Chapter 4: Brass Tacks & Income Tax

The sixth day had passed, but day six had yet to arrive. Mrs Stephens anxiously busied herself around our squeaky clean suite while I moped on the couch.

“Ooh…” she sat beside me and clasped my hands between hers. “Don’t let this get you down, dear. You gave it your best, didn’t you?”

“... It’s still disheartening.”

“I know, sweet boy, I know.” Then the phone rang. It could only be for one reason; Mrs Stephens looked particularly put out. “I’ll get that, shall I?” she said, with her lips pursed. “Yes. Who is it?”

“Hello, this is David Heyman.”

“How nice of you to call us; we thought we’d been abandoned. It’s been nearly a week!”

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[“How nice of you to call us; we thought we’d been abandoned. It’s been nearly a week!” ]

David winced at the reprimand. “My sincere apologies, Mrs Stephens. It’s just that we’ve had to put out a few fires on our end, you see.”

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t think it warrants radio silence. Bas and I were practically resigned that we’d only be receiving bad news - especially after the debacle during the last round.”

“No! Absolutely not! Please rest assured that he’s still very much in the running.” Heyman rushed to get out. “In fact, the reason for this call was to let him know that we’d like him back for essentially the final round tomorrow. So please don’t lose heart.”

The line went silent for a moment, only a light murmur audible. The two of them were likely deciding their course of action.

“Very well. Bas is adamant. He’ll see you tomorrow. And should anything change, please do inform us next time? Promptly!”

“Yes, of course. Good day, Mrs Stephens.”

“Likewise.” The line went dead.

He put down the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘One crisis averted,’ he thought to himself. He didn’t think he could stomach losing a second Harry Potter candidate in a single week.

“How’d it go? Do we still have an option for Harry, or are we starting from scratch?” Rowling pestered him sarcastically.

“Hunky-dory for now.” He sighed. He was more than a little annoyed at the author’s deeper involvement. She wasn’t meant to be here originally, but recent circumstances had forced their hand.

Given the tumult the script had caused - even with the hired actors - it forced them to take a deeper look into the screenplay.

In his opinion, Kloves had done an excellent job trimming the fat and keeping the more cinematic stuff from the books. They just didn’t have the time for multiple quidditch scenes and the like.

But he was definitely on Rowling’s side when it came down to character.

If the author tells you that certain characters would become increasingly important as the books went on, such as Malfoy and Longbottom, it would probably behoove them to listen to her advice. Better to set the foundation for sequels now than try to juggle that mess down the line.

Kloves seemed to forget that. They weren’t just writing for a standalone picture; this would be a profoundly involved franchise.

Harry was far blander than he needed to be, while Ron could have been written out entirely from Kloves’ script. The character of Hermione was given the lot, for whatever strange reason. Unnecessary bias? Either way, there was more correction with their characters than anything else in the script. They couldn’t afford to alienate their fans by completely misrepresenting the three most vital characters in the series.

“Alright, some good news then.” Chris walked up to a pin-board and stuck a polaroid of Bas under the Harry header. The only other photo under the same section belonged to Radcliffe.

“Good. As long as he doesn’t look horrible in the costume test, I say we finalize Rhys as Potter.” JK asserted.

“I feel like I wasted my time trying to convince the Radcliffes. They’ll likely be quite cross that I’ve been badgering them and, despite that, denying their son the lead role.”

Rowling leaned back in her chair and shrugged. “That’s their fault for being so indecisive.”

Heyman grumbled a little, “I really liked Dan for it. I genuinely believe he’s a phenomenal young actor.”

“Give him Neville, then. It’s become a larger role now and should satisfy you and him both.” Chris suggested.

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“And what about the young man we were already thinking of for Neville?” That was Kloves.

“How about Crabbe or Goyle? If he’s worth hiring, he should be able to affect menacing instead of bumbling, shouldn’t he?” Rowling really could be a savage.

Chris continued to shuffle the photos around on the board as the decisions were made.

“I still say the logic puzzle is more important to the story.” JK stubbornly persisted.

“I’ve told you already, audiences will find flying magical keys and a broom chase far more exciting than a table full of potions accompanied by a poem.” Kloves refused to give an inch.

Heyman hoped Rhys could pull off the entire look tomorrow - he just wanted to get to filming already.

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The sixth day had taken the weekend off, but its advent was finally here. I couldn’t believe it; I’d done it. I’ve done it! I was going to be the very literal face of a multi-billion dollar franchise for the next ten years - and likely forever after that, too.

The last audition felt like a formality. They brought me Harry's iconic round glasses and told me to put them on. I heard the script supervisor speak aloud for the first time since I’d met her. “Those really make your eyes pop.”

And that was it. I was now officially Harry Potter.

I weathered through a storm of hearty back slaps and relieved congratulations. Following that, I was provided a binder. “You need to hire an agent immediately. Here’s WB’s preferred list of agencies; you’ve got the pick of the litter.” Before being chucked into my car and told to go back to the hotel. Judging by the bags under their eyes, I’m guessing the production team was about ready to pass out.

This was a rare moment alone; I couldn’t waste it. The right agent in Hollywood makes or breaks your career.

Mostly, these were big-name agencies; CAA, UTA, WME, etc. However, while the companies were widely known, the agents they had provided as options weren’t. My choices didn’t extend beyond rookie or junior associates at the firms. It would’ve been a gamble had I not had my magic internet MacGuffin, so I researched a few names.

One stood out above all others. Anita Specter. She was a rookie in the present - only recently having even entered the industry - but she was very much a shark in a koi pond. In the future, she would go on to manage some huge names.

Denzel, Keanu, Zendaya, and even the actors needlessly shoehorned into everything like The Rock, Gal Gadot, and Chris Pratt. She represented them all at one point or another. And did so competently enough that they all left WME with her to join UTA years later.

I guess it was time to ‘go Hollywood’ and call my agent - only with Mrs Stephens’ blessing, of course.

Anita agreed to meet, and we’d signed a contract to retain her as my agent after a few days.

“Since you’re all child actors, WB wants to remain above board with all of this. Every agency has capped their fees to 10% of earnings - at least until your majority.” Anita Specter sat in front of Mrs Stephens and me, explaining my remuneration terms for the movie.

If I was a regular child, I’d have probably wished for someone more worldly than my middle-aged caretaker, but I wasn’t, so the info going over her head was landing quite comfortably on my lap. “This is gross income, I’m assuming.”

Anita looked stunned momentarily, but ultimately took it in stride. “That’s correct. Remember that my fees are on top of the Coogan fund you’re forced to pay 15% into.”

“So I lose 10 points to you and another 15% haircut into a fund that I can’t touch for eight years.”

“Well, it’s meant to be for your financial security.” She tried to placate.

“Try selling that line to me in a decade when I’ve not made a dime from investments, and that money’s depreciating from inflation.”

Anita looked at me in incredulity, then quickly burst into laughter. “Why would a kid like you know this stuff?”

“I’m an orphan; I can’t afford to be dumb with money.”

“Fair enough. If I’m honest, I hadn’t believed that you’d finished your GCSEs. I thought it was another publicity stunt. I believe it now.”

“So anyway, your immediate take-home from this movie would be 750k USD after the 25%. Or whatever the sterling equivalent is if you request to be paid in pounds.”

I waved her off. “USD is fine. GBP has been steadily losing value since the ‘70s.” And will only grow weaker. Thank you again, magic web.

“You’d have to account for a higher income tax rate then.”

“Of the total income!?” Mrs Stephens was, understandably, shocked at the insane value. This was in 2000; a million dollars still went a long way.

“Of gross, yes. Should work out to around- “

“33%”, I finished for her. “Leaving me with 420k. Not exactly a million-dollar salary.”

“Well, your contracted option for the second movie instalment triples your salary, so you’ll eventually reach that milestone.” My agent pointed to the relevant clause of the contract.

“Well, I’m sure we can find loopholes somewhere.”

Anita raised her hands defensively. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. You’ll need a CPA or a business manager for that. And they take their own 10%.”

“I’m sure you already have names in mind. I’d need help to wrap my head around setting up a tax shelter, anyway. And whatever they charge, it will still be cheaper than paying the full amount to the government.”

Anita leaned forward, rested her head lazily on her interlocking hands, and stared at me, a little disappointed. “Don’t orphans depend on government assistance? I thought you’d have more incentive to pay your fair share.”

“I’m not on the dole. Some wealthy old bloke who wants to buy his way into heaven before he shuffles off privately funded my dorm.”

I tore my gaze away from Anita and stared right at Mrs Stephens. “And as for paying my fair share… no one deserves it but you. A good percentage of whatever I get for this movie is going to you.”

Mrs Stephens quickly grew teary and latched on to me in a hug. “Oh, Bas, you mustn’t! This is your money; you earned it, not me.”

“I wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t even be alive.” She started sobbing, and I turned back to my agent. “So tell me, d’you know anyone who wants to ensure an orphanage caregiver receives more money than a greedy politician?”

Anita pierced me with a hard stare, rhythmically tapping the nails of one hand on the table. “Conniving, little bastard, with a heart of gold.”

She suddenly smiled predatorily." I’m definitely going to enjoy working with you."

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