On the other end of the phone, Ron's crying was intermittent, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, full of grievance and impotent rage.
"...He wouldn't even let me in for the test!
That bastard Malfoy was guarding the door. He said... he said I was a pauper looking for a free meal... and he said Hermione was 'Mr. Rosier's honored guest'... Woo woo... Mum, they're all bullying me!"
"What are you crying for!"
Molly Prewett tapped the bubbling cauldron in front of her irritably with her wand, a burnt smell mixing with the sweet scent of the potion wafting out.
She frowned, her well-maintained face now written with disdain for her son.
What a useless thing.
Crying over a little matter, exactly like his father who only knew how to fiddle with Muggle junk.
However, when she heard the keywords "Jerry Rosier" and "Crystal Golem Apprentice," Molly's tapping stopped.
"What did you say?" Molly's tone changed, no longer just impatient but with a hint of alertness. "That Rosier brat... he's recruiting at school?"
"Yes!" Ron seemed to have found an outlet, crying even louder. "Loads of people went!
I heard you can earn 5 Galleons a week!
Mum, that's 5 Galleons!
Fred and George won't earn that much in a lifetime!
But... but he won't let me join! He just looks down on our Weasley family!"
5 Galleons?
Molly's pupils constricted sharply.
But what angered her even more was the name Jerry Rosier and everything this boy was doing at Hogwarts.
Recruiting apprentices, establishing a workshop, paying "salaries"... he was only eleven!
What was he trying to do?
Build his own independent kingdom inside Hogwarts?
A Slytherin brat actually possessed such huge influence and even started buying people's hearts with money and technology... what did this mean?
It meant Slytherin's house points would likely skyrocket because of his "outstanding contributions"!
Thinking of this, Molly couldn't help but recall the absurd and fatal bet she had made with that boy.
—If by Christmas, Slytherin's house points were higher than Gryffindor's, then she, Molly Prewett, would have to unconditionally agree to any one request from Jerry Rosier.
Any... request.
Thinking of the dark eyes filled with aggression and scrutiny when that boy looked at her, Molly couldn't help but feel palpitations, and even a strange, shameful wet heat came from between her legs.
No! Absolutely not!
Molly absolutely could not lose! She couldn't hand her fate over to an eleven-year-old brat!
And she certainly couldn't lose this bet because of her useless son!
On the other end of the phone, Ron was still babbling and crying.
Molly, who had been extremely annoyed by her son's crying just a second ago, instantly changed her voice to be as gentle as a spring breeze, full of maternal care and heartache.
"Oh... my poor Ronnie baby!"
Molly's voice was sweet and soft, with a deliberately created choke of injustice for her son. "Don't cry, my little man.
Mum is here. Tell Mum, what exactly happened?
That... how could Rosier treat you like that?"
Molly cleverly changed the address from "that brat" to "Rosier," showing an elder's posture while invisibly placing herself and her son in the position of "victims."
"Mum..." Ron was clearly bewildered by his mother's sudden gentleness, but he still sobbingly recounted Malfoy's mockery and his rejection with added embellishments.
"Too much! That is simply too much!"
Molly's voice was filled with righteous indignation. "He is dividing the school!
He is openly and shamefully forming cliques!
How can Headmaster Dumbledore allow such a thing to happen?
Oh, poor Hermione, she must have been deceived... these Slytherins are always good at corrupting hearts with petty favors. It's disgusting!"
While comforting her son with the gentlest words, Molly sneered in her heart.
Her stupid son... was truly hopeless.
Having Harry Potter, the Savior, as a friend, yet failing to utilize even this bit of connection.
If Harry had spoken up, that Jerry Rosier would have had to give some face, right?
But she would absolutely never say these words to Ron.
What Molly needed to do now was play the role of a mother heartbroken, helpless, and angry because her child was treated unfairly.
"Ronnie, listen to Mum!" Molly's voice became incredibly firm, full of maternal radiance and strength. "You are not wrong! They are wrong! It's this world full of prejudice and injustice that's wrong!
Don't worry, Mum will absolutely not let this go!
I'll... I'll write to Headmaster Dumbledore right now!
I'll also write to the Ministry of Magic! I want them to know what terrible, evil events are corroding our children at Hogwarts!"
"Really, Mum?" Ron's crying finally stopped, his tone carrying a trace of hope.
"Of course it's true, my baby."
Molly said softly. She walked to the window, looking at the gloomy sky outside, but her eyes flashed with cold, calculating light. "You go find Harry now and stay with him.
Remember, you are a righteous Gryffindor; don't be defeated by those Slytherin dark tricks. Leave the rest to Mum."
Molly used the most perfect, righteous reasons to appease her stupid son, then quickly hung up the phone.
The moment the voice disappeared, the expression of grief and indignation on Molly's face vanished like smoke blown away by the wind.
It was replaced by a cold calm, as if quenched in ice.
Write to Dumbledore?
Write to the Ministry?
Don't be ridiculous. She wouldn't do such thankless, stupid things.
That old fox Dumbledore always turned a blind eye to Slytherin's little actions; as long as they didn't cross the line, he wouldn't care at all.
As for the Ministry?
What could those rice buckets do besides sending her a few bureaucratic replies?
Molly was going to solve this problem in her own way.
Jerry Rosier...
The tip of Molly's tongue slowly licked her somewhat dry lips. In those eyes that always appeared gentle and virtuous, a flame ignited—a mix of jealousy, anger, and a dark excitement she herself was unwilling to admit.
Did you really think you'd won for sure, little Junior?
Molly walked to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, a flash of determination in her eyes.
Perhaps... it was time to visit some "old friends."
For the "honor" of the Weasley family, and for herself.
A burst of green flames shot up in the fireplace, then quickly extinguished.
Molly Prewett stepped elegantly out of the flames. She gently dusted off non-existent dust from her plain but clean coarse robe, her expression having switched from the cold determination just now back to that perfect gentleness tinged with a hint of sorrow and kindness.
This was no longer the messy yet cozy kitchen of the Burrow, but a reception room decorated extremely luxuriously and filled with classical artistic atmosphere.
Thick oriental carpets embroidered with silver unicorn patterns covered the floor, magical oil paintings that automatically changed scenery hung on the walls, and the air was filled with the expensive scent of incense mixed with ambergris and moonflower.
"Oh, dear Molly, what wind blew you here?"
A slightly lazy and somewhat arrogant female voice came from the sofa.
A noblewoman wearing a dark green silk dressing gown, holding a cup of steaming black tea, was looking her up and down with a scrutinizing gaze.
This was Elara Blackwood, a distant relative of the Prewett family and a somewhat famous socialite in the pure-blood wizard circle.
Her favorite pastime was collecting various gossip and using it as conversation fodder in the "Witch's Afternoon Tea Salon" she hosted, cleverly influencing public opinion.
"Elara, dear, I'm so sorry to disturb you without an appointment."
Molly immediately showed an apologetic, incredibly sincere smile.
She walked up quickly, sat naturally on the single sofa next to Elara, and then, as if finally finding someone to confide in, sighed with infinite worry.
Elara took a sip of tea, didn't speak, just raised an eyebrow, signaling her to continue with her eyes.
She knew Molly never visited without reason; every time she sighed like this, it meant a "good show" was about to start.
"I... I really don't know what to do."
Molly's voice was pressed very low, carrying a perfectly measured raspiness and helplessness of a mother worried sick about her child.
"It's about our Ron... Sigh, Hogwarts these days is really becoming harder and harder to understand."
She didn't state the matter directly but threw out a hook first, steering the topic toward "changes at Hogwarts," which immediately piqued Elara's interest.
"Oh?
What new trick has that old man come up with?" Elara put down her teacup, leaning forward slightly.
"No... it has nothing to do with Headmaster Dumbledore.
The Headmaster... he is naturally great, just... perhaps due to his age, there are some things he might not have noticed." Molly first defended the Headmaster's authority, then changed the subject, wearing an expression of "I'm just an ordinary mother, I'm really worried."
"It's about the youngest son of the Rosier family, Jerry Rosier."
When this name came out of Molly's mouth, a flash of imperceptible light passed through Elara's eyes.
Of course she knew this boy; recently, the entire Diagon Alley was talking about him and his Crystal Golems.
"I just received a call from Ron. He was crying on the phone... oh, Merlin, my heart broke."
Molly dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief appropriately, as if there were really tears there. "Do you know, Elara?
That little Rosier boy actually publicly recruited 'apprentices' inside Hogwarts!"
"I have heard about that!"
Elara's tone carried a hint of disdain. "Isn't it just some novel little gadgets?"
"More than just gadgets!"
Molly's voice was filled with worry "for the children's good." "He actually offered those so-called 'apprentices' a salary of 5 Galleons a week!
Heavens, Elara, can you believe it?
Buying students with Gold Galleons in a sacred magic school!
This... how is this different from bribery?
What will those children from ordinary families think?
Will they still put their minds on learning magic in the future?
Will they do anything for money?"
She cleverly shifted the focus from "Ron being rejected" to the moral high ground of "money corrupting the campus."
She knew that pure-blood nobles like Elara, who prided themselves on elegance, looked down most on this kind of naked, vulgar monetary transaction.
Sure enough, Elara frowned.
"5 Galleons a week? Hmph, truly vulgar."
"Isn't it just!"
Molly immediately agreed, the worry on her face deepening. "But the problem is, the children don't understand this!
They only see the Gold Galleons!
What's even more excessive is that he didn't allow our Ron to participate!
Ron just went to sign up, but was driven out by that Malfoy boy, and... and mocked our family for being poor... Woo woo..."
As she spoke, her eyes really reddened, and her voice carried a genuine choke.
This time, she really felt aggrieved and angry.
This natural flow of emotion made her performance at this moment appear seamless.
"How could they do this?
Our Weasley family... our Prewett family, is also an ancient pure-blood family!
Even if... even if we aren't well-off right now, we shouldn't be humiliated like this by a Slytherin brat!"
Elara's face darkened.
She didn't care if the Weasleys were poor, but she cared about the "face of pure-blood families."
Molly's tearful complaint successfully escalated this matter from a family grievance to the opposition of families and even house factions.
"That Rosier, he rejected Ron?"
"Yes!"
Molly wiped her "tears," her voice full of grievance and confusion.
Elara picked up her teacup, blew on it gently, her eyes already cold and sharp.
"So, he wants to form his own little clique in the school now?"
"Exactly!"
Seeing the time was right, Molly immediately added the most crucial firewood.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice further, with a tone of sharing a secret yet full of fear.
"And... Elara, don't you think this is terrifying?
An eleven-year-old child, where did he get so many Gold Galleons?
Did his father really leave that much inheritance?
And those Crystal Golems, who knows what they are?
Have they passed the Ministry's safety certification? What if... what if those things are some dangerous dark magic creations?
Using money and technology to cultivate forces loyal only to himself within Hogwarts... this... this reminds me of some very bad things..."
She didn't finish her sentence, but the phrase "very bad things" was enough for Elara to associate it with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
The atmosphere in the reception room froze instantly.
Molly lowered her head, speaking no more, just holding the black tea on the table and blowing gently, looking like an innocent lamb who was frightened but gathered courage to speak the truth for justice.
And in Elara Blackwood's eyes, a raging fire had already ignited.
She seemed to already see the shocked, angry expressions of those witches, and their new respect for her, when she threw out this "exclusive scoop" at tomorrow's afternoon tea salon.
"Molly, dear!"
Elara held Molly's hand again, her tone becoming incredibly affectionate and firm. "Don't worry, you came to the right person today.
I will absolutely not sit by and watch you suffer grievance!
This matter concerns the purity of the entire wizarding world and the peace of the children; we must... let everyone know the truth!"
After sending Molly away with the sweetest words and firmest promises.
The affection and sympathy on Elara Blackwood's face vanished instantly without a trace.
She elegantly picked up the cup of cold black tea, took a sip, and the corner of her mouth hooked into a cold, victor's smile.
Molly Weasley... what a useful, stupid woman.
She walked to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of golden Floo powder, and clearly pronounced a name:
"Evelyn Grey, Witch Weekly Office."
The flames suddenly turned emerald green. Elara only said one sentence: "Come to my manor, I have an exclusive scoop," then cut off the connection decisively.
She knew Evelyn would come as fast as she could.
Within ten minutes, the flames in the fireplace rose again, and a tall figure walked out.
The visitor was the chief reporter of Witch Weekly, Evelyn Grey.
She wasn't wearing the gorgeous robes that fit the magazine's fashionable style, but chose an extremely exquisite smoke-grey suit that looked more like something an old-school Ministry official would wear.
The upper body was a fitted double-breasted vest, perfectly outlining her slender waist and full bust, with a meticulously buttoned white shirt inside.
The lower body was a knee-length pencil skirt with a very measured slit on the side, revealing a glimpse of a tight calf wrapped in black stockings as she walked.
This outfit seemed somewhat inappropriately serious and professional in Elara's luxurious Rococo-style reception room, but due to its extremely fitted cut, it revealed an ascetic yet contradictory, hidden charm.
On her face, she wore a pair of thin-rimmed gold glasses. Behind the lenses were a pair of eyes as sharp as a falcon's, seeming capable of seeing through all lies.
Most notably, her wand was still not in her hand but cleverly tucked into an exquisite leather wristband on her left wrist, looking like a unique accessory, but no one doubted she could have it in her hand in a tenth of a second, ready to cast spells or record.
"Mrs. Blackwood!"
Evelyn's voice, like her attire, was calm, capable, and devoid of any superfluous emotion. "The 'exclusive scoop' you mentioned better be worth me missing a column on 'New Breakthroughs in Golden Snitch Breeding'."
"Trust me, Miss Grey!"
Elara gracefully gestured for her to "please sit" and personally poured her a cup of steaming black tea: "What I'm giving you today is enough to get you an unmatched nomination for this year's 'Pulitzer Magic News Prize'."
"An eleven-year-old Slytherin freshman has privately opened a 'Magic Workshop' full of unknown dangers within Hogwarts Castle."
Elara slowly stated the facts she had just "integrated" and "processed" from Molly in a tone full of dramatic tension.
"And our respectable Headmaster Dumbledore seems to know nothing about this, or rather... has tacitly allowed all this to happen.
What do you think of this story?"
Evelyn didn't speak immediately.
Silence filled the reception room, save for the slight crackling of the burning fire in the fireplace.
"You mean Jerry?"
"Yes!"
"Then how many Gold Galleons do you want?"
Evelyn's direct, almost rude question caused the confident, elegant smile on Elara's face to freeze for a moment.
Elara had prepared a whole set of rhetoric and negotiation skills, ready to enjoy a "game" full of intellectual superiority, playing with the other party's curiosity and professional ambition.
She had expected Evelyn to be shocked, to question, to be excited, to haggle with her verbally to grab the exclusive...
But the only thing she hadn't expected was for the other party to be so crisp and neat, directly skipping all processes, turning this meeting, which should have been an "intelligence transaction," into a "commodity inquiry" with a cold and pragmatic attitude akin to "procurement."
For a moment, Elara even had the illusion that she wasn't selling intelligence, but selling some luxury goods with a clearly marked price.
After experiencing a brief astonishment, Elara quickly adjusted her mindset and keenly captured the deeper meaning hidden behind this abnormal question.
Evelyn's interest in this piece of intelligence was far greater... than she had imagined.
So great that she didn't even bother to use her identity as a reporter to disguise and suppress the price.
This was truly... too interesting.
The smile on Elara's face bloomed again, but this time, there was less dramatic performance and more shrewd, cold calculation belonging to a merchant.
She didn't answer Evelyn's question directly but re-examined the chief reporter in the ascetic suit, radiating an aura of "strangers keep away," with interest using her always-smiling eyes.
"Miss Grey, you seem... to care even more about our eleven-year-old 'genius' than I imagined."
Elara's voice was seductive and full of suggestion. She picked up the teacup, lightly touching the rim to her lips. "Usually, the value of a piece of news depends on the sensational effect and reader feedback it can bring.
But now it seems... this news seems to have... special value to you personally?"
Evelyn pushed the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose expressionlessly. The lenses reflected a cold light, perfectly hiding the flash of heat in the depths of her eyes caused by memories.
"I mean, how many Gold Galleons do you want to keep your mouth shut?"
The face that always wore a perfect smile froze completely.
Time seemed to solidify at this moment.
The expensive, artistic decorations in the reception room seemed ridiculous and cold at this moment.
Elara thought this was a transaction, a mind game where she could dominate the rhythm, enjoy the process, and ultimately profit.
But Evelyn's words instantly overturned the nature of this game completely.
This wasn't a transaction.
This was a warning.
This wasn't buying news; this was buying her... silence.
"What... do you mean by that?"
For the first time, an uncontrollable, subtle dryness appeared in Elara's voice.
The smile on her face had vanished.
Evelyn didn't answer her question.
She simply put down the teacup in her hand. The crisp sound of white porcelain colliding with the saucer was exceptionally harsh in the deathly silent reception room.
Then, the chief reporter capable of wrestling with Rita Skeeter stood up directly.
Evelyn's tall and upright figure seemed to cast a huge, suffocating shadow at this moment, completely enveloping Elara.
She turned around, striding with those incredibly long legs wrapped in black stockings, walking straight toward the fireplace without any lingering.
That crisp posture of preparing to leave made Elara feel a chill rising from the depths of her spine, more than any threatening words.
"Think of a number and tell me!" Evelyn's voice came from the front, calm, indifferent, yet carrying an unquestionable, condescending decisiveness: "I'll have Rosier give you the money, then you keep your mouth shut."
Evelyn walked to the fireplace, stopped, turned sideways, and looked coldly at the pale-faced Elara through the dim light with those sharp eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses.
"Trust me, Mrs. Blackwood!"
The corner of Evelyn's mouth hooked into an extremely faint arc, bordering on mockery. "This chess game is not something you can meddle in."
"If you still want to maintain your dignity."
"Dignity!"
This word was like an invisible, yet incredibly loud slap, hitting Elara hard on the face.
In this instant, Elara finally understood.
Evelyn Grey wasn't representing herself, nor Witch Weekly.
She was representing that damned brat, Jerry Rosier.
Someone who could make the calm, utilitarian, even cold-blooded Evelyn Grey willing to put down her identity as a reporter and turn into a "cleaner"...
What on earth happened in the wizarding world?
A bone-chilling cold instantly shot from the soles of her feet straight to the top of her skull.
Elara realized only then that today, she might have really... provoked an existence she absolutely shouldn't have provoked.
She thought she was toying with a harmless lamb she could manipulate at will, but under that lambskin was a prehistoric, terrifying behemoth she couldn't even see clearly.
"Stop."
Just as Evelyn's hand was about to touch the jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece, Elara's voice rang out again.
She stood up from the sofa. Because her movement was too fast, she even knocked over the cup of black tea she hadn't touched. The tea spilled onto the expensive Persian carpet, leaving a glaring stain like fresh blood.
Elara stared dead at Evelyn's back, asking word by word:
"Tell me, Miss Grey.
An eleven-year-old boy, what... gives you the confidence to use this tone, in my Blackwood Manor, to threaten a... Blackwood?"
Evelyn turned around slowly. Looking at the somewhat composed Elara, the cold expression on her face finally loosened a bit.
It was an expression... similar to pity.
"I am not threatening you, Madam."
Evelyn said calmly, "I am giving you a suggestion. A... kind suggestion."
She paused, adjusting her glasses, the gaze behind the lenses becoming deep and... complex.
"As for my confidence..."
Evelyn was silent for a moment, seeming to weigh her words, or perhaps recalling some scene that still made her shudder.
Ultimately, Evelyn simply shook her head lightly.
"That's not important," Evelyn said. "What's important is that you now have two choices."
"First, you treat everything you heard today as a boring joke, and we both forget about it."
"Second," Evelyn's gaze became sharp as a knife again, "You name a price, a price that will make you forget this joke forever."
"Personally, I suggest you choose the second."
"Because..." Evelyn's voice dropped extremely low, like a devil's whisper, "I'm not sure if Mr. Rosier is someone who... likes people treating him as a joke."
After saying this, she added another sentence, and this sentence, like the last straw, completely crushed Elara's crumbling, false dignity.
"Also, you should be grateful!"
Evelyn pushed her glasses, the gaze behind the lenses devoid of any warmth: "Your guest for afternoon tea today is me.
Not Rita Skeeter."
Rita Skeeter.
This name was like a vicious curse, making Elara's body tremble violently.
As a broker living on intelligence and secrets, she knew better than anyone how terrifying that woman with the blonde curls and the Quick-Quotes Quill always in hand was.
That was a complete madwoman with no bottom line or professional ethics!
She had no interest in the truth; she only chased the filthiest, most sensational "stories" that could detonate public opinion and bring her fame and fortune.
Watching Elara's face turn instantly pale, Evelyn knew she had completely understood.
"If she were sitting here!"
Evelyn's tone was like stating an irrevocable fact that had already happened. "She wouldn't give you a chance to name a price.
She would compliment you with the sweetest words while letting her quill exaggerate the 'scoop' you just told her a hundred times over with added embellishments.
She would write a horrifying story about 'the heir of an ancient pure-blood family degenerating into a Dark Lord, enslaving the Savior with an evil contract, and plotting to overthrow Hogwarts.'
However, this story would never be published.
And she would be respectfully sent away by you."
"But, an hour later, you wouldn't be sitting here smugly drinking black tea." Evelyn's gaze slowly fell on the tea stain that had begun to seep into the carpet, her voice as light as a sigh. "You might... already be on the run.
If you can still run away."
Deathly silence.
The reception room fell into a complete deathly silence.
"...Name a price."
"I'll keep my mouth shut."
After a long time, Elara's voice sounded again.
There was no joy of victory on Evelyn's face.
She simply stated a number calmly, like a machine that had completed a preset program.
"Five hundred Gold Galleons."
This number was neither too much nor too little.
Seeing Elara's acquiescence to the price, Evelyn took her wand from her wristband and waved it gently.
A brand-new, blank piece of parchment and a quill flew automatically to Elara.
"Tomorrow morning, I will have the goblins at Gringotts transfer the money to your account.
The nominal reason for this money is the 'Exclusive Fashion Trend Observation Consultant Fee' paid to you by Witch Weekly."
Evelyn's voice returned to businesslike coldness: "And you, Mrs. Blackwood, will forget this conversation with me today.
You will even forget that Molly Weasley ever came."
"If, and I mean if, anyone asks!"
Evelyn's gaze became sharp. "You will only remember that Mrs. Weasley came to you today just to have a cup of tea and incidentally cry about her son's terrible Potions grades.
That is all.
Do you understand?"
Elara nodded mechanically, like a puppet whose soul had been drained.
"Very good."
"One last piece of advice for you: interact less with Mrs. Weasley, that kind of Gryffindor fool.
Perhaps she was indeed a prominent figure in her house back in the day, but I don't think a pure-blood sow who desperately gives birth to children one after another... has any wisdom left!"
Evelyn withdrew her wand, didn't look at her again, turned, and walked decisively into the emerald green Floo network flames, disappearing.
The emerald green flames in the fireplace retracted abruptly, and Evelyn Grey's tall figure appeared in the empty editor-in-chief's office of Witch Weekly.
It was late at night. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling window, the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley had long faded, leaving only a few lonely magical lights flickering in the darkness.
The office was filled with a familiar scent mixed with the ink of high-quality parchment and old books, which relaxed her tense nerves slightly.
Evelyn took off the meticulous smoke-grey jacket, draped it casually over the back of the chair, and then walked to sit behind the huge desk.
Piled high on the desk were manuscripts waiting for review and owl posts from all over the world, but she had no mood to deal with them now.
Evelyn took off her gold-rimmed glasses and pressed her brow hard with her fingers.
Why?
Evelyn asked herself in her heart.
Why am I wiping that brat's ass?
A clear image, which made her own cheeks burn, floated up uncontrollably from the depths of her memory—at that damn Thanksgiving banquet, the eleven-year-old boy displayed his majestic weapon, completely beyond common sense and full of savage vitality, in front of her in a way bordering on humiliation.
Just because of that?
The corner of Evelyn's mouth hooked into a self-mocking sneer.
Just because that brat's meat-root was huge?
So huge that it made her, a woman who had been single for more than ten years and claimed to have a heart as still as water, have several unspeakable, wet dreams afterwards?
Evelyn shook her head, forcibly expelling those absurd and erotic images from her mind.
No.
This was definitely not the reason.
In Evelyn's life creed, desire was always just a tool, not the master.
She, Evelyn Grey, could climb from a penniless mixed-blood orphan to the position of chief reporter of Witch Weekly not by her body, but by her brain, which was calmer and more utilitarian than any pure-blood wizard.
A man who could make her lower her dignity, spare no expense to pay out of her own pocket, and even use near-threatening methods to settle a potential trouble... his value definitely lay not just in that body capable of driving any woman crazy.
So, what was the real reason?
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, put her glasses back on, and the gaze behind the lenses became sharp and clear in the darkness.
She figured it out quickly.
The answer was actually very simple.
Because she was bullish on this brat.
She was bullish on his arrogance that disregarded rules, his eyes full of predation and ambition, and his innate leadership aura like a black hole capable of sucking everything in.
She had a strong premonition that this boy named Jerry Rosier would inevitably stir up the wind and clouds of the entire wizarding world in the near future, becoming an... unprecedented "big news."
And Evelyn, as a top reporter, was best at placing bets in advance before the news happened.
Of course, her judgment alone wasn't enough to make her pay such a high price.
What really made Evelyn make up her mind was another person—Rita Skeeter.
At the Thanksgiving banquet, she saw clearly that the look in Rita's eyes when looking at that boy was exactly the same as her own—that look full of greed and fanaticism, like a hungry wolf discovering top-tier prey!
Evelyn and Rita had fought for a full ten years.
They were each other's most hated nemesis, but also the confidant who knew the other best.
Their tastes and values might be worlds apart, but they had astonishing consistency in their sense for "news value."
If one of them was wrong, it was excusable.
But if both she and Rita were bullish on one person at the same time...
Then there could be no mistake in this matter!
Thinking this through, Evelyn's mood cleared up.
She chuckled lightly, took out the special Gringotts checkbook from the drawer, and uncorked the dragon blood ink bottle.
Scratch scratch scratch...
The quill moved quickly across the check, leaving a string of smooth and elegant flowing script, and a clear number—"Five Hundred Only."
After signing this huge check enough to drive any ordinary wizarding family crazy, Evelyn didn't send it out immediately.
Evelyn clipped the check together with the blank "Consultant Contract" into a file bag, ready to have an owl deliver it to Elara's manor early tomorrow morning.
After doing all this, that smile mixed with shrewdness and cunning appeared on her face again.
Five hundred Gold Galleons... this wasn't a small amount.
She, Evelyn Grey, wouldn't do a losing business.
She was just "advancing" this money temporarily.
Standing up and stretching, the ascetic grey suit once again outlined her thrilling body curves due to this action.
It seemed... it was time to visit Hogwarts again.
She had to go find that brat personally and "reimburse" this "hush money" properly.
After all, she, Evelyn Grey, was just a poor chief reporter running around for truth and justice.
Wasn't she?
Evelyn didn't choose the conventional way of visiting.
For a top reporter, entering through the front door was always the last and most ineffective choice.
However, when Evelyn quietly arrived at her destination, she keenly sensed another fluctuation of magic power.
That magic fluctuation was full of anxiety, anger, and a kind of... clumsy unfamiliarity with technology.
Evelyn's body immediately pressed tightly against the shadows at the corner, her breathing seemingly stopped.
She cast her gaze toward the stone door and saw a woman with a voluptuous figure, wearing a plain brown robe, holding a wand and poking randomly at the magical lock on the door.
It was Molly Weasley.
Evelyn recognized her almost immediately.
A washed-up Gryffindor who had vanished after the war, thoroughly reduced to a housewife.
"Alohomora!"
"Opening Charm!"
"Melting Curse! Melt!"
Molly lowered her voice, trying several basic unlocking spells in succession, but the runes on the door merely flickered contemptuously a few times before giving no response.
Years of domestic life had evidently caused her once-exquisite casting skills to regress to a pathetic level. Molly's movements were impatient and lacked discipline; every cast leaked a massive amount of excess mana. In the eyes of a professional like Evelyn, she looked like an infant trying to run a marathon just after learning to walk.
"Damn it!
Damn little bastard!"
After failing more than a dozen times in a row, Molly finally lost all patience.
Molly took two steps back and raised her wand. A Blasting Curse, filled with irritable power, formed rapidly at the tip of her wand.
Evelyn's eyebrows raised slightly.
How stupid. Breaking the door this way would alert the entire dungeon.
"Reducto!"
"Boom!"
A muffled explosion, mixed with the sound of flying stone chips. The sturdy stone door shook violently. Although it wasn't completely blown apart, the hinges and locking mechanism were thoroughly destroyed by this brute force.
Molly panted heavily and pushed hard. With a piercing grinding sound, the heavy stone door was pushed open to a crack wide enough for one person.
She slipped in without hesitation.
Evelyn didn't move.
Like a patient cheetah, she lay dormant in the darkness, waiting for the prey to expose a flaw.
She could hear Molly's unsuppressable, angry questioning coming from the crack in the door, and... a boy's response, calm to the point of coldness.
A few minutes later, a woman's short gasp and the crisp sound of a wand hitting the ground broke the standoff.
Immediately after, everything went quiet.
An ominous silence that made one's heart constrict.
Evelyn's hound-like intuition as a reporter was screaming at her wildly.
Something... had happened inside.
She took a deep breath, her body turning into a nearly imperceptible shadow. Like flowing water, she slipped silently through the crack in the door, then hid again in the shadows of a row of giant, semi-finished golems at the entrance.
The scene inside the workshop made even Evelyn, who was accustomed to various grand spectacles, feel a pang of alarm.
Molly Weasley, the witch who was aggressive just a moment ago, was now tied by the hands and suspended in mid-air in an extremely humiliating posture by a metal arm hanging from the ceiling, sparking with weak electricity.
Molly Weasley's wand had fallen on the ground not far away. The plain brown robe on her body had been roughly torn open from the middle, revealing the mature, voluptuous body inside that, despite years of housework, remained quite plump and well-maintained.
And standing in front of her was her target for tonight—Jerry Rosier.
There was no expression on the boy's face.
He just stood there calmly, looking Molly up and down with the cold gaze of someone inspecting goods, like she was a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.
"Mrs. Weasley!" Jerry's voice broke the suffocating silence. "Trespassing on private territory and attempting to threaten with violence... Do you know that under Ministry laws, I have the right to kill you on the spot?"
"You... you demon!
You dare!" Molly's body trembled violently from fear and anger, but she still refused to submit verbally. "What did you do to my son?
What did you do to those students?
You damn Slytherin! I'm going to tell Dumbledore! I want..."
"Shut up."
Jerry just coldly spat out two words.
The metal arm binding Molly's wrists tightened abruptly, and a strong electric current surged through instantly, causing Molly's body to tremble violently. A painful moan escaped her throat, choking back all her words.
Jerry walked slowly up to her, reached out, and with two fingers, pinched her chin, which was slightly open from pain, forcing her to lift her head.
"Now, let's talk about... that bet."
The corners of Jerry's mouth curled into a cruel arc. "Since you are so impatient to fulfill your 'promise' early, then... I must naturally satisfy you."
After speaking, he let go, and then made a move that caused Evelyn, hiding in the shadows, to feel her pupils shrink violently.
He began... to unbuckle his trousers.
Accompanied by the crisp sound of the belt buckle, thwack, it sprang out.
Under the dim light of the workshop's magic crystals, that thing presented a healthy, vibrant purple-red color.
At the tip, scattered drops of crystal-clear fluid were already secreting due to excitement.
Molly's eyes went wide instantly.
On her face, the looks of anger and fear were replaced in this moment by a more primal shock and horror—a female instinct facing a massive male meat-root.
"No... no... you can't..."
She struggled incoherently, but the metal arm bound her even tighter. Her plump, mature body twisted futilely in mid-air, looking instead more like... a lewd invitation.
Jerry ignored her pleading.
He walked behind her. With one hand, he effortlessly spread her plump thighs—clad in coarse stockings and already slightly parted from being suspended—even wider.
In his other hand, Jerry took out a small magical device that looked like a Muggle camera.
"Smile, Mrs. Weasley."
Jerry said, "This is the glorious proof of you fulfilling the bet."
Click.
A blinding flash lit up, clearly freezing Molly's face full of despair and humiliation, as well as her lush pubic bush, fully exposed after her legs were forcibly spread.
Seeing this scene, Evelyn, hiding in the shadows, felt her breath hitch violently.
A feeling she had never experienced before—a mix of intense professional excitement, moral discomfort, and a sinful physiological impulse that made her feel ashamed—swept through her entire body like a bursting dam!
This... what a... sensational, shocking piece of big news!
An eleven-year-old freshman raping a highly respected, married witch!
This thought struck her soul like a bolt of lightning.
Her body began to tremble uncontrollably.
And in the center of the workshop, the cruel atrocity had only just begun.
Jerry put away the camera and ground gently against her, not entering immediately.
Squelch... squelch...
The sticky, wet sounds seemed exceptionally clear and lewd in the silent workshop.
"No... please... Jerry... for God's sake... I... I am Ron's mother..."
Molly's voice was tearful; she had completely given up resistance.
"I know." Jerry whispered in her ear with a demonic voice, "But that's exactly why... I am fucking your son's mother."
The moment the words fell, his waist sank abruptly!
Squelch!
A sound like a ripe melon being brutally pierced—a dull yet loud sound of flesh penetration—rang out!
"Ahhh!"
A scream, shrill to the extreme and inhuman, burst from Molly's throat!
Too... too big!
That giant meat-root, completely beyond her imagination, carried a crushing, unquestionable savage power. Brutally and mercilessly, it buried itself entirely into her passage, which had only ever been entered by her husband, reaching a depth never before attained!
"Too... deep!"
Agony!
An intense pain, like being impaled alive by a red-hot iron rod, instantly spread through Molly's limbs and bones!
Evelyn hid in the shadows, covering her mouth tightly with her hand to stop herself from crying out in alarm!
Her legs went weak uncontrollably, and she slumped against the cold wall behind her.
A scorching, unfamiliar heat flow gushed from the depths of her lower abdomen, instantly soaking her expensive, handmade silk panties.
Evelyn's body was actually... soaked just by watching.
And Jerry's movements did not stop at all.
With one hand, he still held the magic camera, constantly adjusting the angle, click, click, recording the tightly joined, lewd union of their bodies, recording Molly's face twisted by extreme pain and humiliation.
The other hand held her plump waist, which was shaking violently from being forcibly penetrated, and he began a storm-like, violent pumping!
Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!
The massive meat-root slapped against her mature, voluptuous, snow-white butt cheeks, creating loud and rhythmic lewd echoes!
Squelch... squish... squelch... squish...
Every time it pulled out, the purple-red giant covered in sticky love juices would bring out a large patch of lewd foam, and then in the next second, wrapped in these dirty fluids, it would once again mercilessly ram completely into that wet, hot passage that had begun to contract in unconscious spasms!
Molly's screams had turned into intermittent, desperate moans and sobbing.
Her consciousness was repeatedly torn between extreme pain and a sinful, immoral, conquered pleasure generated by her body being completely filled and penetrated by a massive foreign object, nearing collapse.
"No... ah... stop filming... please... ah!
So deep... going to... going to break... woo woo..."
Evelyn leaned against the cold wall, her body frighteningly hot.
Evelyn could no longer endure the empty and hot feeling, as if billions of ants were gnawing at her soul.
Evelyn's hand, trembling, undid the buttons of her smoke-grey pencil skirt, and then, following the edge of the smooth black stockings, reached into her panties which were already muddy and soaked.
Evelyn's fingers, clumsy and urgent, explored that muddy jungle. Evelyn could clearly hear the squelch, squelch sounds coming from below her, almost identical to the lewd water sounds in the center of the workshop.
Evelyn mimicked the boy, using two fingers to spread her own equally plump flower petals, then used her fingertips to quickly draw circles on the little pearl that was already swollen to the size of a red bean due to excessive excitement.
"Mmh... ah..."
An unprecedented, strong pleasure like an electric current instantly rushed from Evelyn's lower body straight to the top of her skull!
It made her legs begin to go soft and tremble uncontrollably.
Her gaze, however, still stared deadly and greedily at the mature and voluptuous body in the distance that was being frantically violated by an eleven-year-old boy in the crudest and most primal way.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but just as Evelyn felt she was about to be driven mad by the increasingly intense pleasure, Jerry in the center of the workshop let out a low, satisfied roar.
"Take it all... Mrs. Weasley!"
Accompanied by Jerry's declaration full of conquest, his waist began the final, wild, pile-driver-like crazy sprint.
Right in this final sprint, a horrifying change occurred at the tip of the giant object.
Below the tip swollen from engorgement, a ring of dense, semi-transparent structural spikes like some marine creature extended out like blooming petals.
Molly's body suddenly arched into a dying shrimp!
Those structures were not sharp, but their presence was undeniable.
When the hideous giant carrying these structures slowly withdrew, those structures would retract along with it, bringing an indescribable, ultimate stimulation as if scraping her soul out together with it.
In the next second, waves of scalding fluid filled with life energy, like a bursting dam carrying a burning heat, poured unreservedly into Molly's depths.
The moment that scalding, aggressive liquid was injected into the deepest part of her body, Molly's body arched violently, her throat emitting a final high-pitched scream mixed with pain and a twisted sense of relief. Immediately after, she hung limply on the metal arm as if her bones had been removed, completely losing consciousness.
Only her mouth kept mumbling: "...Don't... don't."
Jerry slowly withdrew his meat-root, which was still somewhat large and covered in blood and body fluids.
Almost at the same time, Evelyn hiding in the shadows also thrust her fingers fiercely deep into her own body!
"Mmh!"
Evelyn bit her lip hard, turning the climax scream about to burst out into a muffled nasal sound full of pain and joy.
A stream of scalding love juices, like an out-of-control fountain, gushed out from the depths of Evelyn's convulsing passage, making a mess of her fingers, as well as those expensive stockings and skirt.
The afterglow of the climax had not yet dissipated; Evelyn collapsed in the shadows, panting heavily, not even having the strength to withdraw her finger that was still inserted in her body and covered in her own fluids.
Evelyn's gaze still did not leave the center of the workshop.
She saw Jerry unhurriedly pull up his trousers, then walk to the unconscious Molly. There was no pity on his face; instead, he took out the magic camera and took several close-ups of her ravaged, messy, and miserable appearance, click, click.
After doing all this, he snapped his fingers, and the metal arm holding Molly threw her onto the cold floor like a piece of trash.
"Truly unsatisfying."
The boy looked at the unconscious, mature body on the ground and muttered to himself in a cold tone filled with regret.
Then, as if suddenly sensing something, Jerry abruptly turned his bottomless, abyss-like black eyes toward the shadows where Evelyn was hiding.