Bright pink curls down to her ass

The hall fell silent for a few seconds, then exploded with a thrilled, almost animalistic roar. On the huge screen, the chosen option lit up in bright pink.

Bright pink curls down to her ass.

Molly felt the blood drain from her face. Her cheeks flushed with a deep, humiliating blush. She instinctively grabbed her gray-streaked red hair, as if trying to protect it.

“Oh no…” she whispered almost inaudibly, but the microphones caught every word, and the hall responded with a fresh wave of laughter and applause.

The Fate Collar came alive instantly. A hot, pulsing wave of magic surged from the base of her neck straight up into her scalp. Molly gasped — the sensation was so intense it felt like hundreds of tiny warm tongues licking her scalp all at once. Her head burned with a sweet, almost indecent heat.

“Oh… Merlin…” she let out hoarsely.

She felt every single strand. Her old red hair with silver threads started moving on its own, like it was alive. They lengthened with a wet, rustling sound, twisting into tight, voluminous curls. The color changed right before her eyes — from warm red to a brazen, sugar-pink. The curls grew thicker, heavier, shinier, as if they’d just been soaked in expensive oil and magic.

Molly stood there breathing hard. Her big, mature tits rose and fell fast and deep, stretching the thin fabric of her top. Shame burned inside her. She — Molly Weasley, mother of seven, the woman who fought Voldemort — was now standing on stage with hair the color of cheap cotton candy. The curls had already dropped below her shoulder blades, brushing against the bare skin of her back with soft, tickling touches. They were incredibly sensitive. Every swing against her shoulders and back sent a light, treacherous shiver down her spine — to her lower back, to her wide hips, between her legs.

“How fucking embarrassing…” she thought, biting her plump lower lip. “Arthur will see this. The kids will see it. Everyone will see…”

The awkwardness was almost physical. She tried to smooth the new curls with her hand, but they sprang right back into place, bouncing and brushing against her sensitive nipples through the fabric. Molly let out a quiet moan — the sound came out too low, too feminine. It got hot and wet between her thighs. She squeezed her legs tighter, but that only made the heavy new curls slide even more against her soft skin.

The transformation lasted almost a full minute. The curls finally stopped when they reached the top of her full, round ass. They were thick, voluminous, perfectly styled, and glistened under the spotlights like living pink silk. A light sweet scent came off them — cotton candy and vanilla.

Molly stood there red as a beet. She didn’t dare look at the monitor, but she knew she now looked like a mature, plump fuckdoll.

Jack stepped closer with a wide, predatory grin.

“Wow, Molly… Take a look at yourself,” he nodded at the big screen showing a close-up. “These bright pink curls all the way down to your juicy ass look… deliciously vulgar. They’re completely permanent, darling. No spell, no shampoo, no amount of time will change them. Color, length, volume — it’s all locked in forever. They’ll always be this thick, shiny, and… very sensitive. Every touch, every breeze, every movement of your body will give you little pleasurable tingles. Cute, right?”

Molly covered her face with her hands, but the new curls fell forward, gently sliding over her cheeks and neck. She shuddered.

“This… this is too much, Jack…” she whispered, but her voice already sounded a little softer, a little sweeter.

Jack laughed, light and almost friendly, but clearly mocking:

“Oh, don’t be shy, Molly. You look like a ripe, juicy strawberry. Mommy Weasley finally decided to become a candy for all of magical Britain. The audience loves it. Right, guys?” The hall answered with enthusiastic whistles. “And now tell me honestly… you’re already starting to like how they slide over your skin, aren’t you?”

Molly didn’t answer. She just squeezed her thighs tighter. Shame and a strange, warm arousal twisted into a tight knot inside her.

“Next number, please,” she said quietly, trying to hold onto what was left of her dignity.

“Of course, darling. Which one?”

“Number… fourteen.”

Chrissy opened the chest. Another silver bimbo silhouette.

The hall exploded with applause.

“Oh, Molly…” Jack shook his head with fake sympathy. “Second bimbo case in a row. Category — Voice!”

The screen flashed with five new options:

1. Sweet, high, girly voice — ringing like a young girl’s, with a constant rising intonation.

2. Low, husky, sensual whisper — deep, sexy, like after a long passionate night.

3. Playful, breathy with constant giggles — every sentence ending in a light giggle.

4. Slow, drawling seductive southern accent — lazy, warm, like molasses.

5. High, squeaky, almost cartoonish bimbo squeak — extremely dumb and helpless tone.

Molly stood there breathing heavily. Her bright pink curls swayed with every movement, brushing against her sensitive skin. Shame burned in her chest, but treacherous wetness was already pulsing between her legs. She waited for Jack to announce the voting, feeling the collar slowly heating up again at her throat…