makes sense."
She squeezed my shoulder. "I know, darling. I just wish you didn't have to grow up quite so fast."
*I've already grown up. Died, actually. This is my second chance at childhood, except I'm not really having a childhood because I'm too busy building an empire.*
But what I said was: "I'm fine, Mum. I promise."
As we drove away from Leavesden, I thought about the weeks ahead.
*Chamber of Secrets* wrapped in two weeks. Then I had January and February to let my hair grow out before *Pirates* started filming in March. Four months in the Caribbean playing Will Turner, then back to London to prep for *Prisoner of Azkaban* in November.
And somewhere in there, I needed to record music, maintain my education, and try to have at least some semblance of a normal teenage life.
*No pressure.*
I smiled to myself, watching the English countryside blur past the car window.
*Bring it on.*
*Henry Cavendish is just getting started.*
---
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