Chapter 13: Casting Couch Potato

WB Offices London, UK. March 2004.

“Bas! There you are!” My popularity knew no bounds, not even half a step into the building, and I’d already been accosted.

A harried looking middle-aged woman hastened over to me. My old friend the script supervisor followed much more sedately behind her and gave me a genial nod. Given that I’d been ushered to London for a specific reason, I handily assumed this was the new casting director.

“Fiona Weir, lovely to see you again!” She pulled in for a quick hug and lightly kissed my cheek. Hollywood types, what’re you gonna do? I wasn’t always the best with faces, but when she said her name I quickly remembered her as the same casting director who had hired me for Love, Actually. She just as suddenly pulled back, gripped my shoulders and pushed me at arm’s length to survey me head to toe.

She tsk’d quite briskly. “Dear, dear, dear, how utterly dreadful!” Am I crazy? Was I really only attractive in my head? “Puberty doesn’t just want to hit you, does it? It wants to run you all the way over and then double back.”

“You’re speaking as if I’ve morphed into a forty-year-old Serbian.” Couldn’t blame her though, Sam now seemed like a role I’d filmed years ago rather than a character form a movie that had come out just this past Christmas.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’d really have my job cut out for me then; replacing you. We erroneously assumed you’d keep to a more boyish charm for a while longer. You’ve jumped straight into teenage heartthrob.” She rebutted.

“Is that a problem?”

“Only insofar as us having to reevaluate a few of our casting choices for the actors you’ll be interacting with.” She explained before quickly turning on her heel and power walking over to the lifts. “Now come along. The first batch of auditions is beginning.”

I felt bewildered at the pace of the woman. Script supervisor tapped me on my arm and beckoned me to follow. I threw my arm over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize London could have typhoons.”

I thought that sitting on the other side of a casting chair would be fun, but after a week of being there, I was thoroughly disabused of that notion.

It really didn’t make me feel good to dash the hopes of so many bright-eyed hopefuls. Some of whom I’m sure even looked up to me in some form. Just thinking back to how some struggled to hold back their tears… No, it really, really didn’t feel good at all.

Thank God it was almost over.

Fiona efficiently sorted through the piles of headshots that we’d all been deliberating on this evening.

“That’s the Durmstrang girls sorted.”

“Wasn’t particularly complicated, if I’m honest.” I couldn’t help but comment. “Pretty, white girls, with dark hair between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Not like they even have to be European - none of them have any lines.”

“Maybe you should tell yourself that. If I recall, you were the one staring a little too hard at some of the headshots.”

Ah, perhaps I’d been a little indiscreet. But it was impossible not to be. There were a couple of girls on there who, while unknown at the moment, would be absolute bombshells in a few years. They were, of course, cast. “I have two heads competing for oxygen, I’m afraid.”

Script supervisor lightly smacked the back of my head with a rolled up script. “Bad.”

She was right.

Fiona checked her watch. It was a little past six pm. “Let’s break for a light dinner. The finalists for Fleur Delacour are due to arrive at seven and seven-thirty, respectively.” She then looked pointedly at me. “I’d like for your to run a scene with them, so do be professional. This one is actually important.”

I looked down at the two photos she passed over to me. Script supervisor whacked me again. Good move on her part, if I’m honest.

We didn’t have access to a pool and swimsuits, so we ran through the confrontation in the antechamber after the names were to be chosen by the goblet.

Clémence Poésy was up first.

[“Why should ’e complain?” Clemence, with affected indignation and disbelief, acted out a light tantrum. “’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t ’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!”]

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

She was just as good as last time, and it made sense why she was here as a finalist. But her competition was stiff.

The second actress they brought in looked and felt a little older than the previous. If she had auditioned the first time around, it was surprising she didn’t get the part. Especially given her pedigree in the near future.

The deciding factor may very well have been the age disparity. Playing against Radcliffe it may have been a hard sell to consider them peers, but she seemed far more natural when paired with me.

It wasn’t as if Radcliffe at this point in time looked any younger than me. His genetics winning out meant that he hadn’t, unfortunately. Couldn’t quite reach the heights I had, if you catch my drift.

[“Madame Maxime! Zey are saying zat zis… leetle boy is to compete also!” Whereas Clemence was petulant, this actress chose to emphasize another aspect of Fleur more prominently; her arrogance.]

I felt it full force.

From the beginning, my portrayal of Harry has been more belligerent and determined than resigned or despondent.

Clémence Poésy, I felt, was too doe-eyed. The other actress wasn’t. Her facial features were sharper. Her demeanor was distant, other, contemptuous. She glared at me like I was gum stuck on her shoe.

And it served to make me even angrier.

Her Fleur fits my Harry well. The casting team thought so too.

Nineteen-year-old Lea Seydoux would be my Fleur Delacour.

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Leavesden Studio, UK. April 2004.

Originally, Goblet of Fire was, undeniably, the worst adaptation of the seven books. It was as if someone had ripped out the pages and rearranged the story in a completely jumbled order.

Mercifully, for both Jo Rowling’s sanity and my own musculoskeletal system, Neil Gaiman had knocked it out of the park with his screenplay.

As I looked around the room while we were doing the table reading, a mere glance was able to tell me that the Weasley presence would be as prominent in the movie as was in the book originally. Sure, the scenes were trimmed for fat. There wasn’t a need to waste an hour of runtime in the burrow, but the core beats of the Weasley story were actually present.

Ludo Bagman and Bertha Jorkins wouldn’t just be characters that book readers knew about this time around. Rather than completely sidelined for a confusing and worthless dance number for the unnecessarily gender segregated foreign students.

Julie Walters, the actress who played Molly, and I had some of the more poignant emotional scenes together. The Phelps twins were happy with their Weasleys Wizard Wheezes plot trail.

Gary Oldman wouldn’t be lending just his voice. He’d actually get to act.

Even Toby “Dobby” Jones and I had a scene or two. Both Winky and the kitchens would feature in the movie.

Most importantly, however, for the core through-line of the story, the entire Barty Crouch Jr situation was thoroughly explored, so that the rest of the story made sense.

As we finished for the day and everyone started filtering out, Jo held me back for a conversation. Guess I might have spoken too soon about my bones and their general health.

“Please tell me we’re not here plotting another studio heist.”

“Oh, hush!” She reproached me while leading me away to another room. “Nothing of the sort. I’m quite happy with the script as it is.”

As we sat down for tea that a PA prepared for us, Rowling ordered that the door was closed and locked to ensure a heavy dose of privacy.

“No? Then what’s with all the heavy security?” I questioned.

“Merely a precaution. I’d rather not give someone with large ears and loose lips any opportunity. We are going to be talking about the books, after all.”

“You wanna call the secret service to sweep for bugs too?” I meant it as a joke, but my recent run in with the press likely coloured the comment more than I’d assumed.

“Thankfully, we’re not in America, or I might’ve done. I’d like to check whether you’ve completed the small bit of homework I’d set for you.”

“Cover to cover, three times over.” I had the distinct privilege of receiving an early draft of the Half-Blood Prince novel. My conspiratorial relationship with Rowling had its benefits.

“And? What did you think?” She probed.

“The horcruxes were a revelation. The Draco versus Harry stuff was unputdownable. I think you’ve secured the enmity of every reader with the death at the end of the book - more than even Sirius’ I’d bet.” Jo clapped excitedly.

“Phenomenal. That’s exactly the response I was hoping for!” She said with good cheer, despite the morbid subject matter.

I continued on, “The relationship between Harry and Dumbledore seems a bit too cozy from the get-go if I’m honest, though. Felt a little jarring to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t quite be so chummy with the guy who revealed that he knew all about my ‘dark and difficult’ upbringing and purposely neglected me to that environment - which was only compounded by the fact that the actual torture I was subjected to the previous year was also willfully ignored. I’m not even going to get into the Sirius and Snape stuff besides that.” I let that sit for a minute as she contemplated my response. “Speaking as an orphan myself, we’re not that easy.”

Rowling crossed her arms, leaned back in her seat, and hummed for a moment. “That’s a fair enough point… my editors had brought up a similar criticism. I could potentially, in Harry’s inner monologue during the earlier parts of the story, mention how he realizes that he has to be practical and persevere despite his distrust in order to ultimately face Voldemort, before he ultimately attains a more understanding relationship with Albus. But don’t you feel that might drag the pace?”

“The pensieve bits dragged on more, in my opinion. It’s an urgent situation now that Voldie’s out and about. I don’t get why they spend months taking face baths instead of knocking it out ASAP. It also doesn’t make sense why Slughorn is being treated with kiddy gloves. I mean Dumbledore has zero issues getting into the grey area when it comes to grey matter, just like when he tacitly approves of Shacklebolt's memory charming a student in the preceding book. Maybe write Harry and Dumbledore going on hunts together for more than just the one horcrux in the spaces where the info is drip fed instead. People are absolutely getting slaughtered in universe.”

“Food for thought. I still have a year. I’m sure I can find a more seamless explanation. You’ve really paid attention, I must say. So, do you think you’ve found any secrets I haven’t revealed as of yet?”

What an unfair question to ask a time traveler. “You mean how Harry has to die because he’s a horcrux?”

Her jaw was on the floor.

“Have I made it that obvious?” She said in near panic.

I waved her down. “There’s always going to be conspiracy theorists who’ll get it right and discuss it in niche forums. I only guessed because I figured you out rather than the story itself.” An easy lie to keep her calm.

“Don’t frighten me like that! I’ve had that twist in mind since the very conception of the story. I’d hate to change for fear of it being so obvious.” She patted her chest consolingly.

“It’s not, don’t worry. Not like any of your editors have figured it out either.”

“Well, since you’ve snooped out the mystery, I may as well tell you the whole thing. Just keep it to yourself. Only you, I, and Alan Rickman know at least parts of the whole tale.”

I leaned in as she narrated. All according to plan; I’d change that last chapter; come hell or high water. I promise you Albus Severus, you’ll not be born and neither will that cursed child.