7.5 years later
Seven and a half years later, Pansy Parkinson's worst nightmares were beginning to unfold before her, weaving around her like a shroud. She felt herself slipping into a role she had never wanted: a mere pawn in Draco Malfoy’s game, a slave with no control over her own fate. The cold, unforgiving walls of Malfoy Manor loomed ominously behind her—its grandeur now tainted by the reality of her captivity. The once-pristine manor, with its imposing stone facade and dark, intricately carved doorways, stood like a fortress against the angry world outside. The sprawling gardens, once vibrant and filled with the lush colors of blooming flowers, had transformed into a twisted reflection of her despair, their beauty now overshadowed by an air of foreboding.
The students who once dared to protest their circumstances had fallen silent, silenced by the threats of Lord Parkinson, Pansy's father. His ruthless ambition assured that anyone who stood against their family would meet a grim fate, and it was a fear that gripped the hearts of many. They lived in constant dread, aware that their actions could endanger their families as well. Pansy felt trapped in a web of fear and dread, feeling the weight of her predicament crushing her spirit. Even Aorista, her once formidable friend, was visibly shaken; she was supposed to be an ally, a supporter. Yet now, she watched Pansy’s plight unfold with a heavy heart, knowing it was too late to intervene.
Draco was bound by the ancient, suffocating contract that dictated his life—the ceremony meant to bind him to a single wife, a contract that now twisted Pansy into a mere shadow of herself, stripped of autonomy. Aorista never loved Draco, not truly; their shared history had crumbles beneath the weight of his arrogance and ego. The Malfoys had always been a despicable family in Pansy's eyes, but now they were a living nightmare, a reality she could neither escape nor deny.
As Pansy walked down the aisle, her heart pounded in her chest. She recalled Harry Potter’s parting words, a haunting memory echoing in her mind like a distant storm. With every step, she whispered silent prayers, wrestling with hope and despair, wishing for an impossible miracle. 'Please, let it be over,' she thought, her heart full of anguish.
Suddenly, the serenity was shattered by an explosive boom that echoed across the landscape. Everyone turned in shock towards Malfoy Manor, where flames danced dangerously around its once-immaculate towers. The inferno was chaotic and beautiful, a stark contrast to the misery surrounding its inhabitants. Loud bangs filled the air, mingled with the terrified screams of those who stood helplessly watching. In the midst of the mayhem, one of Lucius's guards collapsed, blood spilling across the grass—what had seemed like a celebration of control turned to horror in the blink of an eye.
From the chaos emerged a figure, a young man with an unyielding gaze, holding both a wand and something far more mundane—a gun. The moment he stepped closer, recognition washed over the crowd like a tidal wave. “Father?!?!” Lucius Malfoy’s disbelief rang bitterly into the air.
“Hello, Lucius, my dear. Look what you’ve done to the house. So lifeless now, but I don’t care,” the young man stated coolly. “The French family has assumed control of the lordship. We’ve left you a dowry.” He paused, a calculated smile curling his lips. “Oh, and Narcissa dear, you are now divorced from Lucius. It was the last order Sirius placed in his will when he passed. You are a Black. Now where was I, oh right.”
Abraxas Malfoy stepped aside, revealing a scene that wrenched the air thick with tension.
“POTTER!”
Lucius Malfoy shouted, his voice a sharp edge of fury. In an explosive motion, he drew his wand and unleashed a savage curse aimed directly at Harry Potter's wand arm. The spell struck with devastating force, and in a horrific instant, Potter's arm was blasted away, leaving a previously healed stump where it had been. Gasps echoed through the garden of Malfoy Manor as the Slytherins recoiled in shocked disbelief. Harry Potter—who had once been a symbol of hope—now returned transformed by tragedy, missing an arm and accompanied by the eerie reminder of death.
As he moved through the grandiosity of the manor's garden—a place steeped in the dark elegance—the atmosphere crackled with unease. Yet, with a flicker of willpower, Harry's severed metallic arm flew back through the air, reattaching itself to his shoulder in a miraculous reunion, hanging motionless at his side.
He strode purposefully toward Pansy Parkinson, extending his hand with an earnest urgency. “Ready to be saved, Miss Parkinson?” he inquired, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them.
“Yes, Harry,” she replied, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“Hadrian, Miss Parkinson. My name is Hadrian,” he clarified, engulfing her hand in a reassuring grip as they began to make their escape. Just then, a priest—a supposed ally of the Parkinson family—desperate to assert his power, aimed his wand at Hadrian's back. However, his ambitions were cut abruptly short when a skeletal hand emerged from the shadows, clasping tightly onto his shoulder. The apparition of death loomed before him, and without warning, the priest collapsed, his lifeless body crumpling to the ground. A unseeing bystander to the grim fate that had befallen him, Hadrian continued onward with Pansy at his side.
Meanwhile, Lord Malfoy surveyed the remnants of his once-opulent manor, its grandeur now marred by chaos. The estate—renowned for its sprawling gardens and intricately designed hedges—was overrun with members of the French branch of the Malfoy family, sifting through the valuable artifacts and elegant furnishings they deemed worthy of reclamation. Lucius engaged in a furious argument with a cousin over control and ownership, but the exchange proved futile, escalating into a cacophony of shouting.
The Parkinson's, unwilling to accept this trespass, rallied together. Lady Parkinson seized Pansy's hand, yanking her back toward their family with a look of defiance. “You will not take our daughter, you scum!” she hissed.
Without warning, cobalt flames erupted just to the left of Hadrian, illuminating the gardens with an eerie blue glow. Five figures emerged from the flames — four wielding rifles aimed directly at the Parkinson's, while one, empty-handed, glared intensely at the group. The unmistakable familiarity of the lone figure sent a shiver down the spines of Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson.
“Marlo,” Mr. Parkinson uttered, a mix of disgust and frustration dancing in his voice. “Mother, Father, it's good to see you again. Or it would be, if you weren’t so out of time. Father, you are regent; you do not make decisions for the house anymore. I do. And my sister will be going with the young master back to Finland. Now, Mother, unhand her.”
“You think you can intimidate us with those toys?” Mrs. Parkinson sneered defiantly, raising her wand. “Protego!” she cast, but it was too late. The crew behind Marlo opened fire, and chaos erupted. Though Pansy remained unharmed, Mrs. Parkinson wasn’t so lucky; bullets tore through her chest and head in a horrific instant, leaving her crumpled lifelessly on the ground.
Lord Parkinson, witnessing the loss of his wife, dropped his wand, his heart overcome with despair. He rushed to her side, but death had already claimed her, leaving nothing but a cold stillness in the air.
Hadrian, Pansy, and the others left the manor behind as the aftermath of the confrontation settled in like a heavy fog. In the months that followed, the fabric of the Malfoys collapsed under its own weight. Astoria Malfoy divorced Draco and took his unborn child—of which he was blissfully unaware—leaving the Malfoys of Britain to wallow in their demise.
Narcissa Black nee Malfoy, seeking to redefine her own legacy, married a former Muggle who had been turned into a werewolf, making a bold statement against the old prejudices of her family. The couple relocated to France, where she took a position at Chanel, working alongside Marlo, the very person who assisted this deluge of upheaval.
Over time, Lord Parkinson, consumed by his grief and driven by a desperate need to distance himself from the disgraces of the family, attempted to disown his son as heir. However, Marlo found a loophole that reverted the roles of lord and heir, resulting in Lord Parkinson’s tragic end. The goblins, ever watching, collected on the bets surrounding the family’s downfall, emerging from the fallout with a significant wealth that served as a testament to the fleeting nature of power and legacy.