The aurors come before the Prophet's owl.
Just past midnight, during the time of darkness that muggles claim belongs to the next day, the wards of the Manor tremble in warning. Once again Narcissa wakes to her husband's arm tightening around, yet this time her husband's words whisper low and worried in her ear.
"Someone's at the gates."
Never, there has never been and never will be a good reason for someone awaiting entrance to the Manor at this hour. The only question is the type of bad news that these latecomers bring. Has Nott said something to confirm the Ministry's fears that the remaining Death Eaters were never imperiused at all? Does some member of the Order of the Phoenix want revenge for that dead mudblood burned in his home?
Alongside her husband, Narcissa walks the long stone path between the hedges with her hand tucked out of sight, grasping the handle of the wand hidden within the inner pocket of her robes. The hedges rustle in preparation, the defensive magic within their tangled thorns ready to strike at any who threaten the residents of the Manor.
Just outside the tall iron gates stand two men, an auror that Narcissa cannot place and the figure of Rufus Scrimgeour himself, his severe face illuminated by the lumos he holds aloft in the air beside him. So, this is it then? Nott has doomed them all if the Malfoys can't play this right.
"Greetings men, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company at this late hour?" Lucius speaks, his tone carefully controlled caution.
"The Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Bartemius Crouch, is dead," Scrimgeour cuts straight to the point, using none of the stalling pleasantries that the current Minister of Magic would have used in his stead, "The Dark Mark was cast above his home, so all of those who were in the service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, involuntarily or otherwise, are to be brought in for questioning."
"Dead?" her husband swallows, his apparent fear a blend of sincerity and an act, "how–"
"It would be advised, Mr. Malfoy," Scrimgeour cuts in, his tone sharp, "to immediately submit your wand for analysis under the priori incantatem. It would go a long way in proving your innocence if we truly did wake you."
The Head Auror's gaze is cold as he watches Lucius; and even though his wand holds the harmless light of a lumos, it would be child's play for Scrimgeour to slash it down and banish the light in exchange for a more lethal spell.
"Of course," Lucius says, the small tremble to his tone both sincere and not, "if you'll just let me draw it without any…unnecessary reactions."
Scrimgeour nods, his tone as cutting as any severing spell, "Of course."
Both aurors are tense as Lucius walks forward and slowly draws the wand that had been hidden in his sleeve. Just as slowly, he steps through the solid gates of Malfoy Manor as if they were nothing more than mist.
The fear in Narcissa's heart pulses through her body, the desire to cast a curse and to drag her husband back into the protective wards of their home warring with cold logic. She must do nothing, absolutely nothing to suggest guilt.
With deliberate steadiness, Lucius hands his wand to the rigid Scrimgeour, who wastes no time in snatching it.
"Prior incantato." A gold flash tears the history of Lucius's wand into view. A summoning charm shapes itself into the ghostly, golden image of the outer robes that Lucius had hastily thrown on while he had rushed out of bed. Following in its path, a simple extinguishing charm flickers by in the ghostly appearance of the bedside lamps.
A few more mundane snapshots float through the air past Scrimgeour before dissipating: a summoning charm here, another there, reminders of how irritation burns through Lucius's old wounds, often discouraging him from even walking across a room to grab whatever items he needs. The following silence weighs down on Narcissa. The humiliation at this public display of her husband's daily life burning in her chest.
They have no right. Her husband has done nothing. The Ministry has no right to dig into their lives, to expose weaknesses that are private matters.
"Your wand, Mr. Malfoy." Scrimgeour states, handing it back handle first. A man as perceptive as him no doubt understands why Lucius Malfoy's wand is stuffed with summoning charms, yet the head auror comments on nothing.
"I'm afraid that you'll still have to come with us." Scrimgeour says, his tone a touch more neutral than before, "you may have information that could assist our investigation."
When Scrimgeour's gaze cuts to Narcissa, her grip tightens on her hidden wand.
"Mrs. Malfoy may stay here if she wishes to." The man allows because who is Narcissa Malfoy really. A girl who married so very quickly out of Hogwarts. A pale slender mother standing under the shadows of the hedges. With the exception of Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eaters never brought their wives into the war, so why should the Ministry question them along with their husbands.
Narcissa swallows the odd mix of bitter relief.
"Thank you, Mr. Scrimgeour." Lucius's gaze focuses on Narcissa, a brief touch of warning in his hard grey eyes. "I'll try to be home soon, love." The sentiment is both a truth and a tool. A reminder to their audience that Lucius Malfoy is a married man with little to gain and everything to lose from the senseless murder of a ministry official.
Silently, Scrimgeour raises his free arm for Lucius to grasp. With a spin of twisted bodies, the aurors apparate away, taking Narcissa's husband with them.
The Daily Prophet is near useless. Crouch is dead, the aurors still scrambling to get past his wards in yet another image of the Dark Mark sprawling across the newspaper's front page. The only bit of information that Narcissa didn't yet know is the admission that young Felix Rosier and the ancient Mr. Nott are still in custody for questioning about the attack from the day before.
There is no name that surfaces in her mind. No face that flashes by. None of those who are still free from Azkaban would be foolish or insane enough to attack someone like Crouch.
Except maybe for Nott, an old man with nothing left to lose, but he is still wrapped up in enchanted chains somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry.
Narcissa leaves the Prophet lying on the dining table. The spiral handle of her wand leaves marks in her palm as she grips her wand tight. Her footsteps are silent as she walks into the parlor. The portrait of Abraxas stares down at her, eyeing her disheveled appearance and undone hair.
She meets the portrait's gaze after flicking her wand, carving a gash into an old rune above the fireplace. Lucius can fix it later. For now, she can't risk anyone forcing their way through the floo network.
"Have the other portraits watch the halls. All of them." Her voice trembles near imperceptibly under the command. Crouch had thought his old family wards strong enough to keep back any intruders. And now he's dead.
Narcissa will not make the same mistake. Not when her little boy is under this roof.
Abraxas nods, as strangely silent as ever since the day he was painted, before slipping out of sight past the edges of the frame. There are countless painted Malfoys scattered throughout the Manor, along with the friends and allies who were immortalized beside them. Even if an intruder threw himself under a disillusionment, chances are someone will spot that tell-tale ripple in the air of imperfect invisibility.
Assuming that an intruder is able to make it past the wards, past the bloodthirsty hedges waiting for the day when an enemy slips past those gates. And if they can make it past those, then what are a few portraits warning her of the approaching threat? Narcissa cannot move in the dance-like flow Bella always dueled with.
She's never had to fight someone else, so what can she truly do to protect herself and the boys sleeping in their room? Whoever is going around slaughtering people in their homes, what's to stop them from targeting the other Death Eaters? The ones who chose to shield themselves rather than carry out the Dark Lord's will after he was vanquished.
The cool air settles in Narcissa's lungs as she makes her way back to the bedroom, the shivers in her body not just from the colder hours of predawn. With a wave of her wand, she draws clothing from her wardrobe, eyeing the floating pieces for something appropriate. Loose-fitting enough to move in, light enough not to weigh her down if she has to cast several curses.
Even if others who are not family can't apparate in and out of the Manor without being shredded by the wards, Narcissa Malfoy certainly can. If an attacker comes, she can grab both boys and vanish to Diagon Alley or to the steps of the Ministry itself if she has to. She just has to keep collected, keep the fear threatening to tear through her tucked away tight behind calm readiness.
She will have to think of another excuse to explain her constant presence around Draco and Theodore today. A simple task compared to trying to smother the trembling in her fingers as she grasps and removes the fabric of her nightgown.