Disclaimer: Own nothing, neither Harry Potter or The Tempest
Summary: Surely you have read Shakespeare, right? Surely, you have read the Tempest? Surely, you have read about Ariel and his greedy other half, Caliban? Narcissa sees a parallel in her love for Hermione and knows that Bellatrix is unworthy of the muggle-born. But Hermione may not appreciate the sentiment. Sequel to "All that is not deserved."
The Tempest: Caliban
What was love? Did anyone really know? Some people were so sure they knew what love was. Some people went their whole lives believing they knew exactly what it was and how it was supposed to feel. But if anyone spoke the truth, they'd tell you that it was a fire no one should ever kindle within their hearts and souls; they'd tell you it was an emotion so dangerous that it made you forget all your other senses, including your self-preservation.
Not all people experienced love, and some would say that that was a lucky thing on their part. Narcissa Malfoy, soon to be known as Narcissa Black, come her and Lucius Malfoy's divorce did not have that luck. Sometimes the affliction of love affected an individual and they would never have their feelings returned. Even her husband had found love. Granted, it was in the oddest of places; from the oldest Weasley son of all people, but he had found it in the red haired Dragon tamer nonetheless. It had stunned Narcissa when she had seen how Charlie Weasley looked at Lucius. There was love in those blue eyes. Love and complete devotion and adoration. The blonde only wished her dear one would cast that same stare her way, as she did for the younger woman again and again.
Narcissa understood that her love was unrequited. It was a sad truth that she had learned to accept long ago. Even her soon to be former husband knew of true love's gentle warmth, but Narcissa herself only knew the cold, harsh sting of rejection. She sometimes watched her desired one. An intellectual, brilliant muggle-born witch many years younger than her. One particular set of books her muggle-born clearly enjoyed reading many times, Narcissa noticed, were books by a renown deceased muggle author called William Shakespeare. One of the books Narcissa had seen her young beloved read was called "The Tempest."
During one of her luncheons with the brunette muggle-born, Narcissa had taken the chance to ask about the book. The bookworm had been more than happy as always to share her knowledge about a subject. She told the pureblood about a marooned ship and a group of lost travelers; some planning on turning on their brethren. On the island however, these people were not alone. There was a sorcerer that caused the ship to crash. The sorcerer had a daughter. This daughter was fair, gentle, naïve and curious. On the island with the sorcerer and his daughter, were two spirits. One was an ethereal androgynous being called Ariel, the other was a greedy, decadent, violent creature called Caliban. Very little was known about either spirits, but Narcissa's usually quiet imagination ran off with her and she created pictures in her mind of the spirits' motivations. In her mind, the supposed "love interest" of this sorcerer's daughter Miranda; this "Ferdinand" didn't even exist. The spirits Ariel and the Caliban that were given birth to in the pureblood's mind were dancing in an imaginary tapestry, pining after the young woman who their master, the sorcerer protected night and day relentlessly. They pined after what they couldn't have. Caliban for certain did. He would have taken Miranda if he could have-if not for her father. And his gentile, soft and docile brother/sister Ariel cared for Miranda but never displayed any greed or desire to possess her, just love unspoken.
In her bizarre new empathy for these two so alike yet so different fictional beings, Narcissa found an even stranger kinship. Well, at least to one of these characters anyway. Despite her imagination taking form of unrequited love for Miranda from both Ariel and Caliban, her repulsion for the vicious, callous and uncivilized Caliban was also a strong presence. No, her empathy ran far greater and further for the elegant and kind Ariel.
And after coming to this wildly elaborate visualization of fictional events and connections, the blonde had beheld her curious, naïve and beautiful Miranda, at the age of nineteen, sporting bushy brown hair, muggle clothes and several large, thick books that not even a seasoned, professional librarian could hope to get through in a month let alone a couple of days like Narcissa knew her love could and fully intended to do.
Narcissa had pondered for a long while after Hermione had introduced her to The Tempest what drew her so strongly to Ariel. At first she had suspected because she pictured the spirit as being incredibly beautiful and some very vain part of her had instantly thought that that divine beauty was something she was connected to. In all fairness, she believed her mother Druella, who she had witnessed as a child constantly looking at herself in the mirror every three minutes to make sure that every hair was in place was to blame for that quite immodest opinion of her appearance, and for the odd comparison. Of course, it hardly mattered now, did it? Druella Black had been dead for almost ten years to the day, sleeping eternally in the foreboding marble family crypt next to Cygnus Black III. Lot of good preening her feathers and making herself out as the most beautiful creature in the world did her now, right?
Still, Narcissa couldn't help it. And really, the emotional comparison that she had created herself seemed impossible to ignore. No matter how much she wanted to convey her feelings, to share what her longing was like to Hermione, she could not move her mouth or breathe out the sentence- she feared the end result too much. She contemplated if that was how her nonexistent version of Ariel felt this way towards Miranda. Well, her mind had run away with those thoughts about Ariel, so to her, the spirit did.
Now, as she stood next to the muggle-born young woman once again, she wanted to finally tell the brunette how she felt. She wanted to tell the younger woman that she wanted to be the one that Hermione woke up next to in her bed every morning, not Bellatrix, not her greedy, callous, vicious sister. Not Caliban.
In Narcissa's mind, while she found a strong unbearable kinship with Ariel, whenever she thought of Caliban…her thoughts traveled to her oldest savage, mad and brutal sister.
If she was Ariel, then Bellatrix had to be Caliban. Narcissa was almost sure of the juxtaposition. Perhaps she was being hard on her sister for thinking that. In fact she knew she was. Her poor sister had protected her and their other sister Andromeda from their abusive parents for years, and both she and Andromeda had left home, abandoning the Black Manor and Bellatrix first chance they got when she had married Lucius and when Andromeda had run off with Ted Tonks after graduation from Hogwarts.
Bellatrix was brutal, but only because she had never once known a moment of tenderness before Hermione had come into the pureblood's life, or a moment of when someone protected her before Hermione or before Bellatrix and Narcissa's niece, the Auror came along.
There had been a long time when guilt was all Narcissa had felt concerning her big sister who had remained trapped at the manor with their monstrous parents, until the black haired witch had turned to someone even more dangerous than Cygnus Black. Voldemort had been Bellatrix's way out of the manor and Narcissa knew deep down that it was all her and Andromeda's faults for never protecting their big sister, never shielding her from Cygnus and Druella the way she had done for them. But there was nothing she could do about it now, was there?
As the blonde perceived Hermione, curled up in the large soft red velvet upholstered chair with another book on her lap that she realized was also Shakespearean literature, titled, "Cymbeline," she sucked in a breath and knew that she had to be honest. And brave. Bravery. That was a virtue that she had never possessed. She had never been any Gryffindor, but she had never shown any type of bravery in her life, save for the time she had lied to Voldemort's face that Harry Potter was dead, and that had only been for her son's sake.
She sighed, approaching the younger witch. As she got close, her shadow encompassing where Hermione sat, the muggle-born perked up curiously, turning her attention away from the book and fixed her eyes on the pureblood in front of her, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
Hermione, startled at first, smiled and put a small white, paper bookmark in the pages, placing the book down next to her as she greeted the older woman. "Hello, Mrs. Malfoy." She said, feeling a little awkward after speaking and it must have been apparent on her face because the blonde witch smiled in encouragement. Narcissa supposed it was only natural that there was some awkwardness regarding her last name. After all, she and Lucius were going through a divorce. Not knowing which last name to call her by was relatively understandable.
Narcissa spoke, voice gentle as she tried to talk in a confident tone, though she suspected that she was failing, "Ms. Granger….Hermione…my dear…I, I wanted to tell you something." Hermione gave the blonde her complete attention.
"Yes?" the muggle-born asked gently, "What is it?"
Narcissa breathed, getting ready as the brunette's eyes stayed on her. "Hermione," She began, feeling every inch of her person start to sweat and tremble, wishing that there was some way for Hermione to glean her thoughts without having to hear them or without magic, "I…I just need to tell you….I love you." There. She said it. The secret was out. She could now only watch and see the results. It appeared as if it was taking some time for Hermione's brain to fully comprehend what she had been told.
The brunette's brown eyes widened and she sighed, clearly having a hard time absorbing this. "Narcissa," She said, voice gentle but firm and Narcissa instantly dreaded what her beloved would say next, "I'm...I'm flattered. Really, I am. But as I'm sure you know, I'm in a relationship with your sister. Bellatrix and I have been in a relationship now for almost three years. Surely you haven't forgotten that?"
Narcissa's stomach dropped. She tightened up as she inhaled, letting out her subdued anger at least a little, "I know. I understand, but I…," Narcissa felt her throat become dryer still and tried to swallow again but it was as if she had nothing to swallow anymore. Her mouth and throat lacked all moisture, leaving it as barren as a desert. She bore the sheen of perspiration plenty though. "I don't believe that my sister is right for you, Hermione."
Narcissa knew she shouldn't have said that, but she did. She knew the anger that would be rolling off the muggle-born in malevolent currents was going to be harsh and painful to see, but she prepared herself for it as well as she could. It didn't help. Hermione's glare became intense. Her eyes were now a dark burning color; smoldering pieces of coal threatening to leave the muggle-born's sockets and scald the blonde's flesh, peeling it away with white hot, hateful furious heat.
"I'm sorry," The brunette breathed out, voice sounding low and cold, "But I'm not sure if I actually heard you right. What did you just say?"
Narcissa swore she could feel a chill run up and down her spine. Somehow though, she was able to gather her courage or something like that, again. "I said I don't believe that my sister is right for you," She repeated, not certain how she got the sentence out without wavering, "She is violent, erratic and sometimes she scares even me. I…you deserve to only exist in the light. You don't deserve to be the lover of darkness. My sister is broken. Too broken to fix. I…..I certainly am not entirely whole. Who could be after being raised by parents like Cygnus Black III and Druella Rosier?" Narcissa gave a helpless, acute shudder at the thought of those two abusive tyrants and what they had done to her and her older sisters and kept on, "I love you. I know you care about my sister, and I care deeply for her, but I won't pretend that I'm not troubled by a beautiful, intelligent and kind woman like you being wasted on a violent madwoman like my sister."
Narcissa wasn't sure how it happened. She saw the brunette jump up out of the seat, leaving the book on the cushions. She saw the hand raising and knew she should have expected it, but she didn't even open her mouth to plea when the hand slapped her across the face hard. Narcissa almost stepped back, reeling at the sharp scorching sensation in her cheek. She was sure that she had never been hit that hard. Ever. Druella Rosier struck her once when she was seven, trying to sneak off with some cake batter that she had gathered in a small glass bowl, but Bellatrix had protected her. As Bellatrix always had and always did from then on. Any smacks or curses she might have experienced were teases and jests compared to the horrors Cygnus and Druella subjected Bellatrix to.
So this slap came as quite the shock for her.
"How dare you." Hermione hissed, nearly appearing as if she were towering over the still befuddled blonde witch, low voice the snarling of a thousand rabid beasts torn loose from their already rusted cracked cages, "you who never tried to help Bella? You who never raised a hand to protect her when she continually and forever protected you?! You who DARE say that Bellatrix is only dark and therefore you're light? Are you insane? You did nothing when Bella was being abused. She's not dark, Narcissa, you are. Anyone who stands by and does nothing while someone suffers is dark."
The blonde looked back at Hermione, the words thrown at her hurting her more than the smack ever could. "Hermione?" She whispered, "That….that isn't true. I wanted to help."
"And yet you didn't." Hermione quipped back, head held high, almost appearing like an aristocrat in her proud anger. The sight chilled Narcissa.
"I wanted to," Narcissa emphasized, "And Bellatrix certainly didn't help anyone during the war, nor did she want to! But I did. I saved Potter! Hermione," The blonde stepped closer, desperate for her beloved muggle-born witch to understand, "You remember that play you showed me? By Shakespeare? 'The Tempest?'"
Narcissa could see how perplexed Hermione was at the reference. "Where are you going with this, Narcissa?" The brunette asked, cocking an eyebrow.
The youngest Black sister finally managed to throw out in the open, "Bellatrix…..my sister, she's like Caliban. She's sympathetic enough because of the abuse she's experienced, but nothing good can come of being with her. She's savage, she's greedy, she's callous. You deserve so much better than that, my love."
Hermione's eyes still enflamed with rage looked like they were about to frost over with ice. Narcissa felt her entire body tighten up.
"Hermione, I-" She began, afraid she would be struck again, before Hermione loudly interrupted her, voice outraged.
"Narcissa Black," The muggle-born hissed dangerously, "I am warning you. That's the last of this we will speak of the matter. I do not, and can never love you. I understand that you have feelings and normally I would be incredibly flattered, but understand that I cannot love you. I know that you, Bellatrix and Andromeda were raised horribly and were abused by Cygnus and Druella, and so I should feel sympathy for you, which I do, however, you have crossed a line today by calling Bellatrix, the love of my life, the woman that I would do literally anything for to make happy and safe, the other half of my soul, savage and greedy. You compare her to...I can't believe you. You say Bella is Caliban because she's callous and "savage." Have you looked in the mirror lately? Caliban was greedy, and so are you. Bellatrix is not Caliban, Narcissa, you are. You're self-centered, selfish, self-indulgent and greedy. Bellatrix might be violent and you might not be, but Bellatrix never hungered after what wasn't hers, you are, and so did Caliban. You skulk in the shadows, lusting after me when you have no place to. You are arrogant and put yourself on a pedestal like Caliban did. Go fuck yourself. Go to Lucius, he's the only one pitiful enough to have someone as greedy as you, even with Charlie as a lover. You two deserve each other."
With that, Hermione turned, flicking her bushy hair over her right shoulder, swooping down and picking up her books from the scarlet chair and stormed out of the room, leaving Narcissa alone. The pureblood lifted her hand to her usually pallid cheek, now bright red from the impact of Hermione's hand. She was self-centered? She was selfish? She didn't have any idea how to counter this. Her heart fell. She could feel the blood slowly draining from her, sapping her energy. She was Caliban? In Hermione's eyes, she was Caliban?
She loved Hermione. Her feelings were regarded as selfish and treated like they were a pile of rotting, stinking, decomposed trash, left to the starving carnivorous maggots to feast on and fill their microscopic, gluttonous putrid bellies with. What could she possibly do?
Narcissa smiled bitterly. She was hiding in the shadows, snubbed by her Hermione, while Bellatrix got all the attention. Perhaps Hermione was right. Perhaps she really was the Caliban in the scenario. The selfish creature hiding in darkness, wishing for attention, and never getting it, and according to her beautiful "Lady," she was just as selfish. Well, Hermione was the brightest witch of her age, wasn't she? Perhaps she was right on the mark about this.
I'm sure anyone who has read "Voyeurism is such a strong word," "Reciprocation is key," "Domesticated," and "Feral" found this funny and ironic, but this takes place before all of that. Long story. Sequel to "All that is not deserved."