Which brings us back to the present, and to London where I live now. As I write these pages, my adventures in LA are behind me and in some ways it feels as though I’ve come full circle. My life is more settled now. More ordinary. I wake each morning, full of gratitude, in my house among the leafy heaths of North London. I put in my earphones to listen to the morning’s news while I walk Willow, who is seemingly on constant squirrel patrol. Back home I’ll make myself a ham and cheese sandwich (I still have the palate of a nine-year-old) and I’ll spend some time reading scripts or playing music. Then I’ll get on my bike to cycle into the West End, where I find myself performing on stage for the first time.
The play is 2:22 A Ghost Story, and before each performance, as I prepare to step out on to the stage, I can’t help but reflect on the importance stories have had in my life, and on the value they hold for so many people. It would be easy to dismiss them. I nearly did just that when, 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. Now, of course, I see things differently. 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.
To be part of those stories is humbling, and feels like an extraordinary honour. It makes me more ambitious than ever to harness the power of art and storytelling so that I can pass on the baton to another generation.
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.
Several years ago, on that night when I busted out of rehab and trekked alone and confused along the Malibu coastline, the first of my three kings asked me a question: “Are you a rich man?” I barely knew how to answer. I’m not sure I entirely understood the question. He told me he was a rich man, not because he had wealth but because he had his family around him. He knew what was important in life. He knew no amount of money, fame or praise would ever make him content. He knew to help people, and it would naturally pass on to others. Now I understand that too. The only true currency we have in life is the effect we have on those around us.
I know my life has been a fortunate one. I will always be grateful to and proud of the films that gave me so many opportunities. I’m even prouder of the fans who keep the wizarding world’s flame burning brighter than ever. And I try to remind myself every day how lucky I am to have my life. A life where love, family and friendship are at the forefront. It’s not lost on me that the importance of these is one of the great lessons of the Harry Potter stories. The realisation of this is what makes me a very rich man indeed.