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Narcissa's eyes darted open the moment she heard the first whimper. Though it may have appeared to be no more than natural movement within the structure of the manor to some.
It had resonated through her stoic exterior and straight to her heart. She paused there for a moment longer, listening for the soft sounds of her daughter between Lucius' heavy snoring.
The soft echoes of a child's cry were enough to pull Narcissa from any peaceful slumber. The woman pulled the covers off her body delicately, heading in search of the soft whimpers that could only belong to her darling little girl.
The hallway was cool, dimly lit, with the sound of muffled sobs becoming clearer as she neared the bedroom.
Narcissa opened Rosalie's door to a sight the crushed her inside. Rosalie had her knees pulled flat against her chest, her head buried in a pillow, slowly rocking herself as a coping mechanism. Her breathing was heavy, small whimpers escaping with each breath she took.
Narcissa noticed the thick layer of sweat which coated her young daughter's forehead as she wandered further into the room. It was this very movement that alerted Rosalie to her mother's presence, and the young girl's face instantly turned into one of regret.
"I promise I didn't mean to wake you." She cried repeatedly, as Narcissa pulled the young girl into her arms. "I promise, I promise, Mummy." She moaned, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Narcissa could now feel how hot Rosalie truly was; a drastic comparison to the icy air that seeped through the tiny crevasses in the Manor over winter. Her body was covered in sweat, pyjamas stuck to her back in clumps.
The woman held the girl tighter in her arms with hopes to calm the sobbing child. "Oh honey, mummy's always here for you," Narcissa cooed, rocking the girl in her arms. "Why didn't you come to get me, Rosie?"
Rosalie's hot tears dripped onto Narcissa's bare shoulders, stinging her cool skin. "I was trying to be quiet. . . you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you." She whispered into the crook of her mother's neck.
"Rosie, you're sick." Narcissa sighed as she placed her hand to her daughter's burning forehead. "You could never do anything wrong, darling. Please wake me up next time." She comforted, carrying her sick daughter into the kitchen to find a much-needed tonic.
Sitting the 5-year-old on the counter, Narcissa searched through the medicine cabinets for ready-made tonics that could ease her daughter's symptoms.
