Chapter 24: The Chosen One (Patreon)

Chapter 24: The Chosen One

Leavesden Studios, UK. November 2006.

Writing this bloody book felt like summiting Everest

But instead of the glorious view from scaling the highest peak in the world, Jo, upon cresting the mountain, saw only a crater full of magma frothing in anticipation of an eruption. A rather poignant parable for her temper. Her hell.

She was two drafts in for Deathly Hallows, the last installment in her epic, yet nowhere near a satisfactory end.

As grand as her home(s) had become following her astronomical success, she worried that her boorish pacing would dig grooves into her carpets. You had to pay through the nose for Nains these days.

Ironic how serenity drove her to distraction. Perhaps the chaos of these final few days on set would stir the imagination. 

She’d chosen not to call ahead. Her presence was announcement enough for the production crew to seat her in those tawdry director’s chairs, hand her a cup of too-hot-to-sip coffee that she’d immediately discarded, and left her to her devices. 

Jo scowled impatiently down at the sheaf of papers in her grip as she waited for the surrounding bustle to knock the rust off her stalled gears. Cease your indolence, or our mutual destruction is assured! She impatiently tapped the line of text with her pen. 

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…

The bony press of a chiseled jawline stabbed into the tense turgor of her soft shoulder. Who dares distur-! “I think ellipses are only meant to be three dots, not a hundred. Unless, of course, you’re a woodpecker.” Ah! That voice tickling her ear obviously belonged to her Bas. Why did he smell like menthol?

“Sometimes, in the pursuit of inspiration, begging isn’t enough. One must be prepared to do untold violence or risk being dragged into the mire of mediocrity.” She explained with a tender tap on his - much to everyone’s dismay - recently unpinchable cheeks.

He moved off her and circled around the chair to stand in front of her. He looked appropriately haggard, so she’d forgive Bas as long as he returned to a healthier weight after filming concluded.  

“Today’s shoot is breezy. If you’re willing to stick around, I don’t mind running the manuscript over with you.” There’s that pinky waggling at her again.

Alms unasked but readily given. Perhaps begging does work once in a while. “I shall endeavour to contain myself till then.”

“Cool.” Teenagers and their colloquialisms. They really should strive to explore the entire breadth of their wonderful language. “I’ll only hold you up for however long I take to finagle a solution to this scene. See you soon.”

Jo glanced down to where her hand had unconsciously started scratching a line.

Born to those who have thrice defied him…

She felt her attention stolen away by the filming. Giving it up as a bad job, she decided to kick back, relax, and enjoy the behind-the-scenes show of her world coming to life, rather than wallow. “Get me a headset, would you?” She signaled a passing assistant. “I’d like to listen in, if it’s not too much trouble.” When it came to her, it never was. She had a direct audio feed before the scene even started.

“Alright, Bas. Let’s take this scene just like we did with the one where Arthur gets attacked. Clutch your scar, fall to the floor, and Ron will pick you up.” Yates wasn’t the visionary Cuaron was, but at least he seemed to be getting the job done.

“What’s the point of that?” Or maybe not.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying. We’ve done angry a bunch. We did frightened when I yelled ‘Look at me!’ at Dumbledore. This is an entirely different circumstance that requires a different reaction.”

“What else is Harry meant to feel, then? Death Eaters just broke out of Azkaban and Voldemort’s ecstatic. Why would Harry be anything but cross and scared?” My, a look that incredulous deserved to be captured on tape, didn’t it Yates?

“Because Harry’s got no control over himself at this moment. Occlumency scattered his brains, and Voldemort’s gone rooting around in the remnants.” She could always count on Bas to have read and understood the text. Jo was sure Gaiman felt the same as she did right about now. “Look, let’s just run the scene my way, and if it turns out shit, I’ll beg forgiveness and follow you without complaint. Deal?”

When David rubbed the bridge of his nose and agreed to Bas’ request, she couldn’t help but remember what it used to be like for them when Kloves was still around.

A smile tore across her face. She’d be lying if she didn’t miss her and Bas’ brand of espionage. But it was also humbling to realize that all of that misery and injury they’d used to subject themselves to - Bas more than her she freely admits - to have their way, can now be accomplished with a single conversation.

How far they’d come.

Bas stood on that ‘X’ that denoted his starting mark at the threshold to Harry’s dorm. The set got to work.

[Harry opened the door of the dormitory and was one step inside it. The makeup made him look sick and pallid in stark contrast to the ruddy scar that appeared swollen and almost infected.

He hissed and pressed a clammy hand on the faux laceration as if he experienced a sudden lance of severe pain.

At first he leaned on the doorway, took a few meditative breaths, and tried to steady himself. As he stilled, the camera began its motion, zooming into Harry’s face.

Suddenly, a faint chuckle escaped Harry’s lips, almost imperceptible at first. It was a nervous, hesitant sound, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. His lips curled into a small, tentative smile, but his eyes remained scrunched in pain.

The chuckle grew louder, evolving into a full-bodied laugh that echoed through the set. His lips stretched as wide as they could go, his face reddened with strain. Harry threw his head back. The muscle and sinew of his neck struggled with every torturous howl of laughter and every mirthless shake of his body.

His knees faltered as Harry slunk slowly to the ground.

The camera zoomed for an extreme closeup as tears began streaming out of Harry’s tightly shut eyes. His manic cackle showed no signs of abating.

Steps thundered up the stairs, the door slammed open, and Ron and Hermione barged in on the horrifying sight of Harry on his knees, his face scraping the floor as he continued to guffaw.

Ron immediately grabbed his shoulder. Hermione clamped her hand over her mouth, tears threatening to spill out of her too. 

“Mate, snap out of it!” Ron jostled him and toppled him over on his back. 

Harry heaved a shuddering breath as the insanity relented it’s clutched on him. He shivered on the floor, sweat staining his shirt as he groggily observed his concerned friends. “He’s… happy.”

“Y-you-know-who-is?” Hermione stuttered.

“Something good just happened.” Harry rasped. He blinked his eyes closed and attempted to catch his breath on the cold stone floor as Ron and Hermione shared an uncomfortable gaze.]

Jo heard her bracelets metallic clack as she rubbed her arm to comfort herself.

She peeked at her raised follicles. 

Goosebumps.

…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…

Even after Cut was called, Jo retained her real world version of the extendable ears in her headsets, and so remained privy to the ongoing hullabaloo. 

“You scared me, Bas. Wasn’t expecting the waterworks out of nowhere.” Neither was she, nor anyone else for that matter, Rupert.

“Must you always insist on making our jobs harder, Rhys? I almost forgot my lines!”

“Didn’t, though, did you? Kept up with the punches like Tyson, the both of you. Besides, I had this bottle of Vicks rolling around in my pocket. I thought I’d put it to use. Word of advice, this stuff in your eyes burns.” That certainly explained his aroma, didn’t it?

“What a surprise!”

“Oh, right. You’re the expert here. Still slathering it on your feet, are you?” You should know better than to fuel that fire by now, Emma. 

“That was you!”

Lord, didn’t that just bring a rain of memories just flooding in? Bas and constructive mischief persisted to this day as a mandatory pairing. 

Few events had burrowed into her memories as obstinately as her first encounter with Bas. 

The feather duster, the eggs, and most blatantly the cheek on the bugger calling her aunt Petunia. It was the first time since she’d signed over the adaptation rights for film that she’d had any positive emotions during the entire process.

Too clever by half, her Bas. She wouldn’t change it for the world.

…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…

Change.

Her fingers filtered through the post-its she’d dotted the draft with. That’s what was ultimately missing.

Her mind cast back to the first novel, to the scene on the express where a snotty little boy complained about the nutritious meal his mother packed for him instead of sweets. How was that any different from the whiny man-child lamenting poor food during exile? 

Their temporary schism was necessary for the plot, but there were more sensible worries and reason than rations. Familial concern? Lack of progress? Plenty of fodder for a fight.

She thought of Hermione. Of the flustered girl searching for matches to deter creeping danger rather than the magic wand in her flailing hand. How was that any different from the blind girl ignoring the muggle world in favour of roughing it in an old tent in the woods? 

Their exile was also necessary, but isolation need not be so very literal. Being alone in a crowd, being by yourself in a foreign land, can be just as lonely as that dark corner in the confines of your mind.

She looked again at the bantering teens. Emma continued laying into Bas as Rupert chuckled on the sidelines. Bas caught her staring.

A shrug, a wink, and he willingly returned to his earned haranguing.

A glimpse of the bright-eyed Harry floated across the front of her mind. A lost boy swinging his head this way and that as someone who knew the way dragged him through a brand new world. How was that any different from the oblivious Harry who got him and his friends captured in his negligence? Harry, who despite being in on the big secret - or at least the slice Dumbledore gave him - floundered so helplessly.

Harry’s forty days in the desert were necessary, but would it be so hard to replace that with a more involved search, obstacle, and retrieval of the horcruxes?

Was complete and total ignorance not less stressful than the agony that comes with the epiphany, denial, and ultimate acceptance of your own death?

Growth. Her characters didn’t need to change their DNA, but they most certainly needed to grow up. And they hadn’t. 

JK Rowling vowed to herself, they would!

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...

“Once in a while. I’d like to be right without being shouted at.” She’d sunk into her thoughts longer than she’d realised. 

Shooting was over. Bas approached her while toweling off. 

“Freedom and success always come at a cost.” Words that very much applied to her story. All couldn’t be well so easily, either.

“Don’t start. Let’s just focus on your dilemma. Where do we begin?”

“The end, of course. I’m afraid the epilogue, among other things, is going to require an overhaul. And you’re going to help me figure it out.”

“I’m here every step of the way.” Bas was getting all too proficient with stealing hearts. Because the pang Jo felt in her chest could only mean hers was taken. 

This coming July, the fifth movie, the last book, and Bas’ birthday all fell in proximity to each other. She’d have to give him a special gift next year, now wouldn’t she?