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The Great Hall was stifling, thick with the scent of extinguished candles and the nervous energy of a hundred extras. Mike Newell, the director, had been pushing for more intensity. The scene was pivotal: the Goblet of Fire had just spat out a fourth name, an impossible name, and the wizarding world was supposed to be shaking at its foundations.

Daniel Radcliffe stood by the trophy cabinet, his shoulders hunched. He was nineteen, trying his best to channel the bewildered, terrified energy of a fourteen-year-old Harry Potter. Across the room, Michael Gambon, draped in the heavy, silver-threaded robes of Albus Dumbledore, was mentally preparing for the sprint.

"Alright, everyone! Positions!" Newell shouted, his voice echoing off the high stone walls. "Michael, I want urgency. This isn't the calm Dumbledore of the books. This is a man who sees his plans crumbling. I want you on him! Action!"

The cameras began to roll, their silent tracks gliding over the floor.

Michael burst through the doors of the trophy room like a whirlwind of silk and fury. The other actors—Maggie Smith, Alan Rickman, and Robbie Coltrane—trailed behind him, though the focus was entirely on the tall, bearded figure charging toward the boy in the glasses.

"Harry!" Michael roared, his voice booming with a theatricality that made the younger actors jump.

Dan backed away, his hands up in a defensive posture, just as they had rehearsed. But as Michael reached him, the adrenaline of the take seemed to surge a little too high. Michael’s large hands gripped the collar of Dan’s school shirt, the fabric bunching painfully tight around his neck.

"Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?" Michael demanded, his face inches from Dan’s.

In the heat of the moment, Michael’s momentum didn't stop. He shoved Dan back toward the decorative stained-glass partition that lined the side of the set.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp, like a gunshot in the cavernous room. The safety glass, designed to withstand a fair amount of pressure but perhaps not the full-bodied force of a panicked Headmaster, gave way. A spiderweb of fractures bloomed behind Dan’s head, and a jagged shard caught the edge of the wooden frame, snapping inward.

Dan felt a sharp, hot sting against his hairline, followed immediately by a strange, wet warmth.

"Did you ask one of the older students to do it for you?" Michael continued, still fully immersed in the character, his eyes wide and piercing.

"I—I didn't—" Dan started, but then he winced, his eyes fluttering shut as a thick drop of crimson trailed down his temple, over his eyebrow, and began to blur his vision.

"Cut! Cut, cut, cut!" Newell’s voice shrieked from the monitors.

The spell of the scene broke instantly. Michael’s hands flew off Dan’s shirt as if the fabric had turned to white-hot iron. His expression shifted from Dumbledore’s stern interrogation to Michael Gambon’s pure, unadulterated horror.

"Oh, bloody hell," Dan hissed, his hand flying to his face. He pulled back, stumbling slightly away from the broken glass. "Fuck, that actually hurt."

"Dan! Oh, God, Daniel!" Michael stammered, his hands hovering in the air, shaking. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean—the glass—I thought it was reinforced—"

"Medical! Get the medics over here now!" one of the ADs shouted, the set erupting into a beehive of panicked activity.

Dan pulled his hand away from his face. His palm was smeared with bright, arterial red. The cut on his temple was small but deep, a classic head wound that bled with theatrical enthusiasm. It was already dripping onto the white collar of his costume, staining the Gryffindor tie.

Maggie Smith hurried over, her face pale. "Is he alright? Michael, you brute, look what you've done to the boy."

"I know! I know!" Michael looked like he was about to weep. The legendary actor, usually so full of mischief and jokes, looked utterly diminished. "Daniel, dear boy, I am incredibly sorry. I got carried away. I’m a clumsy old fool."

Dan took a deep breath, blinking against the blood that was starting to sting his right eye. He saw the genuine terror in Michael’s eyes and the way the older man’s lip was actually trembling. The entire crew was frozen, watching the star of the multi-billion dollar franchise bleed out on the floor of the Great Hall.

Dan wiped a smudge of blood across his cheek, inadvertently making himself look like he’d just come back from a war zone, and flashed a lopsided, slightly manic grin.

"Relax, Michael," Dan said, his voice loud enough for the surrounding crew to hear. "Honestly, if you wanted to kill me off so you could have the lead role, you could have just asked. You didn't have to deface the scenery."

A few people offered a hesitant, nervous laugh.

"I've blinded him," Michael whispered, staring at the blood. "I've scarred the boy for life."

"It’s a scratch, Mike! Look at me," Dan said, stepping forward and grabbing Michael’s arm to steady him. "I’m a Gryffindor, aren’t I? We’re supposed to be bloody and bruised. It adds to the realism. Honestly, the fans are going to love the 'Dumbledore asked calmly' meme even more now that there’s actual property damage involved."

The set medic, a woman named Sarah, pushed through the crowd with a first-aid kit. "Alright, let me see, Dan. Sit down on this stool."

"I'm fine, Sarah, really," Dan insisted, though he obeyed, sitting down while she began to dab at his face with antiseptic wipes. "It’s just a little nick. Michael just wanted to make sure the performance was 'shattering.' Pun intended."

Michael hovered over the medic’s shoulder, looking like a worried grandfather. "Does he need stitches? Will there be a scar? Oh, the producers are going to have my head on a platter."

Dan looked up from under the gauze, his blue eyes bright with mischief despite the throbbing in his head. "If I get a scar, we’ll just tell everyone it’s a second lightning bolt. A matching set. Very trendy."

He reached out and patted Michael’s hand, which was still resting on the back of the stool.

"Hey," Dan said softly, dropping the bravado for a second. "I’m okay. I promise. It was a great take. Probably the best one we’ve done. You were terrifying, which is exactly what the scene needed."

Michael sighed, a long, shaky sound that seemed to deflate his entire frame. "You’re a terrifyingly brave young man, Daniel. Most boys your age would be calling their agents or crying for their mothers."

"Well, I’ve spent the last four years being chased by basilisks and soul-sucking dementors," Dan joked, wincing slightly as the antiseptic stung. "A bit of glass and an over-eager Dumbledore isn't going to break me. Besides, think of the wrap party stories."

Alan Rickman, who had been watching from the shadows with his usual inscrutable expression, stepped forward. He leaned down, his deep voice vibrating in the small space. "Well, Daniel. At least now you can truly say you’ve bled for your art. Though I suspect Michael was just trying to get us an early lunch break."

That broke the tension completely. The room erupted into genuine laughter, and even Michael managed a weak, watery smile.

"There we go," Dan said, leaning back as Sarah finished taping a small, neat bandage over his temple. "All patched up. Can we go again? I think I can do the 'terrified' look even better now that I know Michael is a secret cage fighter."

"No more takes for you today, Mr. Radcliffe," Newell said, walking over and clapping a hand on Dan’s shoulder, though his eyes were still darting nervously to the bandage. "Go to your trailer. Get some rest. Michael... maybe we’ll practice the 'shoving' part with a stunt double and a very soft cushion next time."

Michael nodded vigorously. "Yes. A cushion. Or perhaps a large, velvet sofa. I shall stay at least ten feet away from the boy at all times."

As Dan stood up to be led away, he stopped by Michael one last time. He leaned in and whispered, "Seriously, Mike. That was brilliant. Best Dumbledore moment yet. Just... maybe less Hulk, more Headmaster tomorrow, yeah?"

Michael chuckled, finally regaining some of his usual sparkle. "Deal, Harry. Deal."

Dan walked off the set, waving his hand dismissively at the worried whispers of the crew. He was covered in blood, his head ached, and his costume was ruined, but he had a grin on his face. It was just another day at Hogwarts, and he wouldn't have traded it for anything.