The 2003 Golden Globe Awards banquet officially began at 5 p.m. Pacific Time on January 19, held at the Hilton Hotel in Beverly Hills, California.
Because of the time difference—London being eight hours ahead—it was already late at night there by the time NBC started airing the red carpet footage. By the time the ceremony itself began, London had entered the early hours of the 20th.
Even so, Isabella was still awake, leaning against the bed with her sister, watching the live broadcast.
The Golden Globes cover both film and television, which means the awards are presented in a mixed order—one movie award here, one TV award there, blending hits and obscure categories alike. The result? A ceremony that drags on forever.
To be fair, this hybrid system drove both sisters a little mad. They didn't care about the TV side, and the host's jokes weren't remotely funny. Even if they were, who laughs out loud at 3 a.m.? They just wanted to skip the boring parts.
But they couldn't, so…
"The Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture goes to…"
"Meryl Streep, Adaptation!"
That shout from the presenter jolted the half-asleep girls awake.
There were five nominees: Meryl Streep, Kathy Bates for About Schmidt, Susan Sarandon for The Banger Sisters, Cameron Diaz for Gangs of New York, and Queen Latifah for Chicago.
"So Weinstein's magic wore off?"
Catherine smirked. "Neither Cameron Diaz nor Queen Latifah won."
"I don't know," Isabella said, shaking her head. "But I'd say this is good news for us, right?"
Leaning against her sister, the girl tilted her head up, and Catherine's grin widened, flashing perfect white teeth.
Isabella didn't have a photographic memory, so she didn't actually know who would win that year—but that hardly mattered.
As long as Miramax didn't win anything, that was good enough for her.
In Isabella's worldview, there was no such thing as "this person is evil, that one's innocent." Sides are always chosen subjectively. If you've picked your camp, and your people come after me—then we're enemies.
Simple as that.
So, for tonight, there was only one thing that interested her:
How badly would Miramax crash and burn?
And soon enough—
"The Golden Globe for Best Original Song goes to—"
"Lose Yourself, Eminem!"
Perfect. Gangs of New York just got blown out of the water.
And no, The Voice wasn't in the running. When nominations closed on December 19, anything released afterward could only buy its way in, and while that's possible, it's also a PR suicide mission. Isabella valued reputation too much for that.
"The Golden Globe for Best Screenplay—Jim Taylor and Alexander Payne, About Schmidt!"
Okay, okay. Chicago and The Hours just got torched again.
"Best Supporting Actor—Chris Cooper, Adaptation!"
Another hit.
"Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy—Goldie Hawn, The Banger Sisters!"
Five in a row.
Isabella pressed her lips together.
"Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy—Hugh Grant, About a Boy!"
Six hits.
Now she understood why Robert Iger's team had told her to watch the broadcast. With Miramax being a Disney subsidiary, the Weinstein brothers' downfall had created a vacuum. Whether their projects would still chase awards—or get quietly buried—depended entirely on Iger's say-so.
And since Isabella had signed fresh deals and aligned interests with Disney, the fifty-something executive had shown his shrewd side—taking a clear stance.
When Best Actor (Drama) went to Jack Nicholson for About Schmidt (New Line's film) and Best Actress (Drama) went to Julianne Moore for Far from Heaven (Universal), Isabella smiled.
By the time About Schmidt took Best Drama, My Big Fat Greek Wedding won Best Comedy, and Spike Jonze got Best Director for Adaptation, it was 4 a.m. in Mayfair. Isabella drifted off to sleep smiling.
Where there's joy, there's misery.
Miramax's total wipeout left Harvey's camp numb.
"Was this Disney's doing?"
After the gala, Nicole Kidman climbed into her car, face twisted with fury.
Her agent gave a helpless shrug. "Robert Iger's call. He doesn't like Miramax."
"Okay."
Nicole forced a smile uglier than crying. "I get it… I get it…"
Then, as the car pulled away, she slammed her fist into the seat in front of her.
"So… there's really no hope left?"
Elsewhere, Renée Zellweger looked equally defeated.
Her agent sighed. "To Iger, the combined worth of all of you doesn't equal one of Isabella's fingers. Disney can't lose Pixar, and Columbus helps him keep that bond. As long as he and Isabella stay partners, Iger would choose her ten thousand times out of ten thousand—especially since she's willing to work with him."
"Iger wants to plant people in The Voice? Isabella agrees. He wants her to launch projects at Disney? Even busy, she takes them."
"And now, word is, she's even started an agency—signed that villain girl from The Voice, Margot Robbie? Then sent her straight to Disney for a movie?"
"Iger gains real leverage from her—and with that comes an ally at Warner. Honestly, the fact he hasn't yanked your films from the Oscar list is already a mercy."
Renée exhaled deeply. She would've loved to grab onto a power player's leg too—but she didn't have anything those people wanted.
Everyone who survives in Hollywood is a sharp operator.
So once it became clear that one word from Iger could make Miramax's entire Oscar campaign vanish overnight, even those still loyal to Harvey went dead silent.
Because, let's face it—having a doomed nomination is still better than none at all.
That didn't stop others from whispering.
Anne Hathaway stared wide-eyed at her mother. "Mom… do you think I can still be a serious actress?"
Kate Hathaway fell quiet, sighed, and said, "Anne, some things are just fate."
Anne clenched her fists, but the next words froze her solid:
"Anne, how about signing with that Beaver agency? They seem good."
Elsewhere, Lindsay Lohan was cackling.
"So even Renée and Nicole couldn't beat her, huh?"
Her laugh echoed coldly in the dimly lit living room.
Dina Lohan frowned, a chill running down her spine. For a moment, she swore her daughter looked unhinged.
As for what state Hollywood was in now—Isabella didn't really know.
Nor did she care.
First, she'd never attacked anyone unprovoked, so why should she care who's upset?
Second, to be blunt—when she had Hermione Granger in one hand and Chris Columbus on speed dial, no actor dared raise their voice to her.
Among directors, even those who built their own IPs called her Isabella with a smile.
As for producers—everyone holding an IP is one. Whether you call it "producer-driven" or "director-driven," it all boils down to power.
Whoever has the bigger fist makes the rules.
So, in Hollywood, the only people who could oppose her now were the true capital giants.
Easy mode unlocked √
Or maybe… hell mode.
Because capital is vicious.
Once her recent work wrapped up, Isabella drifted back into idleness.
Just as she was considering another vacation, Margot popped her head in.
"Isabella-sister."
"Call me boss."
"Okay, sister."
"…"
Isabella looked up from her book, unimpressed. "Margot, why do I get the feeling you've gotten cheekier lately?"
"Really?" Margot blinked innocently. "I don't feel that way."
"You have. You used to never interrupt me when I was reading."
"Oh, you mean that!" Margot grinned. "Well, now that we've signed a contract, I'm technically your employee. I figured my boss wouldn't fire her staff so easily, right?"
That made Isabella laugh. She leaned back, amused. "So all that politeness before was because you were afraid I'd kick you out?"
"Uh-huh. That was part of it. But also because I like you. Did I tell you I watched Chamber of Secrets again? Wow, when you shot down those anti-Muggle comments—you were so cool!"
Isabella smiled. She already knew Margot was a fan, but it still warmed her to feel someone's genuine affection.
"Alright. What do you actually want to ask?"
"Um… if we're going out anyway… would it be possible for me to, uh, meet Auntie Rowling?"
Margot fidgeted, waving her hands. "I'm her fan… it's my dream to meet her once…"
"Oh—that. I'll have to check first."
Margot was family now, sure, but Rowling was in late pregnancy—everything had to be handled carefully. So Isabella decided to ask indirectly first.
She called Rowling, saying she had some free time—
But before she even finished, Rowling invited her to visit.
And loudly complained about how bored she was.
She'd found a loving husband, but ever since getting pregnant, he'd refused to let her overwork. Her public engagements dropped to almost zero, and at first, she didn't mind—she liked solitude, could still write in peace. But once Order of the Phoenix's final draft was complete, her husband forbade even that. No amount of reasoning about "writing doesn't affect pregnancy" would change his mind.
So now she was climbing the walls.
"Isabella, come rescue me! Keep me company before I lose it."
"I can come today, but…"
"But what?"
"I might bring a friend. Is that okay?"
Rowling knew who Margot was—she'd even attended The Voice premiere but hadn't mingled because of her condition.
Now, hearing Isabella had signed her? "No problem. Bring her along! The more the merrier. My daughter's bored too."
With that settled, Isabella hung up the phone, gathered her family, and headed for Scotland.
After so long apart, their reunion was pure delight.
When Isabella formally introduced little Robbie to Rowling, the girl who'd loved Harry Potter for years actually burst into tears from excitement.
It took quite a while to calm her down.
Maybe Rowling really was bored out of her mind, because after a few polite pleasantries, she immediately dove into gossip with Isabella—this family's drama, that actor's scandal—and eventually steered the conversation toward Isabella herself.
"I heard you were being targeted by Weinstein?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay? Do you need help? Amnesty International's headquarters is right here in London. If they dare mess with you, just tell me, I'll go straight to Princess Anne. If they want to die, that's their business!"
"Thanks—but I don't think they'll come after me anymore. Weinstein really did break the law."
Yeah, Amnesty International calls itself an international organization, but… well… it's British.
And when it comes to acting like a jerk, Britain always excels.
Don't believe it? Ask France.
The "Princess Anne" Rowling mentioned was, of course, the Queen's favorite daughter. They were good friends.
It also explains why, in the future, when everyone else was too afraid to publicly challenge certain corporations (ahem), Rowling could still mouth off without a care—because no matter what she said, there was always someone powerful ready to back her.
"Well… fine. But seriously, if anything happens, call me."
"Auntie Anne, you're overestimating me. I'm not the type to fight back head-on. You see those bodyguards? They're from Warner. Sure, it's cheaper that way, but it also means that if anything happens to me, Warner will intervene immediately—our partnership is solid."
"You little brat…"
Rowling shook her head, amused and helpless, and soon dragged the girl out for a stroll in the garden.
January in Scotland was freezing, but pregnant women usually ran warm.
As they admired the lake, Rowling asked, "So, what do you think about the Oscars?"
"What?"
"The Voice is going for the Oscars, isn't it? Warner's covering the whole campaign."
"Oh—that."
Isabella smiled. "The youngest Oscar-winning actress so far is Marlee Matlin, 21. And the youngest acting winner ever was Tatum O'Neal, who won Best Supporting Actress at 10. So if I won, that'd be insane, right?"
"In short…"
"First, I definitely won't win an acting award. Second, I don't care about it. If I had to choose between fame and trophies, I'd take fame every time. So… a nomination's enough."
"Seriously, that golden statue shouldn't come to me. Whether it's Best Actress or Best Picture—I don't need it. The number of honors I have doesn't change how great I already am."
"Ugh, listen to you!" Rowling couldn't stop laughing. "You, great? Sure."
"Fine then," Rowling teased. "I'll reject all the offers for you."
"Huh?" Isabella blinked.
Rowling continued, "People asked me whether you wanted to campaign for the Oscars. If you do, they'd vote for you."
Just as Weinstein had suspected—when the British entertainment world owed Rowling a favor, the only way to repay it was through someone close to her.
So this year, those with voting power wanted to know—did Isabella want to go for the award or not?
If she did—well, she already said the youngest acting winner was ten. So what's wrong with her winning Best Actress at twelve?
If she didn't—
"Auntie Anne, here's an idea. Think of the Oscars as my coming-of-age present. When I turn seventeen, I'll take on a proper Oscar project. Then I'll drag you, Warner, and Disney into it, and we'll split the credit evenly."
"You even scheduled your own award now? I ought to hit you!"
Rowling actually did swat her—lightly, of course—but still.
The absurdity of it all had them both laughing until they were breathless.
Then Rowling grew serious. "I mean it, Isabella. Things might get chaotic this year. Be ready for backlash. Not everyone in the world likes you…"
And indeed, once the Weinstein brothers went down, awards season became a total circus.
On February 11, 2003, the Oscar nominations were announced.
The Pianist led with 13 nominations.
Gangs of New York and The Hours tied for second with 10 each.
Fourth place went to Chicago and The Voice, both scoring 9 nominations.
That's right—Warner had pushed The Voice to nine nominations, including all five major awards, plus Best Supporting Actor, Best Original Score, Best Editing, and Best Art Direction.
Best Supporting Actor: Christian Bale.
Best Actor: Jude Law.
Best Actress: Isabella Heywood.
The moment that news hit, Isabella shot straight to the top of every headline:
"Hermione Granger Nominated for Best Actress at Just 12 Years and 329 Days!"
"Will the Oscars Crown Their Youngest Best Actress Ever?"
"Awards and Box Office Glory—Who Is Isabella Heywood?"
The frenzy was instant. Fans, especially the Potterheads, were ecstatic.
Ordinary viewers and casual moviegoers? Shocked, skeptical, even indignant.
And, naturally, the critics crawled out too.
Because let's be real—a 12-year-old Best Actress nominee sounds ridiculous.
But none of that mattered.
The media was in the hands of capital.
After Warner crushed Weinstein for targeting Isabella, how else could they flaunt their power and invincibility, if not by showcasing her nomination?
Since her Oscar bid was a declaration of corporate dominance, Warner and Disney had prepared everything. Before any backlash could spread, their PR pieces were already flooding the press—each nomination neatly labeled "reasonable."
Inside the industry, envy hit record levels.
Because acting talent is subjective. Nobody can win over everyone by skill alone. If everyone agrees you're good, it's not because you acted brilliantly—it's because you were just being yourself.
And very few people get awards simply for being themselves.
Usually, the Academy loves to torment you—make you suppress your instincts, become something less perfect.
So every year, award season brings its share of drama.
Normally, actors have to endure it on their own. But this year?
Capital's power made everyone else shut up and watch.
"Honestly…"
"The difference between people can be worse than between people and dogs…"
Robert Shaye chuckled over the newspaper.
Truthfully, this would've been the perfect moment to sabotage Isabella—or drag Harry Potter through the mud—and get revenge for last year.
But Shaye knew better.
At this point, it wasn't just Warner making waves—it was Disney too.
If New Line fought Warner, that was an internal squabble.
If they dragged Disney in, Ted Turner would tear him apart.
So, unable to strike, Shaye could only watch Isabella bask in her triumph—and wonder just how much Warner and Disney were paying to keep her image spotless.
And then, just like that, the Oscar storm—usually a month-long media frenzy—lasted only three days.
Why?
Because the world was about to go to war.
On February 15, 2003, protests erupted in over 60 countries against America's actions—
all because, ten days earlier, Colin Powell had waved around that little vial of washing powder at the UN.