**January 1999 — Age 11**
The new year started with a phone call that changed everything.
"They're casting," Margaret said without preamble. "Warner Bros. just announced they're moving forward with *Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone*. Open casting call for British kids aged nine to eleven for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Supporting roles will be cast traditionally."
I was sitting at the breakfast table, and I had to physically suppress the urge to pump my fist in the air.
*Finally.*
"When do auditions start?" I asked, keeping my voice calm.
"March. They're doing an open call first—thousands of kids will show up. But they'll also be looking at professional actors separately. That's where you come in. I've already reached out to our contacts at the casting agency. Given your resume, they'll want to see you."
"For which role?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Margaret's voice was thoughtful. "You're eleven, so technically you could audition for Harry. But..."
"But I don't look like Harry Potter," I finished. The books described Harry as scrawny, dark-haired, with green eyes hidden behind round glasses. I was... none of those things. I was beautiful in a way that would make sense for a hero, but not for the specifically ordinary-looking boy who lived under the stairs.
"Exactly. However, there are other roles. Draco Malfoy, for instance. Or they might age up some characters—Cedric Diggory won't appear until the fourth book, but if they're planning multiple films, they might start establishing characters early."
"I want to audition for Draco," I said decisively.
My parents, who'd been listening quietly, exchanged glances.
"Are you sure, darling?" my mother asked. "Draco's not a very nice character."
"That's exactly why I want to play him. I've done sympathetic roles—Oliver, William in *The Poet's Son*. I need to show I can play against type. Plus, Draco's in all the books. It's a guaranteed multi-film contract."
*And I know exactly how the character develops,* I thought. *I know his arc, his motivations, his redemption. I can play Draco Malfoy better than anyone because I know where he's going.*
"He makes a good point," my father said. "Versatility is important for a long-term career."
"Alright," Margaret said. "I'll put your name forward for Draco. But Henry, you need to understand—this is going to be huge. Massive. Life-changing. If you get this role, you'll be locked into eight films over the next decade. It will define your teenage years."
"I understand."
"And you're okay with that?"
*Okay with it? It's exactly what I want. A guaranteed high-profile role that keeps me in the public eye while leaving me free to pursue music and other projects between films.*
"I'm okay with it," I confirmed.
---
**February 1999**
While waiting for the *Harry Potter* auditions to begin, life continued at its usual breakneck pace.
*The Poet's Son* had its premiere at the London Film Festival in February, and the response was everything I'd hoped for.
The screening was at the Odeon Leicester Square—red carpet, searchlights, the works. I wore another custom-tailored tuxedo (I'd grown since the last premiere and needed a new one), and walked the carpet with my parents and the rest of the cast.
The journalists were more interested this time. I wasn't just "the kid from that film"—I was "Henry Cavendish, star of *The Poet's Son*."
"Henry, what was it like working with Christopher Hampton?"
"Incredible. He's so precise and thoughtful about every choice. I learned so much from watching him work."
"This is your first starring role. How did you handle the pressure?"
"I just focused on understanding William—who he was, what he wanted, what he was afraid of. Once I understood him, the performance came naturally."
"There's already Oscar buzz for your performance. How does that feel?"
I almost stumbled. *Oscar buzz? For an eleven-year-old?*
"That's very flattering," I said carefully. "But I'm just happy people are connecting with the story."
*Humble but not self-deprecating. Confident but not arrogant. Perfect.*
Inside the cinema, watching the finished film, I was struck by how good it actually was. Christopher's direction was elegant and restrained. The cinematography was gorgeous. The score was haunting.
And my performance...
Even watching objectively, I could see it was exceptional. Every scene had layers. Every moment felt authentic. The final scene—William standing at his father's grave, finally allowing himself to cry—had people in the audience openly weeping.
When the credits rolled and the audience applauded, I felt a surge of satisfaction that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with craft.
*I did that. I created something that moved people.*
*This is what Marcus Cole dreamed of. This is what Henry Cavendish is achieving.*
At the after-party, Christopher found me nursing a glass of sparkling cider while adults networked around me.
"Well?" he asked. "What did you think?"
"I think it's beautiful," I said honestly. "I think you made something really special."
"*We* made something special," he corrected. "That performance, Henry—that was all you. I could guide and shape, but you brought the emotional truth. The critics are going to love you."
"The journalist said there's Oscar buzz?"
Christopher's expression became serious. "There is. And I need you to understand what that means. If you do get nominated—and I think there's a real chance you will—your life will change overnight. The attention will be intense. The pressure will be enormous. Are you ready for that?"
*I've been ready for that since the moment I was reborn.*
"I think so," I said aloud. "And if I'm not, I'll figure it out as I go."
He smiled. "That's the spirit. Just remember—stay grounded. Stay humble. Don't let the industry change who you are."
*Too late for that,* I thought. *I'm literally a forty-four-year-old pornstar reborn as a child actor with cosmic templates and knowledge of the future.*
But what I said was: "I'll do my best."
---
**The Reviews (Late February 1999)**
**The Times**: *"Henry Cavendish delivers a performance of stunning maturity in Christopher Hampton's elegiac* The Poet's Son*. His portrayal of William is nuanced, heartbreaking, and utterly believable—a masterclass in restraint from an actor who happens to be eleven years old. This is not merely a good child performance; this is exceptional acting at any age. Oscar voters, take note."*
**The Guardian**: *"Young Cavendish, already impressive in his earlier work, here proves himself a genuine talent rather than a passing novelty. His William is complex and contradictory—angry yet loving, mature yet childlike, strong yet vulnerable. It's the kind of performance that stays with you long after the credits roll."*
**Variety**: *"Move over, Haley Joel Osment. Britain has produced its own child acting prodigy in Henry Cavendish. His work in* The Poet's Son *suggests a career that could rival the greats. If there's any justice, we'll be seeing his name among the Oscar nominees come January."*
**Empire**: *"Cavendish is a revelation. Forget that he's eleven—this is simply masterful acting. The scene where he packs his father's books is worth the price of admission alone. A star is born."*
I read these reviews in my father's study with a growing sense of vindication.
*This is it. This is the breakthrough.*
"They're talking about the Oscars," my mother said, reading over my shoulder. Her voice was odd—pride mixed with worry. "Henry, you could be nominated for an Academy Award."
"Maybe," I said, trying to sound appropriately humble while internally screaming *YES YES YES.*
"How do you feel about that?"
*Like I'm finally achieving what Marcus Cole died dreaming about.*
"Excited," I said. "But also... it's just nice that people are connecting with the film. That's what matters."
My father lowered his newspaper. "You're handling this remarkably well. Most eleven-year-olds would be overwhelmed by this level of attention and praise."
*Most eleven-year-olds don't have my perspective.*
"I'm just trying to stay focused on the work," I said. "The awards stuff is nice, but it's not why I act."
*Liar. It's absolutely why you act. Well, partly. You act because you love it AND because you want the recognition.*
"That's a very mature attitude," Elizabeth said, though she still looked concerned. "Just promise me you'll tell us if it gets to be too much."
"I promise, Mum."
*Narrator voice: It would not get to be too much. If anything, Henry Cavendish would wish there was MORE attention, MORE opportunities, MORE recognition.*
---
**March 1999 — The Harry Potter Auditions**
The casting office was in a nondescript building in Soho, deliberately unglamorous to keep the media away from the thousands of children who'd be parading through over the coming months.
I arrived with my mother and Margaret, dressed casually but carefully—nice jeans, a button-up shirt, looking like a well-groomed eleven-year-old rather than a miniature adult.
The waiting room was empty, which meant they were seeing professional actors separately from the open call. Good. Less chaos.
"Henry Cavendish?"
A woman with a clipboard appeared—mid-thirties, tired eyes, the look of someone who'd already seen five hundred children that week and it was only Wednesday.
"That's me."
She did a visible double-take when she saw me, and I knew why. Even at eleven, the templates were working. I was striking in a way that made people look twice.
"Right. I'm Janet Hirshenson, one of the casting directors. You're here for Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Come on through."
The audition room contained three people: Janet, another casting director I didn't recognize, and—sitting quietly in the corner—Chris Columbus, the director.
*Deep breaths. This is it.*
"So, Henry," Janet said, settling into her chair with my headshot and resume. "Quite an impressive CV for someone your age. *Oliver!*, *The Treehouse Gang*, *The Winter Garden*, and I see *The Poet's Son* just premiered to excellent reviews."
"Thank you."
"Have you read the *Harry Potter* books?"
*Yes. All seven of them, because I lived through their publication in my previous life.*
"I've read the first one," I said, which was true—Henry Cavendish had read it. "And I've started the second."
"What do you think of Draco Malfoy?"
This was the key question. I needed to show I understood the character without revealing I knew his entire arc across seven books.
"I think he's more complicated than he seems at first," I said carefully. "He acts cruel and superior, but it's because that's what he's been taught. His family raised him to believe certain things, and he doesn't know any different yet. He's not evil—he's a product of his environment. And I think that makes him interesting to play."
The three adults exchanged glances.
"That's a very nuanced reading for someone who's only finished the first book," Chris Columbus said, speaking for the first time.
*Careful. Don't oversell it.*
"It's just what I felt when I read it," I said with a shrug. "Maybe I'm wrong."
"You're not wrong," Chris said. "That's exactly what makes Draco interesting. Can you show us what you think he'd be like? Just... be Draco for a minute. Improvise."
I stood up, took a breath, and let my body language change.
Draco Malfoy was all arrogance and assumed superiority. He stood like someone who'd never been told "no" in his life. He spoke with the casual cruelty of someone who didn't understand the impact of his words because he'd never had to consider other people's feelings.
I channeled every entitled rich kid I'd ever encountered, every bully who'd punched down because they could, every person who'd confused privilege with worth.
"My father says Potter's going to get himself killed before Christmas," I drawled, adding just a hint of aristocratic sneer to my accent. "Says he's reckless and stupid, getting into places he doesn't belong. But what can you expect from someone who lived with *Muggles*?"
I delivered the last word with perfect disdain—not shouting, not obviously cruel, just casually dismissive in the way that only true privilege could be.
"Of course, my father also says Potter might be useful once he realizes who the powerful families are. Once he understands that blood matters."
I let a cold smile cross my face—the smile of someone who truly believed in their own superiority and couldn't imagine being proven wrong.
Then I dropped the character, returned to my normal posture and expression, and sat back down.
The room was very quiet.
"Where did that come from?" Janet asked.
"I just thought about what it would be like to grow up believing you were better than everyone else," I said. "And how lonely that would actually be, even if you didn't realize it."
Chris Columbus leaned forward. "Can you do the opposite? Can you show me Draco when he's scared? When the mask slips?"
This was the deeper test—could I show vulnerability in a character who projected nothing but confidence?
I stood again, and this time I was different. Same posture, same aristocratic bearing, but now with tension in my shoulders. My eyes darted, just slightly, as if checking for danger. My hands, which had been relaxed before, were now clenched.
"My father *will* hear about this," I said, and this time the words weren't a threat—they were a desperate plea. The last defense of someone who didn't know how to protect themselves and was falling back on the only power they knew. "He'll... he'll fix this. He has to."
My voice cracked slightly on the last word, showing the frightened child beneath the bully.
Then I sat down again.
Chris Columbus was staring at me with an expression I was learning to recognize: the "this kid is either a genius or deeply concerning" look.
"How old are you again?" he asked.
"Eleven. I'll be twelve in October."
"And you've been acting professionally for how long?"
"Since I was six."
He sat back, exchanged looks with the casting directors.
"Henry, I'm going to be very honest with you. We've seen about three hundred kids so far. Most of them can barely remember their lines. A few can actually act. And then there's you, who just delivered two completely different versions of a character, both entirely truthful, both completely compelling. You understand that's not normal, right?"
I gave him a small smile. "I've been told I'm not a normal eleven-year-old."
"No," he said slowly. "No, you're certainly not." He looked at Janet. "I want to see him with some of the other kids. See how he works opposite potential Harrys and Rons."
"Absolutely," Janet said. "Henry, can you come back next week? We'll have you read some scenes with other actors."
"Of course."
As we were leaving, Chris called out: "Henry?"
I turned back.
"That thing you said about Draco being lonely? That's not in the script. Where did that come from?"
*From knowing his entire story arc. From understanding that he'll eventually try to kill Dumbledore because he's terrified of Voldemort killing his parents. From knowing he'll end up broken and traumatized by the war.*
"I just think anyone who has to be cruel to feel powerful must be really scared inside," I said simply.
Chris nodded slowly. "You might be right about that."
---
**April 1999**
The callback was more intense. They had me read opposite several different boys auditioning for Harry—some from the open call, some professional actors.
One of them was a kid named Daniel Radcliffe—small, dark-haired, with those distinctive blue eyes. He was nervous but talented, and I could see immediately why they were interested in him. He had an everyman quality, a vulnerability that would make audiences root for him.
*That's Harry Potter right there,* I thought. *They're going to cast him.*
"Alright, Henry, Daniel," the casting director said. "This is the scene where Draco offers Harry his friendship on the Hogwarts Express, and Harry rejects him. Henry, you're going to play it like Draco genuinely thinks Harry will accept. Daniel, you're going to play it like Harry already knows Draco is bad news. Got it?"
We both nodded.
The scene started, and I became Draco—all confidence and assumed superiority, genuinely unable to comprehend that Harry Potter might not want to be his friend.
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
I extended my hand with absolute certainty that Harry would take it.
Daniel-as-Harry looked at my hand, then at my face, and I saw the exact moment he decided.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."
And the rejection on Draco's face—I let it show for just a split second. The shock of someone who'd never been refused anything, the inability to process that Harry Potter had just chosen the Weasleys over him.
Then the mask slammed back down, and Draco was all cold fury.
"Cut!" Chris called. "That was perfect. Both of you. Henry, that moment where you let the surprise show before you cover it? That's exactly right. That's the vulnerability that makes Draco interesting."
We did the scene three more times with different emotional beats, and each time I made sure to bring something new—a different shade of arrogance, a different level of hurt beneath the anger.
After the session, Chris pulled me aside.
"We're seriously considering you for Draco. But I need to ask you something important: are you comfortable with playing a character people are going to hate? Draco's not going to be popular with audiences, at least not at first."
*Oh, if only you knew. Draco Malfoy becomes one of the most popular characters in the franchise, with thousands of fans writing redemption stories and defending his actions. Tom Felton's career is defined by this role in the best possible way.*
"I think playing a character people hate is more interesting than playing someone they automatically love," I said. "Anyone can play the hero. It takes skill to make a villain compelling."
Chris smiled. "You're wise beyond your years, Henry."
*If only you knew how far beyond.*
---
**May 1999**
The waiting was the hardest part.
They'd seen hundreds of kids. They were doing screen tests. They were negotiating with parents and agents. The process was going to take months.
Meanwhile, my actual life continued.
David had started introducing me to music industry people—private sessions where I'd play a few songs, let them hear what I could do.
The response was uniformly shocked.
"This is an eleven-year-old?" a producer from EMI asked after hearing "Fix You." "This is album-ready material."
"Henry's been composing since he was eight," David explained. "He's... exceptionally gifted."
"Gifted is an understatement. These songs are sophisticated—both lyrically and melodically. This one could be on the radio tomorrow."
"Not tomorrow," David said. "Henry's voice is still developing. And we don't want to rush him. But in a few years, when he's ready, we'll want to have these properly recorded and released."
"I'd like to be involved when that happens," the EMI producer said. "Seriously. Have your agent call me when you're ready to talk contracts."
This same conversation happened five times over two months with different labels and producers.
Everyone wanted to work with me.
Everyone was willing to wait.
And every meeting added to my growing reputation as a multi-talented prodigy.
*Phase Two, complete,* I thought. *Music industry buzz: established. Now I just need to wait for my voice to change, and I can actually release these songs.*
---
**June 1999**
"We need to talk about the Oscars."
Margaret's tone was serious enough that I knew this wasn't a casual conversation.
We were in her office—all glass and chrome and expensive minimalism. She had my file open on her desk, notes scattered everywhere.
"The Academy released their shortlist for Best Supporting Actor. You're on it."
I felt my heart rate spike. "I'm on the *shortlist*?"
"You're on the shortlist. Which means there's a real possibility you'll be nominated when the final nominations are announced in February. Henry, if that happens—if you're nominated for an Oscar at eleven years old—your life will never be the same."
"I understand."
"I don't think you do." She leaned forward, her expression intense. "You'll be doing interviews constantly. Press junkets, magazine covers, television appearances. Every move you make will be scrutinized. Your privacy will essentially disappear. Are you ready for that?"
*Yes. God, yes. This is exactly what I've been working toward.*
"I'm ready."
"And your parents? Are they ready?"
That was a better question. My parents were supportive but also protective. The idea of their eleven-year-old son becoming one of the most famous children in Britain might give them pause.
"I'll talk to them," I said. "But Margaret? I want this. I know the cost, and I'm willing to pay it."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're the most unusual child I've ever worked with. You know that, right?"
"I've been told."
"Most kids your age are focused on toys and friends and school. You're building an entertainment empire."
*Because I'm not really a kid. I'm a forty-four-year-old in an eleven-year-old body, and I'm not wasting my second chance.*
"I just know what I want," I said simply.
"Well," Margaret said, "if the Oscar nomination happens, you'll get it. Just be prepared—everything's about to change."
---
**July 1999**
The phone call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
My mother answered, listened for a moment, then turned to me with wide eyes.
"Henry, it's Margaret. She says she has news about *Harry Potter*."
I took the phone with hands that were absolutely not trembling.
"Hello?"
"Henry," Margaret said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "You got it. You're Draco Malfoy. They want to offer you the role for all eight films."
Everything stopped.
*All eight films.*
*Eight guaranteed blockbusters.*
*Eight films that I knew would define a generation.*
"Henry? Are you there?"
"I'm here," I managed. "I'm just... yes. Yes, absolutely yes."
"They want to meet with you and your parents next week to discuss contracts. The filming for the first one starts next year. You'll need to be available for approximately six months of shooting, then shorter periods for the sequels."
"I can do that."
"I know you can. Henry?" Her voice softened. "Congratulations. You're about to become one of the most recognized child actors in the world."
After I hung up, my parents were staring at me.
"Well?" my father asked.
"I got it. I'm Draco Malfoy."
My mother pulled me into a hug. My father shook my hand like I was an adult, not an eleven-year-old.
"We're very proud of you," he said. "Though I suspect life is about to get very complicated."
*Complicated. Sure. Let's call it that.*
What it really was, was *perfect*.
I had a starring role in what would become the biggest film franchise in history. I had music ready to release when the time was right. I had industry connections, critical acclaim, and a growing reputation.
Everything was coming together.
---
**August 1999**
The summer was a blur of meetings and contract negotiations.
The *Harry Potter* contracts were intense—eight films, specific scheduling requirements, promotional obligations, and clauses about behavior and public image.
"They want you to agree not to dramatically change your appearance for the duration of filming," the lawyer explained. "No drastic haircuts, no extreme weight gain or loss, that sort of thing."
"That's fine," I said.
"And they want a commitment to promotional work—premieres, interviews, press junkets."
"Also fine."
My parents looked more concerned than I felt.
"This is a ten-year commitment," my father said. "Maybe longer. Henry, are you sure you want to lock yourself into this?"
*Yes. Because I know how it ends. I know these films will be massive. I know Draco Malfoy becomes one of the most beloved characters in the franchise. I know Tom Felton's career thrives because of this role.*
"I'm sure," I said. "This is exactly what I want."
They signed the contracts.
I was officially Draco Malfoy.
---
**September 1999**
School started again, and suddenly I was "that kid from *Harry Potter*."
The announcement had been made public—Daniel Radcliffe as Harry, Rupert Grint as Ron, Emma Watson as Hermione, and me as Draco Malfoy, along with the rest of the young cast.
"Is it true you're going to be in eight movies?" Emma from my class asked.
"If they make all eight, yeah."
"That's so cool! Can I have your autograph?"
This was... new.
I'd been recognized before—from *The Treehouse Gang*, from *Oliver!*, from *The Poet's Son*. But this was different. This was anticipation for something huge.
*Harry Potter* wasn't just another film series. It was a cultural phenomenon in the making, and I was part of it.
At lunch, I sat with Oliver (my friend, not the character) and some other kids I actually liked.
"So you're going to be famous-famous now," Oliver observed, sketching in his notebook as usual.
"Maybe."
"Definitely. *Harry Potter* is huge. My sister's obsessed with the books."
"Are you worried about being typecast?" another friend asked.
*No, because I know Draco eventually shows depth and complexity. And because I'll have my music career to fall back on. And because I'm going to be so good in these films that people will want to see me in other things too.*
"I think Draco's interesting enough that it won't be a problem," I said aloud.
"Plus you've got your music," Oliver said. "I heard you singing in the music room last week. You're really good."
"Thanks."
"When are you going to release something? Like, officially?"
"Eventually. When my voice finishes changing. Another year or two, probably."
*More like three or four years. I need to time it perfectly—release the music when I'm established from* Harry Potter *but before I'm so typecast that people can't see me as anything else.*
*2003 or 2004, probably. After the second or third Harry Potter film. When I'm fifteen or sixteen and my voice has that silver-toned quality that will make teenage girls lose their minds.*
---
**October 15, 1999 — My 12th Birthday**
Twelve years old.
In my previous life as Marcus Cole, twelve was the age when things started going wrong. When my mother's health declined. When the money problems got serious. When childhood ended and survival began.
But for Henry Cavendish, twelve was the age when everything started going *right*.
I had an Oscar nomination (probably—we'd know for sure in February). I had a starring role in *Harry Potter*. I had music ready to release. I had the templates fully activated and getting stronger as I approached adolescence.
At my birthday party—smaller this year, just close friends and family—I stood at the window of our townhouse and looked out at London.
Somewhere in this city, Daniel Radcliffe was also twelve, preparing to become the most famous child actor in the world.
Emma Watson was nine, about to start a journey that would make her an icon of a generation.
Rupert Grint was eleven, ready to become everyone's favorite comedic sidekick.
And I was about to become Draco Malfoy, the character everyone loved to hate and eventually just... loved.
*This is it,* I thought. *This is the beginning of everything.*
*In six months, filming starts.*
*In a year, the world sees* Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone *and everything changes.*
*In two years, I release my music.*
*In three years, I'm a bonafide star.*
*In five years, I'm one of the most recognizable people on the planet.*
*The game is afoot.*
My father came to stand beside me at the window.
"Twelve years old," he said quietly. "I remember when you were born, screaming your head off in that hospital room. If someone had told me then that you'd be here now—Oscar nomination, major film franchise, writing music that makes professional producers weep—I wouldn't have believed them."
"Are you proud?" I asked.
"Terrified and proud in equal measure," he admitted. "You're doing things most adults never achieve, and you're doing them at twelve. I worry about the pressure. I worry about you missing out on childhood. But I also see how happy you are, how alive you are when you're performing. So yes, I'm proud. Incredibly proud."
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For supporting me. For letting me do this. Some parents would have held me back, tried to force me to be 'normal.' You and Mum never did that."
He pulled me into a hug. "That's because you were never meant to be normal, Henry. You were meant to be extraordinary. And you are."
*If only you knew the half of it,* I thought.
---
**December 31, 1999**
The millennium was ending.
People were panicking about Y2K (which I knew would be a non-event). People were celebrating the new century. People were looking back on the 1990s and forward to whatever the 2000s would bring.
And I was standing at the precipice of everything I'd been working toward.
In my room, I updated my master plan notebook one final time for the decade:
**DECADE SUMMARY (1990s):**
Ages 0-5: Foundation building (training, templates activating)
Ages 6-9: Early career establishment (Oliver!, TV show, film debut)
Ages 10-12: Critical breakthrough (*The Poet's Son*, Oscar buzz, Harry Potter casting)
**ACHIEVEMENTS:**
✓ Professional resume: Extensive
✓ Critical acclaim: Established
✓ Industry connections: Growing
✓ Music catalog: 12 songs recorded
✓ Financial portfolio: Tech stocks performing well
✓ Public profile: Rising dramatically
**GOALS FOR 2000-2010:**
Ages 12-15 (2000-2003):
- Film *Harry Potter 1-3*
- Oscar nomination/possible win (2000)
- Launch music career (2003-2004)
- Maintain academic excellence
- Strategic additional film roles
- Voice change/physical maturation
Ages 15-18 (2003-2006):
- Continue *Harry Potter 4-6*
- Release debut album
- First major concert tour
- Transition to adult roles
- Graduate school with honors
- Expand to American market
Ages 18-22 (2006-2010):
- Complete *Harry Potter 7-8*
- Release second/third albums
- First major adult film role (Oscar-worthy)
- Establish production company
- Strategic investments in tech (Facebook, Twitter, etc.)
- Begin setting up post-Potter career
I closed the notebook and looked at the clock. 11:55 PM.
Five minutes until the new millennium.
Five minutes until everything changed.
I went downstairs where my parents were hosting another party—champagne, laughter, optimism about the future.
When midnight struck and everyone cheered, I made a silent promise to myself:
*This decade, Henry Cavendish becomes a household name.*
*This decade, I achieve everything Marcus Cole never could.*
*This decade, I become legendary.*
The adults were counting down: "Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Champagne corks popped. People kissed and hugged. Outside, fireworks exploded over London.
And I stood there, twelve years old and ready to conquer the world, thinking:
*2000. Here we go.*
*Let's make history.*
---
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