**January 2000 — Age 12**
"Absolutely not."
I stared at my reflection in the mirror of the Warner Bros. hair and makeup department, trying to process what they'd just told me.
"We need to bleach your hair," the head of the hair department, a woman named Sarah, repeated patiently. "Draco Malfoy is described in the books as having white-blond hair. It's one of his most distinctive features."
My natural hair was a dark golden-brown—thick, wavy, the kind of hair that fell perfectly without effort thanks to the templates. And now they wanted to turn it silver-blonde.
"For how long?" I asked.
"The duration of filming. About six months for this film. And then we'll need to maintain it for all the sequels."
I thought about Tom Felton, who'd played Draco in my previous timeline. He'd had to bleach his hair every ten days for a decade. It had apparently been brutal on his scalp.
*But he did it. And it worked. The platinum blonde became iconic—Draco Malfoy without the white-blond hair would be unthinkable.*
"Alright," I said. "Let's do it."
Sarah looked relieved. "We'll do a test strand first, make sure your hair can handle the bleach. Some people's hair just won't take it properly."
*Mine will,* I thought. *The templates won't let something like hair damage stop me.*
Three hours later, I was staring at a stranger in the mirror.
My hair was silver-blonde—not quite white, but close. Platinum. It made my blue-green eyes with their silver flecks even more striking. Combined with my already sharp features, the effect was almost ethereal.
I looked like Draco Malfoy.
"Oh my God," my mother breathed from behind me. "Henry, you look so different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"Different... striking. You look like you walked out of the books."
Sarah was styling it now—slicked back, not a hair out of place. The aristocratic look that screamed "pure-blood supremacy" without saying a word.
"This is the look," she said with satisfaction. "This is Draco."
I turned my head, examining myself from different angles. The blonde hair changed everything—made me look colder, more aloof, more dangerous.
*Perfect.*
---
**February 2000 — Oscar Nomination**
The call came at 5:30 AM London time—the moment the Oscar nominations were announced in Los Angeles.
Margaret's voice was vibrating with excitement: "You're nominated. Best Supporting Actor. The youngest nominee in that category in Academy history."
I sat up in bed, my newly blonde hair sticking up in all directions.
"I'm nominated?"
"You're nominated. The ceremony is March 26th. We need to start preparing immediately—what you'll wear, your speech if you win, interview prep, everything."
My parents appeared in my doorway, having obviously been listening on another phone.
"Our son is nominated for an Oscar," my father said, sounding dazed. "Our twelve-year-old son is nominated for an Oscar."
The next few hours were a blur of phone calls, congratulations, and media requests. By noon, every major British newspaper had it as front-page news:
**"BRITISH WUNDERKIND MAKES OSCAR HISTORY"**
**"12-YEAR-OLD HENRY CAVENDISH NOMINATED FOR ACADEMY AWARD"**
**"FROM OLIVER TO OSCAR: THE REMARKABLE RISE OF HENRY CAVENDISH"**
At school that day, I was mobbed.
"You're nominated for an OSCAR!"
"Are you going to win?"
"Can I go to the ceremony with you?"
Even the teachers were treating me differently—a mixture of pride and not-quite-sure-how-to-handle-this-situation.
During lunch, Oliver pulled me aside.
"So," he said, "Oscar nominee. That's pretty cool."
"Pretty surreal, actually."
"Are you going to win?"
I thought about the other nominees. Michael Caine for *The Cider House Rules*. Tom Cruise for *Magnolia*. Jude Law for *The Talented Mr. Ripley*. Haley Joel Osment for *The Sixth Sense*.
All of them were incredible performances. All of them were from massive films. But Haley Joel Osment was the one to beat—he was the other child actor nominee, and *The Sixth Sense* was a cultural phenomenon.
*In my original timeline, Michael Caine won. But my performance in* The Poet's Son *is different from what existed before. Better, probably. The templates made sure of that.*
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But I'm just honored to be nominated."
Oliver snorted. "You sound like you're already at the ceremony giving your speech."
"I've been practicing," I admitted.
"Of course you have."
---
**March 2000 — First Table Read**
The Leavesden Studios outside London would be our home for the next six months. Warner Bros. had completely taken over the facility, building Hogwarts from the ground up—the Great Hall, the common rooms, Dumbledore's office, everything.
But before we saw any of that, we had the table read.
I walked into the rehearsal space with my mother, my platinum blonde hair drawing immediate attention from everyone in the room.
"That's commitment," someone said approvingly.
The room was filling with people—Chris Columbus and the producers at the head table, and gradually, the cast.
I recognized them all.
**Richard Harris** was sitting quietly in a corner, reading through his script. Dumbledore. The original Dumbledore. He looked frail already—I knew he'd die after the second film, which gave his presence a bittersweet quality.
**Maggie Smith** arrived with the kind of regal presence that needed no introduction. Professor McGonagall. Dame Maggie Smith, theater legend, one of the greatest actresses Britain had ever produced.
**Alan Rickman** entered, and the room's energy shifted. He had *presence*—that ineffable quality that made you pay attention without him doing anything. Snape. The performance that would define a generation's understanding of the character.
**Robbie Coltrane** was already there, massive and jolly, chatting with crew members. Hagrid. Perfect casting.
And then the other young actors started arriving.
**Daniel Radcliffe** came in looking nervous, his parents flanking him protectively. He was small, dark-haired, with those round glasses already in place. Harry Potter personified.
**Rupert Grint** followed, all red hair and easy grin. Natural comedic timing already evident in the way he moved. Ron Weasley to the life.
And then **Emma Watson** walked in.
Nine years old, bushy brown hair, confident in the way only children who don't yet know they should be nervous can be. Hermione Granger.
She looked around the room with wide eyes, taking everything in, and when her gaze landed on me—
She stopped. Stared. Blinked.
*Oh no. Here we go.*
I remembered reading in my previous life that Emma Watson had had a massive crush on Tom Felton during filming. She'd talked about it in interviews years later, how she'd drawn hearts around his name in her journal, how she'd check the call sheet every day to see if he was filming.
And now I was Tom Felton.
Or rather, I was playing the role Tom Felton had played, with all the physical advantages of my templates plus the knowledge of exactly what had happened.
*I'm twelve. She's nine. This is NOT the time for romantic complications. Be professional. Be friendly. Be a colleague. Do NOT encourage a nine-year-old's crush.*
"Everyone!" Chris Columbus called out. "Let's get started. Young actors, come sit at this table. Adults, you're around the perimeter for now."
I found myself seated between Daniel and Tom Felton—no, wait. Tom Felton wasn't here. I *was* Draco Malfoy. The other Tom wasn't cast.
Between Daniel and **Jamie Waylett**, who was playing Crabbe.
Emma ended up directly across from me, next to Daniel. She was still staring.
"Hi," I said, giving her a friendly but not-too-friendly smile. "I'm Henry. You're Emma, right?"
"Yes," she said, and her voice came out slightly breathless. "You're Draco."
"I'm playing Draco," I corrected gently. "I promise I'm much nicer than he is."
She giggled, and I saw Daniel roll his eyes slightly.
*Great. Day one and I'm already dealing with this.*
Chris called the room to attention. "Alright, everyone. Welcome to *Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone*. We're about to embark on something extraordinary. This isn't just a film—this is the beginning of a journey that's going to last a decade and change all of our lives. So let's start at the very beginning."
He nodded to the script supervisor. "Scene one, exterior, Privet Drive..."
As we began reading through the script, I was struck by how *good* everyone was.
Richard Harris's Dumbledore was gentle and wise, with hints of power underneath.
Maggie Smith's McGonagall was stern but caring, with perfect comic timing.
Alan Rickman's Snape was... mesmerizing. Even just reading lines, he brought such depth and complexity that I found myself analyzing his choices.
*He knows,* I realized. *He knows the whole story. Chris Columbus or J.K. Rowling must have told him about Snape's true loyalties, about his love for Lily, about everything. That's why every line has layers.*
And the young actors were good too. Daniel brought earnestness and vulnerability to Harry. Rupert had natural comedic timing with Ron. Emma was perhaps slightly too confident for Hermione at this point, but she'd grow into it.
Then we reached the Hogwarts Express scene—Draco's first appearance.
"This is the scene where Draco meets Harry for the first time," Chris said. "Remember, Draco genuinely believes Harry will want to be his friend. He can't comprehend rejection."
I read the lines, but I was also doing what I'd done in the audition—adding layers of subtext, showing the privilege and entitlement mixed with something almost like eagerness.
*"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."*
Daniel responded perfectly, Harry's instinctive dislike coming through clearly.
*"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."*
I let Draco's face shift—just for a moment, genuine shock and hurt before the mask of arrogant disdain slammed back down.
*"You'll regret this, Potter. Mark my words."*
When the scene ended, Alan Rickman spoke from his position at the adult table.
"Interesting choice," he said in that distinctive drawl, looking directly at me. "Showing the vulnerability beneath the bully. Most people play Draco as purely antagonistic."
"I think he's more complicated than that, sir," I said.
"Oh, I agree. But it takes real skill to show that complexity at..." he checked his notes, "twelve years old. Tell me, Henry, what do you think Draco wants most in the world?"
It was a test. Alan Rickman was testing me, seeing if I actually understood the character or if I'd just gotten lucky in the audition.
*I know Draco's entire arc. I know he wants his father's approval. I know he wants to be powerful like he thinks Lucius is. I know he's terrified of disappointing his family. I know he'll eventually be forced to take the Dark Mark and will be completely out of his depth. I know he'll choose to lie about recognizing Harry at Malfoy Manor. I know he'll be saved by Harry in the Room of Requirement.*
*I know everything.*
But what I said was: "I think Draco wants to matter. He wants to be important, powerful, respected. But he only knows how to get those things through his family name and by putting other people down. He doesn't know how to earn respect through his own actions because no one's ever asked him to."
The room was silent.
Alan Rickman studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes. That's exactly right. Hold onto that understanding. It will serve you well."
After the table read ended, we had a brief meet-and-greet where the cast could mingle informally.
I found myself standing near Richard Harris, who was examining me with those kind, watery eyes.
"You're the Oscar nominee," he observed.
"Yes, sir. It's an honor to meet you. I saw *Gladiator* three times in the cinema."
He smiled. "Thank you. And congratulations on your nomination. *The Poet's Son* was a remarkable piece of work. Your performance was..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "unusually mature for someone your age."
"Thank you, sir."
"Tell me something, young Henry. Why did you want to play Draco Malfoy? You could have pursued sympathetic roles, continued the trajectory from *The Poet's Son*. Why choose to play someone so unlikeable?"
*Because I know he becomes one of the most beloved characters in the franchise. Because I know the redemption arc. Because I know this role will make me a star.*
"Because I think the most interesting characters are the ones who have to grow and change," I said. "Heroes start good and stay good. But someone like Draco? He has the potential to become better, even if he doesn't know it yet. That's a more interesting journey."
Richard Harris smiled. "You remind me of myself at your age. Far too clever and already thinking several steps ahead." He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Just remember to enjoy the journey, not just the destination. You're twelve years old. Don't forget to be twelve."
*If only you knew,* I thought. *I'm forty-four. I've already lived through being an adult and it destroyed me. This is my second chance, and I'm not wasting a single moment.*
But what I said was: "I'll try, sir."
Maggie Smith appeared beside us, imperious and elegant. "Richard, stop monopolizing the young talent. I'd like to speak with him."
Richard Harris chuckled and moved away, leaving me alone with Dame Maggie Smith.
She looked me up and down with the kind of assessing gaze that had probably terrified generations of actors.
"You're the one who made Alan sit up and take notice," she observed. "That's not easy to do. Alan doesn't suffer fools, and he especially doesn't suffer young actors who think talent excuses lack of professionalism."
"I try to be professional, Dame Smith."
"I'm sure you do. Tell me—have you done theater?"
"Yes, ma'am. *Oliver!* at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane when I was six."
Her eyebrows rose. "That's quite a credit. Do you miss the stage?"
"Sometimes. Film is intimate and precise, but theater is... alive. Immediate. You feel the audience responding in real-time."
"Exactly right. Many film actors never understand that distinction." She studied me with those sharp eyes. "You're an unusual child, Henry Cavendish."
*Everyone keeps saying that.*
"I just love what I do, ma'am."
"Clearly. Well, young man, I expect we'll be spending quite a bit of time together over the next decade. Try not to disappoint me."
"I'll do my best, Dame Smith."
She gave me a slight smile. "I suspect your best is quite good indeed."
---
**Later That Day**
After the adults had left, the young actors gathered in a corner, suddenly much less formal now that we weren't being observed by legends of British cinema.
"That was *intense*," Rupert said, running a hand through his red hair. "Did you see how Alan Rickman looked at us? Like he was reading our minds or something."
"He's brilliant," Daniel said quietly. "They all are. How are we supposed to act opposite people like that?"
"We just do our best," I said. "They were young actors once too. They know what it's like."
Emma had been quiet, but now she spoke up. "Henry, how did you know all that stuff about Draco? About what he wants?"
*Because I've read all seven books and seen all eight films and spent countless hours analyzing character motivations in my previous life.*
"I just thought about what it would be like to grow up the way he did," I said. "With parents who teach you that you're better than everyone else. It must be lonely, even if you don't realize it."
"That's really smart," Emma said, and there was that breathless quality in her voice again.
*Abort. Abort. Do not encourage this.*
"Thanks," I said casually, then deliberately turned to Daniel. "What about you? How are you approaching Harry?"
Daniel looked grateful for the attention shift. "I'm just trying to think about how confused and overwhelmed he must be. One day he's living in a cupboard, the next he's the most famous wizard in the world. That must be terrifying."
"And exciting," Rupert added. "I mean, suddenly you have magic and friends and a place you belong. That's got to feel amazing even if it's scary."
We talked for another hour—about our characters, about the books, about what filming would be like. It was the beginning of what would become a tight-knit group, though I knew I'd need to maintain some distance. These kids would become incredibly close over the next decade, and while I'd participate, I couldn't forget that I was fundamentally different from them.
They were children embarking on an adventure.
I was a man in a child's body, executing a carefully planned strategy.
As we were leaving, Emma caught up to me.
"Henry?"
I turned, keeping my expression friendly but neutral. "Yeah?"
"I just wanted to say... I think you're going to be a really good Draco. Even though he's mean, I think people are going to like watching you."
*Oh no. She's already crushing. This is going to be complicated.*
"Thanks, Emma. I think you're going to be a great Hermione too."
She beamed, then ran off to rejoin her parents.
My mother appeared beside me. "She seems sweet."
"She's nine, Mum."
"I know. I'm just saying she seems to like you."
"I'm twelve. And we're colleagues. That's all."
Elizabeth gave me a knowing look. "Darling, you may be mature beyond your years in many ways, but you're still about to go through puberty. Things are going to get... complicated."
*Don't I know it. The sex appeal template is going to activate fully in the next year or two. Combined with my physical appearance and fame, teenage years are going to be an absolute minefield.*
"I'll be professional," I said firmly.
"I know you will. Just... be kind to her. Nine-year-old crushes are very real to nine-year-olds, even if they seem silly to twelve-year-olds."
"I'll be kind," I promised.
*But I'll also be careful. Very, very careful.*
---
**March 26, 2000 — The 72nd Academy Awards**
The Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles was exactly as spectacular as I'd imagined—all gilt and velvet and Hollywood glamour taken to its logical extreme.
I was wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo (my third one in as many years—I was growing fast), my platinum blonde hair slicked back, looking every inch the young gentleman.
"How are you feeling?" Margaret asked as our limousine pulled up to the red carpet.
"Excited. Nervous. Ready."
"Your speech?"
I patted my pocket where I'd written note cards—one for if I won, one for if I didn't. "Prepared."
"Remember: be gracious, be brief, thank the right people. If you win, you'll be the youngest Best Supporting Actor winner in history. That's a lot of pressure."
"I can handle it."
The red carpet was chaos—photographers shouting, reporters thrusting microphones, fans screaming from behind barriers.
I walked it like I'd been doing this for years (which, mentally, I had). Stopped at the right places, smiled at the cameras, gave thoughtful soundbites to reporters.
"Henry, how does it feel to be nominated at twelve years old?"
"It's an incredible honor. *The Poet's Son* was such a special project, and Christopher Hampton is a master filmmaker. Just being part of that film was a privilege."
"Do you think you'll win tonight?"
"I'm just honored to be nominated alongside such incredible performances. Michael Caine, Tom Cruise, Jude Law, Haley Joel Osment—these are all actors I admire tremendously."
"We hear you're playing Draco Malfoy in the new *Harry Potter* films. What can you tell us about that?"
"I can tell you it's going to be amazing. The cast is incredible, the production is massive, and I think fans of the books are going to love what we're creating."
Inside the auditorium, I was seated with my parents and Margaret. Around us were the gods of cinema—Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks, Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening.
And somewhere in this room, my fellow nominees.
The ceremony was a blur of performances and presentations. Best Sound. Best Costume Design. Best Original Score.
And then, finally: "And now, to present the award for Best Supporting Actor..."
My heart was hammering.
Michael Caine. Tom Cruise. Jude Law. Haley Joel Osment. Henry Cavendish.
*One of us is about to have our life changed forever.*
The presenter—Whoopi Goldberg—opened the envelope.
Paused.
Smiled.
"Well. This is a historic moment. The winner is... Henry Cavendish, *The Poet's Son*."
Time stopped.
The audience erupted in applause—not just polite award show applause, but genuine enthusiastic applause.
My mother was crying. My father was hugging me. Margaret was pushing me toward the aisle.
I walked to the stage in a daze, aware that cameras were capturing every moment, that millions of people were watching, that this moment would define the rest of my life.
Whoopi Goldberg handed me the Oscar—heavier than I expected, golden and gleaming.
I stepped up to the microphone, looked out at an auditorium full of the most talented people in the entertainment industry, and spoke:
"I honestly didn't prepare a winning speech because I didn't think I'd need one. So if I ramble, I apologize.
"First, thank you to the Academy. This is beyond anything I ever imagined when I started acting six years ago.
"Thank you to Christopher Hampton for trusting me with William, for pushing me to find truth in every moment, and for creating something beautiful. Thank you to my castmates, especially Dame Helen Mirren and Michael Gambon, who taught me so much just by watching them work.
"Thank you to Margaret Chen, my agent, who believed in me from the beginning. Thank you to my parents, James and Elizabeth Cavendish, who let me pursue this dream even when it meant giving up a normal childhood. Mum, Dad—I love you.
"And finally, to every young person watching who has a dream—whether it's acting or music or art or anything else: your age doesn't matter. Your background doesn't matter. What matters is your passion and your willingness to work harder than everyone else. Don't let anyone tell you you're too young or too inexperienced or too anything. If you love something, chase it with everything you have.
"Thank you."
The applause was deafening.
As I walked off stage, Oscar in hand, I caught a glimpse of myself on the backstage monitors—platinum blonde hair, perfect tuxedo, golden statue held high.
*Henry Cavendish. Oscar winner at twelve years old.*
*Marcus Cole died with nothing but broken dreams.*
*Henry Cavendish just became the youngest Best Supporting Actor winner in Academy history.*
*Phase Three, complete.*
*Now for the rest of the world.*
---
**April 2000 — Return to London**
Coming back to London after the Oscars was surreal.
I'd left as a nominated actor. I returned as an Oscar winner.
The media attention was insane. Every newspaper, every magazine, every television show wanted interviews. "Oscar Winner Henry Cavendish" was suddenly Britain's favorite story.
But I had work to do.
Filming for *Harry Potter* started in a month, and I needed to be ready.
---
**May 2000 — First Day of Filming**
Leavesden Studios at 6 AM was already buzzing with activity.
I arrived in costume—Slytherin robes, perfectly tailored, making me look every inch the pure-blood aristocrat. My platinum blonde hair was slicked back precisely. Makeup had made my already striking features even more sharp and cold.
I looked in the mirror and saw Draco Malfoy staring back.
*Let's do this.*
The first scene we were filming was in the Great Hall—the Sorting Ceremony. All the young actors would be there, and it would set the tone for everything that followed.
Walking onto the Great Hall set was breathtaking.
They'd built it to scale—the long tables, the floating candles, the enchanted ceiling. It looked exactly like I remembered from the films, except now I was actually *in* it.
Daniel, Rupert, and Emma were already there, looking overwhelmed.
"This is insane," Rupert breathed. "It's like we actually stepped into Hogwarts."
"It's perfect," Emma said, spinning around to take it all in.
Daniel saw me and waved. "Henry! You look so different with the costume and hair."
I walked over, maintaining Draco's posture—chin up, shoulders back, moving with casual arrogance.
"That's the point," I said, but I smiled to show I was joking.
Emma stared up at me with wide eyes. "You look really good. I mean—as Draco. You look like Draco. From the books."
*Kill me now.*
"Thanks, Emma. You look great as Hermione too."
Chris Columbus called for everyone's attention. "Alright, people! This is the moment. This is where Harry Potter becomes real. Everyone take your positions. Remember, this isn't just a movie scene—this is magic happening for the first time. I want to see wonder, excitement, genuine emotion. Let's make some movie history."
The cameras rolled.
And for the first time, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy existed in the same space.
I sneered at Daniel-as-Harry from across the hall.
He glared back.
And the rivalry that would define a generation began.
*Here we go,* I thought.
*Ten years of magic, friendship, and creating something that will change cinema forever.*
*But first, I have to survive puberty, Emma Watson's crush, and being Draco Malfoy while staying true to Henry Cavendish.*
*No pressure.*
Chris called "Cut!" and the entire crew burst into applause.
"That's it!" Chris shouted. "That's the energy! Welcome to Hogwarts, everyone!"
Around me, my castmates were grinning, high-fiving, caught up in the magic of it all.
And me?
I was already thinking three steps ahead.
*One film down, seven to go.*
*One Oscar down, several more to chase.*
*One phase complete, an entire empire to build.*
*Watch out, world.*
*Henry Cavendish is just getting started.*
—
**May 2000 — Leavesden Studios**
Filming *Harry Potter* was simultaneously the easiest and most complex thing I'd done.
Easy because Draco didn't have that many scenes compared to the trio. I'd show up maybe two or three days a week, do my scenes—usually antagonizing Harry, sneering at Ron, or making classist comments—and then I'd be done.
Complex because every scene had to be *perfect*.
Chris Columbus was meticulous, often doing fifteen or twenty takes to get exactly the right energy. And with someone like Alan Rickman on set, the bar was impossibly high.
"Scene forty-two, take eight," the assistant director called. "Draco confronts Harry outside the Great Hall."
I stepped into position, immediately slipping into Draco's body language—shoulders back, chin up, that particular sneer that conveyed centuries of pure-blood superiority.
Daniel stood across from me, already in character as Harry.
"Action!"
"Training for the ballet, Potter?" I drawled, my accent perfectly pitched between Received Pronunciation and aristocratic disdain. The line was improvised—not in the script—but it felt right for Draco.
Chris didn't call cut. That meant he liked it.
Daniel glared at me, staying in character. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"Just wanted to remind you that some of us have breeding, Potter. You might have defeated the Dark Lord as a baby, but that doesn't make you one of us."
"Cut!" Chris was grinning. "That improvisation—'training for the ballet'—that's staying in. Henry, where did that come from?"
"Draco would go for something that's both an insult and shows he's cultured enough to know about ballet," I said. "It's the kind of dig that's meant to make Harry feel inferior on multiple levels."
Alan Rickman, who'd been watching from off-camera, spoke up: "Clever. Most actors your age wouldn't think about the layers in an insult. They'd just go for the obvious."
"Thank you, Professor Snape," I said, deliberately using his character name.
Alan's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Just Alan when we're not filming, Henry. Though I appreciate the commitment to staying in the world."
After we wrapped for the day, I was walking back to my trailer when I heard giggling.
Emma Watson was there with her dialect coach, but she kept glancing over at me, then quickly looking away when I noticed.
*This is getting worse, not better.*
I couldn't avoid her—we had classes together (there were mandatory tutoring sessions on set), we ate in the same catering area, and we were all becoming friends despite my best efforts to maintain professional distance.
"Henry!" Emma called out. "Can you help me with something?"
*No. Bad idea. Do not encourage this.*
"Sure," I said, because what else could I say?
She ran over, her Hermione costume rustling. "I'm having trouble with the pronunciation of 'Wingardium Leviosa.' Can you say it for me?"
"Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa," I said, emphasizing the syllables.
She repeated it, getting it almost right.
"Good. But the 'O' sound needs to be bigger. O-sa, not o-sa."
"Like this? Levi-O-sa?"
"Perfect."
She beamed up at me, and I could see the crush written all over her face—the way her eyes lit up, the way she'd specifically sought me out, the way she hung on every word.
*She's nine. NINE. This is not happening. Professional distance. Maintain professional distance.*
"I have to go," I said, more abruptly than I intended. "Voice lesson with David later."
"Oh. Okay." Her face fell slightly. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
"Probably not. I only have one scene this week."
"Oh."
I escaped to my trailer, feeling like an absolute asshole for disappointing a nine-year-old but also knowing that encouraging this in any way would be wildly inappropriate.
*Note to self: Be friendly but distant. Be a colleague. Be the older brother type, not the crush object. This gets easier when she's older and realizes I'm not actually interested.*
*But for now? This is going to be awkward as hell.*
—
**June 2000 — The Oscar Winner Label**
Being introduced as "Oscar winner Henry Cavendish" was simultaneously thrilling and slightly embarrassing.
Thrilling because: I won a fucking Oscar at twelve.
Embarrassing because: people kept getting the facts wrong.
"You're the youngest Oscar winner ever!" journalists would gush.
"Actually, Tatum O'Neal won at ten for *Paper Moon*. And Anna Paquin won at eleven for *The Piano*. I'm the youngest male winner in a competitive category, and the youngest to win Best Supporting Actor specifically."
"Oh. But still! That's amazing!"
It was amazing. But the constant corrections got old fast.
What didn't get old was the opportunities.
Margaret's phone was ringing constantly with offers. Every director in Britain wanted to work with "the Oscar-winning child actor." Every American studio wanted to get me in their films.
"We need to be strategic," Margaret said during one of our planning meetings. "You can't do everything. And you're committed to *Harry Potter* for the next decade, which limits your availability."
"What are the best offers?"
She spread out a dozen scripts on her desk. "Let's see. Steven Spielberg wants to meet with you for a project he's developing. Christopher Nolan is interested in you for a supporting role in his next film. There's an American indie that's generating Sundance buzz and wants you for the lead. And—" she paused dramatically, "—Peter Jackson is casting for *The Lord of the Rings* and specifically asked about you."
My heart stopped.
*The Lord of the Rings.*
*Peter Jackson.*
*FUCK.*
"What role?" I managed to ask calmly.
"He didn't specify. Just said he's interested in seeing what you could do with Tolkien's material. The casting process is well underway—they're filming in New Zealand starting later this year. But if you're interested, he'd see you."
I thought about it carefully.
*Lord of the Rings* would be massive—I knew that. It would be a cultural phenomenon, win multiple Oscars, redefine fantasy filmmaking.
But it would also be shot entirely in New Zealand for over a year. That conflicted with *Harry Potter*. And I'd already committed to Draco.
*I can't do both. I have to choose.*
*Harry Potter* was the safer choice—guaranteed eight films, consistent work, building on an already-cast role.
*Lord of the Rings* was the riskier choice—could be brilliant, but would require relocating to New Zealand and potentially giving up Draco.
"What would filming dates look like?" I asked.
"That's the problem. *Lord of the Rings* is shooting from October 2000 through December 2001—essentially eighteen months in New Zealand. Your *Harry Potter* sequel starts filming in 2001. There's no way to do both."
*Damn.*
"Then I'll have to pass on *Lord of the Rings*," I said, trying not to feel the sting of lost opportunity. "I'm committed to *Harry Potter*. I can't back out now."
"Are you sure? *Lord of the Rings* could be enormous."
"*Harry Potter* will be enormous too. And I've already signed contracts. I'm not the type to break commitments."
Margaret nodded approvingly. "That's very professional of you. And probably the right call—you don't want a reputation as someone who backs out of projects."
*Plus,* I thought, *I know how both franchises turn out. Harry Potter makes the young actors famous but also typecast. Lord of the Rings makes everyone involved into respected artists but doesn't provide the same level of sustained work.*
*Better to be Draco Malfoy for a decade than an elf or hobbit for three films.*
"What about the other offers?" I asked.
"Spielberg is next summer, so that could work around *Harry Potter*. The Nolan film is small enough that you could fit it in during a break. And the indie would be this fall when you're not needed at Hogwarts."
"Let me read the scripts and I'll decide."
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