Molly Weasley

The curtain of the studio rose to thunderous applause and a triumphant melody. Bright lights, pink flashes, and the sparkle of magic crystals lit up the stage, turning it into something halfway between an old magical circus and a luxurious boudoir. Molly Weasley stood behind a small podium, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. She was sixty, but after the war her body had kept that soft, generous maturity that a lot of people found insanely hot.

Her curvy figure — wide hips, heavy full tits, soft round belly — was barely covered by a thin, tight fabric the organizers called a “stage outfit.” The deep cleavage showed off the valley between her big, heavy breasts, and the short skirt barely covered the top of her thighs. Her red hair with noticeable silver streaks fell over her shoulders, and the freckles on her cheeks still gave her kind, motherly face an unexpected cuteness.

She nervously touched the cold magical “Fate” collar around her neck. The artifact had already sunk into her — ancient spells now flowed through her veins, ready to rewrite her body and mind according to the audience’s will. Molly had chosen this herself. After the war the Burrow lay in ruins, the family needed money, and a billion galleons could fix everything.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed the host Jack, a tall, charming wizard with a perfect smile. “Tonight we have a very special guest! Mother of seven children, war heroine, the woman who fed and protected the entire Order of the Phoenix! Meet — Molly Weasley!”

The hall exploded with applause. Molly felt heat rush to her cheeks. She straightened up, making her big tits jiggle noticeably, and gave her warm, slightly shy smile.

“Hello, Jack,” she said in a slightly husky voice that still sounded motherly and caring. “I’m not here for fame. I’m here to give my family a new home and a future. For Arthur, the kids… and for myself too.”

Jack stepped closer, his eyes sliding over her plump body with professional approval.

“Brave woman. You understand the rules, Molly? Twenty-four chests. Twelve steps on the board. Every chest is either gold or… changes. The Fate Collar is already inside you. You signed the contract. Everything is consensual. But there’s no going back.”

Molly took a deep breath. Her full tits rose and fell, stretching the fabric. She felt a light tingle of magic under her skin — anticipation mixed with anxiety and a strange, forbidden thrill.

“I know,” she answered quietly but with clear resolve. “I’m ready. Let’s start.”

Jack grinned wide and turned to the audience:

“Then, dear viewers, the question everyone’s dying to know… Molly Weasley — will she become a… Bimbo… or a Billionairess?!”

The hall roared. Molly stood there feeling heat rising through her body from her fingertips down to her lower belly. The collar grew slightly warmer. She knew the first round was about to begin, and every choice she made could permanently change the soft, mature, motherly body she had loved for so long. Every breath made her soft flesh jiggle a little, and the deep cleavage let the audience see the valley between her mature E-cup tits. The short skirt barely covered the top of her wide thighs, and Molly kept catching herself wanting to tug the hem down, even though she knew it was pointless. The Fate Collar around her neck pulsed with a warm, almost caressing rhythm, like it was alive.

“So, Molly,” Jack said with a big smile, stepping closer. His gaze lingered for a second on her plump figure. “First round. Twelve chests. Pick a number, darling. And remember — every choice changes everything.”

Molly took a deep breath. The air was thick with the smell of sweet magical pollen and the faint musk of arousal coming from the packed hall. Her heart was pounding hard, but a strange warm anticipation was already spreading in her lower belly — the collar’s magic was quietly starting to work.

“Alright, Jack… Let’s start with number seventeen,” she said in her warm, motherly voice that now sounded a bit lower from the excitement.

The crystal girl Chrissy, swaying her hips, walked over to the shimmering chest. Her movements were openly slutty, but Molly was only thinking about herself right now. The lock clicked.

Golden sign. Cash.

A disappointed but polite murmur went through the hall. The first step on the board lit up: Cash — one whip.

Molly breathed out in relief. Her wide hips relaxed a little, and her heavy tits jiggled with the movement. She felt her nipples — still sensitive after nursing seven kids — harden slightly from the sudden rush of adrenaline and press against the thin fabric.

“Great start, Molly!” Jack winked. “One whip in the pocket. You tasting victory yet?”

“I’m tasting hope, Jack,” she answered with a soft smile, though everything inside her was shaking. “This is for the family. For Arthur… for the kids.”

She allowed herself a second of pride. Her soft, mature body — the same one that had carried and fed a whole generation of Weasleys — was still hers. For now.

“Next, please,” said Jack.

Molly licked her lips. Her tongue felt a little dry.

“Number nine.”

Chrissy walked through the forest of pink chests again. This time when she opened the lid, a thrilled roar swept through the hall.

Silver bimbo silhouette.

Molly felt the collar come alive instantly. A warm wave of magic ran down her spine and spread over her skin. Her heart beat faster. She instinctively raised her hand and touched her red hair with silver streaks, which had already started to curl slightly from the humid studio air.

“Oh, Molly…” Jack sighed theatrically, but his eyes sparkled with excitement. “First bimbo case. Category — Hair!”

The big screen above the board flashed. Four options lit up in bright pink:

1. Voluminous fiery-red curls down to her waist — thick, shiny, perfectly styled, like Molly just walked out of a magical beauty salon.

2. Long platinum blonde waves — almost white, with a light pink tint, soft and silky like a young temptress.

3. Bright pink curls down to her ass — bold, voluminous, slightly messy, with a magical shine.

4. Sleek black hair down to her knees — straight, heavy, shiny like a raven’s wing, with thin red streaks.

5. Short pixie cut with silver and pink strands — a bold, youthful style that highlights her neck and cleavage.

The hall buzzed. Viewers were already reaching for their magic voting devices.

Molly stood there feeling the collar slowly heating up at the base of her neck. The magic was already tasting her hair — individual strands lifted slightly as if invisible fingers were running through them. Her scalp tingled with a pleasant, almost erotic warmth. She felt every hair: how they touched her bare shoulders, how the silver threads among the red reminded her of the years lived, the scars of war, the nights spent at the beds of sick children.

Her cheeks were burning. Her full tits rose and fell faster. A light, treacherous heat appeared between her thighs — not strong, but noticeable. She squeezed her legs together, trying to suppress that strange feeling that wasn’t proper for a mother of a family.

“This is for the family…” she thought, but the voice inside her didn’t sound so sure anymore. “I have to hold on. I’m strong. I’m Molly Weasley.”

But her body reacted differently. The collar whispered sweet, forbidden promises: what it would be like to be desired not just as a mother and wife, but as a woman. What it would be like when men’s eyes slid over her body not with respect, but with raw hunger.

She ran her fingers through her current hair, feeling its familiar texture — a bit coarse from age, with natural waves. Soon they might disappear. Become something completely different. Younger. Sexier. More… bimbo.

Her heart pounded in her throat. Her nipples were now fully hard and clearly visible through the fabric. Her wide hips trembled slightly. A strange, thick sweetness pulsed in her lower belly.

Jack turned to the hall with a wide smile:

“Dear viewers! Voting is open! You have exactly thirty seconds to decide what hair our beautiful Molly Weasley will be proud of. Choose wisely… or rather, choose hornily!”

He winked at the camera.

Molly stood on stage breathing heavily. Her mature, soft, generous figure was completely on display. Her eyes shone with a mix of fear, determination, and growing, unfamiliar arousal. She felt the collar’s magic already preparing to rewrite her — starting with the hair, but clearly not planning to stop there.

Her fingers instinctively gripped the edge of the podium. Between her legs it was getting noticeably wet.

Voting had begun.