Nathan Bailey was born in 1962, and next year he would be forty.
Ever since graduating from Brown University at age twenty-three, he'd been serving Warner. At first, he worked in Warner's made-for-TV movies division. He did well enough that by twenty-eight he was promoted into the film group.
Maybe he was just lucky, but the direct boss who brought him up turned out to be a subordinate of Barry Meyer. Thanks to his strong performance, before turning thirty-five he was transferred into the main group company, production department. His primary job was to review and approve submitted film projects. Every year, he also had three slots for $3 million projects he could greenlight on his own.
To be blunt, this job was already a dream ceiling for countless people. Not only was his annual salary over $300,000, but that $9 million signing authority was no small power. To put it less politely: as long as the producers who came to him knew how to grease wheels, his actual annual income could never fall below a million.
Of course, he never did that.
He still had dreams. He wanted to climb higher.
But all those ambitions came to a screeching halt on December 22, 2001.
Because at an informal meeting held by the Big Boss of the group, he opened his mouth one time too many.
Honestly, the only reason he piped up at the boss's meeting to mention the link between Endeavor and Isabella was to catch Barry Meyer's eye. Anyone who's been in the workplace knows: doing the work matters less than talking well, and talking well matters less than kissing ass. If you want to climb up, you have to perform, right?
He thought this little comment would be like before: showing him as a dedicated, conscientious guy. What he never expected was that the Big Boss would actually toss him into the fire to solve the problem.
And what a problem.
Go to the UK to lock down Chris Columbus's new project?
Negotiate with Isabella Haywood to sign five more Harry Potter films in one shot?
Oh… come… on.
Was he even qualified?
The moment those two missions landed, Nathan Bailey suddenly felt like a countdown timer had appeared over his head. When it hit zero, he might very well be out of Warner.
Even he knew these jobs were Mission Impossible. But what could he do when the Big Boss had spoken?
With Barry Meyer's nod of confirmation, Nathan had no choice but to plaster on a fake smile while colleagues congratulated him, then board a plane to London with a face that looked cheerful but felt like death.
When he realized he'd actually landed in London on December 23, he wanted to slap himself. Running his mouth had put him on a business trip right into Christmas. What a nightmare.
Though Leavesden officially closed for the holidays on the 24th, he didn't know the shooting schedule. If Isabella had gone on break early, he'd have flown across the Atlantic for nothing.
Maybe God pitied him. When he nervously arrived at Leavesden, most of the crew was already gone home for Christmas. Only those with scenes left were still around.
Thankfully—Isabella was one of them.
Inside Stage 13, the set of Hagrid's hut looked cluttered and lived-in.
A blond girl in Hogwarts robes held her script, speaking earnestly to the man beside her:
"Director, I think this scene doesn't make sense."
The girl was Isabella.
She said:
"This is the first time the trio hears the word 'Mudblood.' In the book, neither Hermione nor Harry knows what it means. Only Ron, being from a pure-blood family, understands, which is why he pulls his wand to fight Malfoy after the insult.
But in this script… Director, forgive me, but why is Ron's scene forced onto Hermione? Why should Hermione understand 'Mudblood' here? Just to show she's a know-it-all? Even so, it doesn't fit.
To me, 'Mudblood' is basically the wizarding world's version of the N-word. Rowling wrote it as a deeply insulting term. It would only pass from mouth to mouth, not appear in books. Even if Hermione has read mountains of texts, she couldn't have come across it. And no one would sit her down to explain it.
Because Hogwarts is a great school, led by Dumbledore, the greatest white wizard. Under his watch, 'Mudblood' would rarely be spoken at Hogwarts. And the way everyone reacts when Malfoy uses it proves this: if it were common, no one would be outraged. They'd be numb.
So Hermione shouldn't know the word. The scene should be faithful to the book: Ron and Hagrid explain, Hermione hears it, shrugs, and moves on. She wouldn't cry or be crushed—because she's the strongest."
The little blond girl lifted her chin proudly, staring straight at the taller director. Her defiant look made the crew chuckle.
Yes, the last scene before Christmas break was "Hermione insulted, Ron standing up for her." A terrible note to end on.
But since it was on the schedule, everyone still took it seriously. Isabella, though, wasn't satisfied with how the script handled Hermione.
In the film, Hermione was supposed to explain the word herself, then break down in tears. Isabella found that ridiculous. Hermione was a powerhouse, a top student, someone stronger than Malfoy could ever be. Why would she crumble at a slur?
As Isabella thought: in both real and magical worlds, respect comes not from civilization, but from strength. And in HP's world, that was even more blatant. Why else did everyone fear Voldemort? Hermione being indifferent in the books was the truest reaction.
"So… Isabella, I get your point."
Chris Columbus pushed up his glasses and smiled. "You want to change the script?"
"I can't cry over this."
The girl stood firm, and the crew burst out laughing.
"Oh Chris, your authority is being challenged!"
"But she's got a point. You gonna let her rewrite the script?"
"You're a $3 billion director, Chris, show some backbone!"
Columbus glared around until the chatter stopped. Then he said to Isabella:
"You know script approval rests with Joanne. If you think it's unreasonable, call her. If she agrees, fine, we'll film it your way."
"No problem!"
The girl grinned and ran off with the script to make the call.
Columbus turned back to the smirking crew. "This is your fault. So now we all stay late."
The laughter roared.
Nobody minded. Columbus didn't mind because fixing the script now was better than facing audience backlash later. The crew didn't mind because most lived nearby, and many had kids who loved Harry Potter. Making the film better made their kids proud.
Meanwhile Isabella, phone in hand, blatantly pinned the change on Columbus. He could only sigh while the crew stifled laughter.
Warmth and mischief filled the set. To most eyes, Isabella was clearly a treasured one—spoiled, even.
But to Nathan Bailey, standing on the sidelines, it was hell itself.
If Isabella could casually boss around the director, toss things to Rowling, and the crew just laughed, then she was untouchable. Trying to negotiate hard terms with her here? If he said the wrong word, he'd be torn apart.
He already wanted to run.
But he couldn't. He was carrying Barry Meyer's orders. If he ran, Warner would hunt him down. Better to die trying and at least earn a tombstone.
So, guided by staff, he found Vivian—Isabella's mother—who was drinking tea with the mothers of Emma and Rupert.
After introducing himself and stating his purpose, he managed to get Vivian alone in the café.
"Mr. Bailey—"
"Mrs. Haywood, please, call me Nathan."
"Okay, Nathan. You said you wanted to talk about Isabella's publicity?"
"Yes, yes, exactly. Mrs. Haywood, Hermione is currently the most popular character in Harry Potter. So, as part of normal sequel promotion, Isabella will naturally get more exposure for Chamber of Secrets. More interviews, more media resources…"
Of course, Nathan's true purpose was locking down new contracts. But he couldn't start with that, especially when Warner wasn't in a strong bargaining position. He needed to build rapport first.
In his head, it was a no-brainer. Who would refuse international exposure, especially when Isabella was the sole breadwinner of the family? Vivian had to say yes.
And indeed—
"Oh Nathan, as long as this publicity doesn't interfere with Isabella's normal life, I want to thank you."
Vivian lifted her coffee cup slightly in his direction.
That simple gesture made Nathan grin with relief.
"Of course, Mrs. Haywood. We'll never disturb your daily life. All interviews and shoots will be here in London. If you do want to visit the States, we'll host you warmly, treat you like family."
He raised his glass.
She raised hers too.
That little collision of goodwill across the table filled the private room with harmony.
Seeing his first step succeed, Nathan Bailey pressed his advantage and played his second card.
"Mrs. Haywood, besides discussing publicity, I also came with Warner's apologies. As far as we know, Isa still hasn't received her payment for Chamber of Secrets, right?"
"As for that… well, I suppose there might have been some problems with the floating-salary clause…"
Of course Warner had drafted that sneaky floating-payment clause on purpose to screw her, but admitting it now would be like confessing to arson while still holding the matches. So, Nathan Bailey had nearly ripped out his hair on the flight over before settling on a strategy: turn the trap into a "clerical oversight." Make it look like Warner hadn't set a firm payment deadline in the contract.
Because international releases are messy. Every country has its own censors and approvals—Singapore being one shining example—so the timing of "first month box office" varies wildly.
Shovel all the blame onto circumstances.
"So before I came," Nathan continued, "we looked into it. Last year, during contract negotiations, because your lawyer wasn't really a Hollywood specialist, you didn't insist on a strict timeline. And our negotiators…"
He paused, then delivered his line with practiced contrition:
"To be frank, delaying payment by even a day means we can turn that million pounds around for another project. So our people… well, they chose not to highlight that detail. Legally speaking, the contract is valid. We didn't technically break any rules. But…"
He put on his best "kind uncle" face."…since Harry Potter is a seven-film series, and our cooperation has only just begun, our chairman Mr. Barry Meyer has decided that even though Philosopher's Stone hasn't fully finished its run, the fact it already smashed $500 million in its first month means we'll just skip the waiting period. We'll settle Isa's fee immediately, at the contract's maximum rate."
"And, as a gesture of apology, we'll pay in full within a week after Christmas."
"Oh~~~ is that true??" Vivian's eyes lit up.
"Absolutely!" Nathan nodded like Santa Claus handing out presents.
"Thank you so much!!" Vivian nearly beamed her face in half with that smile.
Nathan quietly exhaled.
Suddenly, this whole nightmare mission didn't seem so impossible. Isa's mom was gullible enough to swallow anything he said.
Even better, when he used "long-term cooperation" as his excuse for fast-tracking the payment, all Vivian seemed to care about was that £1.2 million check. Not a flicker of concern about the five sequels down the road.
Wow.
She was basically the British version of Macaulay Culkin's parents—except Isa actually seemed willing to bankroll the family.
Nathan's eyes narrowed with triumph.
For the first time, he felt unstoppable. With his confidence skyrocketing, he kept chatting about small talk, then smoothly pivoted toward Venture's project. He hinted that Isa couldn't take outside roles without Warner's approval, and—what a coincidence—he had the authority to review scripts.
"You mean you'd like to take a look at Isa's script?" Vivian asked.
"If it's not inconvenient… I'd like that, yes," Nathan replied smoothly. "At Warner, we're all very curious. What sort of script could lure Venture's partners to London twice in a row?"
"Not inconvenient at all. But my eldest daughter will have to bring it over."
Vivian gestured at her phone. "I don't have it with me."
"That's perfectly fine. Your eldest—Catherine Haywood, right? I know of her. Studying at St. Paul's? Loves painting? You must be so proud, both your daughters are incredible—really…"
While they chatted, Catherine arrived with the script in hand.
When she stepped in, Nathan noticed her staring at him curiously, like she'd never seen a suit before.
After Vivian's introduction, her confusion faded. Nathan thought nothing of it. He took the script.
Then froze.
What the fuck?
His eyes glued themselves to the pages.
Guided by Chris Columbus, with its upbeat themes, tight pacing, and commercial polish, this script was an absolute gem. Even without New Line's looming threat, Warner would absolutely greenlight it.
And after everything he'd learned today… Nathan could even smell Oscar potential.
Not even with a major rewrite—just tack on a new ending.
The current story ended with the protagonist getting a ticket to the world competition. But what if it pushed just a little further? Imagine: the competition's held in America. A humble British family of six boards a plane and lands in Los Angeles, staring wide-eyed at the glittering city…
Not New York, though. That skyline was still sensitive after the tragedy this year.
So Los Angeles it is. The glamour, the dazzle. The dream.
Bam. The theme of chasing dreams would skyrocket.
It would be Titanic's "Rose glimpsing the Statue of Liberty" all over again.
Cultural rivalry, Britain's fading empire, America's chest-thumping confidence—Hollywood had always loved telling stories of Brits coming to the U.S. to chase dreams. From Far and Away to the clumsier New American Dream, the trope was baked in.
This script was a guaranteed hit.
And it fell into his lap. Merry Christmas, Nathan Bailey. Maybe God dragged him to England on December 23rd just to hand him a promotion and a golden ticket to the top.
He could barely keep himself from stuffing the script into his jacket and sprinting back to L.A.
So, when he smugly announced Warner would be more than happy to invest…
"What did you just say?"
Vivian's reply stopped him cold.
"You don't want Isa in the project right now??"
"Correct." Vivian smiled sweetly, two dimples flickering in the light like warning beacons.
"Why??" Nathan gawked.
"Because Isa is only eleven years old." Vivian's voice was calm, playful, sly. "I don't want her childhood to be nothing but work. After Chamber of Secrets, I'll be giving her a long break. Time to relax."
She leaned back, foxlike. "And after all, this script has no age limit. She could film it at eleven, twelve, thirteen… even eighteen. Chasing dreams is timeless. As long as you have hope, the future is always bright."
Nathan's brain short-circuited.
Wasn't this woman supposed to be greedy?
Why the sudden moral compass?
Wait—if Isa took a break after Chamber of Secrets, did that mean… were they planning to pull her out of Harry Potter too?
Nathan Bailey felt the sky collapse on his head. Again.
PS: A quick note on the history of Hollywood box office and salary systems.
Phase One: the exploratory era. Movies only released in North America, so "box office" basically meant "domestic." Salaries were flat fees.
Phase Two: expansion. Films began selling to Europe. "North American box office," "UK box office," "European box office" became marketing buzzwords. Bonuses and profit-shares appeared, but tied to local box office since there was no global release tech.
Phase Three: maturity, in the 1990s. With worldwide same-year distribution possible, "overseas box office" and "global box office" became industry standards. Pay structures shifted accordingly, with global profit-sharing clauses. But because money trickled back slowly, contracts often included special terms like "first-month" or "opening weekend" bonuses.
It sounds convoluted now, but it all makes sense if you follow Hollywood's industrial evolution.