"Oh—Harry—so you're saying Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban to find you?"
On the Hogwarts Express, Ron sat by the window, staring wide-eyed at Harry.
"Yeah."
The short reply made Ron blink, while Hermione, sitting across from them, shook her head gently. "But they'll catch him, won't they? Everyone's looking for him. He can't get away."
"Of course." Ron nodded, though worry still tugged at his face. "But no one's ever escaped from Azkaban before. And he's supposed to be this murderous lunatic, so… Harry, you'd better be careful."
"Thanks, Ron. I will."
Harry nodded, signaling he understood.
At that moment, Chris Columbus clapped his hands sharply.
"Okay—cut—good—excellent!"
"Daniel, Rupert, Isa, take a break. Next up, we're shooting the train-stopping scene."
"Lighting team, prep for blackout. Props, final check on the Dementor puppet."
"I want the Dementor's entrance finished tonight. The railway's only blocked off for us until tomorrow."
Columbus's commands set the entire Prisoner of Azkaban crew in motion.
The trio, along with David Thewlis (playing Professor Lupin), cleared the set and followed the assistants to the makeup car for touch-ups.
It was April 10, 2003.
After spending three days filming the Black Lake sequence, the production had moved to the Glenfinnan Viaduct to shoot the third-year train ride—where the Trio meets the Dementor for the first time.
Technically, the scene could've been done in-studio, since the book's gloomy weather could be replicated with CGI—"the rain thickened, the windows turned gray, then black."
But let's be real: no matter the era, practical always beats digital—cheaper, faster, and infinitely more convincing.
So, road closure was inevitable.
The crew hauled the Hogwarts Express up onto the viaduct; the passing scenery behind them was the actual Scottish Highlands. No rain? No problem—just have someone on the roof sprinkling water. The gray tones? A piece of film gel slapped over the windows, and voilà: instant moody realism without three days of rendering time.
Even the Dementor was a puppet, rigged like a marionette. Its technique came straight from Star Wars—the same kind used for Yoda decades earlier.
"So you're going to control it with wires—make it glide and raise its hand?" Ron's actor, Rupert, asked, fascinated by the tangle of cables.
"Of course."
The ILM prop master gave a tug, and the black-cloaked creature floated eerily from right to left. Another pull—back to his side.
"Whoa—that's actually kind of amazing."
Daniel had never seen one before. He took a cord herself and gave it a yank. The Dementor raised its hand. Another tug, and it planted its arm on the train's ceiling.
Rupert couldn't resist joining in. He grabbed a line, pulled hard—
—and the Dementor's skeletal hand started flapping like a fan.
Anyone who leaned too close would've heard some very undignified "slap slap slap" sounds.
The two of them were in hysterics, while Isa—arms crossed, leaning nearby—just smiled and shook her head.
"Daniel, having fun?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, bad news. You're not going to find it fun for long."
"What? Why?"
The boy looked up, puzzled. Rupert glanced over too.
"Because next," Isa said sweetly, "it's going to drain your soul. When the Dementor appears, Harry feels an icy chill surrounding him—it seeps into his skin, invades his chest, reaches his heart…"
"In the story, he's frozen with terror. But now…" She pointed at the puppet. "You've turned it into a party trick. So when a creature that can salute you and slap your face shows up to suck out your soul, are you going to scream—or burst out laughing, hmm?"
The nasal "hmm" made Daniel's grin falter.
The realization hit: what if he started laughing during the actual take? He'd never live it down.
Chris Columbus groaned from across the set. "Isa! Stop sabotaging my actors, please. We're on a tight schedule! Daniel wasn't even thinking about it until you said that!"
"Ha!"
The little troublemaker just giggled, pulled a face at him, winked at Daniel, and skipped off to the lounge.
"Ugh—she's evil!" Daniel muttered, half-laughing, half-despairing.
Yes, the Beaver Girl was causing chaos again.
Filmmaking, for all its glamour, is mostly glorious improvisation. As long as the final shot looks right, the how doesn't matter.
Take Vampire's Kiss—that scene where Nicolas Cage eats a cockroach? The director tricked him into eating a real one. Cheapest special effect in cinema history.
Or The Fifth Element—remember the explosion that scares the henchman silly? Luc Besson told Gary Oldman it would be huge and told the henchman actor it'd be tiny fireworks. The raw terror on his face? Completely real.
Moral of the story: acting can't beat reality.
Which is why, instead of overthinking the details, you just raise your status so scripts bend around you.
But right now? Daniel wasn't even distracted—until Isa made him distracted.
Fifteen minutes later, back on set, Columbus gave her a death glare.
She stuck out her tongue.
Still, it was fun being around the crew.
Her joy didn't last long. "Isa," Columbus said evenly, "if this Dementor scene runs late, I'm calling Rowling to tell her you were misbehaving."
"…You're disgusting," she muttered, frowning.
"What? I'm just stating facts. If you mess up, I report it. Covering for you would be irresponsible."
He shrugged.
It was infuriatingly logical, and she wilted like a defeated rice stalk.
Then, of course, she turned to Daniel for help—
But he was ready. "Don't worry, Isa. I'll make sure to keep messing up, so you don't get blamed alone. Haven't seen you get scolded in years."
"Yeah, me neither," Rupert added, nodding solemnly.
Isa puffed her cheeks in silence while the crew burst out laughing.
Despite all the teasing, when the slate clapped, everyone snapped back into focus.
Lights cut out.
A piercing shriek echoed from instinct alone.
The Azkaban crew had started at 9 a.m., and by 7 p.m., they'd finished the train sequence—on schedule. Despite her mischief, Isa's partner held steady.
By eight, those not on cleanup duty headed back to their hotel. Tomorrow morning they'd be shooting Hagrid's hut nearby.
But as Isa entered the lobby, she froze.
Two familiar figures were sitting there.
Nathan Bailey.
And Robert Iger.
They weren't alone—each had someone beside them. Iger's companion was a young assistant. Bailey's, an older man with crossed arms and a knowing smile. When he saw Isa, he even nodded.
Her mother and sister noticed too.
"I think…" Isa murmured, "they're here for us."
She walked forward with a polite smile.
All four men stood immediately.
After greetings were exchanged, the older man beside Iger extended his hand.
"Isa, we finally meet. I'm Barry Meyer."
"Oh—Mr. Meyer, it's a pleasure. You and Mr. Iger showing up so suddenly—something you'd like to discuss? Maybe somewhere more private?"
"Certainly, if it's not keeping you from resting."
"Actually, it is keeping me from resting."
"Then I'll pay you overtime," Meyer said smoothly. "You make six million for Azkaban, one-hundred-eighty days on set, four hours a day—that's roughly £8,300 an hour. Double rate for overtime, so… £16,600 for an hour of your time?"
"You forgot one thing."
"Oh?"
"I already worked six hours overtime today. Beyond the normal limit, it's quintuple pay—£41,500 per hour." She smiled sweetly. "In pounds."
"No problem. I'll give you a hundred thousand. Two hours."
Meyer winked.
Isa grinned. She liked him already, though she suspected the humor was strategic.
They moved upstairs to a private lounge.
Once seated, Meyer and Iger got straight to the point.
"Mrs. Haywood, Miss Catherine, Isa—we're here to discuss business. The Voice isn't just a great film—it could be a great IP. Would you be interested in developing it further?"
The Haywoods exchanged glances, a quiet laugh passing between them.
Meyer and Iger looked puzzled—until Isa nodded.
"The Voice of America, right?"
"You guys want to make a variety show?"
"Sure."
"We're fine with that."
"???"
The sudden reply made the four men from Disney all frown instinctively.
Because before coming here, they hadn't mentioned anything about "The Voice of America" to anyone.
So…
"Isabella, how did you know we wanted to do The Voice of America"
Nathan Bailey asked immediately.
"Oh—because Millionaire ran into some trouble?"
Isabella smiled knowingly. "We heard about the Millionaire ruling, actually talked with Chris about it the day the decision came out. He said Millionaire has always been ABC's backbone. So…"
She turned toward Iger. "Bob, if you hadn't come, maybe I'd still be guessing why Barry showed up. But since you did…"
She shifted her gaze to Meyer. "If you two are here together, it can only be for The Voice. Because I genuinely believe the movie version of The Voice can become a show version of The Voice."
Exactly.
A few days earlier, when Chris Columbus mentioned that Robert Iger might be attacked by Michael Eisner because Millionaire had tanked, Isabella's brain had immediately lit up with the idea of The Voice of America.
The logic was simple:
Her film The World's Voice already used a "competition show progression" to fix the pacing problem of a road movie. Since the story itself centered on a giant singing contest, any professional could see it had massive development potential.
And now Robert Iger needed a new competition format?
Well, from his perspective, that's a pillow showing up right when you're sleepy.
In Isabella's past life, The Voice had already been a hit reality franchise.
Honestly, when she first came up with the concept, she was already thinking about IP expansion. That's why she clung so tightly to the creative rights—without control of the IP, your voice in the industry is limited.
She hadn't done it before simply because she didn't know where to start with a reality show.
But now Robert Iger needed one?
From her perspective, that's also a pillow when you're sleepy.
So…
They both came running toward each other.
Her words made both men narrow their eyes. Almost in sync, they leaned back in their chairs, studying the girl across from them.
Since she had just wrapped filming, Isabella was still wearing her Hogwarts costume:
white shirt, red-and-gold tie, black robe.
Sitting there with that dimpled, confident smile—
she was Hermione Granger.
"Mrs. Haywood," Barry Meyer turned to Vivian, "I think the smartest decision you ever made was letting Isabella join Harry Potter back in 2000."
"Hahaha, thank you!"
Vivian beamed, hugging her two daughters close. "I've always thought my children were the best, though I suppose every mother says that."
And indeed, Isabella was far too mature for a 13-year-old—
Well, technically she'd turned 13 on March 19 while on set. So now she was 14… or 15 in "virtual age."
Not that it mattered—being a kid was better anyway.
So the discussion about The Voice went straight to the table.
Since The Voice wasn't a show yet, they started with the concept.
Disney and Warner's proposed format went like this:
the competition would follow the same structure as in the film—city, state, national stages.
But the national segment would differ from the movie.
In the film, time was limited, so the finale just showed Lily Zeller singing on stage, judges scoring her, highest score wins.
That wouldn't work for TV.
In fact, what was the ending of the movie would be the beginning of the show. Every talent competition goes live at that stage.
So in Disney's concept, during the national competition, four well-known singers or producers would serve as coaches, each forming a team from a pool of 150 contestants, then facing off in duels until one winner remained.
At first glance, it sounded exactly like The Voice from Isabella's previous life.
But that wasn't Iger seeing the future or Disney inventing miracles—mentored competition formats already existed. American Idol had similar elements.
To be blunt, by now almost every "new" reality show idea was just a remix of old ones. True innovation was rare.
What was valuable wasn't the concept—it was the brand.
And here, the valuable piece wasn't Isabella's "idea."
It was the name: The Voice.
Disney's proposal was solid, so Isabella didn't have much to critique.
Not that she planned to give away everything either—the signature "blind audition" and "chair turn" features were sacred, but she'd keep those close to her chest until later in negotiations.
Then came the paperwork.
Disney wanted full U.S. rights to The Voice brand—essentially, a license covering show production, broadcast, and even theme park tie-ins or games.
The show part was obvious.
The games? Also obvious—after Millionaire became a hit, Disney parks had trivia games popping up everywhere.
When it came to IP development, if Disney called itself second-best in the world, no one would dare claim first.
In return, Disney would keep all North American profits.
Warner would act as partner support: providing music rights, recruiting famous judges, producing the winner's album.
The grand prize? A $10 million recording contract.
And in exchange, Warner would hold all rights to the show's music catalogue—every performance by every contestant—plus management rights over contestants discovered on the show.
If a contestant refused to sign, they'd just be cut.
With Disney and Warner both being heavyweight producers, Isabella's role was minimal: as the IP owner, she just had to license the The Voice brand and make a few appearances—perhaps as a founder or judge.
Her payout was substantial:
$20 million for first-season licensing rights, plus $10 million for personal appearances—
a total of $30 million.
Future seasons and park-game royalties would be renegotiated, but Disney promised no less than $20 million per season.
Frankly, that was generous.
At this stage, The Voice wasn't even a show yet. Everyone knew it had potential, but no one could guarantee success—and Isabella wouldn't have to lift a finger for production.
For reference, American Idol's first U.S. license (adapted from Pop Idol UK) was only $10 million. It didn't reach $70 million until its second season.
So Disney paying $20 million upfront just for the name "The Voice"?
That showed how badly Iger wanted to win.
And then—
"You're heading back tonight?" Isabella smiled after reading the plan.
"Well… being in the office or not doesn't really matter," Iger said after exchanging a glance with Meyer. "These days remote work is easy—a few calls get everything done. Plus, we flew here by private jet."
"Okay," Isabella said, closing the folder. "Then why not stay in the UK a few more days? We're in Glencoe—it's beautiful here. Think of it as a little vacation."
"No problem," Meyer said, immediately catching her hint.
A deal this size needed quiet rooms and closed doors.
"Then good night, Princess?" Iger grinned.
The sudden "Princess" nickname drew smiles all around.
Later, when Isabella got back to her room, she wrapped her arms around her mom and sister, clinging to them koala-style as they walked into the suite.
"So," she said, "what do you two think of all this?"