Once Narcissa had shaken off the lingering confusion of her sleep and had time to process the memories that had occurred while she had been under Draco’s Imperius, she had behaved with cold, haughty disdain. She had sat with spine straight and chin held high on the edge of the bed, ignoring the Order members present and smoothing her hair with slim white hands, brushing the wrinkles from the skirts of her robe. Narcissa had shown not the slightest bit of the anger and fear Hermione was sure she must have felt, but had instead asked coolly what the Order’s plans for her were, whether her son was alive, and whether she could see him.