Cards on the table: this is not going to be my proudest moment. In fact, my mum doesn’t even know this story. So, sorry Mum.

It’s a busy Saturday afternoon in a bustling English town. Punters hurriedly go about their business and clusters of teenagers haunt the shopping centres, doing what teenagers do. They pay no attention to a skinny fourteen-year-old boy with a pale complexion and bleached hair loitering in the vicinity, surrounded by his crew. The boy in question is yours truly and I’m genuinely sorry to report that we had trouble in mind.

You might think—and rightly so—that with my distinctive blond hairdo I’d be well advised to avoid trouble. You might think that trouble would be low on my agenda. But it turns out that regular teenagers don’t always do the right thing—they certainly don’t always do the sensible thing—and I am trying very hard to be just that: a regular teenager.

Which is not always entirely straightforward, when your alter ego is a wizard.

This was early on in my wizarding career, between the first and second Potter films. The object of our attention was the HMV record store in Guildford, Surrey—quite the place to hang out back in the day. It was commonplace for kids to swipe CDs from their cases and walk out with them under their coats, a constant challenge for the poor security guards who paced the aisles looking for scallywags up to no good. On this particular Saturday, though, my crew had a bigger prize in its sights than mere CDs: a DVD of an “adult” nature that none of us were remotely old enough to buy. I wince now to remember it. Truth to tell, I was inwardly wincing then, but I didn’t want to show it because I was trying to fit in with the cool kids. Even the top boys were reluctant to commit a crime of this gravity, with all the potential for extreme embarrassment.

Which was why I volunteered to do the deed.

Reader, the Artful Dodger I was not. Palms sweating, pulse racing, I entered the shop with excruciating casualness. The smart move would have been to identify the prize, swipe it and get out of there as quickly as possible. Maybe if I had a bit more Slytherin cunning about me I’d have done just that. But I didn’t. Rather than execute a swift, subtle theft, I located the DVD and then I stalked it. I must have wandered up and down the aisle fifty times, my skin tingling with apprehension. I even asked a random stranger if they would buy the DVD for me so I could feign success with the cool kids. The stranger rightly refused and I continued my stakeout, up and down the aisle.

Up and down…

An hour must have passed. I honestly doubt that there was a single security guard who hadn’t clocked me by now. Whether they’d recognised the world’s most inept shoplifter as the boy from the Harry Potter films, I couldn’t tell you. What I do know is this: my hairdo was distinctive, if not downright weird. It was a beacon, and it made it impossible for me to melt into the background.

I wished I hadn’t volunteered. I knew it was stupid. But I couldn’t face tucking my tail between my legs and leaving the shop empty-handed, so eventually I took a deep breath and went in for the dive. Pretending to look at the ceiling, with sweaty, fumbling fingers clumsily ripping off the security sticker, I removed the shiny disc from its plastic box, slipped it into a pocket and speed-walked to the exit.

I’d done the deed! I could see my crew outside and gave them a knowing smirk. I could sense their excitement.

Then… disaster!

I’d barely taken a single step outside the shop when three burly security guys surrounded me. My stomach turned to ice as they escorted me—politely but ever so firmly—back inside. I made the walk of shame through the store, head down, all eyes on me, desperately hoping that I wouldn’t be recognised. The characters were not so iconic then, but there was always a chance. The guards led me into a little booth at the back of the store, where they stood around me, grim-faced, and asked me to turn out my pockets. I sheepishly handed over the disc and asked them—begged them—not to do the one thing that would make this whole sorry escapade ten times worse. “Please,” I said, “please don’t tell my mum!” If she found out, the humiliation would be unbearable.

They didn’t tell my mum. But they did put me against the wall, bring out a Polaroid camera and take an instant snapshot of my face. They put the Polaroid on the wall, part of a rogue’s gallery of hardened criminals who’d tried to rip off the record store, and they told me I was barred for life. I could never set foot in HMV again.

No chance of that, mate. Cheeks burning, I hoofed it as fast as I could and didn’t look back. My friends had scarpered at the first sight of security, so I took the train home alone to lie low.

How long did that picture of blond Tom hang on the wall of HMV? Who knows? Maybe it’s still there. But for weeks after that I was terrified that Warner Brothers, or the newspapers, would find out about my stupid indiscretion. I never told a single soul, but what would happen if someone recognised my mugshot? Would they fire me? Would the next film see Harry, Ron and Hermione terrorised by a different Draco? Would the humiliating nature of my brush with the law become hilarious fodder for public consumption?

Like I said, I tried very hard to be a regular teenager. In most respects, even despite everything that the future held, I think I managed it pretty well. But there’s a fine line, when you grow up in the public eye, between being normal and being reckless. I crossed the line that Saturday afternoon, no doubt. And while the young Tom Felton was no Draco Malfoy, he was no saint either. Maybe that’s what got me the part in the first place. I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Oh, and we never did get to watch that DVD.

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UNDESIRABLE NO. 1

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DRACO’S FIRST SCRAPE WITH THE LAW