Dreams of Stardom (Hollywood SI)

[Brick], initially released in just 150 theaters, experienced an unprecedented expansion to 3,150 theaters across North America. The practice of starting with a limited release and scaling up was uncommon for major distributors like Warner Bros. It was a strategy popularized in 1992 by Sony, which launched Sony Pictures Classics to separate its blockbusters from niche independent films. Their first release under the new banner became a massive success, even earning a Best Picture Oscar nomination. This ignited a trend.

Disney acquired Miramax, Fox launched Searchlight, Universal established Focus Features, and Paramount created Paramount Classics. Warner Bros., however, lagged behind until two years ago, when they introduced Warner Independent Pictures. To date, their only commercial hit had been [Before Sunset]. But with the release of [Brick], the tides seemed to turn for the indie division.

The movie's initial box office collection of $3.3 million in its opening weekend grew to $4.8 million by the following Thursday. On Friday, an expanded theater count propelled the daily revenue to a stunning $5.2 million, followed by $6.1 million on Saturday and $4.5 million on Sunday. This resulted in a second weekend total of $15.8 million, bringing the movie's 10-day domestic earnings to $20.6 million.

Such an explosive start was rare for a niche genre film, but sustaining these figures was challenging. The third weekend saw a nearly 30% dip, earning $11.1 million, followed by $8.2 million in the fourth weekend, $5.2 million in the fifth, and $4.6 million in the sixth. By the end of its North American theatrical run, [Brick] had amassed a hefty $72.4 million.

Its international release also saw remarkable success, with the UK emerging as the strongest market outside the U.S., contributing $12.7 million. Other significant markets included Germany, Spain, Australia, Greece, Mexico, Brazil, and Japan, collectively adding $33.7 million to its tally. The film's worldwide earnings soared to an impressive $106.1 million.

Although it was Troy Armitage's first theatrical release to fall short of $100 million domestically, the outcome was still extraordinary for a low-budget, non-horror indie film. Much of its success could be attributed to Troy himself. His involvement turned what might have been a niche film into a must-watch event, with distributors worldwide snapping up rights thanks to his star power. This would not have been possible if someone unknown had been cast in the lead role.

Warner Bros. pocketed around $50 million after theaters' cuts. Troy's 25% share at $12.5 million had been a given as per the terms of their contract, leaving the studio with a $25 million net profit after deducting marketing costs. Considering they had paid $25 million for the rights to both films, they effectively quadrupled their investment within a year. And this calculation didn't even include future revenue streams like TV rights and DVD sales.

Meanwhile, Troy's gross revenue reached $68.5 million. About 20% of this went to stakeholders, including directors and crew, leaving him with $55 million. However, Troy donated $41 million to his charity, cutting his earnings to $14 million. After accounting for the joint production cost of $12 million for [Perks] and [Brick], his profit shrank to $2 million. Taxes took another 40%, reducing his final take-home earnings to a modest $1.2 million.

(Break)

"You didn't make a very good business decision by donating all of your share of profits from [Perks] to charity," Dad remarked, lowering the latest email from my accountant. "That film was so much more profitable than [Brick] will ever be."

I shrugged. "I can't know beforehand which film will make how much. Also, I don't regret it one bit."

"Really?" Dad raised an eyebrow. "That one decision made you $40 million poorer."

"No," I countered immediately. "It made me only $24 million poorer. I don't have to pay 40% in taxes now. Also, did you forget who's covering the costs of my staff now?"

It might sound shady, but that's exactly how most charities operate. My accountant cleverly funnels a portion of my income and expenses through the charity to reduce my personal tax burden. It would be naive not to use such a structure, especially when it's perfectly legal.

I still donate a significant part of my income to genuine charitable purposes, and most of the $41 million will be used to help children—just not before covering my staff's salaries. Some might call this opportunistic, and maybe it is. If anyone in power has a problem with it, they can take it up with the laws. To quote a future billionaire president: If you want me to pay my taxes, then change the tax code. But I know you won't because your friends and donors use the same loopholes I do.

Not that this would ever come to light. The tax authorities are well aware of these practices, but exposing me would mean dragging far wealthier and more influential people into the fray. They wouldn't risk that.

I shook off the errant thoughts and turned back to Dad. "That's not important. What I want to know is—whose bright idea was it to make Hermione jealous of Cho? Because, believe me, I've read the book, and that wasn't there anywhere."

Dad went silent for a moment, looking almost guilty.

"Well?" I prodded, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed heavily, nodding as if conceding defeat. "I agree with you—it shouldn't have been there. But sometimes, even my hands are tied. Someone from Warner went behind my back and spoke to Eric Roth and J.K. Rowling. They suggested adding a romantic subplot between Harry and Hermione in the fifth and sixth movies. The idea was that since Ron and Ginny are seeing other people, Harry and Hermione could briefly get together—only to later realize their feelings are more sibling-like."

I was floored. "Rowling agreed to this crap?"

Dad shook his head. "I don't know. She won't say, but I suspect Warner paid her off to bring her on board."

I didn't know what to feel. It was obvious why this was happening—[Perks] was to blame. The movie's success had made audiences fall in love with Emma and me together, both on-screen and off. Fan communities were flooded with stories and fan art of Harry and Hermione as a couple, often using images of us kissing in [Perks] as inspiration. There was even a betting pool speculating that Harry and Hermione would get together in the Half Blood Prince.

I looked back at my father. "Say, Dad, have you read the sixth book?"

I hadn't read it in this timeline. Jo had only provided the manuscript to Dad and Eric; everyone else was in the dark about what would happen. I'd probably get a copy a week before its public release, but that was as much as I could hope for. I didn't push Dad to read it because I knew its plot.

"Yes," Dad nodded. "And before you ask—no, there wasn't any plot point about Harry and Hermione. They're just trying to milk your teenage fanbase. People loved you in [Goblet of Fire] and [Perks] because of the maturing teenage storylines. They're trying to replicate that."

I pressed my hand to my forehead as the implications sank in. "Do they not realize we're already strapped for time? There's so much information crammed into book five alone. If we add this baseless subplot that goes nowhere, we'll have to cut out something crucial."

"I know," Dad agreed, his tone resigned. "I said the same thing, but they won't budge. We butted heads for hours, but it went nowhere—just like this Harry/Hermione relationship they're cooking up. I'm amazed they managed to get Eric and Jo on board with this."

"Where was I during all this drama?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

"Shooting [Little Miss Sunshine]," Dad replied simply.

I clenched my fists, in frustration. I couldn't let this slide. I remembered something similar happening in the original timeline with [Half-Blood Prince] where Lavender Brown had been given more screen time than Ginny Weasley, and even Voldemort's backstory and the horcruxes were glossed over to cater to the teen audience. Not this time.

"I'm not going to the set tomorrow," I said with finality.

Dad's eyes widened comically. "What?"

"In fact," I continued, my voice firm, "I'm not going to the shoot at all unless they delete this nonsensical plot entirely. If they have a problem with that, tell them I don't want to shoot any romantic scenes with Emma, ever. Unless they agree, I won't shoot a thing."

"Don't be so hasty, Troy," Dad said, trying to calm me down. "You have a strong ally in Warner Bros. I'm sure we can arrange a meeting with Barry Meyer to discuss this peacefully, without resorting to threats."

"No," I shook my head, my jaw set. "You tried talking peacefully, right? And how did that go?"

Dad's silence was all the answer I needed.

"Call Barry Meyer right now and tell him I won't shoot another scene if they keep this plotline."

"You're legally bound to shoot it," Dad pointed out, his voice dropping a notch.

"Then tell Barry to sue me," I said confidently. "He'd lose the studio millions of dollars. And just when the case reaches a judge, I'll agree to do the film—but I won't promote it. Just like Edward Norton didn't promote [The Italian Job] when Paramount forced him to do something he didn't want."

Dad stared at me silently, his expression unreadable, as if weighing whether I was truly serious. Finally, he broke the silence. "You'll ruin your career. You'll lose all credibility with the big studios. They won't cast you in major roles again if you do this."

"I don't even care about that right now," I said firmly. "I'll produce indie films on my own for the rest of my life if I have to, but I won't let some analysts and executives dictate what should or shouldn't happen in a story I've loved since I was a kid."

Because that's what it probably was—some data-driven execs running numbers, deciding what would make the film more appealing to its target audience—teenagers.

Dad tried to reason with me, presenting valid points about the financial fallout for Warner and even himself. But I stood my ground, unwavering. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he pulled out his phone and dialed Barry Meyer.

"Hello, Barry?... No, not so good right now," Dad said, glancing at me as he spoke. "Troy's not happy with the change in the script and says he won't shoot the film tomorrow… Oh yeah, please, talk to him."

He handed me the phone, and I shot him a flat look, clearly unimpressed that he hadn't fully conveyed my message. Taking the phone, I pressed it to my ear.

"Hey, Troy," Barry greeted jovially, his tone trying to smooth things over. "What's up with you?"

"No, what's up with you?" I countered, my tone sharp. "Why are you butchering the best film series Warner will probably ever have?"

"We're not 'butchering it,' as you say," Barry replied, his voice laced with exasperation. "We're making it better. Jo is just one writer. We've got our best team working on it, with her involved, and we're improving the story."

"How's this for improvement?" I said coldly. "I won't shoot anything even remotely romantic with Emma ever again."

"Is that what this is about?" Barry asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed. "Because you had a little breakup with her? I knew I should have put a no-dating rule in place when we started this series."

"Consider it whatever you want, Barry," I shot back, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer. "But here's the deal—I'm not showing up on set tomorrow because I injured my back today. Got slammed against a wall too roughly. Doctor says it'll take at least a week to heal."

Barry started to say something, but I cut him off. "If the script isn't fixed by then, who knows what could happen next? My pinkie toe might mysteriously get injured, or maybe the tip of my nose. Hell, I might even shave my head entirely, just because. But one thing's for sure—I won't promote this film or any future Harry Potter films at all."

My voice grew icier with every word. "Our partnership will end with Harry Potter. I'll walk away from the musical deal, too—I'm sure another studio would be thrilled to pick it up. And don't expect me to do any other projects with Warner. Ever."

"What's gotten into you?" Barry asked, his voice laced with surprise and frustration. "You were never so… so…"

"Rude? Decisive? An asshole?" I offered, my tone cool and unapologetic. "Call it whatever you want. All I care about is what best for the movie, and it's definitely not some Harry/Hermione romance."

Without waiting for a reply, I ended the call with a sharp click and handed the phone back to Dad, who was staring at me, mouth slightly agape.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"You never told him you wouldn't shoot it at all," he said, his tone equal parts baffled and impressed.

"I changed my mind midway," I replied casually. "Think about it: as a producer, what's a bigger nightmare—an actor refusing to show up or one doing something bizarre and completely unpredictable on set?"

Dad tilted his head thoughtfully before answering, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Definitely the bizarre."

"Exactly," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I have a feeling I'll be hearing from Barry again in a few hours."

(Break)

Barry Meyer sat in his office, seething, his fists clenched atop his polished desk. Across from him, Alan Horn, his COO, sat looking visibly uncomfortable, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Why the hell are you telling me to cater to the whims of a kid?" Barry barked, slamming a fist on the desk for emphasis.

Alan swallowed nervously but mustered a response. "Because, Barry, that 'kid' has made us billions of dollars over the last five years. Of which, over a hundred million this year alone—and it was not even from a franchise. Antagonizing him now would be a colossal mistake."

Barry's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "How? I'll make a few calls. I'll make sure no one in this town gives him work again. And if he dares release a film himself, we'll schedule our biggest blockbuster opposite it. I'll ruin him for crossing me."

Alan, though clearly intimidated, pressed on. "Sure, we could do that. But think about what we stand to lose. If we play this right, Warner has far more to gain. That musical he's working on? I've heard the music myself—it is too good to fail. We could easily make hundreds of millions, Barry. If we alienate him now, we risk throwing that all away."

Barry's lips tightened, but he said nothing. Alan took the lack of rebuttal as an opening to continue.

"When we acquired the musical rights at that bargain price, none of us expected much. But after his last two hits? This could be a massive payday if we market it properly. I propose we renegotiate the profit share—and bump it up to the industry-standard 15%. In return, we stick to the original script for [Order of the Phoenix]."

Barry leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in thought. The numbers swirled in his head. Alan's logic was sound, and the potential profits were undeniable.

"Alright," Barry said finally, his voice begrudging. "Make the call."

Alan nodded, visibly relieved, and stood to leave.

As the door closed behind him, Barry leaned forward, a storm brewing in his gaze. Troy might have won this round, but Barry wasn't about to let an actor—no matter how successful—hold him hostage. Something had to be done to rein Troy in. No studio head tolerated an unruly star for long, and Troy's recent successes had clearly emboldened him too much.

____________________

AN: I rewrote this chapter almost entirely because of user response. I conducted a poll on my Pat/reon, with two options given to the readers: Hinny or Harmony. Originally, I had suspected that Harmony would win and had written it from that perspective. But to my surprise, people want to see a better movie relationship between Harry and Ginny. That's why I went in this direction.