Bad Rat
The night air in Malfoy Manor was thick with the usual tension of All Hallow's Eve, but tonight, there was something different. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the dining room as the Malfoy family gathered around the table. They were quiet—except for the sound of rustling paper as they glanced at the Daily Prophet, the headline, as always, celebrating the Dark Lord's defeat by Harry Potter. But it was the smaller article beneath that caught Ursa’s attention.
Finger of Peter Pettigrew Found: Mystery Deepens.
Ursa's heart stuttered. Her fingers trembled as she read the words again, the chill creeping through her chest.
This—this was it. This was the moment.
She could feel the weight of the decision pressing on her. She had spent seven years in silence, never once letting her voice slip, convinced that speaking would be the key to avoiding something terrible. She hadn’t known what that terrible thing was—but now, staring at the article, something in her knew it had to happen. She had to speak.
Her lips parted, and just as her first word was about to leave her mouth, it wasn’t a word. It was a scream—a scream so primal, so full of pain, that it tore through her like fire.
Ursa’s body went rigid, her face contorted as she gripped the edge of the table, her fingernails digging into the wood. The scream echoed through the room, filling every corner, vibrating the walls with its sheer force. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. It was like the sound of her soul ripping free from her body. Her chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough to stop the agony, the sharpness of the pain that shot through her veins.
Narcissa and Lucius froze. Their eyes widened, their faces draining of color as they watched Ursa, unable to understand what was happening. Draco stood completely still, his small face pale with shock. He didn’t understand either, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
Ursa’s scream didn’t falter. It was raw, full of something darker, deeper. The force of it rattled the very foundation of the room, and her breath came in ragged gasps between the violent outbursts. Her hands gripped the table harder, as if trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pain surged through her, endless and consuming.
Her mouth opened again, but it wasn’t words—it was more screaming, shrieking, the sound tearing at her throat, at her mind. And then, between the agonized screams, a broken voice slipped through.
“Pettigrew... alive...” Ursa gasped, her voice barely cutting through the noise.
Lucius and Narcissa stared at her, helpless, their minds reeling. What did it mean? What was happening?
But the words came again, too quickly to stop, tumbling out of her mouth as if she had no control over them.
“Bad rat... bad rat...” Ursa giggled, her voice high and unnervingly light, breaking through the screams in a jarring contrast. The laughter wasn’t joyful—it was frantic, delirious, a sound as sharp and jagged as the screams that still ripped through her. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, as if she was no longer tethered to reality.
“No... no...” Narcissa murmured, her hands reaching out to her daughter, but she didn’t dare touch her. The sight of Ursa—trembling, laughing, screaming—was too much.
Lucius’s face was taut with confusion and something deeper, something he couldn’t name. He took a step back, his eyes flickering to Narcissa. “What’s happening?” he whispered, voice thick with dread.
“I... I don’t know,” Narcissa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s never spoken before... why now?”
Ursa continued, her voice cracking, a manic energy taking over. “Only the finger... it’s wrong...”
Her hands flew up, as if trying to grasp at something that wasn’t there, her fingers trembling with the intensity of her struggle. She was losing herself in the storm of pain and madness. And then, almost as if her body couldn’t handle it anymore, the scream escalated again, louder, sharper—like it was coming from the very depths of her being.
“Ursa!” Narcissa cried, stepping forward again, reaching for her daughter.
But Ursa only jerked away, her eyes wide and unfocused. “It’s all wrong...” she whispered, her voice breaking into laughter again, this time darker, more twisted. The pain that had triggered the scream was still there, burrowing deeper, and yet now, it was accompanied by this eerie, almost manic giggling.
Lucius gritted his teeth. He didn’t know what to do. There was no cure for this, no spell to break the madness that seemed to be eating away at her. There was only the haunting truth that Ursa had triggered something she couldn’t control.
And as her body continued to tremble, her words cutting through the madness, Lucius realized that there was something bigger happening here. He didn’t understand why Ursa had spoken, why she had said those words about Pettigrew, but it was clear: something had been set in motion, something that couldn’t be undone.
Narcissa’s eyes were filled with terror. “She... she’s not herself... what happened?”
“She spoke...” Lucius said slowly, almost to himself. “And now... it’s happening.”
Ursa’s laughter turned into something even more unsettling—a deep, hollow sound. Her grip on her sanity was slipping away, and her words, though broken, were still piercing through the air: “Bad rat... bad rat... Pettigrew... bad rat...” It didn’t matter that no one understood it. What mattered was the curse that had been unleashed the moment she spoke.
And they could do nothing to stop it.
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Narcissa couldn’t breathe. She barely even realized they were moving until the familiar, dizzying swirl of the Floo Network tugged her forward. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the fear and confusion swirling around her. One minute, Ursa had been speaking—speaking for the first time in seven years—and the next, her daughter had collapsed in a heap of screams and laughter. Narcissa clutched Ursa’s limp form to her, desperate, willing her to wake, even though she knew it was too late to stop the inevitable.
They arrived at St. Mungo’s in a flash, the cool air of the waiting room doing nothing to quell the growing panic within her. Lucius was already speaking to the nearest healer, his voice firm but strained, giving them a brief rundown of what had happened. Narcissa didn’t pay attention to the words. She couldn’t.
Her eyes stayed fixed on Ursa, lying on a gurney, pale and unconscious, her small body so still compared to the violent convulsions that had wracked her moments before. The healer was murmuring soothing words to Ursa, but they did nothing to calm Narcissa’s racing mind.
Draco stood in the corner, staring at the ground, his wide eyes unfocused. He hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived. He had barely reacted when they had rushed Ursa through the Floo, his little hands trembling as he held onto his mother’s robes. Now, he was as still as stone, his gaze lost somewhere far away.
Narcissa’s heart ached for him. He didn’t understand any of this. None of them did.
Lucius joined her by Ursa’s side, his expression as cold and controlled as ever, but Narcissa could see the flicker of concern in his eyes. He reached down to gently touch Ursa’s hand, his voice low.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
Narcissa nodded silently, still reeling from the sheer shock of it. Ursa’s scream—the agony, the insanity, the madness—it had torn through them all. The first words her daughter had spoken in years… and they were a warning.
“Pettigrew,” Narcissa whispered, the word coming out as though it had been lodged in her throat for days. She couldn’t escape the way it echoed in her mind. Pettigrew. Alive. The rat.
Lucius looked at her sharply, his voice suddenly tight. “You think it’s important?”
“I don’t know,” Narcissa said, her voice shaking slightly. “But Ursa… she spoke. After all this time, she spoke. And it wasn’t just to speak. It was because of Pettigrew. She screamed about the rat—about the finger. There’s something there.”
Lucius studied her for a long moment, as if considering the possibility. “And if it’s true? If Pettigrew is alive?”
“We need to find him,” Narcissa said, her mind moving quickly. “We have to. For Ursa. We don’t know what this means, but it was important enough that it triggered… whatever it was inside her.”
Lucius straightened, his features hardening with determination. “We’ll find him. Whatever the cost.”
Narcissa turned her gaze back to Ursa, the helplessness swelling inside her. But as she watched, something about Draco’s silent, frozen form caught her attention.
He was standing near the wall, staring blankly at the floor. His posture, his stillness—there was something about him that made her insides twist.
He’s so still, Narcissa thought. Why won’t he move?
And then, as if the thought triggered a floodgate, memories from her own childhood came rushing in. Memories she had tried to bury, memories she thought she’d never need to recall again.
---
She was eight years old, standing in the grand hallway of the Black family home. She could hear Bellatrix's screams from the other room—wild, frantic. A sound that had become far too familiar in their household over the past few months. Narcissa’s heart raced, but she remained silent, frozen in place as the sound echoed in the corridors.
She had tried so hard to ignore it. Tried to convince herself that Bellatrix would get better. That this was just some phase. But as the days turned to weeks, and Bellatrix's behavior grew more erratic, more dangerous, Narcissa knew deep down that things were far worse than she could have ever imagined.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She stood by, paralyzed with fear, watching her older sister unravel in a way that felt too much like madness. It was a quiet kind of terror. Bellatrix had always been wild, always been unpredictable, but this… this wasn’t like before. It was darker. More dangerous.
And Narcissa couldn’t look away. She couldn’t do anything but watch as her sister—her sister she had once admired—slipped further and further away from reality. She could feel her own body stiffening with fear, the weight of helplessness pressing down on her like a stone.
Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut, remembering that feeling—the isolation, the terror of being a helpless child, unable to help the person she loved the most. Bellatrix had started to lose herself, but it was Narcissa who had felt lost in the process too. Alone. Isolated. Terrified of the future that now seemed inevitable. Would she be next? Would she be the one to fall into the madness that seemed to have claimed her sister?
---
Narcissa blinked and shook herself back to the present, looking back at Draco again. The familiar tightness in her chest grew, and her throat felt thick. She could see it now. The stillness. The way he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t speak. The way his body seemed to be frozen in the face of something he couldn’t understand.
She had been him once.
Narcissa’s chest tightened, her breath catching. She had been that helpless child, standing still and waiting, waiting for the madness to consume her just like it had consumed Bellatrix. And now, it was as if Draco was living through it all over again.
Lucius’s voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to reality. “Narcissa, we need to focus.”
She nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to form. She couldn’t let herself unravel like she had all those years ago. Not now.
“Yes,” she said, her voice thick. “We’ll find Pettigrew. But we need to understand why Ursa spoke. Why this happened now.”
Lucius looked toward the healer working with Ursa, then back to Narcissa. “We’ll find him. And we’ll make sure Ursa doesn’t go through this again.”
Narcissa’s gaze fell on Draco again, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, relieved to see him blink, slowly returning to the present. He was still her son. And as long as they were together, they would find a way to navigate this new, terrifying world.