Beyond the Wand: The Magic and Mayhem of Growing Up a Wizard

by Tom Felton

They are one of the main reasons, I think, that we kids didn’t grow up to be assholes. We grew up watching them treat everybody on set with kindness, patience and respect. Alan would routinely offer to make cups of tea for people. He would talk to us children—and more importantly to every single member of the crew, from the camera team to the catering department—no differently to how he’d talk to his contemporaries.

We are never explicitly told why he feels so terrified about the prospect of killing Dumbledore, but here is my theory. If we were only able to see the influence of Draco’s father, his reaction might not make sense. But we also see the influence of his mother, Narcissa, the woman who is prepared to lie to Voldemort to save her son. It is that influence that gives Draco his humanity, and if I managed to capture any of that in my performance in the sixth film, it was in part thanks to Helen’s remarkable acting. In her own quiet way, she shaped what I was doing as much as anybody.

In the Voldemort-cuddle scene, when Draco is unsure whether to leave the Hogwarts students and join the Death Eaters, it’s the urgency of his father’s call that gets his attention. It’s the softness of his mother that makes his decision. It was Helen’s ability to render the softer side of Narcissa’s personality that gave Draco the reason to walk. In art, as in life, I found it hard to say no to my mum.

Drinking becomes a habit at the best of times. When you’re drinking to escape a situation, even more so. The habit spilled out of the bar and, from time to time, on to set. It came to the point where I would think nothing of having a drink while I was working. I’d turn up unprepared, not the professional I wanted to be. The alcohol, though, wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom.

In a matter of days, you start to care deeply about your fellow patients. That in itself is a transformative experience. Before, I’d have days at home where you wouldn’t be able to get me out of bed for lack of passion in anything at all. And I couldn’t show compassion to anybody else because I was so consumed with my own situation.

I realised that before I had been existing in a state of absolute numbness. It wasn’t that I was ready to jump off a bridge; it was that jumping off a bridge and winning the lottery seemed like equivalent outcomes. I had no interest in anything, good or bad.

I’m no longer shy of putting my hands up and saying: I’m not okay. 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.

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?”