With a sharp crack! that carried farther on the crisp air of a January afternoon, Rosemary Selwyn arrived just beyond the gates of Malfoy Manor, throwing up her arm so that the sleeve of her robe fell back, brandishing the Mark that let her pass through the gates as though they were nothing more than a wisp of winter breeze in her hair, through the flowers that she carried. She strode forward up the walk, confident in her usual manner though there was a mingled twinge of hopes and nerves, dancing in her stomach. It was ironic then that this was more of a social call than her usual visits to the Manor, with far less at stake than her life.
And as it was Narcissa who had invited her, rather than her Lord, Rosemary lifted the elegantly sculpted knocker, rapping it against its plate rather than simply entering.