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The Great Hall was stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of artificial fog and the collective tension of a hundred extras. The cameras were positioned, the lighting rigs were humming, and Mike Newell, the director, was pacing the stone floor with a megaphone in hand. Today was the day they were filming one of the most pivotal, high-energy moments of The Goblet of Fire.

Daniel Radcliffe stood in the center of the room, adjusting his oversized school robes. He looked younger than his years, his messy black hair falling over those iconic round glasses. He took a deep breath, trying to channel the sheer confusion and terror Harry Potter would feel after his name had just emerged from the flames of the Goblet.

"Alright, everyone! Back to positions!" Mike shouted. "Michael, remember, we need urgency. You’re worried, you’re frantic, the wizarding world is at stake. Dan, you’re a deer in headlights. Let’s go! Quiet on set!"

"Action!"

The heavy wooden doors of the trophy room burst open. Michael Gambon, draped in the majestic, flowing robes of Albus Dumbledore, charged into the room. Behind him, the actors playing Snape, McGonagall, and Mad-Eye Moody followed in a flurry of velvet and wool.

Michael didn't just walk; he sprinted. His beard trailed behind him like a silver banner. He looked truly formidable, a wizard possessed by a desperate need for answers.

"Harry!" Michael bellowed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

Dan backed away, his hands raised slightly in a defensive gesture, just as they had rehearsed. But Michael was moving faster than he had in the previous takes. The adrenaline of the scene had clearly taken hold.

"Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?" Michael roared, reaching Dan in a matter of seconds.

Before Dan could even utter the first syllable of his line, Michael’s hands flew out. He grabbed the lapels of Dan’s school shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists. The momentum was massive. Instead of a firm stop, Michael’s strength propelled Dan backward with startling force.

Dan’s back hit the decorative leaded-glass partition of the trophy cabinet. There was a sickening thud, followed immediately by the sharp, crystalline crack of glass yielding to pressure.

A spiderweb of fractures raced across the pane. A small shard, sharp as a needle, snapped inward. Dan winced as he felt a hot, stinging sensation slice across his right temple.

"Did you ask one of the older students to do it for you?" Michael shouted, his face inches from Dan’s, his eyes wide and intense. "Did you?"

"I—I didn't," Dan stammered, his voice cracking naturally from the shock.

"Cut! Cut! Stop!" Mike Newell’s voice pierced through the drama.

The intensity in Michael Gambon’s eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer horror. He let go of Dan’s shirt as if it were made of hot coals.

"Oh, Merlin’s beard," Michael gasped, his voice returning to his natural, gentle Irish lilt. "Dan? Dan, dear boy, are you alright?"

The set, which had been a whirlwind of motion a second ago, went deathly silent. The crew scrambled forward. Maggie Smith and Alan Rickman stepped closer, their faces etched with genuine concern that had nothing to do with their characters.

Dan blinked, feeling a strange warmth trickling down the side of his face. He reached up to touch his temple, and when he pulled his hand away, his fingers were stained with a bright, vivid crimson. It wasn't the stage blood the makeup department used; it was thin and wet.

"You’re bleeding," Michael whispered, his face pale. "I am so incredibly sorry, Daniel. I didn't mean... the glass, I didn't think I’d pushed you that hard."

The blood was now tracing a slow path down Dan’s cheek, disappearing into the collar of his white shirt. A medic was already rushing onto the set with a first-aid kit, but Dan held up a hand to pause them for a second.

He looked at Michael, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. The veteran actor was trembling slightly, his hands hovering in the air as if he were afraid to touch Dan again.

Dan let out a small, breathless laugh. He wiped a bit of the blood away with his sleeve, though it only smeared the red further. He gave Michael a bright, slightly lopsided grin.

"Honestly, Michael, it’s fine," Dan said, his voice steady and remarkably cheerful. "It actually felt quite authentic, didn't it? Very 'Dumbledore in a crisis.' I think we definitely got the shot."

"You’re bleeding on the furniture, Daniel," Alan Rickman drawled, though his dark eyes were scanning Dan’s face for any signs of a concussion. "And you’ve broken the set. That’s a deduction from your pocket money, surely."

The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig. A few crew members chuckled, and Michael let out a long, shaky breath of relief.

"You’re a terrifyingly brave young man," Michael said, finally placing a gentle, fatherly hand on Dan’s shoulder. "But I feel like a complete brute. I nearly put you through the window!"

"It’s just a scratch," Dan insisted as the medic began cleaning the wound with an antiseptic wipe. He hissed slightly at the sting but didn't pull away. "It makes me look tougher. Harry’s supposed to be going through a hard time, right? Now I don't even need the makeup team to add the 'battle-worn' look."

Mike Newell walked over, looking between the cracked glass and his lead actor. "You sure you’re okay, Dan? We can wrap for the day. We’ve got enough coverage."

"No, don't be silly," Dan said, looking up from under the medic’s hands. He looked at Michael and winked. "But Michael, maybe on the next take, just a little less of the wrestling? I’d like to keep my head in one piece for the Yule Ball scenes."

Michael laughed, the sound booming and warm, filling the Great Hall. He leaned in and kissed the top of Dan’s head, careful of the messy hair.

"Deal, my boy. A little less wrestling, a little more wizardry. I promise."

As the medic finished taping a small, flesh-colored bandage over the cut, Dan stood up and dusted off his robes. He looked at the cracked glass one last time, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"Hey, Mike!" Dan called out to the director. "Make sure you keep that take. It’s not every day Dumbledore actually tries to kill me."

The set erupted in laughter, the fear of the accident replaced by the camaraderie that had made the films a second home for everyone involved. Michael Gambon stayed by Dan’s side for the rest of the afternoon, acting as a self-appointed bodyguard, ensuring that the only things hitting Daniel Radcliffe for the rest of the day were lines of dialogue.