Although Isabella wasn't exactly a professional in film production, her summary—while sounding a bit like recycled common sense—wasn't wrong at all.
"What does it mean that 'the key to deciding whether a story can be split lies in whether people who haven't seen the first part can still understand the second'? How is that different from saying 'cultural workers should be cultured'?"
And yet…
Everyone there thought she was completely right.
Because none of the people sitting in that room were amateurs.
They all understood that while IPs thrive on loyal fans, fan purchases alone could never sustain a blockbuster's box office.
To achieve commercial success, a movie must serve the general audience.
That's just a creative law of nature.
So naturally, they began discussing how to split Goblet of Fire in the most logical way.
The ones who'd actually handle the details were producer David Heyman, director Chris Columbus, and screenwriter Steve Kloves.
As for Warner Bros. president Alan Horn, magical godmother J.K. Rowling, and Isabella—
those three wouldn't be doing the hands-on work.
Warner wouldn't participate because they were the financiers, not the creators.
Rowling wouldn't participate because novelists are the worst at adapting their own work. Once they love their creation too much, they can't bear to cut anything. They become the biggest obstacle in the room.
And Isabella?
She was the biggest boss in the business—the one who could literally sway Warner's decisions.
If she personally took part in the adaptation process, Warner's review system would collapse completely.
After all, every media investor in the world was throwing money at whatever project she supported.
So, for the good of the film, she had to stay out of the details—just like Rowling.
Heh. Since she didn't need to do the tedious work herself, Isabella happily prepared to leave the room with Rowling.
But as soon as she stepped outside, Warner's president Alan Horn called out to her.
If she had a moment, he said, he wanted to discuss a supplementary agreement for Goblet of Fire.
Basically, he wanted to repeat what Chris Columbus had done during The Voice.
In plain language: if Goblet of Fire were split into two films, he hoped Isabella would take a smaller salary for Part Two, and Warner would make up the difference through other projects.
Why? Easy—
Given Isabella's current status, if she took her full pay, her fee alone would eat up nearly 40 million dollars from the Goblet of Fire budget.
That would make Harry Potter the most financially doomed franchise in history.
No joke.
So after The Voice exploded in success, Isabella's Harry Potter salary had to be handled through more "creative" accounting.
Otherwise…
Forget Ted Turner tearing Barry Meyer apart—
the Rothschilds themselves would bury him alive for letting profits leak out like that.
It was a messy, but very real, problem: when your star gets too big, the economics start to implode.
And since Barry Meyer was an ally, Isabella listened politely and then turned to Rowling.
"Aunt Annie, will you come with me?"
"Oh, why even ask about something this small?" Rowling smiled, taking her hand. "Let's go."
Vivian wasn't there that day.
She'd wanted to come, but when she learned the script meeting would be long and exhausting, Rowling had to leave her baby with her husband. So Vivian stayed at the hotel to help with errands instead.
Basically, Rowling and Vivian were taking turns with childcare duty.
To outsiders, this "switching" might seem… improper.
After all, Isabella might end up discussing her own business with Warner—stuff that was supposed to stay confidential.
Rowling technically shouldn't be listening.
But between the two of them, those lines no longer mattered.
Ever since Isabella had become Hermione Granger, their interests had merged completely.
Cutting ties with the creator of the IP that made you famous? That would be idiotic.
In any power alliance, betrayal is suicide.
Traitors never end well.
Alan Horn led the two of them into his office.
He invited them to sit, ordered tea, then stepped out briefly to check in with Barry Meyer.
Five minutes later, he returned smiling, ready with Warner's proposal.
"Isa," he began, "Barry understands that if Harry Potter goes the split-film route, and it works, you'll be swamped for years. You won't have much time for other projects until the series ends.
"So, we'd like to adjust our deal structure."
"Before, our standard was simple—you pick a project, you participate, then we split profits."
"For example, in The Voice, your producer and writer bonuses included a big portion from your acting fee."
"Now, we propose this: you still pick the projects, but instead of performing, you just attach your name. We'll handle the rest."
"Say you find a project you like, you join as producer, and your company helps with production. Then you'll receive two payouts—one as producer, one as co-producer. That difference will cover the reduced Harry Potter pay."
"Of course, since we're benefiting from your name recognition and nobody can guarantee all these projects will succeed, we'll also pay a fixed fee."
"Your company's already in production, right? We'll send some of the filming to the UK, your team handles it there, and depending on the project, you'll get twenty to forty million. You can use some of it to hire Leavesden Studios. And that'll settle the books nicely."
He even winked at her.
Isabella chuckled.
So basically… the same as that time someone paid $8,000 for a straw hat.
She could live with that.
She gestured for him to continue.
Alan Horn cleared his throat.
"Okay, that's the main idea. But there are side branches too."
"For instance, if there's a project you really love and want to star in, fine—we go back to the Voice model. You appear, you earn more."
"Or if you want to build something for your artists, we'll invest and distribute it for you. Total creative freedom—you give us a list, and we'll make it happen."
"If all that sounds good, I'll have the team bring over our in-house project catalog."
"Barry said there's no need to go hunting for outside IPs—just start with what Warner already owns."
"If you don't like any, then we'll move on to other options."
"Oh, and Barry wanted me to stress: even our big legacy projects—you can attach your name to any of them, if you want."
The generosity made Isabella grin.
It reeked of privilege—and power never smelled sweeter.
She paused, let it all sink in, then asked, "You're serious about all this?"
"Absolutely."
"I can pick any project from your library?"
"Yes."
"Even The Hobbit?"
That question froze Alan Horn mid-smile.
He stared at her for several seconds before replying, carefully, "Technically, yes. You can attach your name to The Hobbit. Because our profit-sharing formula is flexible—we assess projected returns before setting percentages. If you insist, I can approve that right now."
"However… The Hobbit isn't in active development yet. The accounting mess at New Line is still unresolved. Robert Shaye tampered with Peter Jackson's contract, and Jackson has first right of refusal as director. Until that's cleared up, we can't move forward. If we don't pay him properly for Lord of the Rings, he can legally shut down the project."
"Oooh~~~" Isabella's voice curved with delight.
Being the player felt good.
Since Barry Meyer clearly knew how to do business, Isabella tentatively agreed to their proposal.
Why not just agree outright?
Because in film, nothing is ever that simple.
Even with a broad deal in place, every project still required separate negotiation.
With Isabella's nod, Alan Horn called in the Warner project team, who delivered a binder nearly as thick as a thumb drive case—almost 300 projects inside.
Of course, that kind of presentation was easy to fake.
Just names and synopses—without reading the scripts, how could anyone tell what was actually good?
But Isabella didn't care. She had her "cheat ability."
Flipping through, she quickly spotted several promising ones.
For example, The Departed—
The American remake of Infernal Affairs, starring DiCaprio and Matt Damon. Decent movie.
Currently, Warner owned the remake rights.
Then there was The Prestige—
Yeah, that one. Christopher Nolan's film, based on Christopher Priest's 1995 novel.
Warner had bought the adaptation rights years ago.
And I Am Legend—
Yes, Will Smith's classic. Also based on Richard Matheson's 1954 novel, with Warner buying the rights in 1994.
Good projects, all of them.
But Isabella didn't want any of them.
Not because she was greedy or arrogant, but because—well—she already had a cash cow.
When you're literally holding a printing press, grabbing more money from the giants is just… stupid.
Better to chase something different.
After flipping through the last pages and confirming that Barry Meyer truly wanted a fair partnership, Isabella looked up at Alan Horn.
"Alan, got anything else?"
"You don't like any of these?" he asked with a laugh, pointing at the binder. "There are some genuinely good ones in there."
"Thanks for the reminder," Isabella smiled, shrugging. "But… they're not quite right for me."
"Alright," Alan said easily. "Then let's move on to the next option."
"Isa, you know The New York Times, right?"
"They have a list—the Bestseller List."
"That's basically Hollywood's pre-production library. Most of our projects start there."
"So, I can have someone bring you the latest list. Whatever you like—if no one's bought it yet—we'll buy it for you."
"We pay, you get the rights. The expense goes under your curved-salary structure. Normally, your fee won't be fully offset by rights purchases, so whatever's left we handle during production. If the project's total budget exceeds what we owe you, we'll discuss it then. You can cover the difference yourself, or we'll invest. But if we invest—then we get global distribution rights."
"Deal," Isabella said immediately, smiling. "Alan, bring me the list."
In Hollywood, The New York Times bestseller list played the same role that certain popular online novel rankings would one day play for streaming giants: a goldmine of adaptable stories with built-in audiences.
Let's take Harry Potter as an example.
For the past few years, it's been sitting comfortably at the top of every bestseller list.
And HP isn't like other books.
Since 2000, organizations that publish book rankings—including The New York Times—have all publicly announced that they will no longer include Harry Potter in their lists. Its sales would be listed separately, because if they didn't, every list would just be one long parade of Harry Potter and the Something Something.
Other authors wouldn't just lose; they wouldn't even get the scraps.
That's why HP was considered one of the most valuable IPs in all of Hollywood.
Its sales numbers were the kind of thing people wouldn't dare to fake, even in fake statistics.
Yes, book sales are often inflated—but HP's success was beyond manipulation.
After HP got its own separate category, The New York Times bestseller list suddenly looked "diverse" again.
Without HP, the top-selling book last year was The Da Vinci Code.
But that one…
According to Warner's internal report, the film rights for The Da Vinci Code had already been bought by Sony—for six million dollars.
Then, another title Isabella recognized was The Lovely Bones.
Yeah~
That one—about a 14-year-old girl who gets lured into a cornfield and murdered, only to become a ghost. In Isabella's past life, Peter Jackson directed it.
That book's film rights had also been sold—for two million dollars—to, reportedly, a British company.
Other entries on the list included The Nanny Diaries—
The one starring Scarlett Johansson. MGM bought that one for $1.5 million.
Then there was Flags of Our Fathers—
The book Clint Eastwood later turned into a film of the same name. DreamWorks currently owned those rights, bought for $2.7 million.
And The Devil Wears Prada—
In Isabella's past life, the movie starred Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep.
And its rights were…
"Eh?"
"The rights to this novel haven't been sold yet?"
When Isabella saw the words "AVAILABLE" marked in red, her brows arched up.
She lifted the document and asked Alan Horn beside her, "So the rights to this novel are still with the author?"
"If the list says 'available,' then probably yes," he nodded.
But then he hesitated. "Uh, I'll have someone confirm it."
He grabbed the office phone and called the development department.
Soon, a staffer came in.
After a quick inquiry, the answer came: "Fox has had its eye on Prada since before the book was even finished. The deal stalled because the manuscript is full of real-life references."
"Real-life references?"
"Yeah, satire of real people. Fox asked the author to tone it down, but she said no. So the deal was shelved."
The author, Lauren Weisberger, based the story on her time as assistant to Vogue's editor-in-chief, Anna Wintour.
The book was full of gossip.
And, in Wintour's view, defamation.
Sure, "celebrity exposés" are a favorite Hollywood genre—but only when the celebrity is dead.
And when Anna Wintour is still very much alive, British, from a family of prime ministers, generals, and bishops, and personally knighted by the Queen… you don't exactly make a movie that trashes her.
So, unless the author and Wintour reached some understanding, even the major studios couldn't openly adapt Prada.
Therefore—
"Then go ask for me," Isabella said with a smile, tapping the file. "Ask how much and whether it's really for sale, okay?"
Having a concrete target was good news for Warner.
Because at this stage, they were negotiating indirectly.
Isabella choosing a project meant the talks now had a foundation.
Still, Alan Horn couldn't help asking, "Isabella, this really isn't a strong project. Can you tell me why you picked it?"
Fashion-world stories rarely make good films.
That world is too distant from normal people.
Even if it's full of juicy drama, it's niche.
Her response?
"My reason's simple," Isabella said. "I saw people online saying The Devil Wears Prada mentions Harry Potter a lot."
"When a fashion-world story shows fashion people obsessing over Harry Potter, isn't that the coolest thing ever? Doesn't that mean reading Harry Potter is the most fashionable thing to do?"
"So I think it deserves a movie adaptation."
"What do you think, Auntie Joanne?"
She turned toward J.K. Rowling, who'd been silent until now.
Rowling had been quietly observing, not wanting to interfere in Isabella's negotiations. She was there for advice if needed, not to lead.
But as soon as Isabella kept bringing up HP and then tossed her the ball, Rowling couldn't help smiling.
"Isabella, are you trying to turn The Devil Wears Prada into a commercial for Harry Potter?"
"Yeah——" Isabella grinned. "I want the whole world to know that reading Harry Potter is the height of fashion——"
"Ohhh~~ if you actually pull that off, that would be very cool~~" Rowling chuckled. "But if it doesn't work, I'll cover half your losses."
"Hahaha!" Isabella clapped her hands. "Okay! Deal!"
Yes—
Even though Prada was a story about the fashion world, it constantly referenced HP.
For instance, the queen of fashion, Miranda, orders her assistant to get her a copy of HP's unpublished manuscript.
When the author wrote that scene, she probably didn't think much of it—or maybe she was just venting about her ridiculous boss.
She was just an assistant; how could she possibly get J.K. Rowling's manuscript?
But that detail proved how massive HP's influence was.
When a teen fantasy novel becomes a fashion-world status symbol, "fashion" itself starts to look small.
Exactly.
That's why Isabella fixated on Prada.
The better HP looked, the better she looked.
Still, that wasn't her only reason.
Her second was simple: she remembered Prada had done incredibly well in her past life.
A tenfold return, maybe?
A few million invested, hundreds of millions earned. Insane profits.
And since she wasn't short on money now, she had a third reason too.
If she remembered right, Prada ends with the heroine, Andy, quitting Miranda and saying goodbye to the fashion world—a kind of anti-fashion statement.
So…
That made it perfect for her.
First, because she herself didn't need the fashion world.
She'd already transcended it.
Hehe~
And second, because after leaving fashion, the heroine could embrace something new.
Isabella couldn't quite remember what that "something" was, but who cares? Once she owned the rights, she could make the heroine embrace whatever she wanted.
Maybe the heroine leaves fashion and joins a small animation studio?
A startup with a dreamer for a boss, designing a new mascot—a little beaver?
A gopher?
A capybara?
Then they go on a worldwide adventure?
Riding on the wave of "fashion"?
Come on, who ever complained about having too many IPs?
If Bob Iger wanted to develop Little Beaver and she refused—
Well, that's because she wanted to make more, not less.
He really lacked imagination.
Maybe Isabella's logic was too out there, or maybe everyone was used to her eccentric ideas—
Either way, after a few awkward twitches of the mouth, Alan Horn accepted her explanation.
Then he asked if she had any other ideas.
To which—
"Alan, if you can help me buy this copyright, can you also expand the scope a bit?"
"What do you mean by expand?"
"Buy me some comic rights too."
"Uh… you don't mean Marvel, do you?"
"Yeah~ congratulations, you guessed it~ too bad there's no prize."
Isabella beamed.
Alan Horn's expression froze. "We could help you buy them, but… we have DC, you know."
"So what, Isabella—you just don't like DC?"
"Oh, it's not that I don't like DC," she said sweetly. "It's just that Superman is too unbeatable. It's boring when there's no way to challenge him. So…"
She spread her hands in mock regret.
"Okay, I get it," Alan sighed. "Hard to develop stories around that. Fair point."
"Alright, then—sure. We can help you. Who are you interested in? Hulk? Captain America? Iron Man? Black Widow? As long as the rights have already been sold off by Marvel, we can buy them for you. Anything still in-house, though… we can't, because apparently Marvel's stopped selling."