The Maker: Hollywood

The official announcement went out on a Tuesday morning at exactly nine o’clock.

There was no flashy press conference. No Vanity Fair exclusive, no massive billboard campaign over the Sunset Strip. Miller Studios just quietly updated the landing page of their main website.

It was a single, high-resolution image on a pitch-black background. A crest. A lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle surrounding a large letter H.

Below the crest, four lines of text:

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

A Miller Studios Production.

Directed by Daniel Miller.

Open Casting Call: London.

The website stayed online for exactly fourteen minutes before the absolute avalanche of global traffic physically fried the servers.

The fans had been waiting for years. They had devoured the books, lived on the forums, and spent God knows how many hours arguing over fan-casts and movie rights. Now it was real. And the guy responsible for rewriting Hollywood’s playbook wasn’t just producing it—he was directing it himself.

Twitter basically imploded. The trending sidebar was entirely taken over within half an hour.

@MagicWand22: HOLY FUCKING SHIT ITS HAPPENING OMFGGGG

@HogwartsAlum: DANIEL MILLER IS DIRECTING IT?? I am literally hyperventilating rn. someone call an ambulance.

@BookNerd99: I AM SCREAMING IN MY CAR. WE ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO HOGWARTS.

@LondonCalling: bro did you see the bottom line?? open casting call in London. im dragging my little brother to this if I have to put him in a chokehold. he’s getting that scar on his forehead.

Over on Reddit, it wasn’t much better. The r/harrypotter sub had to lock down new posts because the mods physically couldn’t keep up with the spam.

u/GryffindorBoi: No joke, I just dropped my phone in the toilet when I saw the announcement. I don’t even care. Miller Studios is doing it. It’s not gonna be some cheap Disney channel bullshit.

u/MovieFanatic22: The absolute flex of him publishing the books, making millions off them, and then just being like ”yeah I’ll direct the movie too.” We are eating SO good.

u/SlytherinQueen: the open casting call is a good call. they are actually going to find real kids, not some 20-year-old Disney channel actors playing eleven. ofc Daniel Miller doesn’t miss.

In Burbank, the atmosphere inside Daniel’s office was totally detached from the digital riot happening outside.

Daniel sat at the small round table near the window. A massive stack of printed headshots and resumes sat between him and Tom Wiley. There were no casting directors hovering around. They never used them. Daniel and Tom trusted their own gut, and they handled the core casting personally.

Tom took a loud slurp of his coffee, looking like he hadn’t slept in two days. He tossed a headshot of a smiling, blonde American kid into a plastic trash can next to the table.

”So,” Tom said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ”You put your name on it. You’re actually gonna sit in the chair for this one.”

”Yeah, I have to,” Daniel said, leaning back and cracking his neck. ”I built the skeleton for the books. I know the tone. If we hand the first movie off to some hired gun, they’re going to fuck it up and turn it into a cartoon. The first one builds the visual language for the whole franchise. I’m doing it.”

Tom nodded slowly. ”It’s a brutal time sink, man. You’re looking at a year of pre-production, shooting, and a ridiculous amount of CGI post-production. But you’re right. Gotta be you.”

Tom tapped the remaining stack of papers.

”Alright, let’s talk about the kids,” Tom sighed. ”Elena’s team filtered out the initial wave of garbage from the agencies, but the town is still going feral. Every stage mom in LA is trying to kick our doors down. I’ve got agents pitching me fourteen-year-old kids from Calabasas who swear they can do a killer British accent.”

”Trash them all,” Daniel said flatly.

”Way ahead of you,” Tom grinned, pushing the stack away. ”I told the agencies we are strictly looking at British and Irish kids. No Americans. Period.”

”Good,” Daniel said. ”We aren’t doing that Hollywood bullshit where we hire an American and make him take dialect lessons for two weeks. It sounds fake every single time.”

Tom rubbed his face. ”The problem is, finding an actual eleven-year-old who can carry a hundred-million-dollar franchise is going to be hell. Most of the established young British actors we’ve seen doing BBC stuff or indie films are already in their twenties now. They aged out.”

”We aren’t casting twenty-year-olds to play kids,” Daniel said. ”We start from scratch. Complete unknowns.”

”Hence the open call,” Tom muttered. ”We’re gonna have thousands of kids showing up, Dan. It’s gonna be a zoo.”

”We sift through the dirt until we find them,” Daniel shrugged. ”There’s no shortcut for this. We fly out next week to get the ground game set up.”

The heavy glass door to the office swung open. Marcus Blackwood walked in, looking sharp in a tailored suit, holding a sleek leather folder.

”Got the keys,” Marcus announced, skipping the ’good morning’ and dropping the folder right on top of the discarded headshots.

Daniel sat up. ”Leavesden?”

”Leavesden,” Marcus confirmed. He popped the folder open, sliding a set of massive architectural blueprints across the table. ”It’s an old aircraft factory, about twenty miles northwest of London. The property is a monster. We locked down a ten-year lease on the whole lot.”

Tom leaned over, squinting at the blueprints. ”An aircraft factory? Are we shooting a movie or building a goddamn Boeing?”

”We’re building Hogwarts, Tom,” Marcus said dryly. ”The main hangars are massive. Hundreds of thousands of square feet. We can build the Great Hall inside one hangar and still have room for the common rooms and classrooms. Plus, the backlot is huge. We can build exterior sets like Privet Drive out there, totally blocked off from the public.”

”Perfect,” Daniel said, tracing a finger over the hangar dimensions. ”When can we get inside?”

”Ink dried this morning,” Marcus said. ”You can walk it the second you land.”

”Good work, Marcus,” Daniel said, closing the folder. ”Tom, pack your shit. We leave for London on Sunday.”

When Daniel finally got home to Bel Air that evening, the heavy, mouth-watering scent of roasted garlic, butter, and searing steak was filling the house.

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the front door and walked into the kitchen. Florence was standing by the stove in a baggy grey sweater, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, stirring a pan of asparagus. Margot was sitting on one of the high top stools at the marble island, wearing a silk camisole and soft sleep shorts, sipping a glass of red wine and scrolling idly on her phone.

Daniel walked up behind Florence, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

”Smells amazing,” Daniel murmured against her skin.

Florence leaned back against his chest for a second, humming happily. ”Give me five minutes to plate it. How was the madhouse today?”

”Loud,” Daniel said. He let go of Florence and walked around the island, stepping into the space between Margot’s parted knees. He leaned down and kissed her softly. She tasted like expensive cabernet and cherry lip balm.

Margot smiled against his mouth, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest. ”I saw the press release,” she said, pulling back slightly but keeping him close. ”People are absolutely losing it online.”

”My phone has been buzzing non-stop,” Florence chimed in from the stove. ”Half my actor friends back home are begging me to ask you for an audition for a teacher role. I told them you were a tyrant who locked me out of the casting room.”

”I am a tyrant,” Daniel agreed smoothly, stealing a sip of Margot’s wine. ”Tom and I are flying to London on Sunday. We have the open casting call for the trio, and I need to physically inspect the aircraft hangars Marcus just leased for the studio.”

Florence turned the stove down to a low simmer and wiped her hands on a dish towel. She leaned her hip against the counter, looking across the kitchen at Margot. Her eyes lit up with a very specific, mischievous glint.

”How long are you going for?” Florence asked.

”Probably two weeks,” Daniel replied. ”Why?”

Margot bit her lower lip, looking at Florence with a sparking, silent conversation passing between them. Margot’s hand slid from Daniel’s chest to rest lightly on the back of his neck, her thumb tracing the hairline there.

”My shooting schedule is totally clear for the next three weeks,” Florence purred, walking slowly around the island to join them. She slipped her hand into Margot’s free hand, their fingers intertwining naturally. ”They’re doing heavy set builds for the historical drama, so I don’t have to be on set until the end of the month. Margot just wrapped her indie thing last Tuesday.”

Daniel looked between the two of them, a genuine, slow smile breaking across his face. He caught on immediately. ”You guys want to terrorize London.”

”I haven’t been home to the UK in a year,” Florence pointed out, stepping up close so the three of them were standing in a tight, intimate cluster. She rested her head on Margot’s shoulder. ”And Margot has never been to London when it wasn’t a miserable, structured press tour. We could tag along.”

”We promise we’ll be good,” Margot added, her voice dropping into a teasing, flirty register as she tugged lightly on Daniel’s shirt collar. ”You and Tom can go look at your empty warehouses and listen to kids butcher their lines all day. And at night, you get to come back to the hotel to us. I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.”

”I do want to see a castle,” Florence chimed in, kissing Margot’s cheek before looking up at Daniel. ”And drink real tea. I feel like that’s mandatory.”

”It’s a work trip,” Daniel warned them playfully, though his hands had already found Florence’s waist. ”I’m gonna be in meetings most of the day. I won’t have time to play tourist.”

”We don’t need a tour guide, darling,” Margot laughed, her eyes flashing. ”We’ll go shopping. Hit the pubs. You can meet up with us for dinner when you’re done playing boss.”

”Alright,” Daniel laughed, pulling them both in. ”Pack your bags. We leave on Sunday.”

The flight from Los Angeles to London was a long, twelve-hour drag. Daniel had booked a massive private charter. Flying commercial with Florence and Margot—right after dropping a viral engagement post and the biggest movie announcement of the decade—would have been a logistical nightmare involving way too many paparazzi at LAX.

The cabin was quiet and dimly lit for the red-eye flight. Tom spent the entire trip completely passed out in a reclining leather chair near the back, an eye mask firmly strapped to his face.

Daniel spent the first few hours reviewing his notes on his laptop, finalizing the specific character beats he needed to discuss with Joanne when they met up.

When he finally closed the laptop, he walked back to the main cabin bedroom. The massive bed was already occupied. Florence and Margot were curled up together under a thick duvet, fast asleep. Margot was resting her head on Florence’s chest, their legs tangled together.

Daniel quietly stripped off his shoes and jacket and slid into the bed behind Margot, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling both of them flush against his chest. Florence stirred slightly, reaching a hand back to lazily thread her fingers through his hair before falling right back asleep.

When they landed at Heathrow, the quintessential grey, overcast London sky was waiting for them. A private car loaded their luggage on the tarmac and drove them straight into the heart of the city.

They checked into a sprawling, penthouse suite at a historic, ridiculously high-end hotel in Mayfair. The rooms had heavy velvet curtains, dark wood paneling, and huge windows overlooking the busy, rain-slicked streets.

Daniel dropped his heavy duffel bag on the floor of the master bedroom. Florence was already pulling a thick wool coat out of her suitcase, tossing a chic trench coat onto the bed for Margot.

”Where are you going?” Daniel asked, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness of the flight. ”We literally just landed.”

”We are going out,” Florence declared, shoving her arms into the coat. ”It’s three in the afternoon here. If we get into that massive bed right now, the jet lag is going to murder us. We need to walk.”

Margot emerged from the bathroom, grabbing the trench coat and pulling a pair of heavy leather boots on. ”I’m ready. Take me to a pub. I want a real pint. The watered-down LA beer is depressing.”

Daniel checked his watch. He didn’t have any studio meetings until Monday morning. He grabbed his own dark jacket off the chair. ”Lead the way.”

They slipped out of the hotel through a discreet side entrance, dodging the main lobby to keep a low profile. Daniel pulled a dark baseball cap down over his eyes. Florence wrapped a thick cashmere scarf around her neck, burying the lower half of her face. They stepped out into the biting cold.

A fine, miserable drizzle was falling, slicking the cobblestones and making the streetlamps glow with a hazy yellow aura.

Margot shivered instantly, pressing herself tightly against Florence’s side as they walked. ”You guys actually live in this weather on purpose? It’s miserable.”

”Oh, shut up, it builds character,” Florence laughed. She popped open a large black umbrella, holding it over the three of them. She hooked her arm through Margot’s, while Daniel walked on her other side, keeping them close together in the damp chill. ”LA makes you soft. The rain keeps you grounded.”

They walked for about twenty minutes, finally ducking into a historic, wood-paneled pub tucked away on a side street in Soho. The inside hit them like a wall of incredible warmth. It smelled strongly of spilled dark ale, fried batter, and centuries-old wood. It was packed with locals getting an early start on their weekend drinking. Nobody gave a shit about the three people walking in out of the rain.

They snagged a small, sticky, U-shaped leather booth in the back corner.

”I’ll get the drinks,” Daniel offered, heading up to the crowded bar.

He ordered three pints of local ale and two massive plates of fish and chips, handing over a few crumpled British notes. When he navigated back to the table balancing the heavy glasses, Margot and Florence were already peeling off their damp coats.

Daniel set the drinks down. Margot immediately scooted over on the leather bench, patting the space between her and Florence. Daniel slid into the booth, letting Margot pull him close so his thigh pressed warmly against hers. Florence crowded in on his other side, her knee resting over his. They were completely insulated from the rest of the noisy pub.

Margot picked up her pint, took a long pull of the dark ale, and let out a highly satisfied sigh.

”Okay, I take it back,” Margot said, wiping a bit of foam off her lower lip with her thumb. She rested her other hand high on Daniel’s thigh under the table. ”The beer actually is better here.”

”Told you, darling,” Florence smirked, leaning across Daniel to press a quick, tasting kiss to Margot’s foam-smudged lips. Florence settled back and stole a sip from Daniel’s glass instead of her own.

For the next few hours, they just ate greasy, perfectly fried fish with their fingers, drank their beer, and listened to the loud, overlapping chatter of the pub.

Daniel leaned back against the wooden booth, an arm draped around Margot’s shoulders, while Florence rested her head against his bicep. The vintage engagement ring caught the dim, yellowish light of the pub every time Florence reached for a chip.

It felt incredibly normal. This was exactly why he wanted them here. The studio grind had a way of isolating you, pulling you out of reality and making you feel like a machine. Sitting in a loud, dirty pub, sandwiched between the two women he loved, was the perfect antidote to the crushing Hollywood pressure.

The next day, the real work started.

Daniel and Tom took a sleek black car out to Leavesden. The facility was an absolute monster. Driving onto the property, Daniel saw a sprawling collection of grey, industrial aircraft hangars surrounded by acres of empty, cracked concrete. It wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t look like a movie studio. But walking through the echoing, cavernous interiors of the hangars, Daniel could see exactly what it was going to be.

”It’s a blank canvas,” Tom said, his voice echoing loudly off the high, curved metal ceilings.

”We can build anything in here,” Daniel agreed, looking up at the massive steel rafters. ”Get the production design team on a plane tomorrow. I want them laying out the floor plans for the Great Hall by the end of the week. I want the real stone for the floors, Tom. No cheap plywood. If we build it right, these sets are going to stand for a decade.”

For the next three days, Daniel and Tom were locked in a rented office space in central London, meeting with local casting associates. They had to figure out the logistics for the open call. They were expecting thousands of kids to show up, and they needed a system to filter them through the doors without causing a literal riot in the streets of London.

While Daniel worked, Florence and Margot turned the city into their personal playground.

They went shopping in Covent Garden. Margot bought a ridiculous, oversized wool hat that she insisted made her look like a local (it absolutely didn’t). Florence dragged her through Notting Hill, hunting for vintage clothes in high-end thrift boutiques. They sent Daniel terrible, blurry selfies of themselves eating overly sweet pastries near the Thames, huddled under a single umbrella.

On Thursday evening, Daniel was sitting in the hotel suite, typing up some notes on his laptop. The room was quiet. Florence and Margot were out at a West End theater show.

His phone buzzed on the desk. It was Elena.

”Hey,” Daniel answered, rubbing his tired eyes.

”The UK media is completely eating up the casting call news,” Elena reported from LA, her voice buzzing with PR energy. ”The hype over there is insane. We are dominating the entertainment news cycle globally right now. Every morning show is talking about it.”

”That’s the point,” Daniel said. ”The more kids who hear about it, the better our chances of finding the trio.”

”It is,” Elena agreed. ”But I think we need to pivot for a second. We have another movie coming out soon, Dan. People are getting so wrapped up in the wholesome Hogwarts stuff, they’re completely forgetting about Vice City.”

Daniel stopped typing. She was right. Vice City was in the final stages of post-production. It was an R-rated, hyper-violent, neon-soaked mobster movie—the exact polar opposite of a family-friendly fantasy film. He couldn’t let it get buried under the wizard hype. He needed to remind the market that Miller Studios wasn’t just a fantasy factory.

”You’re right,” Daniel said, his business brain kicking fully into gear. ”Are the teaser files ready?”

”Benny sent me the final mastered version yesterday,” Elena confirmed. ”It’s a red-band trailer. We can’t show it on regular TV because of the blood, but we can drop it online right now.”

”Do it,” Daniel ordered. ”Drop it on all our official channels. No warning. Just post it.”

”Done,” Elena said, hanging up.

Daniel opened his browser and went to YouTube. Ten minutes later, the Miller Studios official channel uploaded a one-minute video titled simply: VICE CITY - Official Teaser.

Daniel put his headphones on and hit play.

The video didn’t start with a studio logo. It started with heavy, suffocating silence, followed by a sudden, aggressive burst of synth-wave music. The bass was thick, loud, and entirely predatory.

The visuals hit fast. A montage of neon lights. Hot pink hotel signs reflecting off wet pavement. A white Ferrari drifting violently around a corner, the tires screaming against the asphalt.

There was absolutely no dialogue in the entire teaser.

The screen cut to Al Pacino. He was wearing the iconic cyan palm-tree shirt, standing in the middle of a massive, opulent mansion. The camera pushed in tight on his face. He looked incredibly angry, tired, and deeply dangerous.

The music swelled, the tempo increasing to a rapid, heart-pounding beat.

A rapid-fire sequence of violence played out in sync with the heavy bass drops. A shotgun blasting a massive hole in a wooden door. Jamie Foxx walking calmly down a hallway holding an assault rifle. A massive explosion ripping through a storefront window, sending shards of glass raining down onto the street in slow motion.

The final shot was Al Pacino sitting alone in the Ferrari, his face bathed in cold pink neon light, his eyes completely dead.

The title card slammed onto the screen in bright, glowing pink letters: VICE CITY.

The teaser ended.

Daniel leaned back, taking his headphones off. It was a brutal piece of marketing. It completely captured the aesthetic of the movie without giving away a single actual plot point.

He opened the Twitter tab on his browser. The whiplash on the timeline was instantaneous and hilarious.

The exact same fans who had been tweeting about magic wands and sorting hats ten minutes ago were now completely derailed.

@CinephileQueen: WAIT WHAT JUST HAPPENED?? Did Miller Studios just drop a trailer for Vice City??? I WASNT READY. THE VIBES ARE IMMACULATE.

@ActionJunkie99: Holy shit. That synth music goes so fucking hard. Pacino looks terrifying. No dialogue, just pure violence. Daniel Miller is out of his goddamn mind.

@FilmBro22: Bro the contrast is insane. This guy is over in London setting up a wholesome wizard movie for little kids, and meanwhile he’s dropping red-band trailers about cocaine cartels and machine guns. He literally owns both sides of the industry rn.

Daniel closed the laptop. The strategy worked perfectly. He had reminded the world that while he could build fantasy castles, he could still build gritty, violent empires.

The heavy door to the hotel suite clicked open. Florence and Margot walked in, shivering, their cheeks rosy from the cold, laughing about something as they kicked off their wet shoes.

”It is freezing out there,” Florence complained, shrugging out of her damp coat and tossing it over a chair. ”The theater was amazing, but the walk back to the cab was brutal.”

”Did you get any work done?” Margot asked. She walked over, holding a small white paper box, and dropped it onto the desk next to his laptop. ”We brought you a slice of ridiculous chocolate cake from a bakery we found.”

”I got plenty of work done,” Daniel smiled, looking at the cake. He closed the laptop entirely, officially off the clock. ”The studio is running itself for the night.”

Margot began unbuttoning her trench coat, a wicked, slow smile spreading across her lips as she looked down at him.

”Good,” Margot murmured, letting the heavy coat fall to the floor. ”Because I am completely frozen to the bone, and the massive marble bathtub in the master bathroom is calling my name. And you’re both joining me.”

Florence leaned over Daniel’s chair, pressing a warm kiss behind his ear. ”She gets very bossy when she’s cold,” Florence whispered, her hand sliding down his chest. ”We should probably listen to her.”

The casting call was looming. The thousands of kids, the endless bad line reads, and the massive pressure of building a billion-dollar franchise were waiting for him on Monday. But looking at the two of them in the dim light of the hotel room, Daniel completely shut the rest of the world out. He stood up from the desk, leaving the laptop and the chocolate cake behind.

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A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS