Chapter 49: Once Bitten, Twice Cry

Chapter 49: Once Bitten, Twice Cry

Leavesden Studios, UK. September 2009.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. David Yates didn’t exactly fit that bill - being an adult man and all. In quiet moments of self reflection, he couldn’t help but wonder if that extremely private self image he held wasn’t so farfetched. 

Especially here.

All the scenes requiring David Thewlis as Remus Lupin, as well as the wonderfully terrifying Fenrir Greyback had been filmed (for the first half of the two part staggered release of Deathly Hallows, at least). The effects department were masters at their craft. Despite neither of them being on set anymore, David couldn’t shake the disquiet of being trapped inside a den of wolves.

“Do you ever feel like a plastic bag floating in the wind? Because that’s what I wanna be… free!” Something so asinine could only come from Bas.

“No, I don’t, silly bollocks. And I don’t care how you phrase it, we’re not adding in unscripted wirework just so you can get your jollies.” Thankfully, the stunt coordinator remained as authoritarian as he reportedly had been with the boy since the very first film. “We’re in my house right now, sunshine. My roof, my rules.”

“Roof? Take a good look up, old man, there isn’t one. It’s all scaffolding! Your argument’s got more holes than our non-existent ceiling. No, strap me down, and chuck me in the opposite direction. My body is ready.” David involuntarily found his gaze rose. Steel beams criss-crossed overhead; spotlights, pulleys, and reserve cameras were plotted all over. Supporting both the filming process and simultaneously providing support for the crafted set. 

“Good for you, and your bod, Bas. But what isn’t ready are the insurance companies, or our wallets. Snap your neck on your own time - preferably while I’m an ocean or two away. I don’t need ambulance chasers nipping at my heels and calling for my head after you’ve cracked yours open.” 

“That’s what you’re worried about? Fine, tell the adjusters to kiss off, then. I’ll finance the lot. In fact, I’ll give everyone on crew a nice, fat bonus. The only thing you’ll have to worry about chasing you is an army of gold diggers.” 

“Yeah, right. Like you can afford that.” The argument went back.

“Course I can. I’m rich. I’m rich, bitch!” And forth.

“Call me a bitch again, sonny Jim. I’ll have you hanging from the bloody rafters!” And back.

"You promise? That’s exactly what I’ve been begging for, anyway. Now string me up, bitch!” And forth again. 

It might not look like it right at this moment, but they were rehearsing the choreography for the trio’s polyjuice infiltration and subsequent escape from the ministry following the retrieval of the locket horcrux. 

This was one of the few scenes they could take their time with - which they very much needed to. The corridor of green flame floo was reused from the previous films, but the scattered multicolor markers on the floor were far different. Complex didn’t even begin to describe it. Coordinating the exact paths and performances of near a hundred people, while ensuring the central action piece wasn’t disturbed, was a monumental undertaking - emphasis on the mental. But the combined, physically laborious efforts of the stunt team and dedicated extras made things possible.

Didn’t mean they didn’t need a morale boost now and then, which was why Bas and co. were putting on a vaudeville act of gnashing teeth and snarling snapbacks. It was all an act. David had been sure to train himself how to spot those more accurately. 

All this hoo-ha did little to nothing for his own fraying sanity, but given the bright smiles and light chuckles populating the milling faces, David had to give everyone their due. Doesn’t mean, however, he was prepared to get personally involved. Every fake eggshell still appeared as a landmine to him; he wasn’t going to be stepping on them soon. He could only admire the fortitude on display from afar.

Wardrobe was more of a disappointment for him, though. If only red velvet cowls were still acceptable fashion choices - he’d replace his scarf in a heartbeat. 

It’d be so much easier to hide under that hood. The hope wasn’t just to mask the sight, scent, and signs of his fear, but to also detract from his ballooning bald spot. He thinks he might be thinning up there!

He’d checked and checked in front of the mirror, but no matter how desperately he beseeched his image, it didn’t talk back and quell his insecurities with sweet lies. Nevermind, that was an entirely different tale.

Maybe it was stress? Had to be the stress.

The Harry Potter franchise was the greatest opportunity he’d lucked into. David knew that, and would thank every lucky star, and kiss every pimpled arse until his lips chapped for rescuing him from obscurity and catapulting him into billion dollar box office pay cheques. 

From living hand-to-mouth, in just a few short years, his plate was now piled full. It honestly didn’t matter what came after; he was set. Life here on out was a frolic in the park with a picnic basket packed to the brim with a cornucopia of goodies of his choice. He just had to sit back and relax. Wood creaked as he leaned back in his director’s chair; loud enough that the mics probably picked it up. “Sorry!” God, he hoped the sound team didn’t think he was fighting flatulence.

He was an inherently nervous person. The world was conspiring against him to make sure David never forgot it. 

How could he not be, though? Him swinging his bountiful basket was an image he relished. But blink at the wrong moment, and he could just as easily be left holding the bag instead. 

There was a lot riding on his head. “Just a little longer…” 

“What was that, Yates?” He jumped. The chair squeaked again, too. Swallowing back down his stomach that had suddenly found its way into his throat, David Yates turned around to find David Heyman.

Also known as his mum, who’d handed him his metaphorical picnic supplies. Well, that was more WB, but Heyman was very much their eyes and ears. “Oh… er, I was just saying that perhaps we should let the crew rest a little longer, David.” Saying his own name while referring to someone else was strange, but he understood on which side his bread was buttered, so he deferred without complaint. 

“Good man.” Heyman patted him on his shoulder and moved on. It was meant to be warm and comforting. Why, oh why, did it feel more like the burly arm of a huntsman laying the cold steel edge of his axe way too close to his neck? 

David sighed. All his incessant squirming had dislodged his seat cushion from its ideal position. He lifted his leg, stretched over, and as he reached down to readjust - eeee his chair’s chronic irritable vowel syndrome made itself known once more. The mics definitely picked that up - the technicians weren’t doing a very good job of stifling their laughter. 

Hitting the limit of his daily embarrassment, David whipped his hand down, scooted the pillow back in place, and snatched the sheaf of papers he kept hidden beneath. ‘Red Riding Hood’, he traced his fingers over his new nest egg. “Just a little longer.”

–

Another day, another perilous trek through the woods. He was all for the action packed stuff, but David would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t prefer the mellower scenes. The dramatic bits were where he felt as if he finally had his feet on firm ground, rather than risking his ankles playing hopscotch between tree roots. Nothing beats melodrama, and the three-way tango they were about to do was the perfect showcase of it. 

[“Destroying the horcruxes isn’t the issue, it’s getting to them, that is. Hogwarts has to have one, I don’t know which, but there’s one there. 

So are the basilisk fangs, and maybe even the real sword of Gryffindor, but-”

“- I’ve been hearing the same Potterwatch reports you did, Harry. The ministry has locked every magical high street and enclave down tight. No entries, no exits, and snatchers patrolling everywhere else. 

David watched carefully on his monitor as the camera panned slowly around the Granger dining room. 

Harry and Hermione stood strategising on one end. A veritable mountain of dusty tomes and crusty pages cluttered up half of the table. Most conspicuously, the green, pre-CGI pages of the marauders’ map lay flat open by Harry’s hand. Specific names of Harry’s focus to be added in post.

The camera ended its predetermined course to stop dead above the pinpoint middle of the table. 

An aerial shot of books occupying the head, acting as a barricade against the second half of the surface littered with dish after dish of steaming food until Ron sat alone at the foot. A clear divide.

Dobby and Kreacher both had been taking good care of them since their short stint in Grimmauld before it was compromised. Despite their exile, they wore pressed clothes, were well fed, and had healthy faces. Yet not one of them was smiling. Ron, least of all.

Moodily, Ron played with his food. Clank. His stabbing fork scraped the ceramic. 

Bzzt. The silent static from the wizarding wireless radio next to him remained irritatingly un-silent. He wanted to turn it off, but his splinched arm was stuck in a sling. 

“Hogwarts will have to wait till last. Regardless of how secretively we step in, the castle is full of death eaters. We’ll get swarmed, eventually. There won’t be any fighting our way out, we’ll have to make a stand then and there. Before that, we’ll have to find the rest of the horcruxes.”

The camera shifted to a dolly zoom. Creeping up slowly, steadily on Ron’s contorting face with every syllable out of Harry’s mouth. He grew larger in frame, as the world around grew out of focus.

Don’t eat the food, chew on your words instead. Too much guilt should gnaw at Ron for him to do anything else. The script and directorial instructions were clear, for Rupert - Ron was comfortable, while his family (for what little he could glean about their circumstances) were anything but. It weighed on him until he sank to the bottom of a deep well.

“-n.. -on.. Ron?” The camera whipped back into a wide shot. The world snapped back into focus, and all three were finally present in the room. 

“Finally noticed I exist, have you?” Things rapidly devolved from there until the trio’s temporary break up.]

“Cut!”

To his sensibilities, romantic tension could have bolstered the scene. Maybe a love triangle? Harry and Hermione finding comfort in each other. Ron’s quiet, growing resentment - culminating in a final showdown exacerbated by the horcrux. Oh! David would’ve absolutely loved to have a taste of that. But if he’d pushed that narrative, there was little doubt that someone else would also sink their teeth in. Right into his jugular.

From close, personal experience, David knew better than to insert unwanted and unwritten romantic fantasies where they weren’t meant to be.

Last time he did, Bas had huffed, puffed, and nearly blew the down payment on his new house down. Not even historic red brick would have survived his tirade. 

Case in point, the shattering performance everyone just witnessed. Rupert was red in the face, Bas still looked like he was boiling, even as Emma approached him to wipe off the last vestiges of her acted tears, plus what he knew was vapour rub. The scene was acceptable, but… flat? David knew had tried and failed to sap the colour out of the films, but even he sensed the scene was too monochromatic - in emotion, not actual hue. An audience might not make that distinction in the moment, though. 

David had an idea of how to fix it; a third dimension could be added via a third emotion. Too bad for his own delicate constitution - and reflux - that Bas was the only one he trusted to get it right. “Bas? I’d like a moment, please.” 

Bas unhesitatingly gave him the attention he’d asked for. “Sure David, what’s up?” Wow, grandma. What big eyes you have. 

“I thought we might run the scene back for another take. However, I’d like you to make a few subtle changes.” 

Gleaming green eyes fixated on him. Lord above, did his pupils just constrict? “Did I do something wrong?” All the better to see you with.

David would have liked to gulp, but excuses barged their way out first. “No, no, no!” Shit, shite, shite! “It’s just Ron’s livid, and so are you. Feels a bit one note. Thought you might want to inject - I don’t know - something different in there to contrast. Disdain? Disgust? Defeat?” David pleaded that Bas bite the bait and not his head off. 

Mercifully, he dropped his piercing gaze to the floor. His chin rested in his fist as he bit his lower lip. “Hmm,” Wow, grandma. What big teeth you have. “Anger is easy…” Bas mumbled that last bit, he almost didn’t pick it up. As he was on high alert, though, his ears (among other senses) were sensitive. “Solid point, David. I’ll do better next take. Let’s run it back.” The smile Bas shot him was wide, white, and blinding. All the better to eat you with. It took every facial muscle tensing to prevent David from squinting - or start crying. 

Bas returned to character, the stage reset, and David shakily sat back down. 

No noise came out of him this time for the mics to pick up. As the knots unwound in his churning guts, the pressure release was silent. But deadly. 

David felt determined to leave his mark on the Potter franchise with Deathly Hallows part one; but he was just as eager to commence Red Riding Hood. His most fervent wish? That in spite of how well suited Bas would be for the role, that the studio please not offer him to play the big bad wolf.