Epilogue II

The kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place was steeped in a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to seep into every crack in the old wooden ceiling beams. Darkened with age, they loomed over the room, making it feel even more cramped and gloomy. The only source of light—a dim magical lamp suspended on a chain above the wooden table—cast long, flickering shadows on the walls that trembled with every draft. The air was thick, saturated with the scent of old wood, settled dust, and the faint, barely perceptible aroma of tea that had long since gone cold, now leaving only a bitter aftertaste.

Harry Potter stood by the stove, gripping two porcelain mugs of long-cold tea in his hands. His face was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights and a pronounced furrow on his brow. He slowly placed one of the mugs in front of Hermione, paying no mind to the way the tea sloshed slightly, threatening to spill over the rim. Then he sat down across from her, his movements heavy, as if every muscle resisted. The tea in his own mug rippled from the table’s vibration, but Harry didn’t even glance at it—his gaze was fixed on an empty spot on the table.

Hermione sat on the opposite side, staring at a single point on the scratched surface of the table, as if hoping to find answers to tormenting questions there. Her usually neat, voluminous chestnut hair was disheveled, several strands having escaped from beneath an invisible hairpin and falling onto her shoulders. Her shoulders were slumped, her back hunched, and her hands lay limp on her knees. She looked incredibly exhausted—not physically, but emotionally, as if the past weeks had drained her completely, leaving behind only an empty shell. The mug of tea in front of her remained untouched; the surface of the drink had long since stopped rippling, and the steam had ceased rising over an hour ago.

Harry was the first to break the silence. He cleared his throat, his voice low, hoarse, with an undercurrent of despair he was trying to suppress.

"— Did it fail?" he asked, and his voice echoed in the empty kitchen.

Hermione slowly shook her head, the movement heavy, almost painful, as if every small motion required immense effort. Her voice was quiet but firm, lacking its usual confidence.

"— No," she replied, and her voice carried deep exhaustion. "The Head of the Information Department was brutally honest... and ruthless." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "The government signed a major contract with their company back during... the previous regime." She hesitated, unwilling to say the name. "If they terminate it and shut down the show, it would mean massive financial losses. And after the war, the Ministry has barely any free funds left." She sighed. "They simply can't afford it... even if they want to."

Harry exhaled sharply, his fist slamming down on the table’s surface. The mugs jumped, tea sloshing over the rims, leaving dark stains on the wood. His voice trembled with rage and helplessness that had long been simmering inside.

"— Damn it!" he cursed, and that single word carried all his despair. "What they're doing—" he clenched his fists, "—is monstrous! It... it can't be legal!" His voice rose. "They're breaking people, Hermione. They broke Molly." He faltered, his voice cracking. "Now Ginny..." He couldn't finish; his throat tightened with pain, and his eyes blurred with tears.

Hermione looked up, her eyes meeting Harry’s. They were filled with deep, exhausting sorrow that made his heart clench.

"— Unfortunately, Harry," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "it's all perfectly legal. The contract was signed back during... V-Voldemort's time." She paused for a second. "And as paradoxical as it seems, even after all his laws were repealed, this document's legal force remained intact." She sighed. "They thought of everything, down to the smallest detail. We tried every possible avenue: through the Auror Office, the Ethics Committee, Financial Oversight..." She shook her head. "Nothing works. They have ironclad legal protection. The contract is written in a way that makes it impossible to challenge."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his back pressing against the chairback, and his hand instinctively ran through his hair, ruffling it even more. His face twisted in pain, and his eyes reflected tormenting thoughts.

"— There has to be something..." he whispered, speaking more to himself than to Hermione. "We have to stop them." His voice grew firmer. "For Molly. For Ginny." He clenched his fists. "I can't just accept this." His voice cracked, laced with desperation. "She... she was so strong. So smart. So proud. And now..." He couldn't finish; his throat tightened with unbearable pain, and his eyes blurred with tears.

Hermione remained silent, her gaze fixed on nothingness, but her hand instinctively reached across the table and gently squeezed Harry's. His fingers responded, gripping hers back, as if this was the only way they could support each other in this hopeless situation. They both understood how desperate things were, and there was no need to say it aloud. The money Ginny had won had technically saved Molly from Goyle's studio, but the real Molly—the one they had known and loved—had long since disappeared, dissolved in the pink haze of hypnosis. And Ginny... Hermione swallowed. Ginny had changed even more and faster than they could have imagined. And from what they could tell, there was no bringing her back.

The silence in the kitchen became almost unbearable, oppressive, as if the very walls of 12 Grimmauld Place were trying to smother their despair. The air carried not only the scent of cold tea but also the bitterness of helplessness that permeated every cell of their bodies.

Then, suddenly, a loud, confident knock shattered the grim silence. The sound was so unexpected that both of them flinched.

Harry and Hermione tensed simultaneously, their bodies freezing in anticipation of danger. Their eyes met, and a flash of alarm mixed with confusion passed between them—whoever it was, they shouldn't have known to come to this house at such a late hour. Harry slowly stood up, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand, which lay on the table next to the untouched mug of tea. He approached the door, his steps quiet and cautious, his heart beating rapidly. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, prepared for any eventuality.

On the threshold stood Jack. Tall, elegantly dressed in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, with a flawless, charming smile on his face that, however, never reached his eyes. His dark eyes gleamed with that same familiar predatory spark that made Harry grip his wand tighter. Jack looked as though he had come to a high-society Ministry gala rather than the modest house at 12 Grimmauld Place, where he was despised with every fiber of their beings. His dark hair was immaculately styled, and a faint yet noticeable scent of expensive cologne emanated from him, only amplifying the sense of how out of place he was here.

"— Good evening," Jack said softly, slightly inclining his head in a polite bow. His voice was smooth, pleasant, with no hint of irony or threat. "I hope I haven't disrupted your dinner too much?"

The kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place seemed even gloomier and more oppressive than usual. The dim, yellowish light of the magical lamp barely pushed back the darkness, leaving the corners of the room in thick, almost tangible shadow that seemed to creep slowly across the walls. On the wooden table sat two untouched porcelain mugs of long-cold tea, their surfaces now covered with a thin film.

Harry sat on a hard chair, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and the tendons in his hands stood out in sharp relief. His jaw was clenched, and a deep furrow had formed on his brow. Hermione sat across from him, staring at a single point on the table, her face pale, almost translucent, with dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights. Her usually vibrant chestnut hair was disheveled, and her hands lay limp on her knees.

Suddenly, shattering the grim silence, a loud, confident knock echoed at the door. The sound was so unexpected that both of them flinched.

Harry instantly jumped up from his chair, his movements sharp and honed by years of training. His wand was already in his hand, as if it had leapt there on its own. His eyes blazed with fury, and his face settled into an expression of fierce determination. He yanked the door open, causing a draft to rustle the papers on the table, and pointed his wand directly at the face of the man standing on the threshold.

— Bastard! he growled in a low, hoarse voice thick with hatred and disgust.

On the threshold stood Jack. Tall, elegantly dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a flawless, almost haughty smile on his face that, however, never reached his cold eyes. He didn’t even flinch as he looked at the wand pointed at him, its tip already glowing with the red spark of a spell ready to fire. His dark hair was immaculately styled, and a faint scent of expensive cologne emanated from him, only amplifying the sense of how out of place he was here.

— Harry! Hermione shrieked, abruptly jumping up from the table, her chair scraping loudly backward. Her voice was sharp, full of anxiety, and her hand instinctively reached for Harry, as if she could physically stop him.

Jack merely smirked, his smile widening further, and his eyes gleamed with a predatory spark. He calmly regarded the tip of the wand, where the red spark of the spell was already flaring, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

— Calm down, Mr. Potter, he said in a soft, velvety voice that carried no hint of fear. — I’ve come with a business proposition. His gaze briefly flickered to Hermione before returning to Harry. — I don’t think you’d want to start a war on your own doorstep.

— Harry, stop! Hermione quickly moved to his side and forcibly lowered his arm, her fingers tightening around his wrist. — If you attack him, her voice trembled with strain, it will be a direct assault on an unarmed man. No one will justify it, especially now! She shot a quick glance at Jack, then back at Harry. — Think about the consequences!

— And on a foreign national, Jack added, smiling even wider, his teeth flashing in the dim light.

He smoothly turned to Hermione and slightly inclined his head, his expression taking on an almost ingratiating look.

— My mother often told me that you were a very intelligent witch, Miss Granger. His voice was filled with surprising warmth that sharply contrasted with the previous tension. — I’ve always trusted her judgment.

Hermione frowned, her eyebrows drawing together.

— Your mother? she repeated in surprise, her voice filled with bewilderment. — Who—

— It’s not so important, Jack dismissed with a wave of his hand, his smile cooling slightly. — So? His gaze shifted between Harry and Hermione. — Will you hear me out?

Harry gritted his teeth and tucked his wand into his shirt, his movements sharp and abrupt. However, his eyes continued to burn with hatred, and his fists remained clenched. He didn’t lower his hand, only slightly loosening his grip, but his body remained tense as a coiled spring.

— Speak, he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice like red-hot metal. — Here. Now.

— Excellent, Jack nodded, and without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into the kitchen. His steps were light, almost soundless, as if he were walking on a cloud. He swept the room with a quick glance before settling his gaze on Harry.

— I fully understand your indignation, Mr. Potter. His voice became serious, almost sympathetic. — However, I can assure you that there is no malicious intent in our show. He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. — Mrs. and Miss Weasley made the choice to participate themselves. No one forced them.

He paused, his gaze turning shrewd.

— However, considering your service during the war and your... uh... special connection to the Weasley family, I couldn’t help but offer you a special deal.

Harry frowned, his eyebrows drawing together so tightly that a deep furrow formed between them.

— A deal? he hissed, his voice dripping with distrust and sarcasm.

— Yes, Jack nodded, his smile becoming more restrained. — Unfortunately, I can’t decide everything myself, but our management is launching a new project: Femboy or Billionaire. He pronounced the name with a hint of irony. — I won’t go into details, he waved his hand, — but... his voice became more serious, — management and the creator of the Collar of Fate have made it clear to me that if you participate in the new show, they will be able to reprogram Molly and Ginny Weasley.

He paused, giving them time to process his words.

— To make them... closer to who they were before. Not completely, of course, but significantly closer.

Harry froze in place, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with fury.

— Are you mocking us?! he roared, taking a step forward, his fists clenching again. — You think we’d believe this nonsense?! After everything you’ve done?!

— No, no, Jack calmly raised his hands, his gesture placating, though his smile never faded. — I’m not mocking you. It’s just an offer. His voice remained even, calm. — There’s also a second option, if you’re too afraid to participate yourselves... His gaze slowly shifted to Hermione, and a barely noticeable hint of something more flickered in his eyes.

Hermione felt the blood rush to her face, her cheeks flushing crimson. She let out a quiet gasp, instantly understanding the implication, her eyes widening with outrage and indignation. Her hand instinctively tightened around Harry’s, as if seeking support from him.

Jack, noticing that Harry was about to explode, quickly pulled a fresh newspaper from his inner pocket and held it out to Harry. His movements were deft, almost graceful.

— In any case, he said, his voice soft and pleasant once more, our offer stands until August. That’s when the third season of Bimbo or Billionaire begins, and until then, you can decide which of you will participate. He pointed to the newspaper. — My number is on the back. Call anytime. Goodbye.

He carefully placed the newspaper on the table, turned, and calmly walked out of the house, his steps light and confident. On the threshold, he paused for a second, as if expecting to be called back, but when no one did, he stepped outside. A second later, a loud, sharp crack echoed—Jack Apparated away, leaving behind only a faint scent of cologne and a foul aftertaste from his visit.

Harry and Hermione stood frozen for a moment, listening to the silence, as if expecting Jack to return. But the silence remained unbroken.

Then Harry turned and quickly walked back to the table. He grabbed the newspaper, skimmed the front page, and then furiously slammed it down on the table. The newspaper spread open, its pages rustling.

— Bastard! he cursed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with fury.

Harry expected Hermione to support him, to express her own outrage, but when he turned, he saw that she was sitting with a completely pale face, staring at the newspaper on the table. Her hands trembled, and her eyes were wide open.

Harry frowned, his eyebrows drawing together, and he moved closer. When he flipped the newspaper over and saw the back page, his eyes widened in shock, and his mouth fell open in astonishment.

The front page featured a large, color photograph: Fleur Delacour—completely transformed, with an enormous, unnaturally voluminous chest, bright platinum blonde hair tied into a high ponytail, and a vacant, lustful bimbo gaze. Her plump lips were slightly parted, and there was not a trace of her former intelligence and determination in her eyes. The caption beneath the photo read in large, bold letters: ‘Sensation! In the first episode of Bimbo or Billionaire France, war heroine Fleur Delacour collected all the bimbo cases and became Jack’s new personal assistant.’

And below, in small but clear print, was a phone number. Harry felt his eye twitch, then again, as if his body was trying to cope with the shock. A heavy, oppressive silence settled over the kitchen, pressing down on their ears and hearts.

And beneath the phone number, clearly and neatly written, were the words: Jack Salazar Riddle.

***

I won't be able to write any stories until August due to a long-awaited vacation. But if anyone wants to see Fleur's story, I can write the beginning (chapters 2-3) by July 1st. I won't be able to finish the rest until the end of June.

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The first chapter about Fleur is already written. As soon as the required amount for Boosty is raised, I'll publish it immediately. Now you can read it and choose an option also on my page on Boosty - https://boosty.to/anarchopotter/donate