Chapter 20.5: Shoe on the Other Foot

WB Offices London, January 2006.

A whistle, a tumbleweed, and three pairs of twitchy eyes. I could practically hear the theme song of ‘The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly’ blaring across the confined office room I was in.

The scrape of my chair on the hardwood pierced through the silence like a hawk screeching in the noon sky.

“Sirius is a deeply troubled and conflicted individual. He’s haunted by his past, burdened by guilt, and desperate for redemption. He’s not nearly put well enough together to have such a sensible outlook on life.” JK Rowling immediately fired from the hip.

Her aim must have been bad because Neil Gaiman easily dodged that bullet. “He fights with Molly, he fights with Kreacher, he fights with Snape. The only time he shouldn’t actively try to gnaw his own paw off while stuck in a cage is when he’s with Harry.”

“But the shadows of his past cover Harry in a deeper darkness than even the walls of Grimmauld. He’s never in his right mind around Harry.” Jo reloaded.

“And in doing so, he diminishes all the goodwill he has generated with the audience over the last two books.” Neil fingered the trigger of his own gun.

“But it’s not book accurate.” Pew! A bullet whizzed past carrying a bad argument.

“This isn’t the same man who ate rats in a cave for his godson. You’re not book accurate.” The good argument struck true.

Did that make me the ugly argument? I’ll never forgive them for this.

“Bas!”

“Bas!”

I suddenly found myself in their crosshairs. I practically went cross-eyed, staring down the barrels of both their guns. I couldn’t remain unarmed in the face of such adversity. I glanced at my hand, curled all but my index finger and thumb, created my own pea-shooter and pointed it at myself. “Alright! Nobody moves or the kid gets it!”

“You scummy little troll. Take this seriously, will you? You’re the one who forced us into this meeting in the first place.” Troll was it? I guess I really am the ugly.

“Pull that trigger already and join us in hell.” Neil proved that he’d make a horrible hostage negotiator.

Both these so-called adults had more than a quarter century on me, and yet I was the one who had to play the grown up. Begrudgingly, I holstered my weapon. No finger banging today. I missed Gemma and Keiko.

“You may not like what I have to say, Jo. Neil’s right.” A softer Sirius than the morose marauder from the books played a lot better with audiences. The original version of Phoenix - which I could argue was the best of all the adaptations - felt so much more heart wrenching than the books did. “Plus, we’ve got Gary Oldman rocking a full stache, might as well put him to work. If anyone can pull off both gentle and caring while also being a manic-depressive, he can.”

JK had streamlined this version of the book, cut out some unnecessary characters like Grawp, optimised the DoM heist, and even closed the RoR reveal loophole. But at the time of our initial discussion, the book was so near to release that she had no opportunity to really do much beyond that.

I wanted the screenplay to be just as much improved, which was a tall order considering how good the OG movie was. Funny, since it was also the one movie Steve Kloves hadn’t been involved with.

But Neil was more than up to the task. I’d help him.

Rowling narrowed her eyes and her gaze bounced between Neil and I. “I see how it is. Men are all the same. The moment they find a new model, they’re ready to chuck out the older, faithful one like yesterday’s garbage.”

Neil made an uncomfortable face, though appropriate for the situation, and scooted his chair back. “Right, I’m not touching that.”

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that. You know that you’re my one and only.” I tried for puppy dog, but I feared it came off more weasel-ish. Don’t ask Y.

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Darling then.”

“You really don’t know when to stop digging, do you?” Neil recoiled further away.

“You’re pushing it, Bas.” A painted nail with polish matching the colour of the massive emerald on her ring pointed at me.

Looking at the digit, I took out my own. This time, though, instead of just a run-of-the-mill revolver, I pulled out a nuke. I leaned closer to Jo and curled my pinky around her extended finger. Don’t forget our deal now, Joanne.

“I break bones, I break rules, but I don’t break promises.”

Her tense shoulders sagged. I held in a wince as the skin from my knuckle pinched under the ridged gold of her band when she wrapped her finger around mine. “Okay, dear boy, okay. Just don’t break my heart.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The last squeeze I gave her before pulling my hand away was answer enough.

“Er… So are we going with sympathetic Sirius or sulky Sirius?”

“We bow to the wisdom of your dream.” I answered, and we were all in agreement.

Something told me we were going to need our unity in the days ahead.

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WB Offices London, January 2006.

If I told you that I had a train of blonde girls lined up for a mile to meet me, you’d think I was firmly in the realm of hyperbole. But the very real fact was that hundreds of aspiring young girls had subjected themselves, and us, to the gruelling audition process for one Luna Lovegood.

As much as I wished I could wand wave the entire process, I had no choice but to immolate myself in the grief of these bright-eyed young women, as one after the other they were politely rejected. Even future Hollywood A-lister Saoirse Ronan wasn’t immune to the chopping block. Telling a girl she wasn’t tall enough to ride the coaster despite her talent didn’t soften the blow at all.

But as the days progressed and the callbacks returned, we slowly but steadily waded our way towards the foregone conclusion. Neither my foreknowledge nor JK’s bias would have had it any other way.

[I stood in the corner of the small audition room as I waited for my cue. Rowling, Yates, the casting director Fiona Weir, and a smattering of other production staff sat behind the camcorder resting on a tripod.

The focus was all on Evanna Lynch as she gave her final round performance for the part. I was merely a prop for today.

She pretended to pet an invisible, skeletal, winged horse. I took one loud step. “Hello, Harry Potter.” came the easily recognisable flighty Irish intonation.

I hesitated, caught off guard by her realising it was me without even looking, but moved to join her.

Barefooted, I noticed her wiggle her toes. “Your feet - aren’t they... cold?”

She continued petting the non-existent thestral. She kept her expression content, but her gaze was away. “A bit. Unfortunately, all my shoes have mysteriously disappeared…” Those striking eyes suddenly gained focus and pinned me in place. She leaned in and spoke low. “I suspect Nargles are behind it.”

I nodded uncertainly, then jerked my head at the imaginary creature. “What are they?”

“They’re called Thestrals. They’re quite gentle, really, but most people avoid them because they’re a bit…” she turned away and unfocused on the creature again.

“Different.” I sighed. She nodded. We paused.

“But... why couldn’t the others see them?”

“They can only be seen by people who have seen death.”

“Cedric…” I whispered under my breath. I frowned and caught her looking at me, as unfazed as ever. She’d opened her eyes a little wider, making it look like she wasn’t quite all there. “You’ve known someone who’s died, then?”

Her striking silver eyes bore into my own green ones. “My Mum.” She turned away and a small smile tickled her lips as she remembered a family member who wasn’t real. “She was quite an extraordinary witch, but she did like to experiment. One day, one of her spells went rather badly wrong. I was nine.”

“I’m sorry.” For asking, for knowing, for bringing it up because Harry would know how it felt.

Her voice never wavered, and she continued conversationally. “Yes, it was rather horrible. I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But, I’ve got Dad. We both believe you, by the way.” I tilted my head in confusion. She tilted her head in amusement. “That He Who Must Not Be Named is back, and you fought him and now the Ministry is conspiring with the Daily Prophet against you and Dumbledore.”

With a wry smile, I straightened my neck and so did she. “Thanks. Seems you’re about the only one.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true... But I suppose that’s how he wants you to feel.”

“What do you mean?”

She started her line of dialogue by keeping her head where it was, but her pupils shifted as if searching for a thought. “Well, if I were You-Know-Who... I’d want you to be cut off from everyone else.” Her haze moved up as my eyebrows did. “Because if it’s just you alone... you’re not as much of a threat.” Her radiant smile cleared my expression from consternation to clarity.

The scene ended here in the script.

She’d done a stellar job, but the fact of the matter was the people judging her today weren’t all the same from the original timeline.

Different people had different aspects they valued in a performance. So while I could say, and even push, for her to be hired, it wasn’t solely my decision, despite knowing that she’d be perfect for the part.

But I always was a person of action rather than words. And I very much appreciated the weight a good unique selling point carried.

So why not give Evanna hers?

She knew the books in and out; she knew the character in and out. Aside from myself, I could confidently say she was the biggest potential fan on the cast. Time for her to prove it.

The show wasn’t over till the fat lady sang. And Adele wouldn’t be famous for another two years.

I toed off my shoes and nudged them towards her. “C’mon, let’s head back to the castle. I’ll walk you.”

Her serene expression morphed into shock. But Evanna clued in quickly and continued our extended round of charades. She pondered for a moment from behind her curtain of wispy golden locks. “That’s rather kind of you, Harry Potter. But you should wear your shoes. Wrackspurts don’t like me as much as they do you.”

“Er… I think I can survive a few…um yeah. I’ve got socks on, anyway.”

“Dad warned me that boys can be stubborn. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down, Harry.” With that, she slipped her right foot into my shoe and kicked the left loafer over to me. “Let’s not dilly-dally any longer. I hear we have treacle tart for pudding today.”

She turned on her singular booted heel, snatched my arm, and pulled me forward. I stumbled and slid my foot into the leftover shoe.

She flounced happily, and I hopped clumsily on lopsided feet to the imaginary castle in the room’s corner.]

As our impromptu improv closed, the both of us witnessed the crew shoot each other rather surprised and impressed glances.

The crumple-horned snorkack was in the bag.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I returned Evanna’s grateful grin with a satisfied smirk of my own.

“I had a hunch you could handle it. Proved me right, didn’t you?”

“Even if I didn’t get the part-”

“It’s yours, trust me.”

She lifted her foot and my shoe hung swaying off her toes, “- at least I got a souvenir. Would you mind terribly signing it?”

“You know you’re not keeping that, right?”