Beyond The Wand Quotes

It's easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can't exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us -" screeched the woman, but at that precise moment the door to the ramparts burst open once more and there stood Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against the wall, to the four Death Eaters, including the enraged werewolf, and Malfoy. "We've got a problem, Snape," said the lumpy Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon Dumbledore, "the boy doesn't seem able -" But somebody else had spoken Snape's name, quite softly. "Severus ..." The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading. Snape said nothing, but walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed cowed. Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face. "Severus ... please ..." Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore. "Avada Kedavra!

The only true currency we have in life is the effect we have on those around us.

But somebody else had spoken Snape’s name, quite softly. “Severus . . .” The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading. Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face. “Severus . . . please . . .” Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore. “Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry’s scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving, he was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.

Helping others is a powerful weapon in the fight against mood disorders.

Emma has taught me so many valuable lessons over the years, most importantly: don’t always follow the herd, never underestimate the power of a woman and, whatever you do, keep quacking.

We live in a world where we seem increasingly in need of ways to unify ourselves, ways to build bridges and feel as one. It strikes me that very few things have achieved these aims as successfully as the brilliant world of Harry Potter.

I dedicate this book to the Muggles who got me here.

Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

I am not alone in having these feelings. Just as we all experience physical ill-health at some stage in our lives, so we all experience mental ill-health too. There’s no shame in that. It’s not a sign of weakness.

An audience can go back and watch a film any number of times they want. It's always there for them. For the cast and crew, the relationship with a film is more complex. The magic is in the making, and that process is a discreet unit of time in the past. You can reflect on that unit of time, you can be proud of it, but you can't revisit it.

To this day I never know which version of myself I’m going to wake up to. It can happen that the smallest chores or decisions—brushing my teeth, hanging up a towel, should I have tea or coffee—overwhelm me. Sometimes I find the best way to get through the day is by setting myself tiny, achievable goals that take me from one minute to the next. If you sometimes feel like that, you are not alone, and I urge you to talk about it to someone. It’s easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can’t exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

What kid doesn't love a Jacuzzi? What kid doesn't hilariously pretend it's an enormous farting cauldron? Or was that just me?

Back home I’ll make myself a ham and cheese sandwich (I still have the palate of a nine-year-old)

No, I'm not Byron, it's my role To be an undiscovered wonder, Like him, a persecuted wand'rer, But furnished with a Russian soul. I started sooner, sooner ending, My mind will never reach so high; Within my soul, beyond the mending, My shattered aspirations lie: Dark ocean answer me, can any Plumb all your depth with skillful trawl? Who will explain me to the many? I... perhaps God? No one at all?

As the actor who played Draco Malfoy, I see myself as a placeholder in people's memories. Seeing me transports them to a different time and place, in the same way that listening to a particular song can be evocative of something else. I've met with fans who have explained that the books and films have helped them through hard times. It's a humbling truth to hear.

something that will always remain with me. ‘I’ve always known I was a duck,’ she said, ‘but I’ve spent my whole life being told I was a chicken. Every time I try to say “quack” the world tells me that I have to say “cluck”. I even started believing that I was a chicken and not a duck. Then we started hanging out and I found somebody else who quacked. And that’s when I thought: To hell with them, I really am a duck!

I’ve always had a secret love for Emma, though not perhaps in the way that people might want to hear. That isn’t to say there’s never been a spark between us. There most definitely has, only at different times.

I don’t think I was ever in love with Emma, but I loved and admired her as a person in a way that I could never explain to anybody else.

If rehab is nothing more than time devoted to looking after yourself, how can that not be time well spent?

Every school child needs a Dumbledore in their life.

two decades ago, I lined up with a bunch of young hopefuls all wanting to be cast in the story of a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs. It didn’t seem like much of a story to me. Frankly, I thought it was a bit ridiculous-sounding.

There was never a day, however, that Alan Rickman wasn’t to be seen in full, flowing Snape robes, holding his tray and queuing up in the canteen for his lunch like everyone else. I was rather intimidated by Alan from day one. It took three or four years for me to manage more than a slightly terrified and squeaky “Hi Alan!” whenever I saw him. But seeing him wait patiently, in full Snape mode, for his sausage sandwich took the edge off just a little.

I also know now that it’s a classic British male trait - that reluctance to express emotion and say what you really think.

it helped me understand that there were two sides to Draco’s story: he was a bully, of course, but at heart he was a little boy who was terrified of his dad.

If you sometimes feel like that, you are not alone, and I urge you to talk about it to someone. It’s easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can’t exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

At every moment up until then, he’d have dobbed Harry in. Finally, though, he understands what Dumbledore told Harry early in the story: that it’s our choices, not our abilities, that show us what we truly are.

Perhaps there was a secret door down low in the wall, a door only large enough for a child. If I stepped through that door, I would be in another world, in fairyland perhaps. It would be warm and bright there, and I would have a magical wand to protect myself. I'd ride on the back of a dragonfly, swooping through the forest. I'd battle dragons and talk to birds and have all kinds of grand adventures. Later, I found that small door into fairyland could be conjured any time I needed it. The world beyond the door was different every time. Sometimes, I found a little stone house in the woods where I could live with just Nanette and my sister, Marie, and a tabby cat who purred by the fire. Sometimes, I lived in a castle in the air with a handsome prince who loved me. Other times, I was the prince myself, with a golden sword and a white charger.

I couldn’t get out of bed this morning because everything felt too much.” “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.” “I know I’m loved, so why do I feel so lonely?” Rather than see therapy as the emergency consequence of excess or illness, we should start to see it for what it can be: an essential opportunity to take time out from the voices in your head, the pressures of the world and the expectations we place on ourselves.

It surprises some people that I’ve never re-read the Harry Potter books, or even watched the films in their entirety apart from at the premieres. From time to time I’ve been in front of the TV with some friends and one of the movies has come on, prompting the obligatory piss-taking of “Harry Potter Wanker” and “Broomstick Prick.” But I’ve never sat down on purpose to watch them, beginning to end. It’s nothing to do with a lack of pride. Quite the opposite. It’s because I’m saving them for the moment that I look forward to most in my future: one day sharing these stories—books first, then the films—with my own little Muggles.

An intriguing thought came to her as she looked around: She had spent too much time guessing how to make her son happy. What if her son’s biggest dream was floating around the Hall of Dreams? If she peered into it, maybe she would discover how to help him. The Fairy Godmother raised her wand and waved it in a quick circle. All the orbs in the Hall of Dreams instantly froze. Only one large orb in the distance kept moving. It floated toward her and landed in her hands. She peered inside it, anxious

It was Alan Rickman and I was terrified, not because of the menace he exuded as Severus Snape, but because I loved the film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and was obsessed with Alan’s performance as the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham. To be in the same room as the Sheriff himself was enough to penetrate even my veneer of schoolboy cockiness.

placed in an environment where people where desperate to do things for me, I started to lose the ability to do things, and think things, for myself

In short, three older guys to keep me firmly in my place—which I guess is no bad thing for a kid who’s about to embark on a wizarding career.

I also discovered for the first time that certain hotels had a special system: you pick up the phone, call someone downstairs and they’ll bring you food! In my case: French fries!

It's amazing what seems important to you when you're a kid.

He told me he was a rich man, not because he had wealth but because he had his family around him. He knew no amount of money, fame or praise would ever make him content.

Then we started hanging out and I found somebody else who quacked. And that's when I thought: To hell with them, I really am a duck!

It’s easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can’t exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks, or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded. ‘Thanks,’ said Ginny, smiling at her. Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn’t. ‘Had a good summer, Luna?’ Ginny asked. ‘Yes,’ said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. ‘Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You’re Harry Potter,’ she added. ‘I know I am,’ said Harry. Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead. ‘And I don’t know who you are.’ ‘I’m nobody,’ said Neville hurriedly. ‘No you’re not,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘Neville Longbottom – Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but in Ravenclaw.’ ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,’ said Luna in a singsong voice. She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.

I used to go to a kids’ club at Leatherhead Leisure Centre called Crazy Tots and I couldn’t wait to share my adventures with my friends there. I didn’t try to tell them about the Golden Gate Bridge or Caesars Palace or Times Square. I wanted to tell them about the important stuff: the room service, the Cartoon Network and, yes, the red puffa jacket. Pretty quickly, however, a hard truth presented itself. Literally. Nobody. Cared.

In the Caduceus, the two serpents are called Ob and Od. As they twine around each other, they create the magickal wand of Double Power. The Unification of the Ob and Od is picture by the globe that crowns the Caduceus. The globe which climaxes the Caduceus symbolizes the Nur Muhammadi, or Light of Mohammed, the Aur (Light) in Hebrew, which is the result of the state of equilibrium existing between the two serpent forces. This Light is the SUPREME ESSENCE. Wilhelm Reich called this serpent energy the Orgone. It has also been referred to as: Ki, Kundalini, Mana, Prana, Vril, Animal Magnetism, the Odic Force, the Astral Light, the Élan Vital, the Libido, the Atmospheric 'I' and Ether.

Harry is the product of a family who loves him so much, they are prepared to die for him. Draco is the product of a family who bully and abuse him. But when they have the freedom to make their own choices, they reach a similar destination.

The wild is an integral part of who we are as children. Without pausing to consider what or where or how, we gather herbs and flowers, old apples and rose hips, shiny pebbles and dead spiders, poems, tears and raindrops, putting each treasured thing into the cauldron of our souls. We stir our bucket of mud as if it were, every one, a bucket of chocolate cake to be mixed for the baking. Little witches, hag children, we dance our wildness, not afraid of not knowing. But there comes a time when the kiss of acceptance is delayed until the mud is washed from our knees, the chocolate from our faces. Putting down our wooden spoon with a new uncertainty, setting aside our magical wand, we learn another system of values based on familiarity, on avoiding threat and rejection. We are told it is all in the nature of growing up. But it isn't so. Walking forward and facing the shadows, stumbling on fears like litter in the alleyways of our minds, we can find the confidence again. We can let go of the clutter of our creative stagnation, abandoning the chaos of misplaced and outdated assumptions that have been our protection. Then beyond the half light and shadows, we can slip into the dark and find ourselves in a world where horizons stretch forever. Once more we can acknowledge a reality that is unlimited finding our true self, a wild spirit, free and eager to explore the extent of our potential, free to dance like fireflies, free to be the drum, free to love absolutely with every cell of our being, or lie in the grass watching stars and bats and dreams wander by. We can live inspired, stirring the darkness of the cauldron within our souls, the source, the womb temple of our true creativity, brilliant, untamed

TOM Do you want to practise slapping me? EMMA (brow furrowed) Excuse me? TOM Because in the next film, that’s what you do. You slap me. (lying through his teeth) I just read it! EMMA OK, great. TOM (mansplaining) Right. So. Here’s what you do. You need to stand there, you need to use your body, you need to put everything into it to sell it, you need to… While Tom is talking, Emma calmly sizes him up, raises one hand and—not realising that he was talking about a stage slap—cracks him as hard as she can across the cheek.

Writers possess magic. It's in their words. They compose phrases as powerful as incantations, creating illusions in the minds of readers. These spells make eyes envision things that aren't real; they make hearts feel things that aren't actual. A writer's work is to pen enchantments meant to entrance and hypnotize the mind, causing neglect of all other duties and responsibilities in order for the reader to remain a puppet controlled by the writer's wand. And if some foul friend does manage to break the spell, he is despised for it. His heroics are too late in coming. The words―the fairy tales―have seeped beyond the body and into the soul, taking possession. Our poor reader is infected, compromised, never to be cured. The notion of magic found in simple words such as, 'Once upon a time...' has always fascinated me. It is no wonder I am compelled to write.

I'm not a wealthy man. I don't have much money. I don't have a big house. I don't have a fancy car. But I have my wife‚ and I have my children, and I have my grandchildren, and that means I am a rich man. A very rich man." He fixed me with a piercing stare and inclined his head a little. "Are you a rich man?

I was famous already! Brilliant! Except of course, I wasn’t famous. I was entirely unknown. Turns out that with my angelic little face, my beanie and my puffa jacket they thought I was Macaulay Culkin in full Home Alone garb, or maybe his little brother. Sorry, Macaulay, for stealing your fans, even if it was just for one day.

I had no idea, when I was first asked by my agents to audition for a film called Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, that it would be any different in terms of scale to the jobs I’d done previously. In my mind it was another Borrowers: a relatively high-budget film with lots of children and, if I played my cards right, a part for me. But if I didn’t get a part? That was okay too. It wasn’t the be-all and end-all. There was a good chance something else would come along.

Emma spent a good deal of time reprimanding me for smoking, then she suddenly told me something that will always remain with me. "I've always known I was a duck," she said, "but I've spent my whole life being told I was a chicken. Every time I try to say 'quack' the world tells me that I have to say "cluck.' I even started believing that I was a chicken and not a duck. Then we started hanging out and I found somebody else who quacked. And that's when I thought: To hell with the, I really am a duck!

two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction. “News?” asked the taller of the two. “The best,” replied Severus Snape. The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched. “Thought I might be late,” said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. “It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be good?” Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither

Unlike many of the children’s stories written around the same time, the Harry Potter books and films are being passed down from one generation to the next. They are one of the few cultural landmarks that link thirteen-year-olds and thirty-year-olds. It means that there has been a snowball effect as more and more people get drawn into the wizarding world. If I had been told while we were making the films that in the years to come there would be a Harry Potter theme park, and that I’d be cutting the red ribbon on our own section of Universal Studios, I’d have laughed in your face.

Before running into the ocean, we’d put our hands to the sky, say a short prayer and take three very deep breaths, before proceeding to run in, whooping like the children we are at heart. Greg also taught me that when you’re coming out of the water you should raise your hands to the sky and say thank you, to show gratitude for everything you have in your life. Greg told me that Einstein had appeared to him in a dream, saying that walking backwards off the beach would create new neural pathways. So we always walked backwards off the beach, keeping our eyes on the ocean, picking up pieces of littered plastic along the way. “Try to leave every environment better than when you found it,” he told me.

One thing had always confused Quentin about the magic he read about in books: it never seemed especially hard to do. There were lots of furrowed brows and thick books and long white beards and whatnot, but when it came right down to it, you memorized the incantation—or you just read it off the page, if that was too much trouble—you collected the herbs, waved the wand, rubbed the lamp, mixed the potion, said the words—and just like that the forces of the beyond did your bidding. It was like making salad dressing or driving stick or assembling Ikea furniture—just another skill you could learn. It took some time and effort, but compared to doing calculus, say, or playing the oboe—well, there really was no comparison. Any idiot could do magic.

I think we all need it in one shape or another, so why wouldn't it be normal to talk openly about how we're feeling? "I'm happy we won the footy." "I'm pissed off the ref didn't give that penalty." "I'm so excited to see who they sign next." If we apply such a passionate tongue and eager ear to something like football, for instance, why wouldn't we do the same about the unspoken stuff? "I couldn't get out of bed this morning because everything felt too much." "I don't know what I'm doing with my life." "I know I'm loved, so why do I feel so lonely?" Rather than see therapy as the emergency consequence of excess or illness, we should start to see it for what it can be: an essential opportunity to take time out from the voices in your head, the pressures of the world and the expectations we place on ourselves.

Live water heals memories. I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays. You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or longing, “This is it.” But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, “Here it comes!” Here it comes. In the far distance I can see the concrete bridge where the road crosses the creek. Under the bridge and beyond it the water is flat and silent, blued by distance and stilled by depth. It is so much sky, a fallen shred caught in the cleft of banks. But it pours. The channel here is straight as an arrow; grace is itself an archer. Between the dangling wands of bankside willows, and Osage orange, I see the creek pour down. It spills toward me streaming over a series of sandstone tiers, down and down, and down. I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

Many a time when I sat in the balcony, or hanging garden, on which my window opened, I have watched her rising in the air on her radiant wings, and in a few moments groups of infants below, catching sight of her, would soar upward with joyous sounds of greeting; clustering and sporting around her, so that she seemed a very centre of innocent delight. When I have walked with her amidst the rocks and valleys without the city, the elk-deer would scent or see her from afar, come bounding up, eager for the caress of her hand, or follow her footsteps, till dismissed by some musical whisper that the creature had learned to comprehend. It is the fashion among the virgin Gy-ei to wear on their foreheads a circlet, or coronet, with gems resembling opals, arranged in four points or rays like stars. These are lustreless in ordinary use, but if touched by the vril wand they take a clear lambent flame, which illuminates, yet not burns. This serves as an ornament in their festivities, and as a lamp, if, in their wanderings beyond their artificial lights, they have to traverse the dark. There are times, when I have seen Zee’s thoughtful majesty of face lighted up by this crowning halo, that I could scarcely believe her to be a creature of mortal birth, and bent my head before her as the vision of a being among the celestial orders. But never once did my heart feel for this lofty type of the noblest womanhood a sentiment of human love. Is it that, among the race I belong to, man’s pride so far influences his passions that woman loses to him her special charm of woman if he feels her to be in all things eminently superior to himself? But by what strange infatuation could this peerless daughter of a race which, in the supremacy of its powers and the felicity of its conditions, ranked all other races in the category of barbarians, have deigned to honour me with her preference?

Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs. “Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will — revive — your master.” He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened — he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn’t stand to look . . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids. . . . Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him. “B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken . . . you will . . . resurrect your foe.” Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly. . . . Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it. He staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

My Butterfly. An Elegy THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too, And the daft sun-assaulter, he That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead: Save only me (Nor is it sad to thee!) Save only me There is none left to mourn thee in the fields. The gray grass is not dappled with the snow; Its two banks have not shut upon the river; But it is long ago— It seems forever— Since first I saw thee glance, With all the dazzling other ones, In airy dalliance, Precipitate in love, Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above, Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. When that was, the soft mist Of my regret hung not on all the land, And I was glad for thee, And glad for me, I wist. Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high, That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind, With those great careless wings, Nor yet did I. And there were other things: It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp: Then fearful he had let thee win Too far beyond him to be gathered in, Snatched thee, o’er eager, with ungentle grasp. Ah! I remember me How once conspiracy was rife Against my life— The languor of it and the dreaming fond; Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought, The breeze three odors brought, And a gem-flower waved in a wand! Then when I was distraught And could not speak, Sidelong, full on my cheek, What should that reckless zephyr fling But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing! I found that wing broken to-day! For thou are dead, I said, And the strange birds say. I found it with the withered leaves Under the eaves. Robert Frost, A Boy’s Will. (1st World Library - Literary Society February 20, 2006) Originally published 1913.

sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. He was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand. Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle

A new day has dawned. New Secondary Skills are unlocked: Blades: Your many battles have increased your effectiveness with swords and other bladed weapons. Expressive Magic Theory: You now know more about shaping aetherium with your words. Somatic Magic Theory: You have mastered an Improvised Spellform and learned more of magic in the process. Somatic Battle-Weaving: Each action you take, from the stroke of a sword to a dodge, can contribute to a Spellform in the heat of battle. Dramatic Magic Theory: Combining Somatic and Expressive magics is not easy, but you now know more of this difficult path. Aetheric Channeling: Masters of magic long ago learned the secrets of how aether changes states and moves through the Aura. You have taken steps to recreate that knowledge. Critical Breakthrough! You have progressed very far in a short time, understanding the Aura in ways many arcanologists thought lost to time. Aetheric Sensing: Through innovative use, you have advanced in this Skill without the need for a tutor. Aetheric Projection: Few wand users ever go beyond simple bolts of energy, but you recreated an entirely different weapon from raw aether. Critical Breakthrough! Frenzied use of advanced techniques has ingrained them in you, making even such advanced uses seem trivial. Skill greatly increased. Aura Mastery: You have learned how to fill your Aura with aetherium while still allowing aether to flow into you. Provides damage reduction and allows use of Somatic spellforms without an implement. Greatly increases the aetherium costs of such spells. May have other benefits as well. Korrash

When I’m connected with Source Energy and in the flow, I am so much more powerful, so much more in tune to my physical world and the world beyond, and just so much happier in general. And the more I meditate and the more attention I give to this relationship with my invisible superpower, the more effortlessly I can manifest the things I want into my life, and do it with such specificity and at such a rapid rate that it makes my hair stand up. It’s like I’ve finally figured out how to make my magic wand work. If loving Spirit is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

You can push all that past aside if you want to, but until you understand where people around here came from and why they think the way they do, you won't be able to help them get beyond it. You can't just whisk a magic wand and make the past disappear or rewrite it because you don't like it. You'll never change the present if you do that. You have to learn from what's gone on and work hard if you want to make the future better.

Then we heard the word “Cut!” Lucius Malfoy dissolved away and Jason was back, full of apologies and concern. His thin-lipped “Don’t touch, Draco!” was replaced with a touching, concerned “My darling boy, did I hurt you? Are you okay?” It was as if a switch had been flicked. Even now I get goosebumps when I remember Jason’s transformations. When he was Lucius, I never quite knew what to expect.

Very slowly, very distinctly, Alan intoned, “I’ve… peaked.” Then he turned his head to look the other way. But as he turned, I saw the whisper of a smile on his lips. And I realised then that, far from being the terrifying figure I’d always assumed he must be, Alan was a man with a brilliantly dry sense of humour. I didn’t need to be wary of him. Far from it. I needed to relish the time I had with this smart, witty, interesting man.

Truth to tell, it wouldn’t much have mattered what he was reading, I would have had the same reaction, which was: give it a rest, mate! A boy wizard? Not my cup of tea.

Auditions as an adult can be a pretty brutal experience, and believe me I’ve had my share. The bad ones aren’t those when you walk into the audition room and can’t stop farting (yes, it’s happened

And there was something prescient about being mistaken for Macaulay Culkin, who was cast in Home Alone by the director Chris Columbus, because it was Chris who would go on to cast me as Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter films.

and I was transfixed by a thing of beauty called the Cartoon Network—another novelty—which meant I could watch cartoons all day long.

What kid doesn’t love a jacuzzi? What kid doesn’t hilariously pretend it’s an enormous farting cauldron? Or was that just me?

It must have been tough for him when Potter changed all our lives: one minute he’s known for being one of Britain’s best fishermen, the next minute everyone’s calling him Draco Malfoy’s brother and shouting “On yer broomstick, mate!” Chris took it in his stride, though, and despite everything that came my way he was truly my hero as I was growing up.

I’m acutely aware that my involvement with Potter has affected their lives irreversibly: they’ll forever, at some level, be known as Draco Malfoy’s brothers. But I’m equally aware that each of them exerted a distinct influence over the young Tom. Jink: the creativity and love of performance. Chris: a passion for the outdoors and a down-to-earth nature. Ash: a sense of humour and an early inkling that there is no light without shade. All important life lessons. And while I might well be the maggot—the runt of the pack—I wouldn’t be the person I am today without them.

It was a taste of things to come, because the thirty-something Tom still bawls his eyes out every time a job comes to an end.

My first on-screen enemy was a Potter, but not Harry. It was the nefarious lawyer Ocious P. Potter in the big-screen adaptation of the classic children’s book The Borrowers

And I don’t think my behaviour compromised our relationship. On set she was stern but kind—much like McGonagall herself. Off set, at premieres and events, she was always incredibly friendly and accommodating. I remember my parents being desperate to meet her and her being very cool about it. All in all, a true national treasure. Someone to look up to. And that’s coming from a Slytherin.

Just as we all experience physical ill-health at some stage in our lives, so we all experience mental ill-health too.

I used to keep a MiniDisc player in my pocket, with the headphone wire running along my sleeve to my wrist. It meant I could sit in class, resting my cheek on my palm, listening to music. I thought it was a genius move. My teachers took a different view.

We both did the same thing with our wages: we enjoyed them, wholeheartedly. Go to either of our houses and you’ll find crazy trinkets galore. I bought a dog, he bought a llama. Two, actually, which in a couple of years turned into sixteen (llamas mate enthusiastically, apparently).

But I had a few more years under my belt and was a good deal less worried about interaction with the public. I took Emma to one side and tried to help her see that there was no reason to feel threatened, that it was perfectly fine to be friendly, that we had it in our gift to create a memorable moment for the fans who wanted to talk to us. Together we walked over and chatted to them, and I could see a weight lift from Emma’s shoulders.

We were filming Chamber of Secrets when the Prisoner of Azkaban book came out. True to form I was one of the very last members of the cast to read it, but word reached me that it included a scene in which Hermione gives Draco a well-deserved slap in the face. Cool, this should be fun! I was very into my Jackie Chan films at the time, and was stoked to learn that Emma and I might have to indulge in some on-screen violence when we shot the next film the following year.

This is the guy who got the part after sending in a video of himself rapping the immortal line “Hello there, my name is Rupert Grint, I hope you like this and don’t think I stink.” He was, unsurprisingly, extremely Ron-like.

Those [yearly family holidays at Eurocamp in France] were the best holidays of my life, no question. Fresh baguettes. Discovering Nutella.

A regular feature of a day’s filming would be visitors to set. They would generally be children and mostly the visits would be in aid of a children’s charity. Alan Rickman requested by far the most visits for charities that he supported. It seemed to me that he had a group in almost every day. And if anyone understood what a child wanted from a trip to the Harry Potter set, it was him. None of our visitors were that interested in meeting Daniel, Rupert, Emma or, for that matter, me. They wanted to meet the characters. They wanted to put on Harry’s glasses, to get a high five from Ron or a cuddle from Hermione. And since Daniel, Rupert and Emma were so similar in real life to their idea of the characters, they never disappointed. It was different for us Slytherins. I might have got the role of Draco in part because of the similarities between us, but I liked to think that I was not so Draco-esque that I’d be unpleasant to a group of nervous, excited youngsters. So I’d greet them, all smiles, and be as friendly and welcoming as I could be. “Hi, guys! Are you having fun? What’s your favourite set?” And crikey did I get that wrong. Without exception they’d look aghast and confused. Draco being a nice bloke was as anathema to them as Ron being a dickhead. They didn’t quite know how to process it. Alan understood this implicitly. He understood that while they might want to meet Alan Rickman, they’d much rather meet Severus Snape. Whenever he was introduced to these young visitors, he gave them the full Snape experience. They’d receive a clip round the ear and a terse, drawn-out instruction to tuck… your… shirt… in! The kids would be wide-eyed and joyfully terrified. It was a lovely thing to watch. I’d learn, as the years progressed, that some people find it difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction, between fantasy and reality. Sometimes that could be trying. But I wish I’d had Alan’s confidence to remain in character during some of those meet and greets at Leavesden Studios. There’s no doubt that in doing so, he brightened many a day.

Jo Rowling once said that her most gratifying moments come when she learns that her work has helped somebody get through a difficult moment in their life, and I agree. Sure, from time to time seeing me cause people to react in unusual ways, but I try to remember that those reactions are a function of the place these stories and films have in people's hearts, and to act accordingly. Just because Draco acts like a real dick, it doesn't mean I have to.

We rehearsed a short scene where Harry is asking Hagrid about a dragon's egg. Real dragons' eggs being hard to come by, the prop was an ordinary chicken's egg.

Off the back of my Oscar-worthy snowman performance I was promoted to “Tree Number One.” The principal roles were given to the older children who crucially had the ability to speak coherently. I was one of the younger ones trusted with only a single line, rigorously committed to memory, assiduously rehearsed

an actor brings something of themselves to the part, working with elements of his or her own life and fashioning them into something different

For one production—it might have been A Christmas Carol—I was given the artistically fulfilling and technically arduous role of “Snowman Number Three.” My mum and granny went to great lengths to make me a snowman outfit, which comprised two wired dresses—one for my body, one for my head. It was an absolute nightmare to put on, and I still remember the ignominy of standing in the wings and peering out through a gap in the curtain to see three or four boys sniggering at the sight of little Tom Felton standing there butt naked, arms in the air, as they dressed me up in my snowman regalia. I’ve grown used to being frequently photographed, but I’m thankful that no photographic evidence exists of that particular moment.

Tom, I don’t know you very well, but you seem like a nice guy. All I want to tell you is that this is the seventeenth intervention I’ve been to in my career. Eleven of them are now dead. Don’t be the twelfth

Robbie was always keen to remind us that we weren’t there to cure cancer. We weren’t saving the world. We were simply making a film.

I’m Robbie and I’m playing Hermione Granger. I’m Emma and I’m playing Rubeus Hagrid. I found it hilarious at the time—huge Robbie and tiny Emma swapping parts—and it was typical of Robbie Coltrane to ease any tension in the room with his brilliant sense of humour. He understood that you couldn’t have a room full of kids and try to take everything too seriously, and he had a knack of lightening the atmosphere.

And so there were plenty of beats that didn’t end up in the finished film—including a moment when Draco throws Harry his wand for the final duel with Voldemort. Just imagine! There’s a roll of film somewhere showing Draco saving the day, but no one will ever see it.

I've always known I was a duck, but I've spent my whole life being told I was a chicken. Every time I try to say 'quack' the world tells me that I have to say 'cluck.' I even started believing that I was a chicken and not a duck. Then we started hanging out and I found somebody else who quacked. And that's when I thought: to hell with them, I really am a duck!

We live in a world where we seem increasingly in need of ways to unify ourselves, ways to build bridges and feel as one. It strikes me that very few things have achieved those aims as successfully as the brilliant world of Harry Potter. Not a day goes by that I don't receive a message from fans all over the world telling me just that.

Eu nasci entusiasmado, não talentoso.

Emma me ensinou muitas lições valiosas ao longo dos anos, sendo as mais importantes: não siga sempre o rebanho, nunca subestime a força de uma mulher e, independentemente do que faça, continue falando "quá".

Os espectadores podem voltar e assistir ao filme tantas vezes quantas quiserem. O filme está sempre lá disponível para eles. Para os atores e a equipe, a relação com o filme é mais complexa. A magia está na produção, e aquele processo é uma unidade discreta de tempo no passado. Você pode refletir sobre essa unidade de tempo, pode ter orgulho dela, mas não pode revisitá-la.

An actor brings something of themselves to a part, working with elements of his or her own life and fashioning them into something different. I'm not Draco. Draco's not me. But the dividing line is not black and white. It's painted in shades of grey.

My parents' divorce didn't upset me like it might upset some other kids. I didn't want them to be living together and suffering just because they thought it was the right thing for me. If they were happier apart, that made perfect sense to me.

I didn't appreciate it in that moment, but my tears were teaching me another important lesson. An audience can go back and watch a film any number of times they want. It's always there for them. For the cast and crew, the relationship with a film is more complex. The magic is in the making, and that process is a discreet unit of time in the past. You can reflect on that unit of time, you can be proud of it, but you can't revisit it.