Any proper Potterhead knows that the Harry Potter films differ wildly from the books.
The first two movies stuck close to the originals.
After that, they pretty much turned into licensed fanfiction.
The reason's obvious: each new Harry Potter book was thicker than the last. When every sequel contained even more story than the one before, trying to cram a 700-page novel into a single movie?
You could drag Ethan Hunt in and he still wouldn't pull off that mission.
It was impossible.
That's why, in Isabella's previous life, there had been talk that starting with Goblet of Fire, the HP producers had actually proposed splitting the story into two films.
But—Warner Bros. said no.
Isabella had heard a bit about all this.
So when the "split it in two" idea resurfaced before her eyes, she wasn't surprised.
Still, unsurprised didn't mean uncurious.
She wanted to know why Warner Bros. refused.
When Chris Columbus began his outburst, Isabella's eyes were already on Warner president Alan Horn and HP producer David Heyman. After Columbus finished his pitch, the two men exchanged glances.
Then Heyman spoke.
"Chris, calm down. We're all sitting here because we agree splitting Goblet of Fire in two sounds great.
But good ideas aren't always executable.
"If we split it, we face a ton of problems—most obviously, the contracts. Everyone here, including you, signed on for one Goblet of Fire film. If we make it two, we have to renegotiate everyone's deal. That means… costs double.
"Of course, it's fair—you can't pay people for one movie and make them shoot two. But if we do renegotiate, don't expect two full paychecks either. You see where I'm going with this, right?"
Columbus went silent.
So did Isabella.
So did everyone else.
They all got it.
Heyman was talking about inflated salaries.
Anyone could see HP's future looked ridiculously bright. And anyone with half a brain knew that after two blockbuster hits, Warner no longer had the option of replacing anyone.
Even normal renewals would mean everyone's asking price goes up.
Now imagine Warner trying to renegotiate mid-production.
That's not business—that's voluntarily laying your neck across a blade.
Still, wanting more money is human nature.
As long as it wasn't outrageous, everyone—including Warner—would understand.
But there was another problem.
"Chris," said Alan Horn, "while pay raises are a big issue, we can handle that. What we can't handle is the outlook for splitting the film.
"You mentioned doing it like The Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions. If you'd said that before last November, I'd have told you, 'Yeah, Chris, great idea.'
But after November? I can't."
"Because Revolutions bombed."
When Reloaded came out, it hit $100 million in 3 days and $200 million in 11.
When Revolutions came out, it took 10 days just to crawl past $100 million.
That wasn't a drop—it was a collapse.
So, after The Matrix tanked (well, profited, technically, but way below expectations), the industry panicked.
In finance terms, profit isn't just revenue minus costs—it's also about expectations, multipliers, investor sentiment.
And Warner no longer dared repeat the experiment.
If The Matrix two-parter had succeeded, that model would've spread everywhere. It wasn't just double-dipping; it was a stock-price booster.
But since it didn't? No one wanted to be next.
Hearing this, Columbus had no comeback.
Isabella sighed quietly.
If HP couldn't split because The Matrix faceplanted, that was just bad luck.
Sure, Rowling's world wasn't flawless. Some parts didn't hold up under scrutiny. But having to butcher a grand story just because of runtime limits—that was a loss.
She thought the debate would end there and everyone would move on to trimming Goblet of Fire into one film.
But then Alan Horn suddenly looked at Rowling.
"Rowling, what do you think?"
Ah, right.
Only close friends could call her "Annie."
To most, she was "Rowling."
"Well, I'm not really an expert on filmmaking," Rowling said smoothly. Then she turned her head toward the "mascot" beside her—Isabella.
"Isa, what do you think?"
And just like that—whoosh—every pair of eyes in the room landed on Isabella.
She froze.
If she remembered right, she was the least important person here. Sure, she once joked to her sister that she was basically part of HP's inner circle because the team ran the script by her before Rowling, but that was a joke!
She knew her limits.
Minor tweaks to side plots? Fine.
But rewriting Goblet of Fire itself? No way.
So when Rowling suddenly asked her opinion on the two-film issue, she nearly malfunctioned.
Still, since Rowling had thrown her the ball, she had to speak. Couldn't embarrass her, after all.
She licked her lips. "Personally, I think—"
But before she could even get going, something felt off.
Everyone—Columbus, Heyman, Horn, Kloves—they weren't just listening. They were waiting for her opinion like it actually mattered.
Which was insane.
Not because she lacked confidence, but because, well… she wasn't a writer or a producer. Her filmmaking experience was basically zero. People might politely hear her out because she was famous, but not like this. Not expectantly.
Then it clicked.
Status?
She glanced at Rowling, tilted her head, and half-covered her mouth.
Rowling laughed. She knew exactly what the girl was asking.
Turning her head slightly, she whispered back.
"Annie, what do you want me to say?" Isabella muttered.
Rowling hid her mouth too and replied softly, "Sweetheart, I love you."
"How much?"
"I want you to grow up healthy."
"…"
Isabella got the message.
Rowling was on Columbus's side—but couldn't say it herself.
It was simple: Rowling wanted the movie to stick to her books as much as possible. Columbus's idea fit that goal. But Rowling had no authority over production decisions, only story direction.
She couldn't tell the studio how many films to make. That was the investors' call.
So if she openly supported Columbus, it wouldn't change much.
But if she could get someone with influence to say it for her? Someone who could sway Warner's decision-makers?
And that someone happened to call her "Aunt Annie"?
Why make it hard when she could make it easy?
"Oh, Aunt Annie," Isabella said helplessly. "So this is your idea of a script meeting?"
Rowling sighed. "I was going to wait till you'd read the script first, but…"
"But Chris didn't give you the chance?"
"Yeah, he didn't."
"And Steve stirred the pot?"
"Exactly! If he'd just shut up, it'd be fine!"
"And David derailed it?"
"Right! The moment he spoke, I almost got sick."
"And Alan…" Isabella drew out the name.
"He'd thank you if you slapped him right now." Rowling winked.
The two of them whispered behind their hands, mocking every man in the room.
Not that they were quiet enough—everyone heard them perfectly.
"Isa!" Columbus groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Are you gonna share your thoughts or not?"
Yes—Rowling might lack authority over HP's production…
But Isabella didn't.
After The Voice movie exploded, after her EP exploded, after The Voice TV show exploded—all in the same year—Isabella had become someone who could literally steer Hollywood.
If she so much as said, "I like Fox," Rupert Murdoch would show up that evening with dinner reservations.
She'd conquered three different entertainment industries in one year.
With that kind of record, if she said "I think Goblet of Fire should be two films," Warner wouldn't argue—they'd just sign the check.
In this sense, she was the modern Lucas or Spielberg.
No one knew why she kept winning—just that she did.
And when someone always wins, you stop questioning and start following.
Realizing that, Isabella laughed softly.
"Sorry," she said. "It's my first time holding this kind of power. Takes a bit of getting used to."
The room burst out laughing.
That was the luxury of a winner.
She tapped the table, glanced at Rowling, then at Columbus, then slowly scanned the others—Horn, Heyman, Kloves.
"Since my opinion matters, I can't throw it around carelessly. I hate losing."
The room laughed again.
"Shall we read the script, then?" Horn offered.
Warner wanted to make money as badly as anyone else. They just needed an omen first.
"Let's read it," Isabella said, nodding.
To be honest, when Isabella realized she'd grown powerful enough to influence the direction of the Harry Potter franchise, her first reaction was pure delight. Who doesn't enjoy being adored—especially by people with real power?
Telling industry giants what to do?
That felt… amazing.
But her second reaction was nerves.
Because if she simply stuck to filming Harry Potter as planned, she was guaranteed the most successful franchise in history.
Any interference at this point was basically dancing on the edge of a cliff.
If she slipped, she'd personally blow up her own legend.
And that kind of stupidity… well, she'd deserve the fallout.
Still, Isabella wanted to try.
First, because she genuinely loved Harry Potter.
That was why she'd been so happy when Columbus kept the Quidditch scenes in Azkaban. Gryffindor winning the Cup was a huge deal—the sight of Professor McGonagall's joy was something every Potter fan longed to see.
Second, if her interference worked, her "cheat code" would level up again.
Starting from Goblet of Fire, if every book got split into two films…
Then from Goblet to Deathly Hallows, there'd be eight movies.
Even assuming a modest $1 billion per film, that's $8 billion total.
Add in Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, and Prisoner of Azkaban—
A $10 billion single franchise didn't sound crazy at all.
And if she pulled it off—
Isabella could enter the $10-billion club before turning twenty.
A record with no precedent and—
no successor.
Because anyone trying to break it would first need an IP like Harry Potter, and then somehow keep the entire creative team together for a decade.
Impossible.
Maybe that was why she felt her fingers tremble slightly as she turned the pages of the Goblet of Fire script—knowing every choice she made was rewriting history.
"Feeling nervous?" Rowling asked, sitting beside her and reading along.
She reached out and gently took the girl's hand.
"Aunt Annie," Isabella said with a small laugh, "I told you, I don't want to fail. Everyone's waiting for my decision right now, and that's… a lot of pressure."
"Oh? Then maybe we should step out?"
Alan Horn pointed toward the door. "We men were just about to grab a smoke…"
Warner's president was a busy man, but he wasn't about to miss this show.
What they were playing now wasn't a film meeting—it was a game of power.
"You can go," Isabella said with a wave. "I'll call you back after I'm done reading."
Honestly, she felt more relaxed once they'd all left.
Then she resumed reading the script in her hand—
the single-film version.
In other words, a condensed adaptation of the 700-page Goblet of Fire.
Two hundred pages of script took her over an hour to finish.
Yes, in Columbus's plan, Goblet of Fire would run at least 180 minutes.
But in her previous life, it hadn't even reached that length—and even at three hours, Columbus's version still covered less than half the book.
For example:
Dobby the house-elf? Gone again. The Quidditch World Cup? Massively shortened. Rita Skeeter, who became so important later? Barely mentioned.
When Isabella caught each omission, she couldn't help feeling disappointed.
Those plotlines mattered.
Her silence made Rowling purse her lips before speaking softly.
"Isa, I know this is a hard choice. Because if you decide to support us—to support me and Chris—then if the movie fails, you'll bear that blame. You'd basically be gambling your career.
"So even though I want you to support me—
even though I want your help—
I don't want to force you."
She paused, her voice gentler now.
"Back in the summer of 2000, when I introduced you to Dame Maggie Smith so she could teach you to act, she asked me why I chose you. And I told her… I'm a mother.
"If my own child had to go out and work at ten years old because of me, I'd be ashamed enough to die."
Rowling looked at Isabella with that same serious warmth that always made the girl soften.
Understanding her meaning, Isabella smiled and shut the script.
"Oh, Aunt Annie—you're such a good person. At least, you've always been good to me."
She tapped the cover of the script. "And about this… I'm with you. For two reasons."
"First, you've helped me so many times that helping you once is only fair. And even if it goes wrong, the fallout for me won't be that bad. The Voice was such a hit that I've earned plenty of room to fail."
"Second, I really love Harry Potter. I want this series to be great.
"Or to put it another way—the better Harry Potter does, the better my life gets. Because I'll probably never get another role like Hermione Granger again. This is my only real shot at breaking film history records, right?"
"Oh, Isa…" Rowling smiled, moved almost to tears.
She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to Isabella's, and rubbed gently in thanks.
After they separated, Isabella added, "But Aunt Annie, we can't just split it recklessly. If dividing the film hurts the audience experience…"
"Then I'd still recommend keeping it as one."
"At least, the current script feels quite complete, doesn't it?"
"Yeahhh," Rowling said, smiling knowingly. "So we let them deal with the messy part?"
Isabella grinned. "Naturally. We don't make movies—we just boss around the people who do."
Their shared look of conspiracy lasted all of two seconds before both burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha—!"
Once she'd finished reading, Isabella called the others back in.
As they returned, she laid out her stance.
"I'm okay with splitting Goblet of Fire, but on one condition: each half has to stand as its own story.
"That doesn't mean totally separate plots—it just means a casual viewer shouldn't feel lost."
Exactly.
She might want to make history, but history isn't written by impulse.
Only if Goblet of Fire could truly support two films would she agree to the plan.
And how to judge that? Simple—
Compare it with the most successful split films in history.
Which ones?
Avengers: Infinity War and Endgame.
Those films shattered records not just because of ten years of hype, but because Marvel respected its audience. They structured the two movies so each could stand alone—
a complete narrative with setup, conflict, and resolution.
They just happened to share the same villain.
So whether you watched Infinity War or Endgame by itself, it still made sense.
Take Infinity War:
It opens with Thanos's arrival—a setup longtime fans recognized, but even newcomers got up to speed thanks to Hulk's explanation and Doctor Strange's exposition about the Infinity Stones.
That's storytelling respect.
Then came the confrontation—smooth, clear, and purposeful.
And though the film ended in tragedy, it was still a complete story: heroes fight, lose, and the villain wins.
The final scene—Tony asking Strange why they failed, and Strange saying, "It was the only way"—that's all the hook Endgame needed.
Now compare that to lazy two-parters that just chop a movie mid-sentence and call it "Part One."
That's not craft—that's panic.
As for Endgame, it opened with Captain Marvel's arrival, followed by a quick recap of Earth's devastation for her—and for the audience.
That recap served two functions:
Refreshing memories after a year's gap. Helping newcomers grasp the stakes and conflict right away.
Even if someone had never seen a Marvel film before, they could still follow along.
Marvel knew how to build accessibility without arrogance.
DC, on the other hand? Absolute chaos.
They jumped straight from Man of Steel to Batman v Superman.
No buildup, no foundation. Just assumptions that everyone had read the comics.
When BvS came out, the marketing bragged that DC did in one film what Marvel took five years to build—
and the result? A total mess.
When a studio assumes everyone already understands its universe, it's doomed to fail.
DC's confusion was scarier than Superman's powers.
Marvel, for all its corporate drama, still respected audiences.
And that was the key lesson Isabella drew from history.
"I personally think films exist to serve the public," she said. "You only earn the audience's respect by respecting them first.
"So, the question isn't whether we can split a story—it's whether the split versions will still make sense to someone who hasn't seen the previous part.
"If we can do that—okay, I'm all in.
"If we can't—then I'm not."
"I've said my piece."
"Now—who agrees, and who disagrees?"