Since Warner Bros. had officially decided to split Goblet of Fire into two films, with the release date already set and less than two years away, pushing production forward at full throttle was inevitable.
Budget planning, set construction, actor recruitment—all that fell under the producers and director's job description.
For the actors, there was really only one matter: contract renewal.
As for what kind of deals everyone else was getting, Isabella didn't know. But her own? Already confirmed.
Previously, she had signed a two-picture deal with Warner for Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire, earning £12 million total—£6 million per film.
Back then, when she had "nothing," that number was fair enough.
But now? Warner offered £15 million for Goblet of Fire: Part II.
Still no profit-sharing, but Warner also threw in another proposal: a co-development deal for the hit novel The Devil Wears Prada.
They offered her £10 million plus 10% of all profits and the novel's rights if she came on as producer.
If she also starred in it, she'd earn £20 million plus 20% of the profits.
The project had to start within two years of signing; if Warner failed to acquire the novel rights or canceled it, they'd owe Isabella £50 million in compensation.
The numbers were outrageous—but irrelevant.
The point of the contract was to make up for what Isabella "should have" earned from Goblet of Fire: Part II.
And honestly, paying £65 million (including compensation) for someone who could generate IPs wasn't expensive.
It was a long-time-partner discount, really.
Take Spielberg—regardless of box office results, he never earns less than nine figures when he produces a film.
At the same time, Warner also made an offer to Chris Columbus: $10 million plus 10% profits to produce and direct The Devil Wears Prada.
Since there was now a project, might as well settle all accounts together.
If Prada failed to launch, Columbus would still get compensation. The amount? Isabella didn't ask.
Beyond the Goblet of Fire: Part II addendum, Warner also signed a development contract with Isabella for Order of the Phoenix—or rather, they planned to sign similar deals with the entire HP core team.
The details were long, but it all boiled down to two points:
If Goblet of Fire succeeded, Order of the Phoenix would also be split into two parts. If it failed, Order would still be made, but as a single film.
Simple logic: neither Warner nor Isabella knew if splitting the films would work, but neither wanted to give up on the HP franchise.
So, to protect their interests, Warner tied everyone to the same cart early. They were terrified that a flop would cause everyone—especially Isabella, who had her own IPs—to jump ship.
Funny enough, Isabella's thinking aligned perfectly. If Goblet of Fire lost hundreds of millions, Warner would probably cry their eyes out, so she wanted Order locked in early too.
You could almost call it… mutual commitment?
cough cough
Anyway, depending on how things turned out, Isabella's earnings would vary.
If the split succeeded—
She'd get £40 million total for Order of the Phoenix: Part I & II (£20 million each).
Plus, Warner would give her a "blank agreement."
Within two years of Order starting production, they'd co-develop two new projects, mainly under Marvel, but not exclusively.
Her maximum per-project income: 30+30—meaning £30 million plus 30% profit share.
The blank deal didn't require her to act in the projects.
If Warner failed to deliver, they'd pay her £60 million per project in penalties.
Do the math: if Goblet of Fire's split worked, Isabella's minimum pay per Order film would reach £80 million.
All in pounds sterling.
If Order reverted to a single movie—
She'd earn £15 million, and the "blank deal" would shrink to one project in two years.
The 30+30 max would drop to 20+20.
Penalty: £50 million instead of £60 million.
Meaning, if Goblet of Fire's split flopped, Isabella's total take from Order would match her Part II deal—£65 million—but she'd miss out on the £80 million peak.
Still plenty, but effectively paying for failure.
You flop, you pay. Simple.
Blank contracts like that aren't unusual in Hollywood.
James Cameron had one with Fox after Titanic. Fox thought they'd secured him, promising to fund whatever he wanted for ten years.
He made one film.
Avatar.
And when production began, Cameron asked Fox for $200 million—up front.
They froze, but had to pay. Otherwise, the penalty from breaching the blank deal would've been even higher.
Spielberg had similar deals with Universal—some time-bound, some purely quantity-based.
So yeah, "creative leverage" wasn't new. Isabella was just joining the tradition.
After all the contracts and talks, Isabella and Rowling flew back to London.
After ten hours in the air, they were exhausted—
But the second they landed, both Vivian and Catherine's phones went wild.
They checked—
A flood of text alerts and missed calls from Hogwarts kids.
Rowling laughed as she waved goodbye.
"Oh, Isa—you'll be busy! Hope your head doesn't spin~"
Isabella shot her a glare, waved back, and told her mom and sister to start returning the calls in order.
And then—
Daniel: "Oh Isa! Are you still in L.A.? Did Warner find you?"
Rupert: "Isa! David Heyman called my dad about renewing our contracts—do you know what's going on?"
Daniel: "Isa, Warner called my mum—they said Goblet of Fire is being split in two? Order of the Phoenix too? What's happening? I've never heard of this!"
Bonnie: "Isa, my mum had someone read the contract—they said it's fine, but… what's 'split filming' supposed to mean?"
The flood of questions made Isabella feel like the unofficial HP helpline.
All she could do was explain:
"It's exactly what it looks like. Warner decided to split Goblet of Fire into two films. The idea came from Chris, Aunt Annie supported it, and since I was in L.A., I attended the meeting too. Chris's plan was solid—he wants HP to grow stronger."
"So, I backed him. But don't give up your own interests just because we supported the split. Fight for your pay—even if it delays things."
That was why Rowling had said Isabella would be "busy."
Her position in HP had become... strange.
As an actor, she was one of the cast.
But as a creator with her own IPs—someone who could influence studio decisions—she was now half on the corporate side too.
Which meant every time something big happened, the Hogwarts kids ran to her for answers.
And she'd end up drowning in chatter.
Honestly, hearing that much blabber-blabber could fry anyone's brain.
But ignoring them would make everything worse.
So, she told them the truth.
As for the contract renewals…
Honestly, Isabella thought negotiations with the kids' parents would drag on forever. The filming schedule was too long now, and most parents—especially rich ones—would hesitate to sign their children away for years.
But surprisingly, within two weeks, Warner had finalized every deal.
Before March even began, everyone had signed.
Isabella was stunned.
And when she found out how it happened, she nearly choked.
"You're telling me when your mum asked if you wanted to keep filming HP, you said you did—
and she just called someone to handle the contract?"
March 1.
After everyone signed, the cast gathered for dinner at a fancy London restaurant.
At the table, Isabella stared blankly at Rupert.
"Yeah!" he nodded enthusiastically.
Born in 1988, he'd grown into his features—
a little scruffy, maybe, but that wasn't the point.
Catching Isabella's expression, he laughed loudly.
"Oh Isa—splitting HP is great for me! It means filming lasts longer, so my mum can't nag me to do other stuff! Plus, I've got my GCSEs this year—once I pass, I won't have to go to school anymore! And since you're still underage, my filming hours won't increase either!"
"…"
The words tumbled out like a tongue-twister, leaving Isabella's eye twitching.
She had to admit—she didn't actually understand what the hell he just said.
And her confusion made everyone at the table burst out laughing as they jumped in to explain—
"Oh, Isabella, it's actually like this."
Daniel said, "You know what GCSE is, right? It's the exam for people who turn sixteen but don't plan to go to university. Rupert was born in 1988, so he's exactly sixteen this year. Once his birthday passes, he can take the GCSE exams."
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"
Malfoy chimed in, "Once Rupert passes his GCSE, he doesn't have to take the on-set tutoring anymore, since he's not planning on going to university. Normally, people who've passed the GCSE can work like adults—meaning eight hours a day. But our crew isn't normal, because most of our scenes involve you, so…"
Bonnie took over smoothly, "So, Isabella, since you're still under sixteen and haven't taken your GCSE, our filming time stays at four hours a day. And because that's the rule, if Harry Potter gets split into two parts, from Rupert's point of view, that means he won't have to go to school, won't have to work long hours, and won't have to listen to his mom nag him, right?"
Bonnie looked over at her brother.
"Bingo!!"
Rupert snapped his fingers. "Exactly!! Because when I told my mom I only wanted to take the GCSE, she got mad and asked me what I'd do if I didn't study anymore. I didn't know how to answer her before, but now… hey! I've got a job!"
The moment that god-tier logic hit, Isabella could practically feel a black line sliding down her forehead.
She looked at Rupert Grint, then Tom Felton, then Bonnie Wright, then everyone at the table…
And in that instant, she thought, these people are geniuses.
To avoid studying, to dodge parental nagging, these lunatics actually decided to exploit a legal loophole?
Absolute legends.
While Isabella was still half-laughing, half-crying over their ridiculous reasoning for signing the new contracts, her eyes turned toward Daniel Radcliffe.
"Wait, no—Daniel, weren't you born in '89?"
"Yeah." He nodded.
"Then doesn't that mean you can take the GCSE next year?" Isabella squinted, having spotted a flaw like a monk detecting sin. "If you pass it, won't everyone just go back to working full hours? You're the one with the most scenes."
"Oh no, Isabella, you got it wrong."
Before Daniel could answer, Rupert jumped in first. "Daniel's parents want him to take the A-level exams."
"They want him to go to university, so until he's eighteen, his filming hours stay at four a day."
"Legal requirement."
Rupert grinned smugly.
Isabella went blank.
It took her a good while to recover before she gave them a thumbs-up.
"Okay. When it comes to avoiding school, I officially recognize you all as the best."
"I finally understand why your parents signed with Warner Bros. so easily."
"When you're all this allergic to school, and if you're not filming they've got no clue what to do with you, then… they might as well dump you back on set?"
"As long as Warner's paying reasonably well?"
"Hahahaha~~~"
Her words sent everyone into fits of laughter.
As for Isabella—she couldn't help but give these maniacs a perfect score.
Because honestly? When you've got rich parents, no clue what to do with your future, and zero interest in school, clinging to Harry Potter really is the smartest play. As long as the franchise doesn't crash, by the time it ends, they'll all be set for life.
That's not even exaggeration.
No matter how Warner Bros. feels, by the time the series reaches its final chapters—Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows—the studio will have no choice but to negotiate profit shares. It's inevitable by that stage.
Everyone in the main cast will have their retirement plan baked in.
Now that the trickiest part of negotiations was done, Warner Bros. set the project's return date.
On March 2, everyone received word from David Heyman that they'd be returning to Leavesden between March 15 and March 19.
Filming for Goblet of Fire would officially begin on April 19.
The reason was simple: they all needed to train up before shooting began.
Like, say, dance lessons.
There was a Yule Ball, after all.
Everything on Warner's side was smooth sailing, exactly as Barry Meyer had hoped.
But his "ally," Robert Iger, over at Disney…
March 3, Philadelphia. Disney's shareholders' meeting.
And what a circus it was.
According to USA Today, the whole five-hour meeting felt like watching a full-blown movie.
Not only because Michael Eisner, the then-chairman, kicked things off by parading a bunch of Disney mascots on stage, passionately bragging to three thousand shareholders about his "glorious contributions" to the company—earning waves of applause—
But because when Roy Disney took the stage, his first move was to drop a nuke.
He unveiled a pay chart from 1997 showing the compensation of Disney's top executives.
At the top of the list?
Michael Eisner—who had pocketed 570 million dollars that year.
Yes. 1997.
The highest single-year executive salary in human history.
Of course, he got it through… clever accounting.
In short:
In 1993, Eisner struck a deal with Disney's board—if he could double the company's market value within five years, he'd earn a massive stock bonus.
Then, in 1994, he announced plans to buy one of America's three major TV networks to expand Disney's reach into television and distribution.
In 1995, Disney bought ABC.
By 1996, the "goal" was achieved.
By 1997, Eisner cashed out.
When Roy Disney showed this, the shareholders exploded.
It wasn't that they didn't know about the deal—it's that the whole thing was a scam in plain sight.
Think about it:
In 1993, Disney's market cap was about 20 billion.
ABC's was 19 billion.
Merge the two, and boom—Disney's value "doubles."
That's not strategy; that's creative bookkeeping.
And Eisner's defense? "Hey, doesn't matter how it doubled, only that it did. We agreed on market cap, not stock price!"
Anyone with a pulse would've wanted to throttle him.
As for why nobody called him out before? Simple—executive pay details are often confidential. Unless shareholders push for an audit, those bonus terms can stay conveniently fuzzy.
So up until that moment, Eisner had everyone fooled.
But now? Roy Disney blew the lid off, and the rest of the meeting turned into a public flogging.
By the time voting began, 43% of shareholders voted against Eisner remaining on the board.
That number is brutal.
In the U.S., most public company directors need around 90% approval to stay in.
So 43% "no" basically meant "pack your bags."
Sure enough, that very night, Disney's board announced a restructuring.
Michael Eisner was officially out as chairman.
George Mitchell was appointed interim chairman.
Eisner stayed on as CEO—for now.
On paper, that meant he was still king.
But everyone knew the clock was ticking.
The interim chair's term lasts only 365 days.
Within that year, Disney must appoint a new, permanent chairman.
So why hadn't they kicked him out completely? Two reasons.
Eisner knows too much.
He could blow up the company if he wanted. So to keep him quiet, Disney had to cut a deal—something like, "I'll leave, but you don't audit me." Even if Eisner goes, who gets the throne?
Roy Disney clearly wanted to be chairman, and in his mind, Iger could stay CEO.
But right now, Iger had the real power.
Neither side would move until they settled that.
(Heh. The corporate bloodbath inside Disney became North America's favorite gossip topic.)
While the public braced for an all-out war, Rupert Murdoch frowned as his aide reported, "Sir, Warner Bros. is competing with us for The Devil Wears Prada."
"Yeah." The aide nodded. "Apparently, Isabella's got her eye on it."
"Oh—" Murdoch drew out the word, eyes gleaming.