**July 2000 — Physical Changes Begin**
I woke up one morning and my voice sounded different.
Not dramatically—just slightly deeper, slightly rougher around the edges.
*Oh no.*
*Puberty.*
I went to the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. My face was still the same—beautiful, with those sharp cheekbones and distinctive eyes—but there was something changing. My jaw was just slightly more defined. My shoulders were broadening.
The templates were activating more fully.
*This is going to be a problem.*
I knew what was coming. Over the next two to three years, I'd go through the physical transformation that would turn me from "beautiful child" to "devastatingly attractive teenager." The sex appeal template would fully activate. My body would develop muscle definition without me even trying, thanks to the enhanced physical template.
But I *couldn't* let that happen too fast.
Draco Malfoy was supposed to be aristocratic and slim, not built like a teenage athlete. If I showed up to *Harry Potter* filming looking like I'd spent a year in the gym, it would break character.
*Control it. I need to control the physical development.*
I could stay slim by being careful about diet and exercise. I could avoid anything that would pack on too much muscle. Dance classes would keep me toned without bulking up. Piano and music would keep my hands elegant rather than rough.
*Draco Malfoy: slender, aristocratic, almost delicate in build despite being athletic.*
*Henry Cavendish: allow the templates to work, but channel them into grace and presence rather than raw physical power.*
*Save the full physical transformation for after Harry Potter ends.*
I made a mental note to talk to my dance instructors about maintaining lean muscle without building bulk.
---
**August 2000 — Voice Lessons with David**
"Your voice is changing," David observed during our session.
I was in his home studio, running through scales, and even I could hear the difference. The pitch was dropping, the tone was maturing.
"I know. Is it going to be a problem?"
"Problem? Henry, this is fantastic. Your voice is developing exactly the way I hoped it would." He played back a recording from six months ago, then one from today. The difference was subtle but noticeable. "Hear that? You're gaining depth and richness. By the time you're fifteen or sixteen, you're going to have the kind of voice that makes people stop and listen."
"But I can't start releasing music yet. I'm still too associated with Draco Malfoy."
"Agreed. We wait until after the second or third *Harry Potter* film. Let people see you as an actor first, establish that identity. Then we introduce Henry Cavendish the musician as a separate but related persona."
"2003?" I suggested. "I'll be fifteen, sixteen. The voice will be fully developed. I'll have done two *Harry Potter* films and people will be ready for something new."
"2003 it is." David pulled out a new composition I'd been working on—an early version of what would become "Viva La Vida" with more mature lyrics and a fuller arrangement. "Meanwhile, let's keep refining these songs. Make sure when you do release, it's absolutely perfect."
We spent the next two hours working on vocal technique—learning to control the changing pitch, how to access both the higher register I was losing and the deeper tones I was gaining.
"You're going to be able to hit notes most male singers can't," David said with satisfaction. "That upper range isn't gone—it's just transforming. If we train it properly, you'll have a four-octave range by the time we're done."
*Four octaves. That's Freddie Mercury territory.*
"Then let's train it properly."
---
**September 2000 — Back to School (Sort Of)**
I wasn't attending regular school anymore.
Between *Harry Potter* filming, tutoring on set, and all my other commitments, my parents and I had decided homeschooling with supplementary tutors was more practical.
"You're still going to sit your GCSEs," my father insisted. "I don't care how famous you are or how many Oscars you win. You're getting a proper education."
"I wouldn't have it any other way, Dad."
My tutor was a woman named Dr. Sarah Mitchell—formerly a professor at Cambridge, now working with high-achieving children who needed flexible schedules.
"Your academic record is actually quite good," she said, reviewing my work. "Especially in English literature and history. Mathematics could use some attention."
"I hate maths."
"Most creative people do. But you need to understand it—particularly if you're going to be managing your own finances and investments someday."
*If only she knew I was already managing investments. My tech stock portfolio was performing beautifully. Apple was climbing, Amazon was growing, and I'd convinced my parents to let me invest in a little startup called Google that was showing promise.*
"Fair point," I said.
We worked out a schedule: three hours of formal academics four days a week, with additional reading and assignments on my own time.
It was rigorous but manageable. And it meant I could legitimately say I was keeping up with my education while building my career.
---
**October 15, 2000 — Thirteenth Birthday**
Thirteen.
A teenager.
The age when everything starts to change.
My birthday party was smaller this year—just family, close friends, and a few castmates from *Harry Potter*. Daniel, Rupert, and Emma came, along with the Phelps twins (Fred and George Weasley) and Tom Felton's replacement in my timeline—which was to say, me, but the other young Slytherins.
Emma gave me a birthday card she'd made herself, with elaborate drawings of Hogwarts and a message inside that read: "Happy Birthday Henry! You're the best Draco even though Draco is mean. Love, Emma."
*Kill. Me. Now.*
"Thanks, Emma," I said, keeping my voice friendly but not too warm. "That's really thoughtful."
She beamed.
Daniel gave me a book about method acting. "Thought you might like this. You seem really into the craft and stuff."
"This is perfect, actually. Thank you."
Rupert gave me a joke gift—a Slytherin scarf with "EVIL" embroidered on it.
"Because you're so good at being evil on screen," he said with a grin.
"I'm taking this as a compliment."
Later, after everyone had left, I looked at myself in the mirror.
Thirteen. Blonde hair (maintained for Draco). Face that was starting to sharpen and mature. Body that was beginning to change in ways that would become more dramatic over the next few years.
The templates were working exactly as the ROB had promised. I was becoming not just attractive, but *striking*. The kind of looks that would make casting directors immediately interested, that would make audiences pay attention.
But I had to be careful. Control it. Shape it.
*Draco Malfoy until 2011.*
*Then Henry Cavendish, unrestricted, in all his template-enhanced glory.*
*Patience. Strategy. Control.*
---
**November 2000 — American Indie Film**
The script was called *The Swimming Pool*, a small indie drama about a British family spending one summer in France before their parents' divorce.
I'd be playing the middle child, a thirteen-year-old boy trying to process his family falling apart while dealing with his own adolescent confusion.
It was exactly the kind of smaller, character-driven project I needed to prove I wasn't just "Draco Malfoy" or "the Oscar-winning child actor."
We filmed in the South of France over three weeks in November—gorgeous locations, a tiny crew, very intimate scenes.
My co-stars were Tilda Swinton (playing the mother) and Ralph Fiennes (playing the father).
Yes. *Those* Ralph Fiennes and Tilda Swinton.
Working with them was a masterclass in subtlety.
"Film acting is about what you *don't* show," Ralph told me between takes. "Theater is about projection and clarity. Film is about secrets and subtext. The camera sees what you're hiding."
"How do you hide something while also letting the camera see it?" I asked.
"That's the art. You let the thought cross your face for just a moment—so brief the character doesn't even register it, but the audience catches it. That's what creates depth."
Tilda was more experimental in her approach. "Don't plan every moment. Leave space for accidents, for genuine reaction. Some of the best acting happens when you surprise yourself."
The film was small, quiet, melancholy. My character barely spoke—most of my performance was reaction shots, watching my parents fall apart, processing emotions a thirteen-year-old doesn't have the language to express.
It was the opposite of Draco Malfoy's theatrical villainy, and that was exactly why I'd chosen it.
*Range. I need to show range.*
---
**December 2000 — Harry Potter Wrap**
We wrapped principal photography on *Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone* in early December.
The final shot was of all the students cheering as they boarded the Hogwarts Express to go home.
When Chris called "Cut!" for the last time, the entire cast and crew erupted in applause.
"That's a wrap on *Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone*!" Chris announced. "You've all done something incredible. This film is going to change lives. Thank you for your dedication, your talent, and your magic."
We had a wrap party that night—nothing too wild since most of us were children, but enough celebration to mark the moment.
Richard Harris found me near the end of the evening.
"You know," he said quietly, "when I first met you at the table read, I thought you were simply a very talented child actor. But watching you work these past seven months, I realize you're something more than that."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You don't act like a child. You approach the work like a seasoned professional—thoughtful, prepared, constantly analyzing your choices. It's... unusual."
*Because I'm not a child. I'm a forty-four-year-old man who died and got a second chance.*
"I just love what I do," I said, giving my standard response.
"I'm sure you do. But Henry—" he placed a hand on my shoulder, "—don't lose yourself in the work. Don't let this industry consume you. You have decades ahead of you. Pace yourself."
"I'll try, sir."
"Good lad." He patted my shoulder and moved away.
I stood there, holding a glass of sparkling cider, watching my castmates laugh and celebrate.
They were all genuinely excited, genuinely happy. For them, this was the beginning of an adventure.
For me, it was a calculated step in a long-term plan.
*Does that make me a sociopath?* I wondered. *Or just someone who knows exactly what they want and isn't apologizing for pursuing it?*
I decided I didn't care.
Marcus Cole had died with nothing but regrets.
Henry Cavendish would die with a legacy.
---
**January 2001 — New Projects**
Margaret presented me with three scripts:
1. **Christopher Nolan's *Insomnia*** - A supporting role as the teenage son of a murder victim. Filming in Alaska for six weeks.
2. **Steven Spielberg's *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*** - Small but crucial role as a human child in a world of robots. Spielberg specifically requested me.
3. **Mike Leigh's *All or Nothing*** - British indie drama, ensemble cast, improvisation-heavy. Totally different from anything I'd done.
"You can realistically do two of these before *Harry Potter* sequel filming starts," Margaret said. "Choose wisely."
I read all three scripts carefully.
*Insomnia* was Chris Nolan—who would later make *The Dark Knight* trilogy and *Inception*. Working with him early would be invaluable.
*A.I.* was Spielberg—literally Steven fucking Spielberg. You don't turn down Spielberg.
*All or Nothing* was the artistic choice—pure indie credentials, working with Mike Leigh's improvisational method.
"I'll do *Insomnia* and *A.I.*," I said finally. "Nolan and Spielberg are too good to pass up. And the schedule works."
"What about Mike Leigh?"
"I'll work with him eventually. But right now, I need the big names on my resume. Nolan and Spielberg will open doors that Mike Leigh can't, as much as I respect his work."
Margaret nodded. "Strategic thinking. I'll make the calls."
---
**February 2001 — Alaska (Insomnia)**
Filming *Insomnia* in Alaska was brutal.
Not because the work was hard—my role was small, only a week of filming—but because Alaska in February was *cold*.
"I'm from London," I complained to the AD. "We don't do this kind of cold."
"Wait until we do the glacier scenes," he said with zero sympathy.
My scenes were with Al Pacino and Hilary Swank—both playing detectives investigating my character's murder.
Actually working with Al Pacino was surreal.
"You're the Oscar winner, right?" he said when we first met. "The twelve-year-old?"
"Thirteen now, sir."
"Call me Al. 'Sir' makes me feel ancient." He studied me with those intense eyes. "You know what's interesting about you? You don't act like a kid trying to impress adults. You just... do the work."
"That's the only way I know how to approach it."
"Good. Keep that attitude. This business will try to convince you that fame matters more than craft. Don't believe it."
We filmed my scenes—the character's body being discovered, flashbacks to him alive, his parents' grief. Small but impactful.
Chris Nolan was meticulous, even more so than Chris Columbus. Every shot was precisely composed. Every moment was carefully considered.
"Henry, in this flashback, you're playing basketball with your dad. I want to see genuine joy—the kind of happiness that makes the loss more tragic."
"How much dialogue?"
"None. It's all visual. Just you and your dad, bonding. Real. Authentic."
I did it in two takes.
"Perfect," Chris said. "That's exactly what I needed."
After we wrapped my scenes, Chris pulled me aside.
"You're very good at this," he said simply. "I'm working on something bigger—a large-scale project that might be right for you in a few years. Stay on my radar."
*Chris Nolan wants to stay in touch. Chris Nolan might have a future project for me.*
*Score.*
---
**March 2001 — Los Angeles (A.I. Artificial Intelligence)**
Working with Steven Spielberg was like acting in a masterclass taught by God himself.
Every direction was perfect. Every choice was intentional. Every moment was crafted with the precision of someone who'd been making iconic films for decades.
"Henry, your character is human in a world where robots look and act like children," Spielberg explained. "So you need to be MORE real than Haley Joel's robot character. More fidgety, more emotional, more unpredictable. Humans are messy. Robots are perfect. Show me messy."
I played the scene—my character bullying Haley Joel's robot character, being cruel in the thoughtless way real children can be cruel.
"Beautiful," Spielberg said. "That's exactly the kind of casual cruelty that feels authentic. Again, but this time let it escalate faster."
We did twelve takes, each one exploring different emotional beats.
"You know what I love about working with you?" Spielberg said during a break. "You never complain about multiple takes. You treat each one as an opportunity to discover something new."
"That's because it is," I said simply.
"Most adult actors don't understand that. You're thirteen and you already do."
*Because I've lived through thirty-four years of professional disappointment and I know the value of getting it right.*
Working with Haley Joel Osment was also interesting—he'd been my competition at the Oscars, and I'd won. But he was gracious and professional, no visible resentment.
"Congratulations on your win," he said genuinely. "Your performance in *The Poet's Son* was really good."
"Thanks. I loved *The Sixth Sense*. You were incredible."
"Maybe we'll work together again someday. When we're both adults and playing something other than traumatized children."
I laughed. "That would be good."
---
**April 2001 — Thirteen and Famous**
By the time I returned to London, several things had happened:
1. My voice had dropped significantly—still changing, but definitely deeper.
2. I'd grown three inches and was now noticeably taller than Daniel Radcliffe (which would create continuity issues in *Harry Potter*).
3. The physical changes were accelerating—shoulders broader, face more angular, the beginnings of what would become the full template transformation.
4. I was officially one of the most in-demand young actors in the world.
Margaret showed me the list of incoming offers: "Forty-three scripts. Twelve meeting requests from directors. Six different studios wanting to lock you into multi-picture deals. And—" she paused dramatically, "—an offer from a major record label who heard your demos."
"Which label?"
"EMI. They want to discuss a development deal—basically paying you to record and develop your sound, with the option to release when you're ready."
*This is happening. This is actually happening.*
"What are the terms?"
"Favorable. They're not trying to lock you into a bad contract because you're young. They genuinely want to invest in you as an artist. David's already reviewed it and says it's one of the better deals he's seen."
"Then let's do it."
"You're sure? Once you start down the music path—"
"I'm *sure*. I've been preparing for this since I was eight. I have twelve songs ready. My voice is maturing. The timing is perfect."
"Alright. But we're not releasing anything until after the second *Harry Potter* film. We establish you as an actor first, then introduce the music. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
---
**May 2001 — Physical Training Adjustment**
I sat down with my ballet instructor, Madame Kozlov, who'd been teaching me since I was three.
"I need to talk to you about my training," I said.
"Your technique is excellent. What is the concern?"
"I'm going through puberty. My body is going to change. But I can't afford to bulk up too much—I'm playing Draco Malfoy for the next decade, and he's supposed to be slender and aristocratic, not muscular."
Madame Kozlov studied me with those sharp eyes. "Ah. Yes, this is common concern for dancers. You want lean strength, not bulk."
"Exactly."
"We adjust your training. More ballet, more contemporary dance, more flexibility work. Less strength training, more cardio. Keep the muscle long and lean rather than large. I've done this with many dancers."
"Can you work with my schedule? I'm filming *Harry Potter* sequel starting in September."
"Of course. We train around your commitments. Henry—" she fixed me with a serious look, "—you are doing something very smart. Many young actors let their bodies change without control, then are shocked when they lose roles. You are thinking ahead. This is good."
*If only she knew I'm thinking ten years ahead.*
---
**June 2001 — Recording Sessions**
David and I were in the studio, working with the EMI producers on refining my songs.
"Your voice has changed enough that we need to re-record everything," David said. "The demos you did at eleven won't work anymore. This is actually good—your voice now is closer to what it'll be at fifteen or sixteen."
We spent the entire month re-recording all twelve songs with my new, deeper voice.
"Clocks" now had more weight, more emotional depth.
"Fix You" was devastating—the maturity in my voice made the lyrics hit harder.
"Viva La Vida" sounded anthemic in a way the earlier version hadn't.
"This is it," the EMI producer said, listening to the final mix of "Fix You." "This is the sound. When you release this—and I don't care if it's next year or in three years—this is going to be massive."
"Three years," I confirmed. "After the second or third *Harry Potter* film."
"Worth the wait. We'll keep refining, keep developing. By the time you're ready to release, you'll have an album that's absolutely bulletproof."
---
**July 2001 — Summer Before Filming**
I spent the summer preparing for the *Harry Potter* sequel in every way possible:
- Re-read *Chamber of Secrets* (which I'd read countless times in my previous life)
- Worked with my accent coach to refine Draco's voice
- Maintained my platinum blonde hair (which was becoming second nature)
- Kept my body lean and controlled despite the templates trying to build more muscle
- Practiced my sneer in the mirror until it was second nature
I also spent time with my family, knowing that the next decade would be increasingly busy.
"Are you happy?" my mother asked one evening as we sat in the garden.
"Yes. Why?"
"You work so much, darling. I worry that you're missing out on being a teenager."
"Mum, I *am* being a teenager. I'm just being a teenager who happens to be building a career. This is what makes me happy."
"And the fame? The pressure? The expectations?"
"I can handle it."
She studied me with that maternal insight that always made me slightly nervous.
"You're so unusual, Henry. Sometimes I look at you and I see a little boy. Other times I see someone much older, like you've already lived through things the rest of us haven't experienced."
*If only you knew.*
"Maybe I'm just an old soul," I said, using my standard deflection.
"Maybe." But she didn't sound convinced.
---
**August 2001 — Preparations**
The call came from the *Harry Potter* production office:
"We need you to come in for a costume fitting. You've grown since last year and we need to adjust everything."
I showed up and they measured me: three inches taller, shoulders broader, face more mature.
"We're going to have to adjust some camera angles," the costume designer said. "You're taller than Daniel now. That's going to create visual issues since Draco and Harry are supposed to be roughly the same height."
"Put me in the background more? Or have Daniel stand on an apple box?"
"Probably both."
My new costumes were tailored to maintain Draco's aristocratic slenderness despite my changing body. The robes were cut to elongate rather than broaden. The result was that I looked elegant and almost fragile—exactly right for Draco.
Looking at myself in the full Slytherin uniform, platinum blonde hair perfectly styled, I realized something:
*I'm not a twelve-year-old child actor anymore.*
*I'm a thirteen-year-old with an Oscar, multiple high-profile projects, a recording contract, and a carefully planned trajectory toward total domination.*
*I'm not playing anymore.*
*This is real.*
---
**September 2001 — Leavesden Studios**
The costume fitting for Lucius Malfoy had been scheduled for the same day as mine, which meant I was about to meet Jason Isaacs for the first time.
I was already in my Draco costume—Slytherin robes perfectly tailored to my newly elongated frame, platinum blonde hair slicked back with precision—when the costume designer, Jany Temime, called me over.
"Henry, there's someone I'd like you to meet."
I turned and stopped dead.
Jason Isaacs stood there in what could only be described as a sartorial disaster—a pinstripe suit that would've been appropriate for a 1940s banker, paired with short, dark hair that made him look like he was about to sell me insurance.
*Oh no. This is all wrong.*
Jason caught my expression and grinned. "I know. I look ridiculous."
"You look like a Muggle accountant," I said before I could stop myself. "That's not Lucius Malfoy."
The costume team froze. Several people turned to stare at me—the thirteen-year-old actor who'd just criticized the costume design in front of everyone.
But Jason's grin widened. "That's *exactly* what I've been saying! Lucius Malfoy wouldn't dress like a bloody stockbroker. He's the most aristocratic pure-blood wizard in Britain. He should look like it."
Jany Temime sighed. "The director wanted something subtle. Professional. Not too theatrical."
"Screw subtle," Jason said, and I nearly laughed at the vehemence in his voice. "Lucius Malfoy isn't subtle. He's proud of his blood status. He'd dress like he walked out of a Georgian manor house, not a London office."
"Exactly," I said, warming to the discussion. "In the books, Lucius has long blond hair and dresses in dark, expensive robes. He carries a walking stick with his wand concealed inside—that's not subtle, that's ostentatious. He's making a statement about his wealth and status."
Jason pointed at me. "Listen to the kid. He gets it."
"The kid has an Oscar and has read the books more carefully than most of us," I said dryly. "And Draco is terrified of his father. I can't be terrified of someone who looks like he's about to discuss my mortgage."
Jany was looking between us, something calculating in her expression. "What exactly are you proposing?"
Jason's eyes lit up. "Long hair. Pale blonde—proper Malfoy blonde to match Henry's. Aristocratic robes—none of this Muggle suit nonsense. Something with weight and presence. Black or very dark grey, expensive fabric. And—" he gestured enthusiastically, "—a walking stick. Silver-topped, elegant, with his wand hidden inside."
"That's very... theatrical," Jany said carefully.
"It's perfect," I insisted. "Lucius is theatrical. He's performing aristocracy at all times. Everything about him should scream 'I'm better than you and I know it.'"
Jason looked at me with something like delight. "How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
"Thirteen and already directing the costume department. I like you."
"I'm not directing, I'm advocating for character consistency. There's a difference."
"Right. Of course." He turned back to Jany. "Look, I understand Chris wants something grounded, but the whole point of Lucius Malfoy is that he's NOT grounded. He's a snake pretending to be respectable. Let me show you what I mean."
He disappeared into the costume area and returned twenty minutes later having raided various pieces from different costumes.
He'd found a long black robe—something left over from Alan Rickman's Snape costumes, I think—and added a dark cape over it. Someone had given him a walking stick from the props department. And most dramatically, he'd taken silver tinfoil from the lunch area and fashioned it into a makeshift long-haired wig.
He looked *absurd*.
But he also looked *exactly right*.
"The tinfoil obviously needs to be replaced with actual hair," Jason said, striking a pose with the walking stick. "But this is the vibe. Aristocratic. Imposing. Someone you'd instinctively fear and respect."
I stared at him, and I could see it—could see Lucius Malfoy standing there. Could see my character's father, the man who'd raised Draco to believe in blood supremacy and pure-blood superiority.
"That's it," I said quietly. "That's Lucius."
Jany was studying Jason with a professional eye, already mentally cataloging what would need to be created.
"The wig alone will take weeks to make properly," she said. "And those robes would need to be custom-tailored—"
"So we do it," Jason interrupted. "Look, I know this is more work. I know it's a departure from what Chris initially envisioned. But I promise you, this is the right choice for the character."
"Let me talk to Chris," Jany said finally. "But Henry—" she turned to me, "—you need to stay for this conversation. If we're making this change, Chris needs to hear the character justification from Draco himself."
---
Twenty minutes later, we were in Chris Columbus's office—me still in full Draco costume, Jason in his tinfoil monstrosity.
Chris looked up from his script notes, blinked, and said: "What in God's name are you wearing?"
"The proper Lucius Malfoy," Jason said with complete confidence. "Not a Muggle in a pinstripe suit."
I jumped in before Chris could object. "Mr. Columbus, in the books, Lucius is described as having long blond hair and expensive robes. He's the epitome of pure-blood aristocracy. The whole point of his character is that he uses his appearance and manner to intimidate people even before he speaks. A business suit undermines that completely."
Chris set down his pen. "You two rehearsed this."
"We literally met half an hour ago," Jason said.
"And you're already ganging up on me about costumes."
"It's not ganging up, it's advocating for character consistency," I said, using the same phrase I'd used with Jany.
Chris looked at me with something that might have been amusement. "You're thirteen."
"Thirteen with an Oscar and seven years of professional experience. And more importantly, thirteen playing Lucius Malfoy's son. I need to be afraid of my father. I need to believe he's powerful and dangerous. I can't do that if he looks like he's about to sell me insurance."
Jason barked out a laugh. "He said the same thing to Jany. The kid's got instincts."
Chris leaned back in his chair, studying both of us. "Walk me through it. What exactly are you proposing?"
Jason launched into his pitch—the long pale blonde hair matching mine, the aristocratic robes with subtle but expensive details, the walking stick that would become Lucius's signature prop.
"The stick is particularly important," Jason said. "In the books, Lucius uses it to conceal his wand. It's both a weapon and a status symbol. Every pure-blood wizard worth his salt would have something similar—it's showing that he's wealthy enough to commission custom wandwork, powerful enough to need a weapon at hand, and aristocratic enough to make it look like a fashion choice."
"And the snake head," I added, remembering from my previous timeline how iconic that detail would become. "The Malfoys are associated with Slytherin. A snake-headed cane is perfect—it's a subtle signal of their house allegiance and their connection to Voldemort without being overt about it."
Chris was silent for a long moment, then turned to Jany. "Can you make this work in the time we have?"
"It'll be expensive," she warned. "The wig alone will cost a fortune, and the custom robes—"
"Can you make it work?" Chris repeated.
"Yes."
"Then do it." He turned back to Jason. "You get your long hair and your fancy robes. But I want to be clear—this is a gamble. If it looks ridiculous on camera, we're reshooting with the original concept."
"It won't look ridiculous," Jason said with absolute confidence. "I promise you, this is going to be iconic."
*You have no idea how right you are,* I thought. *Lucius Malfoy's look is going to be so iconic that people will dress as him for Halloween for the next twenty years.*
As we left Chris's office, Jason clapped me on the shoulder. "Thanks for backing me up in there, kid."
"Henry. And it wasn't backing you up—it was protecting my character. I need a father I can believably fear."
"Right. Protecting your character." His grin suggested he didn't quite believe my professional detachment. "So tell me, Henry—what's Draco like with his father?"
*Here's where it gets interesting. Because I know the whole story. I know Lucius and Draco's relationship deteriorates over the books. I know Lucius fails Voldemort and loses status. I know Draco eventually surpasses his father in bravery when it matters.*
But what I said was: "Draco worships him. Everything Draco does is to win his father's approval. Every cruel comment, every show of superiority—it's all learned behavior from Lucius. But underneath that, there's terror. Terror of disappointing him. Terror of not being good enough."
Jason's expression had gone from amused to serious. "That's... that's exactly right. Lucius loves his son, but it's a possessive love. Draco is an extension of the Malfoy name, a reflection of Lucius's own legacy. The pressure must be enormous."
"It is. And it's going to get worse."
"You've read ahead in the books."
*I've read all seven books. I know everything that happens. But I can't say that.*
"I've read *Chamber of Secrets* and *Prisoner of Azkaban*," I said, which was technically true even if it undersold my knowledge. "I like to know where the character is going."
"Smart." Jason studied me with those sharp actor's eyes. "You know what? I think we're going to work very well together. You take this seriously. I appreciate that."
---
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