INSOMNIA
Chapter 1 - Narcissa
I'm not just a beautiful face upon your pillow.
I have (had?) hopes, wishes, desires, dreams…
I used to dream of falling in love with someone who would sweep me off my feet and carry me back to his castle and love me for the rest of time. But people like us do not marry for love. Like thoroughbreds, our breeding partners are selected carefully. I was chosen for you before we ever met.
I know I was not the one you wanted…
But I look pretty on your arm. I smile charmingly at all the right people at Ministry functions. I'm useful, in a decorative sort of way.
But when I ask you how I look, you tell me I look beautiful.
When did I go from being pretty to being beautiful? I was pretty—very pretty, when I was younger. Pretty enough that even you seemed pleased to have me. Now I am beautiful. Beautiful like a fine old painting, a finely aged piece of furniture? I still want to be pretty, still want to be pretty for you.
But I'm "still as beautiful as the best cosmetic spells that money can buy." I heard you say that the other night at the dinner party for the Minister of Magic. You didn't think I would hear you—or, more likely, you never even considered whether I would or not. After all, I'm just the beautiful, fine old painting hanging on the wall, the beautiful piece of finely aged furniture standing in the corner of the dining room.
I used to wish, hope, I would see love in your eyes… Now I wish I'd at least see disgust, wish I would see hatred, wish I would see something. Rage at me, beat me, punish me for not being the one you wanted! But don't just accept me, accept my presence as you would accept the necessary—if prosaic--presence of a chair, a table, a bed…
Sometimes I wish you would care enough to kill me.
Sometimes I hate you, hate you for what I have become---beautiful, "as beautiful as the best cosmetic spells that money can buy."
Sometimes I hate you, hate you for what you would have my Draco become. My Draco, not yours, never yours.
Sometimes when I look at Draco, I see you, see you when we first met, see you when I wasn't the one you wanted, see you when I was still pretty…
But he is not you, can never be you, must never be you.
You are so cruel to him. He wants so very much to please you, tries so very hard to be everything you want him to be, but you barely see him. You flay him with your indifference more severely than with your cane.
He used to ask me if Father loved him---even a little.
At first, I lied to him, told him of course, you loved him—very much. Later, I said yes, you loved him—in your own way.
He no longer asks.
I'd like to say it is because he sees the love you bear him shining from your eyes when you look upon him.
I'd like to say it is because he hears the fondness in your voice when you praise him for a small thing done well.
I'd like to say it is because he feels the tenderness in your touch when you put your arm around him to comfort him when he is hurt.
But I know it is because he sees the disappointment in your eyes when you look at him.
I know it is because he hears the distaste in your voice when you snap at him for a small thing done wrong.
I know it is because he feels the disgust in your touch when you beat him when he is hurt, when he shows any sign of weakness.
He no longer asks because he knows. At least I no longer have to lie to him.
Sometimes I hate you, hate you because in spite of everything I love you.
Sometimes I hate myself, hate myself because in spite of everything I love you.
Sometimes I just hate.
But most of the time I just am.
I'm the beautiful ornament on your arm. I'm the charming smile for your guests.
Most of the time I'm just the beautiful face upon your pillow.