Giggling First Years
The Slytherin common room was suffused with a cold green light from the lake beyond its windows, the darkness outside pressing against the thick glass. Ursa sat stiffly in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Around her, the first-years buzzed with chatter, their voices rising and falling as they speculated about classes, professors, and which housemates would excel—or fail—spectacularly.
Ursa wasn’t listening. Her thoughts churned like stormy waters, cycling endlessly through everything that could go wrong now that she was at Hogwarts. Every move she made here would ripple outward, affecting her family’s reputation and future. And not just hers—Draco’s too.
“You’re gripping that armrest like it’s about to hex you,” Draco muttered beside her, leaning casually against the chair’s side. His pale blonde hair caught the flickering light of the fire, but his grey eyes were watchful. He always noticed when her moods shifted.
“I’m fine,” Ursa replied, though her voice sounded thin even to her own ears.
He gave her a doubtful look but didn’t press.
Across the room, Pansy Parkinson’s shrill laugh cut through the low murmur of conversation. Ursa flinched at the sound, her nerves already taut.
“Honestly, it’s all Potter’s fault,” Pansy said, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Ursa’s ears perked up despite herself. She turned her gaze toward the small group gathered near one of the plush green sofas.
“What are you talking about now?” Blaise Zabini asked, his tone laced with boredom as he lounged in a chair nearby.
Pansy tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, as if preparing to deliver a proclamation. “Think about it. If Potter hadn’t survived, the Dark Lord wouldn’t have fallen, and our families wouldn’t be in Azkaban.” She said the name with a mix of fear and disdain, as if the infamous place were both a legend and a cautionary tale.
The name struck Ursa like a jolt of lightning. She had family there. Bellatrix Lestrange. Her mother’s sister. Her aunt.
Visions swirled in her mind—memories she couldn’t possibly have but felt as though they were carved into her blood from her last life. Bellatrix’s wild, frenzied eyes. Her cackling laughter as she hurled curses with reckless glee. Her voice, sharp and cruel, proclaiming the superiority of purebloods and the glory of serving the Dark Lord.
Ursa’s chest tightened. She felt the Madness stirring, clawing at the edges of her control, a dark, familiar presence that always threatened to overwhelm her when she was too emotional and occumulency stopped helping.
And then, absurdly, she started to laugh.
It began as a soft, shaky chuckle, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
Draco’s head snapped toward her, his expression instantly alert. “Ursa?” he said cautiously.
But the laugh wouldn’t stop. It bubbled up from deep inside her, growing louder and sharper. She clutched the armrests of her chair as if trying to anchor herself, but just like all the other times it was useless.
“Azkaban,” she gasped between laughs. “Auntie Bella in Azkaban. Can you imagine?”
The room went silent. Every head turned toward her, the lively chatter snuffed out in an instant.
“Ursa,” Draco hissed, his voice low and urgent. “Stop it.”
She couldn’t. The laughter spilled out of her in jagged bursts, echoing unnaturally off the stone walls.
“She’s probably screaming at the Dementors,” Ursa wheezed, her voice high-pitched and frantic. “Blaming Harry Potter for every little thing—oh, it’s too much!”
The other first-years stared at her in stunned silence. Blaise Zabini, who normally exuded an air of detached coolness, looked visibly uncomfortable. Daphne Greengrass leaned away from Ursa, her lips pressed into a thin line. Even Pansy, who loved attention, seemed at a loss for words, her eyes darting nervously between Ursa and Draco.
“Is she... is she mad?” Daphne whispered, her voice trembling.
“She’s part Black,” Blaise muttered, his tone grim. “What did you expect?”
Ursa’s laughter only grew louder, spilling out in uncontrollable waves. Her face twisted into an almost feral grin, her wide eyes brimming with tears.
“They say she tortured people for fun,” Ursa gasped, the words spilling out between fits of laughter. “Maybe she’s doing it now, in her head—hexing Dementors, plotting her revenge—”
“Ursa, stop it!” Draco snapped, his voice sharp with fear.
He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. “You’re scaring them,” he whispered harshly. “You’re scaring me.”
But Ursa couldn’t stop. The Madness had her now, pulling her deeper into its grip. Her laughter turned hollow and unnatural, the sound echoing like something out of a nightmare.
“She’s cursed,” Pansy muttered, her voice barely audible but tinged with fear. “Everyone says the Blacks are cursed.”
“That’s enough!” Draco barked, his voice cutting through the rising whispers.
Without another word, he pulled Ursa to her feet. She stumbled, still laughing, her legs shaky beneath her.
“We’re going to Madam Pomfrey,” Draco said firmly, his arm around her shoulders as he steered her toward the door.
The common room erupted into hushed murmurs as they left, the other first-years watching them go with wide, wary eyes.
Ursa’s laughter echoed down the stone corridors, the sound bouncing off the walls like the cackling of a specter.
“Draco,” she gasped, her voice breaking with each word. “It’s so—so funny! Don’t you see? It’s all so absurd!”
“It’s not funny,” Draco said tightly, his face pale but determined. “It’s the Madness, Ursa. You’re not thinking clearly.”
She dissolved into another fit of laughter, her body shaking so violently that Draco had to tighten his grip to keep her upright.
When they finally reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, her expression instantly alarmed.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, hurrying toward them.
“She’s having an episode,” Draco said, his voice clipped but steady. “The Black Madness. She can’t stop laughing.”
Madam Pomfrey’s lips thinned, and she nodded sharply. “Get her to a bed. Quickly now.”
Draco guided Ursa to the nearest bed, helping her sit down as her laughter began to falter. Madam Pomfrey bustled over, her wand already out.
“Hold still, dear,” she said gently, though her tone brooked no argument.
Ursa’s laughter finally stopped as Madam Pomfrey muttered a spell under her breath. The room seemed to settle, the oppressive weight of the Madness lifting just enough for Ursa to breathe again.
The healer handed Draco a vial of pale blue liquid. “A Calming Draught,” she explained. “It should help stabilize her emotions.”
Draco uncorked the vial and held it to Ursa’s lips. “Drink this,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for protest.
Ursa obeyed, the bitter liquid burning her tongue as she swallowed. Almost immediately, a sense of calm washed over her, dulling the sharp edges of her thoughts.
Madam Pomfrey studied her for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. “She’ll be fine,” she said briskly. “But you’ll need to keep an eye on her. Emotional stress can trigger these episodes, and they’ll only get worse if left unchecked.” Then she sighed and rubbed her eyebrows, as if picturing the future years to come, "especially once she reaches her teenage years."
Draco nodded, his jaw tight. “I understand.”
As Ursa lay back on the bed, the fog of the Madness receding, Draco pulled up a chair beside her.
“You scared them,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with something she couldn’t quite identify. “You scared me.”
Ursa managed a weak smile, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” he said, his expression softening. “But you have to be careful, Ursa. People are already watching us—waiting for us to mess up. Don’t give them a reason to turn against you.”
She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion overtook her.
Draco stayed by her side, his presence steady and unwavering. For the first time that day, Ursa allowed herself to relax, knowing that no matter what happened, her twin would always be there to pull her back from the edge.