fact: blaise zabini’s mother is an icon, a quintessential femme fatale. emerald colored liquid satin dresses stretching tight across her hips, black birdcage veils, tinted nylons, and poisoned hollywood red lipstick have become her standard attire for funeral parlors, collection of life insurance payouts, and sunday service. her musky scent intoxicates every suitor when she leans close. her head tilts sideways with interest as she traces her nails delicately along the pulse points of a flushed neck, and her signature bee sting kisses leave mouths swollen and trembling. she has perfected the craft of making admirers feel loved without the asphyxiating word ever dripping from her lips.
every authority that questions the tragedies surrounding her, promptly falls victim to her seduction. they are left drowsy and speechless upon hearing her purr in a silky, lightly accented voice that she is merely a grieving widow.
evenings are spent reclining on a divan beneath a swarovski crystal chandelier, velvet robe open just enough to reveal the curve of a heaving bosom and the swell of a soft thigh. her deep rich skin glows in the candlelight and dark curls tumble over a sharp shoulder. she dips candied cherries into a glass of champagne and hums along sweetly to the record player’s smoky crooning. vengeance and sadness glint in her eye as she plots how she will dispose of the handsome businessman slumped near her freshly polished toenails.