**December 2001 — Leavesden Studios, Quidditch Pitch**
The Quidditch pitch looked different today—dressed for an actual match rather than just the confrontation scene we'd filmed weeks ago. Banners hung from the goal posts in house colors, the stands were filled with extras in costume, and the entire production had the energy of filming something genuinely exciting.
I was in full Slytherin Quidditch gear—the dark green robes with silver accents, my platinum blonde hair slicked back under the slight wind from the industrial fans they were using to simulate flight conditions. The Nimbus 2001 was in my hand, sleek and expensive-looking.
"Alright, everyone!" Chris Columbus's voice echoed across the pitch through his megaphone. "This is our big Quidditch sequence. It's going to take three days to film all the coverage we need. Today we're doing the ground-level shots—players launching, landing, reactions from the crowd. Tomorrow and the day after, we'll do the flying sequences with the green screen rigs."
I was standing with the other Slytherin team members—all of us looking appropriately smug and confident. Across the pitch, the Gryffindor team was gathering, Daniel in Harry's red robes looking small but determined.
"Henry," Chris called me over. "A word?"
I jogged to where he stood with the cinematographer and stunt coordinator.
"The brief for Draco in this sequence," Chris explained, "is that he's cocky at the beginning—certain Slytherin will win, certain he'll catch the Snitch before Harry. But as the match progresses and the Bludger starts targeting Harry, Draco becomes confused, then concerned. Not because he cares about Harry's safety, but because winning against someone who's being actively murdered isn't really winning."
"So Draco's got enough pride that he wants to win fairly?" I said, thinking it through. "Or at least, what he considers fairly."
"Exactly. He's competitive. He wants to prove he's better than Harry. But if Harry dies from a rogue Bludger before Draco catches the Snitch, that's not Draco beating Harry—that's the Bludger beating Harry."
"Okay. So what's the arc? Start cocky, become confused when the Bludger goes after Harry, then what?"
"Then frustrated," the stunt coordinator said. "You can't catch the Snitch because you're watching Harry get attacked. You're torn between seizing the opportunity while Harry's distracted and wanting to actually compete properly."
"And when Harry catches the Snitch despite the broken arm?"
"Pure shock," Chris said. "Disbelief. And then anger—at yourself for hesitating, at Harry for winning anyway, at the entire situation."
I nodded, already building the emotional journey in my head. "Got it. Classic Draco internal conflict—his desire to win versus his desire to win *the right way*."
---
**First Setup — Pre-Match**
We started with the teams entering the pitch. I walked out with the Slytherin team, and the moment we hit our marks, I let Draco's arrogance fill every movement.
The extras in the Slytherin section of the stands cheered. The Gryffindor section booed. It was exactly the kind of artificial but effective atmosphere that would sell the rivalry.
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
I mounted my broom with casual confidence, like this was just another Tuesday, not a crucial match. As Madam Hooch (played by Zoë Wanamaker) released the balls, I kicked off hard, shooting into the air—
Well, into the air about three feet before the wires caught me and held me at that height. Tomorrow we'd film the actual "flying" with the green screen rigs, but today was about selling the launch and the immediate reactions.
I hovered at the designated height, scanning the pitch with Draco's calculating gaze. Daniel was positioned across from me, also on wires, looking determined and slightly nervous—perfect Harry.
"Cut!" Chris called. "Great! Let's get some reaction shots now."
---
**Second Setup — The Match Begins**
The next series of shots were reaction shots of both teams during the match. They'd be intercut with the actual flying sequences filmed tomorrow.
"Henry, you're watching Harry," Chris directed. "You're tracking him, trying to spot the Snitch first. Give me intense focus—Seeker to Seeker, competitor to competitor."
I locked my gaze on Daniel, letting Draco's competitive drive show clearly. This wasn't personal hatred in this moment—this was pure athletic rivalry. Draco wanted to beat Harry, wanted to prove himself better.
"Good! Now, confused. Something's wrong. The Bludger is acting strangely."
I shifted my expression—confusion mixed with suspicion. Draco noticing that something about this match isn't right.
"Now concerned. Not for Harry's safety, but because this isn't a fair competition anymore."
I let frustration cross my face—the look of someone who wants to win but knows the victory would be tainted.
"Perfect! Hold that. And... cut!"
---
**Third Setup — The Bludger Attack**
For the sequence where the rogue Bludger chases Harry, we filmed it in pieces. Daniel would do his flying sequences tomorrow, but today we needed my reactions as Draco watches Harry being actively hunted.
"This is complex," Chris explained. "Draco should be going after the Snitch—that's his job. But he keeps getting distracted watching Harry nearly die. He's torn between taking advantage of the situation and... not."
"What's stopping him from just going for the Snitch while Harry's distracted?" I asked.
"Pride. If he wins because Harry was being attacked, everyone will know it wasn't a fair victory. Draco's ego won't let him accept a tainted win."
"So he's paralyzed by his own arrogance."
"Essentially, yes."
We filmed a sequence where I'm supposed to be searching for the Snitch, but my gaze keeps drifting back to where Harry is being chased by the Bludger.
I played it with increasing frustration—Draco angry at himself for caring, angry at the situation, angry that he can't just focus on winning.
"Cut! Henry, that was excellent. The internal conflict is reading clearly—we can see you fighting with yourself."
---
**Fourth Setup — Harry's Broken Arm**
The next sequence required Daniel on wires, simulating being hit by the Bludger. I was positioned nearby, reacting to the moment Harry's arm breaks.
"Remember," Chris said, "Draco's not happy Harry's hurt. He's shocked. This has gone too far."
They ran the sequence. Daniel did an excellent job of selling the impact—his body jerking from the invisible Bludger hit, his face contorting in pain, his arm going limp.
My reaction was instant—genuine shock crossing Draco's face. Not sympathy, exactly, but the shock of watching something genuinely dangerous happen to someone you know.
*That wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a match, not an assassination attempt.*
"Cut! Good! Now, Henry, I want to see you actually considering stopping the match. Draco thinking about calling a foul, about going to Madam Hooch. He's on the edge of doing the right thing."
I played the next take with internal debate clearly visible—Draco actually considering breaking the rules of competition to stop something wrong. His hand even moved slightly toward the ground, like he was thinking about landing.
But then he stopped, shook his head, stayed in the air.
*Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Potter's made enemies—that's his issue.*
"Perfect!" Chris called. "That moment of almost-nobility is exactly what we need. Draco's not a good person, but he's not completely without conscience either."
---
**Fifth Setup — Harry Catches the Snitch**
The final sequence of the day was the moment Harry catches the Snitch despite his broken arm.
Daniel was on wires, his right arm held carefully to his side, his left hand extended. The special effects team had given him a small golden ball with fluttering wings—the practical Snitch they'd replace with CGI later.
"Daniel, you're in agony but determined," Chris directed. "One last burst of speed, one last desperate grab, and you've got it."
Daniel gritted his teeth, leaned forward on his wire rig, and stretched his left hand out dramatically.
"Cut! Good! Now Henry—you've been racing Harry toward the same Snitch. You see him catch it right before you do. I want to see total disbelief followed by rage."
I reset my position, positioned as if I'd been racing toward the same point.
"Action!"
I watched Daniel's hand close around the Snitch—and I let absolute shock cross my face. Draco couldn't believe it. After everything—the rogue Bludger, the broken arm, all the chaos—Harry had *still* won.
The shock shifted to fury. Pure, frustrated rage at losing, at being beaten by someone who should have been too injured to compete.
I pulled my broom up sharply, hovering there with my hands clenched on the handle, my entire body radiating anger.
"Cut! That's perfect! That's the take!"
Chris was grinning. "Henry, that transition from shock to rage was incredible. You sold Draco's entire emotional journey in five seconds."
"Draco's ego just got destroyed," I said, still in character mentally. "He lost to someone with a broken arm. There's no way to spin that as anything other than complete defeat."
"Exactly. And that's what makes it so satisfying for the audience."
---
**That Evening — My Trailer**
After we wrapped, I found Margaret waiting in my trailer with a folder full of documents.
"Pirates of the Caribbean prep schedule," she announced, spreading papers across the small table. "You finish here December 20th. Christmas with family. Then January 7th, you report to Los Angeles for eight weeks of intensive training before filming starts in March."
I looked at the schedule:
**January 7-14: Sword Fighting (Master William Hobbs)**
**January 14-21: Stunt Training & Wire Work**
**January 21-28: Physical Conditioning & Combat Choreography**
**January 28-February 4: Sailing/Rope Work/Nautical Training**
**February 4-11: Accent Coaching & Final Rehearsals**
**February 11-25: Costume Fittings & Chemistry Reads with Cast**
**February 25-March 8: Final Sword Choreography & Full Rehearsals**
**March 11: First Day of Principal Photography**
"That's two months of training," I observed.
"Disney doesn't mess around. Will Turner is described in the script as 'the best swordsman in the Caribbean.' They need you to look like you've been training your whole life."
"I can do that. I've got dance training, which helps with coordination and movement."
"They know. That's part of why they want you. But there's another issue." Margaret pulled out a separate document. "Will Turner is a blacksmith's apprentice. The script describes him as 'lean but muscular from years of physical labor.' You're fourteen, Henry. You're a dancer's build—elegant and slim."
I looked down at myself. She was right. I was lean from ballet and contemporary dance, but I didn't have the kind of upper body muscle that someone who worked a forge all day would have.
"So I need to bulk up."
"Carefully. You can't put on too much muscle or you won't look like Draco when you come back for Azkaban. But you need enough to convincingly look like a blacksmith."
"How much weight are we talking?"
"Ten to fifteen pounds of muscle, mostly in the shoulders and arms. Your trainer—" she consulted her notes, "—Terry Notary, he's a movement specialist who's worked on Planet of the Apes and other motion-heavy films. He'll design a program that builds functional strength without making you bulky."
*Terry Notary. I remember him from my previous timeline—he's excellent. This is good.*
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. He's coming to London for a preliminary assessment, then he'll give you a program to follow through Christmas. The real work starts in January."
"And my hair?"
Margaret smiled. "Last bleaching session is next week. Then we let it grow out naturally for four months. By March, you should be back to your natural dark brown."
I ran a hand through my platinum blonde hair, trying to imagine it dark again. I'd been blonde for so long—first for Oliver, then continuously for Draco—that I'd almost forgotten what my natural color looked like.
"Sarah says the grow-out will be awkward for about six weeks, then it'll settle," Margaret continued. "You'll need to be patient with the in-between stage."
"I can handle that."
"And there's one more thing." Margaret pulled out a final document. "David Chen wants to accelerate the album recording. With Pirates filming March through July and Azkaban starting November, you have a very small window. He's proposing you record the full album in September and October, release in early 2003."
*2003. I'll be fifteen, nearly sixteen. The voice will be fully mature. The timing is actually perfect.*
"That works. My voice is almost where it needs to be anyway."
"David thinks you'll be ready. He's been working with EMI on the production plan. They want to position you as a serious artist, not just an actor who dabbles in music."
"Good. Because I am a serious artist."
Margaret studied me with that expression I'd come to recognize—part pride, part concern, part wonder at what she'd gotten herself into by representing me.
"You're going to be filming two major franchises, releasing a debut album, maintaining your education, and going through puberty. That's not normal, Henry."
"I've never been normal."
"That's what worries me," she said, but she was smiling. "Just... promise me you'll tell me if it gets to be too much."
"I promise," I said, knowing I wouldn't, because for me, there was no such thing as too much.
---
**December 19, 2001 — Final Day of Chamber of Secrets Filming**
The final scene we filmed for *Chamber of Secrets* was the Great Hall celebration after the petrified students are restored and Hagrid returns.
I had three seconds of screen time in the background—Draco looking distinctly unhappy that everything worked out well for Harry, grudgingly clapping because everyone else was, but clearly bitter about it.
"And that's a wrap on Henry Cavendish for Chamber of Secrets!" Chris Columbus announced after we got the shot.
The crew applauded. Several of my castmates came over to say goodbye—not because I was leaving forever, but because I wouldn't be back until November for Prisoner of Azkaban.
Daniel shook my hand. "Good luck with Pirates."
"Thanks. Good luck finishing up here."
Emma hugged me—a bit longer than was strictly professional, but I let it happen because she was twelve and it was clearly important to her.
"I'll miss you," she said.
*Professional. Keep it professional.*
"I'll miss the whole cast," I said diplomatically. "But we'll see each other at the premiere next year."
Rupert gave me a mock salute. "Try not to become too famous while you're gone. Some of us are still working on our first franchise."
I laughed. "No promises."
Alan Rickman found me as I was packing up my trailer.
"So," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "Pirates of the Caribbean. Bold choice."
"You think I should have said no?"
"Not at all. I think you should seize every opportunity that interests you. Just don't forget who you are in the process. Henry Cavendish is more than Draco Malfoy or Will Turner or any single role."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're building an empire of performances, and I'm not sure where the actual person is in all of it."
It was uncomfortably perceptive, and I didn't have a good answer.
"I'm figuring it out as I go," I said finally.
"We all are." He straightened up. "Just remember—it's okay to not be working sometimes. It's okay to be fourteen and confused and uncertain. You don't have to have everything planned out."
*But I do have everything planned out. That's the problem. Or the solution. I'm not sure which.*
"I'll try to remember that," I said.
After he left, I sat in my empty trailer and thought about the ten months ahead.
*Pirates filming March through July. Two weeks off. Album recording September and October. Two weeks off. Prisoner of Azkaban November through April 2003.*
*No breaks. No downtime. Just constant work.*
*Exactly how I want it.*
I pulled out my phone and texted David: *Chamber wrapped. Ready to focus on music in the fall. Let's make something incredible.*
His response came immediately: *Already planning it. Your voice is going to blow people's minds.*
I smiled and started packing up the last of my Draco costumes and props.
---
**December 21, 2001 — Terry Notary's Initial Assessment**
Terry Notary was exactly what I'd expected from remembering his work in my previous timeline—lean, muscular, moving with the kind of fluid grace that came from years of stunt work and movement coaching.
We met at a private gym in London, just the two of us and his assistant.
"So," he said, circling me like a predator assessing prey, "you're the fourteen-year-old who's playing Will Turner."
"That's me."
"Show me your current fitness level. Twenty push-ups, right now."
I dropped and gave him twenty clean push-ups, using the upper body strength I'd built from years of dance training.
"Good form. Now twenty pull-ups."
I moved to the pull-up bar and managed fifteen before my arms gave out.
"Not bad. You've got a solid foundation from the dance training. Now show me your core—plank position, hold for as long as you can."
I held plank for two minutes before my abs started shaking.
Terry made notes on his clipboard. "Alright, here's the situation. You've got excellent core strength and flexibility from ballet. Your cardiovascular endurance is good. But your upper body—shoulders, arms, chest—needs significant work. A blacksmith who works a forge all day would have serious upper body development."
"How much can I safely gain in two months without looking wrong for my other role?"
"Ten to fifteen pounds, all muscle. We'll focus on functional strength—the kind that looks natural, not gym-built. Lots of compound movements, minimal isolation work. Think practical muscle, not bodybuilder muscle."
He handed me a detailed workout plan:
**Daily (Including Christmas):**
- Morning: 30 minutes cardio (rowing preferred—builds back and arms)
- Afternoon: Weight training (push/pull split)
- Evening: Flexibility and core work
**Monday/Wednesday/Friday:**
- Bench press, overhead press, pull-ups, rows
- Focus: Chest, shoulders, back
**Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday:**
- Squats, deadlifts, farmer's carries, rope climbing
- Focus: Legs, grip strength, functional movement
**Sunday:**
- Active recovery (swimming or light cardio)
"This is six days a week," I observed.
"Welcome to preparing for a Disney tentpole. They're paying you to be Will Turner, which means you need to look like Will Turner. Can you handle this schedule?"
*I've been handling professional schedules since I was six. This is nothing.*
"I can handle it."
"Good. I'll be checking in weekly via video call to assess progress. When you get to LA in January, we'll ramp up intensity for the final eight weeks."
He demonstrated proper form for each exercise, had me replicate them, corrected my positioning.
"The goal," he explained, "is to build a physique that looks like it came from manual labor, not from a gym. That means your shoulders and back should be your strongest features—that's what you develop from swinging a hammer at a forge all day. Arms are important too, but secondary. And we need to maintain your core and legs since there's a lot of running and jumping in the script."
"What about the sword fighting? Does that require specific muscle groups?"
"Fencing is mostly core, shoulders, and wrists. We'll incorporate that into your weight training—lots of rotational movements, wrist curls, forearm work. By the time you step on set in March, holding a sword should feel natural."
---
**Christmas Day, 2001 — Cavendish House**
Christmas morning was quieter than usual. My parents knew I'd be leaving for LA in two weeks, and there was an unspoken awareness that this was one of the last "normal" family holidays we'd have before my schedule became completely insane.
My father gave me a leather-bound journal. "For writing down your thoughts. Not for work—for yourself. Sometimes it helps to get things out of your head."
My mother gave me a silver St. Christopher medal. "For traveling. To keep you safe."
I gave them both signed contracts guaranteeing them co-producer credits on any film I produced in the future. "For supporting me when most parents would have said I was doing too much."
We had a quiet dinner, just the three of us. No industry people, no networking, no discussions of career strategy. Just family.
"Are you scared?" my mother asked as we were cleaning up.
"Of Pirates?"
"Of all of it. Two franchises, the album, the pressure. You're fourteen, Henry. It's okay to be scared."
*I'm not fourteen. I'm forty-five. And I've already failed once—died in a disgusting apartment with nothing to show for my life. This time, I'm not failing.*
"I'm not scared," I said honestly. "I'm ready."
"You've always been ready," my father said quietly. "That's what concerns us sometimes. You've never not been ready. Most children need time to grow into things. You just... are."
*Because I've already grown. Already lived a full life. Already died. This is my second chance, and I'm not wasting a single moment of it.*
"I'm just focused," I said. "This is what I want. This is what I'm meant to do."
They both looked at me with that mixture of pride and sadness that I'd seen more and more lately—proud of what I was achieving, sad that I was growing up so fast.
Or in my case, had already grown up decades ago.
---
**January 6, 2002 — Heathrow Airport**
I stood at the departure gate with my parents, a single large suitcase beside me containing everything I'd need for the next two months in Los Angeles.
My hair was already noticeably different—the roots were dark brown, the ends still platinum blonde. I looked like I was in the awkward stage of growing out a dye job, which was exactly what was happening.
"Call us every week," my mother said, hugging me tightly.
"I will."
"And eat properly. American portions are enormous—don't feel like you have to finish everything."
"I won't."
"And remember—"
"Elizabeth," my father interrupted gently. "He's going to be fine. He's the most prepared fourteen-year-old in history."
*Forty-five-year-old, but sure.*
"I know," she said, but she didn't let go of the hug.
Finally, she released me, and I shook my father's hand.
"Make us proud," he said.
"I will."
"You already have," he corrected. "But go make yourself proud too."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and walked through security toward my gate.
As I boarded the plane—first class, courtesy of Disney—I pulled out the training schedule Terry had sent me for the LA portion:
**Week 1-2: Sword Fundamentals with Master William Hobbs**
**Week 3-4: Advanced Swordwork & Fight Choreography**
**Week 5-6: Stunt Training, Wire Work, Sailing**
**Week 7-8: Full Integration—Combining All Skills**
And underneath, in David's handwriting from a note he'd sent:
*Remember: Pirates is work. The album is art. Don't let one consume the other. You're building two parallel careers—keep them separate and equal.*
I looked out the window as the plane took off, watching London disappear beneath the clouds.
*Henry Cavendish, fourteen years old.*
*Oscar winner.*
*Draco Malfoy.*
*About to become Will Turner.*
*And in eight months, releasing an album that will change everything.*
*Phase Five was officially beginning.*
*Time to show the world what I could really do.*
---
# The Quidditch Match and Caribbean Preparations
**December 2001 — Leavesden Studios, Quidditch Pitch**
The Quidditch pitch looked different today—dressed for an actual match rather than just the confrontation scene we'd filmed weeks ago. Banners hung from the goal posts in house colors, the stands were filled with extras in costume, and the entire production had the energy of filming something genuinely exciting.
I was in full Slytherin Quidditch gear—the dark green robes with silver accents, my platinum blonde hair slicked back under the slight wind from the industrial fans they were using to simulate flight conditions. The Nimbus 2001 was in my hand, sleek and expensive-looking.
"Alright, everyone!" Chris Columbus's voice echoed across the pitch through his megaphone. "This is our big Quidditch sequence. It's going to take three days to film all the coverage we need. Today we're doing the ground-level shots—players launching, landing, reactions from the crowd. Tomorrow and the day after, we'll do the flying sequences with the green screen rigs."
I was standing with the other Slytherin team members—all of us looking appropriately smug and confident. Across the pitch, the Gryffindor team was gathering, Daniel in Harry's red robes looking small but determined.
"Henry," Chris called me over. "A word?"
I jogged to where he stood with the cinematographer and stunt coordinator.
"The brief for Draco in this sequence," Chris explained, "is that he's cocky at the beginning—certain Slytherin will win, certain he'll catch the Snitch before Harry. But as the match progresses and the Bludger starts targeting Harry, Draco becomes confused, then concerned. Not because he cares about Harry's safety, but because winning against someone who's being actively murdered isn't really winning."
"So Draco's got enough pride that he wants to win fairly?" I said, thinking it through. "Or at least, what he considers fairly."
"Exactly. He's competitive. He wants to prove he's better than Harry. But if Harry dies from a rogue Bludger before Draco catches the Snitch, that's not Draco beating Harry—that's the Bludger beating Harry."
"Okay. So what's the arc? Start cocky, become confused when the Bludger goes after Harry, then what?"
"Then frustrated," the stunt coordinator said. "You can't catch the Snitch because you're watching Harry get attacked. You're torn between seizing the opportunity while Harry's distracted and wanting to actually compete properly."
"And when Harry catches the Snitch despite the broken arm?"
"Pure shock," Chris said. "Disbelief. And then anger—at yourself for hesitating, at Harry for winning anyway, at the entire situation."
I nodded, already building the emotional journey in my head. "Got it. Classic Draco internal conflict—his desire to win versus his desire to win *the right way*."
---
**First Setup — Pre-Match**
We started with the teams entering the pitch. I walked out with the Slytherin team, and the moment we hit our marks, I let Draco's arrogance fill every movement.
The extras in the Slytherin section of the stands cheered. The Gryffindor section booed. It was exactly the kind of artificial but effective atmosphere that would sell the rivalry.
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
I mounted my broom with casual confidence, like this was just another Tuesday, not a crucial match. As Madam Hooch (played by Zoë Wanamaker) released the balls, I kicked off hard, shooting into the air—
Well, into the air about three feet before the wires caught me and held me at that height. Tomorrow we'd film the actual "flying" with the green screen rigs, but today was about selling the launch and the immediate reactions.
I hovered at the designated height, scanning the pitch with Draco's calculating gaze. Daniel was positioned across from me, also on wires, looking determined and slightly nervous—perfect Harry.
"Cut!" Chris called. "Great! Let's get some reaction shots now."
---
**Second Setup — The Match Begins**
The next series of shots were reaction shots of both teams during the match. They'd be intercut with the actual flying sequences filmed tomorrow.
"Henry, you're watching Harry," Chris directed. "You're tracking him, trying to spot the Snitch first. Give me intense focus—Seeker to Seeker, competitor to competitor."
I locked my gaze on Daniel, letting Draco's competitive drive show clearly. This wasn't personal hatred in this moment—this was pure athletic rivalry. Draco wanted to beat Harry, wanted to prove himself better.
"Good! Now, confused. Something's wrong. The Bludger is acting strangely."
I shifted my expression—confusion mixed with suspicion. Draco noticing that something about this match isn't right.
"Now concerned. Not for Harry's safety, but because this isn't a fair competition anymore."
I let frustration cross my face—the look of someone who wants to win but knows the victory would be tainted.
"Perfect! Hold that. And... cut!"
---
**Third Setup — The Bludger Attack**
For the sequence where the rogue Bludger chases Harry, we filmed it in pieces. Daniel would do his flying sequences tomorrow, but today we needed my reactions as Draco watches Harry being actively hunted.
"This is complex," Chris explained. "Draco should be going after the Snitch—that's his job. But he keeps getting distracted watching Harry nearly die. He's torn between taking advantage of the situation and... not."
"What's stopping him from just going for the Snitch while Harry's distracted?" I asked.
"Pride. If he wins because Harry was being attacked, everyone will know it wasn't a fair victory. Draco's ego won't let him accept a tainted win."
"So he's paralyzed by his own arrogance."
"Essentially, yes."
We filmed a sequence where I'm supposed to be searching for the Snitch, but my gaze keeps drifting back to where Harry is being chased by the Bludger.
I played it with increasing frustration—Draco angry at himself for caring, angry at the situation, angry that he can't just focus on winning.
"Cut! Henry, that was excellent. The internal conflict is reading clearly—we can see you fighting with yourself."
---
**Fourth Setup — Harry's Broken Arm**
The next sequence required Daniel on wires, simulating being hit by the Bludger. I was positioned nearby, reacting to the moment Harry's arm breaks.
"Remember," Chris said, "Draco's not happy Harry's hurt. He's shocked. This has gone too far."
They ran the sequence. Daniel did an excellent job of selling the impact—his body jerking from the invisible Bludger hit, his face contorting in pain, his arm going limp.
My reaction was instant—genuine shock crossing Draco's face. Not sympathy, exactly, but the shock of watching something genuinely dangerous happen to someone you know.
*That wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a match, not an assassination attempt.*
"Cut! Good! Now, Henry, I want to see you actually considering stopping the match. Draco thinking about calling a foul, about going to Madam Hooch. He's on the edge of doing the right thing."
I played the next take with internal debate clearly visible—Draco actually considering breaking the rules of competition to stop something wrong. His hand even moved slightly toward the ground, like he was thinking about landing.
But then he stopped, shook his head, stayed in the air.
*Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Potter's made enemies—that's his issue.*
"Perfect!" Chris called. "That moment of almost-nobility is exactly what we need. Draco's not a good person, but he's not completely without conscience either."
---
**Fifth Setup — Harry Catches the Snitch**
The final sequence of the day was the moment Harry catches the Snitch despite his broken arm.
Daniel was on wires, his right arm held carefully to his side, his left hand extended. The special effects team had given him a small golden ball with fluttering wings—the practical Snitch they'd replace with CGI later.
"Daniel, you're in agony but determined," Chris directed. "One last burst of speed, one last desperate grab, and you've got it."
Daniel gritted his teeth, leaned forward on his wire rig, and stretched his left hand out dramatically.
"Cut! Good! Now Henry—you've been racing Harry toward the same Snitch. You see him catch it right before you do. I want to see total disbelief followed by rage."
I reset my position, positioned as if I'd been racing toward the same point.
"Action!"
I watched Daniel's hand close around the Snitch—and I let absolute shock cross my face. Draco couldn't believe it. After everything—the rogue Bludger, the broken arm, all the chaos—Harry had *still* won.
The shock shifted to fury. Pure, frustrated rage at losing, at being beaten by someone who should have been too injured to compete.
I pulled my broom up sharply, hovering there with my hands clenched on the handle, my entire body radiating anger.
"Cut! That's perfect! That's the take!"
Chris was grinning. "Henry, that transition from shock to rage was incredible. You sold Draco's entire emotional journey in five seconds."
"Draco's ego just got destroyed," I said, still in character mentally. "He lost to someone with a broken arm. There's no way to spin that as anything other than complete defeat."
"Exactly. And that's what makes it so satisfying for the audience."
---
**That Evening — My Trailer**
After we wrapped, I found Margaret waiting in my trailer with a folder full of documents.
"Pirates of the Caribbean prep schedule," she announced, spreading papers across the small table. "You finish here December 20th. Christmas with family. Then January 7th, you report to Los Angeles for eight weeks of intensive training before filming starts in March."
I looked at the schedule:
**January 7-14: Sword Fighting (Master William Hobbs)**
**January 14-21: Stunt Training & Wire Work**
**January 21-28: Physical Conditioning & Combat Choreography**
**January 28-February 4: Sailing/Rope Work/Nautical Training**
**February 4-11: Accent Coaching & Final Rehearsals**
**February 11-25: Costume Fittings & Chemistry Reads with Cast**
**February 25-March 8: Final Sword Choreography & Full Rehearsals**
**March 11: First Day of Principal Photography**
"That's two months of training," I observed.
"Disney doesn't mess around. Will Turner is described in the script as 'the best swordsman in the Caribbean.' They need you to look like you've been training your whole life."
"I can do that. I've got dance training, which helps with coordination and movement."
"They know. That's part of why they want you. But there's another issue." Margaret pulled out a separate document. "Will Turner is a blacksmith's apprentice. The script describes him as 'lean but muscular from years of physical labor.' You're fourteen, Henry. You're a dancer's build—elegant and slim."
I looked down at myself. She was right. I was lean from ballet and contemporary dance, but I didn't have the kind of upper body muscle that someone who worked a forge all day would have.
"So I need to bulk up."
"Carefully. You can't put on too much muscle or you won't look like Draco when you come back for Azkaban. But you need enough to convincingly look like a blacksmith."
"How much weight are we talking?"
"Ten to fifteen pounds of muscle, mostly in the shoulders and arms. Your trainer—" she consulted her notes, "—Terry Notary, he's a movement specialist who's worked on Planet of the Apes and other motion-heavy films. He'll design a program that builds functional strength without making you bulky."
*Terry Notary. I remember him from my previous timeline—he's excellent. This is good.*
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. He's coming to London for a preliminary assessment, then he'll give you a program to follow through Christmas. The real work starts in January."
"And my hair?"
Margaret smiled. "Last bleaching session is next week. Then we let it grow out naturally for four months. By March, you should be back to your natural dark brown."
I ran a hand through my platinum blonde hair, trying to imagine it dark again. I'd been blonde for so long—first for Oliver, then continuously for Draco—that I'd almost forgotten what my natural color looked like.
"Sarah says the grow-out will be awkward for about six weeks, then it'll settle," Margaret continued. "You'll need to be patient with the in-between stage."
"I can handle that."
"And there's one more thing." Margaret pulled out a final document. "David Chen wants to accelerate the album recording. With Pirates filming March through July and Azkaban starting November, you have a very small window. He's proposing you record the full album in September and October, release in early 2003."
*2003. I'll be fifteen, nearly sixteen. The voice will be fully mature. The timing is actually perfect.*
"That works. My voice is almost where it needs to be anyway."
"David thinks you'll be ready. He's been working with EMI on the production plan. They want to position you as a serious artist, not just an actor who dabbles in music."
"Good. Because I am a serious artist."
Margaret studied me with that expression I'd come to recognize—part pride, part concern, part wonder at what she'd gotten herself into by representing me.
"You're going to be filming two major franchises, releasing a debut album, maintaining your education, and going through puberty. That's not normal, Henry."
"I've never been normal."
"That's what worries me," she said, but she was smiling. "Just... promise me you'll tell me if it gets to be too much."
"I promise," I said, knowing I wouldn't, because for me, there was no such thing as too much.
---
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