Isabella had only been here for half a month. Naturally, she didn't yet have deep feelings for her "new" family, but she could feel the kindness from her mother and sister. And so, the responsibilities she should bear—she would bear.
At first, she thought she'd landed in a nightmare opening.
By the standards of future wealth rankings, her family would have been at least "A8.5" in Britain. If her father hadn't lost everything on that one reckless investment, with Eric's old-money connections, he could probably have pushed them up to "A9."
And now? The family's plummet down the class ladder was something Isabella could never stop.
She was self-aware enough to know: if she'd had that kind of ability, she'd already have been financially free in her last life.
So, after seeing nothing but darkness ahead, she sank into despair for a long while. In this strange new world, she tried desperately to trace familiar threads, clinging to the hope of some shred of safety in the grayness.
Then, she noticed the boy who lived.
Isabella admitted it: the moment she learned the Harry Potter film adaptation's casting search had failed miserably, her heart leapt with pounding excitement. It wasn't just because becoming a star was the fastest way for an ordinary person to change fate. It was because HP was the second most successful film franchise in history. The only one bigger at the box office was Star Wars.
If she could wedge herself into that, it wouldn't solve every problem, but at least it would secure their current way of life.
As for the fact she had never acted before?
Please. She was already here—why not give it a shot? And besides, HP's genre said it all.
HP was Young Adult.
In publishing and film, that meant stories for teens. Nobody in YA demanded great acting.
In Isabella's eyes, HP was the best chance to change her fate. And in Katherine's world? Her first reaction was sheer delight. After all, HP was the most popular book in Britain, even the world. The announcement of a film adaptation had every age-appropriate kid dreaming of auditioning. Nobody denied how amazing HP was.
But her second reaction was: no way.
Because Isabella was too pretty.
At ten years old, Isabella had a head of thick, natural golden curls. Though still a child with some baby fat, her tall nose and defined features made her irresistibly cute.
And her eyes—deep blue, bright as the stars, like an endless ocean—were utterly captivating.
Gorgeous looks might conquer the entertainment industry, but for HP? That was a problem.
Because the characters in HP weren't meant to be beautiful.
Take the heroine, Hermione Granger. The book described her with brown eyes, a mass of bushy hair, and prominent front teeth—earning her the nickname "Miss Beaver."
"I think your chances are slim," Katherine muttered, recalling the original text.
"You're just too pretty. Auntie Rowling insisted on accuracy to the books—she wouldn't even compromise on the characters' nationalities. If you're excessively beautiful, I don't think she'd approve."
Isabella wasn't worried at all.
In her past life, the HP films were full of characters completely off from the books.
Like Luna Lovegood. In the novels, she had wild, dirty, waist-length blonde hair, pale skin, almost no eyebrows, and bulging eyes. But the actress who played her—Evanna Lynch? Well, her looks were hardly a problem on screen.
"The chance is right in front of me. What, am I supposed to just sit here and wait to die?"
She looked at her sister. "Keisha, you don't want Mom to sink deeper into despair either, do you?"
"…"
Katherine stared at her. That seriousness made her heart stir, but at the same time, something felt off. Why did her little sister sound so strange lately? Why did she always use that odd, provoking tone?
Still, compared to their family crisis, that was a trivial matter.
So she nodded. "Okay. I think you're right. So what do you need me to do?"
She was convinced.
Isabella smiled, satisfied. "I need you to help me keep this from Mom—and to sneak off with me to HP's offices."
"What???"
Katherine's voice shot up an octave.
Isabella shushed her. "You know Mom hates show business…"
Vivian had grown up in London's West End. She loved performing, yes, but the stage, not the identity of "actor." She despised the entertainment industry.
Because in her eyes, hardly anyone in the arts was "decent."
There was too much filth behind the scenes. The less said, the better. Just consider the Roman Polanski scandal—Europe had countless cases like that.
Vivian had seen too much. And she'd escaped only through sheer luck. So when it came to protecting her daughters, she guarded the line fiercely. She was a brilliant dancer and singer, but she never taught her girls either skill.
HP auditions had started at the beginning of the year, but Vivian had flatly refused to let Isabella attend, even though she was the perfect age.
To Vivian, protecting her daughter meant keeping her far from the industry.
But now? Her daughter had to step into hell to save the family? Truthfully, that would break Vivian faster than losing their class standing.
Still…
Every success had a price, didn't it?
"Oh, Isa… you suddenly feel like a stranger," Katherine sighed.
"Everyone grows up. And growing up happens in an instant," Isabella replied with a raised brow.
"…Fine, fine. I can't win an argument with you. So tell me—what's your plan?" Katherine asked, giving up.
Isabella's lips curled into a sweet smile. "Simple."
"I need you to tell Mom she broke the law today…"
That evening at six, the family gathered around the dinner table.
By A8 standards, all three meals should've been cooked by servants. But Vivian always felt useless if she didn't do anything. So from the day she got married, she'd insisted on preparing every family meal herself.
Of course, Vivian never did the grunt work of washing, chopping, or prepping. All ingredients came pre-cleaned and portioned from specialty companies, and once the meal was over, the dishwasher handled everything else. Couldn't fit the big pans? Then one quick phone call would bring a cleaning service over.
Put simply, what Vivian did wasn't really cooking—it was enjoying the purest pleasure of culinary artistry.
That night's dinner, ever since Eric's passing, was pared down to one meat dish, one vegetable, and one staple.
The meat was roasted lamb chops—small ribs drained of blood, marinated, and slid into the oven for a slow, sixty-minute bake. It looked simple enough, but of course she'd used premium Suffolk Blackface lamb.The vegetable was a chilled Romanesco salad. Romanesco was basically green cauliflower with a spiral pattern—blanch it, toss with diced carrots, add a touch of seasoning, and it was ready. The Romanesco came from Italy; the carrots, from France.The staple was mashed potatoes mixed with green peas—pure carbs, both of them.
To be honest, this sort of combination would be considered a weight-loss meal in China. But in the British Isles, it was far from cheap. The reason was simple: the latitude was too high, the climate too poor—vegetables couldn't grow well.
The staples of the common diet were potatoes and fish. If you wanted leafy greens, you had to import them from the continent. So to have fresh vegetables at every meal, enough to eat your fill, that was the clearest mark of wealth.
Perhaps it was the heavy thoughts weighing on her, or maybe Isabella's plan just sounded too outrageous, but even though the lamb smelled delicious, Katherine couldn't taste it. After Isabella kicked her under the table four or five times, she finally steeled herself and spoke.
"Mom, I need to tell you something."
"Mmm? Is there something you'd like to buy? I'll take you shopping tomorrow."
"Oh… no, no, I don't want anything."
Katherine shook her head, face strained as if constipated. "What I wanted to say is… can Isa and I stay home tomorrow?"
"What?"
Vivian blinked, fork and knife halting over the lamb.
"Why?"
Her brows knitted as she looked at her eldest daughter.
"Well… it's like this…"
Under her mother's steady gaze, Katherine—who hated lying—began to panic. In her head, she cursed Isabella a thousand times for hatching this ridiculous scheme, but outwardly she forced herself to stay calm.
"Because today, after you left, the police came to check on us."
"You remember finding me outside the car when you came back?"
"That was how I handled them."
As one of the oldest developed nations, Britain's human rights laws were world-renowned. When it came to minors, the statutes were crystal clear: children under 13 could not be left in a car without a guardian. To do so was illegal. At minimum, parents could be reprimanded; at worst, they could lose custody.
And if, during that time, the child were injured or worse? That could be prosecuted as child abuse.
By the letter of the law, Vivian had already committed a violation that afternoon by leaving Isabella alone in the car. If Isabella hadn't been clever enough to slip away, the family would've spent the evening at the police station.
Ahem.
That was the exact line Isabella had fed Katherine an hour earlier.
In truth, the law had its loopholes. For example, if an under-13 child was left with an older sibling (though still under 18), and the guardian stepped away briefly—so long as the car was safe, temperate, and the kids unharmed—most courts would treat it as negligence, not a crime. At worst, the police might give a verbal warning.
So really, if Katherine hadn't gone to the bathroom at the wrong time, even if an officer had spotted them, Vivian would likely have gotten off with no more than a lecture.
In other words, Isabella had neatly dumped her own blame onto Katherine's shoulders.
When she first heard it, Katherine had been completely stunned. She never imagined her little sister could be so shameless.
And now, hearing the police had already come, Vivian tensed instantly.
"The police came? What did they say?"
Vivian hadn't followed her husband into death for one reason: her daughters. The idea of losing custody was unbearable.
Her gaze fixed on Katherine, who swallowed and pushed on.
"Oh… Mom… I told them you'd left your handbag at the theatre. And I lied about my age—said I was eighteen. Once they saw the car door could be opened freely, they left. Of course, before going, they warned us not to do it again, even if the neighborhood feels safe."
Katherine really was only thirteen, but already five-foot-four—about 1.63 meters. With her early maturity and the way she looked at social events, most people mistook her for much older.
Relieved, Vivian let out a long breath. Across the table, her daughters' obedient faces only made her feel more drained.
She looked from Katherine to Isabella, and finally her eyes settled on the younger girl.
"Isa, you'll listen to your sister, won't you?"
"Yeah~" Isabella answered with a sweet, harmless smile.
Bluffed through!
Vivian's gaze shifted back to Katherine. "Keisha, don't let Isa drag you into nonsense, okay?"
"…Okay."
Katherine felt the weight of sin on her shoulders.
She'd lied to their mother.
Note:(1) Under UK child protection law, leaving a child under 13 home alone is also not permitted. However, compared with leaving them alone in a car, the chances of prosecution are much lower. That's because passersby can see a child locked in a car and call the police, while children left home are not visible. So what's described here—keeping them at home—is about lowering the risk of being caught, not about it being legal. For many single-parent families, it's the only "least bad" option.