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 shit, 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 shit.”

---

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. 

---

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