Chapter 65: Same Snog & Dance

Chapter 65: Same Snog & Dance

Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park, London. June 2011. 

Snakes didn’t have feet, yet I found myself booted out of bed by one. “Oof-!”

The plush carpet fibres stabbing suddenly into the skin of my bare ass shocked my eyes open - but not fully awake. The abrupt shift away from high thread count sheets and the unfamiliar ceiling were momentarily disorienting.

Hotel ceilings were essentially identical regardless of where you went, so it took me a second to realise that I wasn’t staring up at the one in my room.

Despite the foreign surroundings, though, my current predicament had me drawing memories that were coincidentally commonplace. 

“Oh, this is a disaster!” A frantic disembodied voice despaired.

Extending my arm out, I parted the thick curtain and chanced a peek out the window to witness neither volcanoes exploding nor comets descending; just the purples and yellows of a very early morning. “My head’s a bit fuzzy, but if I recall correctly, the earthquake was last night and localised primarily to the mattress you were thrashing on top of.” The same one I’d been shunted off of. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Emma’s face, framed by a tornado of lopsided and tangled pillow-squashed hair, popped over the edge of the bed and glowered down at me on the floor. “Zip it!”

“Tell that to my pair of jeans you tore off.” I squirmed out of the duvet, still haphazardly wrapped around me, and flashed her.

She chucked a pillow at my face. “And that’s precisely the bloody problem! God, what was I thinking!?”

I couldn’t help but nod as Emma lambasted herself, rightfully so, for her oversight in judgement. I was always a bad idea. “This wouldn’t have happened if everyone had just listened to me and agreed to my idea of war games or laser tag.” 

Faced with a good number of our cast’s impending homecoming, I’d sought to recapture the innocent celebrations of our foregone youth. 

No one liked my suggestion. My inbox was filled with more than a few ‘thanks, but no thanks’. Rickman simply provided a selfie of himself flipping me the bird. Maggie Smith didn’t even bother responding.

Although Emma also refused to readopt her commanding title, she held steadfast to her take-charge attitude. What began as a ‘I missed you’ hug went from a nightcap in Emma’s suite to stained furniture and sheets. All on her orders - I was merely following them like a good little private. Hell, I was saluting her even now!

This reunion was most decidedly not for the whole family. And not very long lasting either, as she soon tried to get rid of me.

“Get going, Bas. And be careful on your way back to your own room. We don’t need any nosey neighbours tracing your path. Gosh, I don’t even know what time it is - I so hope we’re not late for anything. It’ll appear beyond suspicious if we’re both tardy.” Emma flopped her way out of her half of our blanket and propelled herself towards the loo. 

Ah, once more a dirty secret. Not quite the hit of nostalgia I’d been angling for, but as I caught a quick glimpse of her pert cheeks as she flounced in only a top, I’d take it. 

“Slow your roll. It’s barely past six a.m.” So said the digital clock on the bedstand she’d missed in her hurry. 

Ambling up to my feet, I allowed any remnant of hotel laundry to slide unashamedly off me. 

“Oh, really?” She curiously popped her head out of the loo, accidentally caught an eyeful of me, and flinched back inside. “T-then maybe the buffet’s open? Go get yourself something to eat - I’ll join you after I’m done freshening up.”

“Tempting…” I followed her in. “And while I am fairly famished, food’s not exactly what I have an appetite for.” Looming over her, Emma’s bite-lip restraint dissolved as soon as I tugged on her shirt. I pulled her under the shower with me after I adjusted the massage setting. “C’mon, let’s get you nice and relaxed.”

“But what if we miss breakfast?” 

“I’ve already got everything I want to take a bit out of right here.” 

The press tour for Deathly Hallows part two wouldn’t start with a bang - I was gonna kick it off with several.

–

“G’morning, mate. Missed you at breakfast.” Rupert clapped me hard enough on my back for it to echo across the vast and empty conference hall.

“Gah!” He’d snuck up on me, so my spastic spinal reaction was equally pain and surprise. “Easy there, chief! You’re damaging a national treasure.” 

“Barely a burp, you big baby. ‘Sides, you’re owed at least that for skipping out. Where were you, anyway?”

Since I wasn’t inclined to blurt out the truth, I obfuscated. “Been up a while, ordered housekeeping instead.”

“Room service, you mean?” Rupert tried to clear up my terminology. 

“No.” But the only thing I clarified was butter - there’d been enough melting in my mouth today. 

“What?” Rupert responded with genuine confusion.

“Huh?” I feigned mine. 

“if it isn’t the usual suspects.” Both of us whipped around towards the entrance as David Heyman announced his unexpected arrival. Mostly because I had an appointment with somebody else not part of the cast or crew of Potter.

“You’re not the hotel manager. I’m pretty sure he actually knows how to shave.” David’s hand involuntarily jerked towards his scraggly stubble - bloke had been growing his five-o’clock-shadow since the a.m. apparently. “Clearly someone’s been burning the midnight oil.” 

“I could very well say the same thing to you, Bas.” David dislodged the rolled up newspaper he had tucked under his arm, and dramatically unfurled it to reveal the entertainment section of this morning’s edition. Much like the gigantic poster placard serving as the backdrop for our seating arrangement, my gob was plastered all over it.

A collage of candid pictures taken during my weeks producing and promoting Limitless. 

Sloshed on the subway, mid-bungee, dangling out a car window, and lastly looking extra juicy. David made it a point to twist the paper into a pipe.

I sheepishly took a step back while simultaneously shoving Rupert forward. “Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?” 

“Offering you as a sacrificial lamb. You don’t mind, do you?” He tried desperately to wriggle away, but I kept one step ahead, shuffling behind him. 

“Do calm yourselves, boys. It’s not my intent to punish anybody - quite the contrary, in fact.” David lied to us when he said that because as soon as we ceased roughhousing, he walloped us both. “I’ve relied on you two miscreants in the past, saddled you with your respective responsibilities for our press initiatives. So I know very well that there’s more than cauliflower between those ears of yours.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. Emma’s an angel and we’re overgrown kids. Give us some credit, by now we know better than to run our mouths willy-nilly.” Rupert opened his mouth and the words I felt inclined to say stumbled out of his mouth. 

“Not where I was going with this,” David denied. “I repeat - quite the contrary. Feel free to wag your tongues however you wish!” 

“I’m not complaining, but isn’t doesn’t that run counter to our usual practice? Will WB even go for it?” I, myself, couldn’t believe I was asking the question. 

David just shrugged. “I’ve come to acknowledge that the general public has a greater tolerance for misbehaviour - they rather seem to enjoy more than anything else. Your particular brand of charm, Bas, has always proved useful. This is our last hurrah, so I say, go wild. If there’s any stunt you want to pull, give me a heads up and I’ll facilitate. And as far as WB goes… what are they going to do? Make funding difficult for the next instalment?” David winked at me. “Heyday films is not an island anymore, am I? Your schemes with me regarding HP production aren’t the only mischiefs you’ve managed. These days I reckon you’re getting about as well connected as I am. I’m confident I can work things out in the future.”

My typically turbulent mind turned torpid as I absorbed what David was implying. It seemed that now, and potentially in future, he was happy to continue flipping more than just scripts with me. “So I can be as unreasonable as I want?”

“Within reason.”

–

When the hour for the first (of our last) Harry Potter panels arrived, our procession was nearly drowned in the flood of lights and shuttering lenses.

Not everyone I’d sent the declaration of ear invite to was present. 

Julie Walters was here repping the good guys as Mrs Weasley versus Voldie himself; Ralph Fiennes drumming up support for the death eater faction. Cuarón directed himself forward as the technical expert on set along with a small smattering of familiar Leavesden faces. And finally, bringing up the rear and the overwhelming majority of the fanfare were the ministry six (including me) and Draco as the seventh horcrux.

Dan Radcliffe, Karen Gillan, Evanna Lynch, Tom Felton, Emma Watson, Rupert Grint, and me. The man, the myth, the legend, Bas Rhys.

As we shimmied around to take our seats according to our name plaques placed in front of each bendy mic, I couldn’t help but notice where apertures were stubbornly angled.

Aside from token interest aimed at the other attendees, the three of us had the lion’s share. Now, that just wouldn’t do.

Before everyone could get settled, I dashed around the table and swapped out the preordained seating arrangement - with full permission this time! 

I packed the Weasleys together. Put Emma, everyone’s media darling, with Alfonso and Dan, who’d likely draw the least amount of attention. And ultimately sequestered myself at the end of the table, sandwiched between two blondes - I draped my left arm over Evanna’s shoulders and rummaged the finger of my right through Tom’s hair. 

This way, in each instance the cameras flashed when any of the three of us so much as twitched, at least more people would be welcomed within frame.

Reporters were also forced to expand the limits of their interrogations rather than hyper-fixating on just us. 

It was a polite fiction of bog standard boring questions, but it gave everyone the breadth and breath to talk. More importantly, it left me to my fiddling as my two fidget spinners futilely tried to fight me off. 

They’d thank me later. I could already imagine tomorrow’s tabloid headlines: ‘Bas bags both blonde bimbos!’ I was all about spreading the love today.

At least until my attentions became truly required. “My question is for the three leads.” Typical. “We’ve heard speculation over the years on the exorbitant value of your film contracts, as well as the insane fame you’ve achieved. Yet, there hasn’t been a whiff of any crazy expenditures on your part. Any chance you’ll tell us of any fun purchases, so that the public who’ve seen you grow up can share vicariously in your success?” May sound like a sanitised question, but they were digging for pay dirt.

Emma leaned into her mic first and got her levelheaded deflection out of the way. “All of it’s in the bank, I’m afraid. Honestly, the most expensive thing I’ve spent on is likely my admission fees for university.” I’ve sifted through her cupboards before, and knew damn well how pricey some of her jewellery was. 

Something else, however, also sparked in memory. Déjà vu of our very first ever interview. 

Rupert had noticed too, if his wiggling eyebrows in my direction were any indication. That was all it took for us to seal our pact and answers when our turns inevitably came ‘round.

“What about you, Bas? Obviously, the car we know of, but anything you yourself are behind the wheel of these days?”

Much to Felton’s relief, I swung my arm up for the gallery. “My arm may be intact this time,” hadn’t had the time for any gymnastics mishaps recently, “but I’m no less broke. All my money’s in the pockets of the Leavesden crew. And I can only hope they’ve been as frivolous as possible.” Not as if I was gonna open my account statement for the world to see. My finances were between me and Ben.

Following a round of good natured chortles, the same inquiry was finally posed to Rupert. 

He’d perched his elbows on the table, rested his crumpled chin on his entwined fingers, and frowned down at the nearest camera. “This keeps popping up, and I’ll say the same thing I always do. What use is muggle money to me? I’m a wizard, for Merlin’s sake!”