Leavesden Studios, UK. January 2008.
Something stank to high heaven, and it wasn't his soggy socks.
"Alright, gentlemen. I believe we've got the shot - even the one for posterity." Tom Felton remained prone and submerged in the ankle-deep water.
Myrtle's bathroom had been flooded rather spectacularly on account of Draco and Harry's little lover's spat - also because of some clever plumbing by the set designers.
Which was why Tom was marinating in this rank, red dyed water.
"Does that mean us kids can finally get out of the pool?" Bas, who looked far less worse for wear considering it wasn't him bleeding out, sloshed about with impatience second only to Alan Rickman.
"My…cape has gone the way of a sponge. I would appreciate this being done." Alan lifted those thick black robes like the world's gothiest princess.
Tom didn't know what either of them had to complain about. The both of them just needed to take a quick trip down to the nearest Bata for a new pair of boots while he was on his twelfth pair of underpants. For the day.
"Go on. We can wrap up for today."
Mercifully, he was released from his swampy supine prison and handed a towel by a waiting production assistant.
'Tis very much still the season - that being winter - so he was grateful for the fluffy, warm terry cloth. The heaters on set did little else but prevent the water from freezing over. His writhing and shivering took little work on his part to perform. His own nervous system did the job for him these last few days.
He'd have preferred to wrap it around his head first, but it was too cold.
Lord knows he's been constantly worried that what little hair had been left after the constant bleaching he'd been subjected to over the years was liable to fall out frozen instead.
He was about to ask for another, but his chattering teeth were more interested in playing the castanets. But when another warm towel draped over his head, perhaps that was request enough. "When did you start playing the drums, Tom-Tom?" Clever bitch. How was he so bloody sharp all the time? Surely, Tom thought to himself, he could also conjure a percussion pun - the bloke's name was Bas, for god's sake. The drum lines wrote themselves.
"P-p-p-piss off-f!" Yeah… that was more womp womp than badum tss. But it was hard getting anything past his blue lips when Bas battered his head about while drying Tom's scalp.
Tom could finally see, and speak, again when Bas was satisfied with his tumble dry.
The towel turban was just the cherry on top of the whipped cream Bas had whisked his hair into. "C'mon. I need a cup of cocoa and a pair of fuzzy slippers." Tom let Bas throw an arm over his shoulder as the both of them waded out of the splash zone. "You'll likely be needing more." But even as he spoke, Tom found his focus falling more onto the flesh coloured bandage that covered the relatively fresh line of stitches across the length of his palm.
"How's your hand?"
"Hm?" Tom was thankful that Bas didn't bother removing his warm arm from his upper back, even as he went the long way around to peel the bandage off. "Itchy, which I'm told, means it's healing. At the very least, I'm not smelling almonds, so that's a good sign."
"Think it'll scar?" As soon as they were out of the water, the both of them rushed to kick off their soaked shoes, and tore off their socks, too. Before continuing barefoot up to wardrobe, careful to avoid Alan's wet warpath stamped on the floor.
"Yeah, no escaping that. But on the bright side, when Evanna forcibly read my palm, she told me that with the way it cut across my lifeline that it indicated I'd have a pretty stellar career. Even if I'll likely die much sooner than foreseen."
Tom couldn't help but scoff. "Fortune telling twaddle. Everyone already knows that. No way you're living past middle age with the way you toss yourself around."
"Oh, yeah? If I end up croaking that early, it'll be because of the horror of your receding hairline."
"Don't worry, I'll cash in that insurance policy I've secretly had on you and take my money over to Turkey."
"I hope they stuff you like one when you do!" Tom flinched back as he saw Bas pretend to bury his fist in his gut.
He'd missed this. Good banter with better lads.
This back and forth between him and Bas had always been par for the course. But until recently, ever since the bunkered beginning of this movie, it had been stuck in the rough.
Harry and Draco tossing around lethal curses at each other and blowing up the set, brought back fond memories of how he and Bas had rehearsed for their first duel all the way back in Chamber. But he also couldn't help but remember the suspicious circumstances under which they'd inadvertently hoodwinked production into including the midnight confrontation between Draco and his goons versus Harry and co. in Philosopher's.
Tom clamped Bas' wrist and ducked under his elbow. The wound in his hand was very real. But that entire argument at the table read with JK Rowling - to Tom at least - smelled of something more artificial.
In all honesty, when it came to Bas, the less he knew, the better; if only for his own sanity.
Tom was happy putting on his best performance and collecting millions for it, with no need to go above his pay grade. "Easy there, Mike Tyson. I don't want everyone but your mum tearing into me just because you tore your stitches."
Shucking off the dripping shirt was like trying to rid himself of those overly clingy fans that sometimes molested him when they ran into him in public. The drenched cotton landed on the wardrobe room floor with a satisfying plop. Felt good to get that weight off his back.
"Better if the sutures stay visible a while longer. It's a good fluff story to sell the movie." Tom had to shake his head at that. See what he means? There's an entire gymnastics team doing tumbles in the noxious noggin of his.
"And I reckon it'll look even better for the awards committee."
"Wouldn't count on it. Any acting I've done for this movie is probably overshadowed by your whole wheezy crybaby routine. No one's gonna be seeing past your tears. Forget breaking a leg; you'll be breaking hearts this time, Felton." Apparently Bas had chosen to return the third degree he'd received last November from him and the rest of the student cast by setting him aflame. Suddenly Tom's face wasn't feeling so chilly anymore.
His cheeks, however, were in good company with Alan Rickman's burning ears.
Wha-pish! "Fuck!" Alan whipped and unleashed his wrung-out twisted cape on Bas' behind.
"False modesty… how pedestrian. Walk it off." Alan was intimidating in role, but always kind on set. Except when it came to Bas. There was more there between them. Tom didn't know what to call it. A mentorship, maybe? Point was there was a deeper relationship there than just colleagues.
And that collusion clearly extended to Rowling, too. Too many closed-door meetings to think otherwise. The few who read the books were quick to spread the special acknowledgement he'd received.
But Bas wasn't the only one comfortable with under the table double dealing.
"Hey, are you coming tonight?"
"Was that ever even a question? I'm getting nominated this year, of course I'm coming!" This wasn't the academy awards, but the closest they had to them.
Every year, to prepare for any awards that the studio was pushing for - usually the visual stuff like cinematography, VFX, etc. the cast and crew would roll out the projector and watch the various quick short clip packages the editors stitched together to display the best bits of those specific award categories. These were the same that were usually sent over to the various panels and associations for review.
This year wasn't any different except for Bas being considered for best actor. "Judging by your excitement, seems like you expect to take home the trophy."
"No." That'd wipe the smile off anyone's face, but Bas didn't bat an eye or dip a lip. "Daniel Day Lewis crawled out of his cave last year for There Will Be Blood. Even miracles have their limits. The committees fellate the guy quicker than he can unzip his trousers. I'll just have to be satisfied with the noms. Not to mention the collective awe of my cast mates means more to me than a stranger's paid accolade." Yeah, right…
Unfortunately for Bas, however, Tom wasn't about to let even that happen this year.
Neither balloons nor his ego would get any helium.
Tonight, Tom's own shadowy machinations (with the help of a surprisingly eager David Heyman), would be revealed.
"It'll be something, alright. Too bad Emma won't be here for it." Good thing, too. She'd spill the beans to Bas before they'd even get to the toasts.
"Cloverfield's premiere takes precedence, I suppose. We'll make it up to her on her birthday."
–
He'd waited in line for ages to use the one microwave to pop his bag of popcorn. He'd let it cool and sog up over the last half hour as they got through the different clip packets corresponding to their awards.
He'd not seen Phoenix since the launch. Close-ups of Ralph Fiennes for make-up. A Lot of the cool shots for cinematography. The magic scenes including that cracking ending battle between Dumbledore and Voldemort for visual effects and sound design alike. But still he didn't touch his snack.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our final presentation for the evening," Here we go. David Heyman rubbed his hands swiftly enough to start a fire; probably kept him warm enough to not need his scarf for once. "We have a very special reel displaying the acting talent of our very own Bas Rhys. Who we have decided deserves recognition for his phenomenal performances."
Tom would've loved to whistle with the rest, but he had to urgently stuff his gob full of kernels to keep from smiling a little too wide. He glanced back at his fellow cast mates. The few with knowledge of the plan weren't so keen on hiding their obvious enjoyment.
The whistles and smiles were all rather wolfish.
David shuffled off, the projector lights flickered, and Bas' quiet confidence transformed into a loud protest.
"You utter bast-!" Tom immediately fisted another handful and pressed the popcorn into Bas' wide open mouth.
"Shh, Rhys. You're spoiling the show."
Instead of the many wonderful emotional moments that displayed Bas' range as Harry. Woos and waheys wailed out as every embarrassing moment from the television shows he'd done played.
Burn Notice ended with bullets searing through his torso as he dramatically fell through a breakaway door. "Where'd you shoot this one, Bas? On a pig farm?"
"Because all we see is ham!" The Phelps twins did a double act and fried him into rashers of bacon.
30 Rock cemented the tone as the crowd lost their marbles at his false pretty boy mask.
Dan Radcliffe was the first to race out a quip. "Look at him clench his teeth. Ease up on the gnashers, mate. You'll pop a molar at this rate."
"No problem there. It'll all grow back. We just need to get him another nice warm cup of MILF!" Which Karen Gillan gleefully rode out when the full extent of his character's Freudian affair was figured out.
The jokes only got worse when Psych was switched in with a Bas that had clearly switched his orientation. "I don't think the white stuff in that cup is milk." An unexpectedly raunchy Evanna lynched him.
"Oh, I'll have my revenge, you lot! Just you wait! I promise I'll get you!" Spit was flying and fist were shaking as Bas fought against the tirade of teasing and pelting popcorn. But the smile on his face, despite that, probably meant the only thing anyone'd be getting was cake and presents.
Probably eggless, though. We'd smeared enough egg on his face to give Bas an allergy. Serves him right for making all of us walk on said shells for so long.