Bird of Prey
A/N: This fic was written for the QLFC S4, R3 as Beater 1 for the Falmouth Falcons. The task this round was to write about our team word, 'falcon/s' whilst writing within a specific word limit.
Word limit: 2251-2500 Word count: (written on and according to Gdocs: 2441, word counter: 2442 words)
Prompts: (word) eulogy, (word) faithful, (word) varnish
August 12, 1995
"When Albert was a young boy..."
Blaise rolled his eyes and looked around, unable to listen to the celebrant's eulogy any longer. He hadn't known Albert Fairclough, not really, and couldn't bring himself to cry like the snivelling witches and wizards around him. Honestly, the tosspot had only lasted six weeks, which was nothing on the bloke before him, who had survived eight months.
With a disinterested sigh, Blaise turned his eyes to the vast span of blue above. The sun shone boldly—a large, golden disk oblivious to the inner turmoil of the guests below. He squinted against its rays, ignoring the 'tsk' of disapproval from his mother—the only reason he was there—as he spotted two dark grey specks circling high above. Concentrating, he realised that they were falcons searching for prey. How fitting.
He considered pointing the falcons out to his mother, wondering if she remembered the day she became one herself.
Ten years earlier...
"Oh, save me, save me!" his father cried in a high-pitched voice. With a chuckle, he began moving the empty potion bottle—a face drawn on it in ink—around the floor.
Blaise nodded approvingly at his acting, picking up the pieces of parchment his father had folded to look like birds. "Uh oh, here come the falcons to peck her eyes out!" Thrusting a toy broomstick in front of his father's hands, he continued, "But wait, fear not, Gumblebum is here! Niaowwwww… I'll save you, princ—"
"Michael Zabini, what in Merlin's name are you doing? You're supposed to be working on that building proposal, remember?" Blaise and his father were so lost in the game that they didn't notice his mother's arrival.
Blaise scowled at his mother, whose face was pinched into its usual, disapproving frown. She always ruined their fun.
His father stood up, dropping the bottle. Raking a hand through his thick, black hair, he said, "I'm just taking a minute to play with our son, Gisella. Work can wait."
His mother sniffed, looking at the ink bottle with disgust. "Oh? And I suppose buying your son some actual toys instead of this junk can wait too, then?"
His father cast a glance at Blaise before saying, "You know I am trying my best to provide for us."
"Really?" she scoffed, hands on her hips. "So when am I going to get that new coffee table I want? When am I going to be able to shop at Madame Malkin's rather than at that dingy place down the street?"
Closing his eyes and massaging his temple, Blaise's father breathed out. "We'll manage. I'm already putting in extra hours just to keep a roof over our heads," he said slowly, through gritted teeth.
"Don't you dare accuse me of being selfish for wanting nice things!" Blaise watched in horror as his mother shouted before bending down to pick up one of the pieces of folded parchment, her claws denting the thin material. Shoving it in front of his father's eyes, she shook her head. "Really, what even is this?"
"It's a falcon, Mummy, don't rip it!" Blaise jumped up, holding out his hands for it.
His father glared at her. "What's gotten into you? It's like I barely know you anymore—you're always wanting more, lately. If you want more money, maybe you should do something about it."
"Maybe I will," she replied, eyes glazed over. His father stared at her, mouth parted as though not comprehending what she had said. Placing a smile on her painted lips, she bent down and placed a quick peck on Blaise's cheek. "Don't you worry, darling, I'll make sure you get a proper one, alright?" Crumpling up the parchment, she threw his toy across the tiny room.
Quick as a flash, his father withdrew his wand and flicked it at the parchment, turning its folds into proper wings and allowing the origami bird to fly. Blaise clapped excitedly, relieved that it had been saved.
His mother turned to leave the room, her face flushed. Before she did, however, she glowered at his father and, in a low voice that made Blaise stop clapping, warned, "Careful, Michael. Falcons may be beautiful and fun to you, but they are also dangerous. Very dangerous."
Blaise shifted in his seat, trying—and failing—to focus back on the eulogy. His mother had made sure to get him his new toys, using her deceptive beauty to do so. Unfortunately, she didn't stop at that.
As it was, she was crying prettily behind a black netted veil. The silk of her new steel-grey robes—similar to the grey of the falcons soaring overhead—glistened in the sunlight, making her appear all the more regal. The perfect mourner. Beside her, a middle-aged man dressed in fine robes and nursing a polished cane rubbed her back, his peppery moustache twitching as he tried to console her shaking frame. What an idiot.
It was funny, really—with each husband she buried, his mother became almost as good at pretending she cared about them as she was at catching them in the first place.
Four years earlier...
"Gisella, dear, how are you feeling?" a plump, blonde witch cooed.
Blaise grimaced as his mother blew her nose into the handkerchief she was holding, noting with amusement that the golden initials embroidered onto the material's corner belonged to his second stepfather, Erik with a 'K'. Eric with a 'C' had managed to live with them long enough to leave more than just tissues.
"It was so sudden, so unexpected, but we'll manage. Won't we, darling?" Gisella sniffed into the handkerchief, resting her hand gently on Blaise's shoulder.
Blaise nodded, watching as his mother's russet eyes scanned the guests in the low marquee. Before long, they flashed—like when a falcon spotted a mouse below it—as she saw something of interest. Here we go, he thought.
"If you'll excuse me, I must go say hello to the other guests. Come, Blaise." Ignoring the plump witch's surprise at being dismissed, Gisella linked her arm through his and began dragging him towards the other side of the marquee. Sighing as he looked around, he soon spotted exactly who his mother was swooping down on.
"Oh, Ms Zabini, I'm so sorry to hear about your loss," a short, middle-aged wizard squeaked, jumping as Gisella sidled up next to him.
Raising the back of her hand to her temple, her voice turning sultry, Gisella replied, "I'm absolutely devastated." Then, locking her gaze with the man's hazy grey eyes and holding her hand out for him to kiss, she added, "Call me Gisella. This is my son, Blaise."
"How do you do? I'm Robert Fowler," he said, not noticing Blaise raise his eyebrows when he extended a shaky hand to take hers. Her scarlet lips twisted up into a smirk as the wizard placed a sloppy kiss to her knuckles.
Blaise looked away, torn between amusement and disgust. His latest stepfather hadn't been in the ground for two hours and she was already on the hunt. Being faithful simply wasn't in Gisella Zabini's capacity.
His mother continued to close the space between herself and Robert, her crimson talons trailing up the man's arms. Robert tugged at his collar, unable to look away. Sweat had begun to form on his brow, little beads glistening beneath black hair so much like his father's. It was the only resemblance to Michael Zabini, however; the fancy, pinstriped robes Robert wore showed he had more wealth than his father ever had.
Why didn't his mother just stop playing with this man? They didn't need him. The sight of the wizard's pathetic drooling was enough to make him sick.
Taking out Erik's handkerchief, Gisella reached down and patted Robert's pale forehead. Smiling, she leant into Robert's shoulder and whispered, "I suppose we both need looking after, don't we?"
Blaise lifted a finger to his lips and mimed throwing up. His mother's grip tightened around the poor wizard's arm and her prey had been caught.
Leaning over the grave and tapping his foot, dirt in hand, Blaise waited for the intricately carved coffin to be lowered into the ground. The sooner Albert was buried, the sooner he could get out of the itchy black cloak he had been forced to wear. His mother stirred next to him, releasing an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as the coffin hit the bottom of the deep hole with a dull 'thunk.' Almost too quickly, she leant forward, threw in a single scarlet rose, and turned away, perfect hiccoughs escaping her lips.
Releasing the soil, Blaise threw it onto the coffin, and brushed his palms together. Content that there was no residue of the filth left on his hands, he bent over the gaping hole where Albert lay, and took a quick moment to utter, "You never stood a chance, mate."
Three days earlier…
"Bipsey, bring us some more wine," Gisella ordered.
Blaise stared at his half-eaten plate of game pie, suddenly not feeling very hungry as his mother and newest stepfather, Albert, exchanged saliva. His mother seemed to have lost some of her taste in the last few years, becoming less picky with the amount of hair they had or the type of clothes they wore—as the piles of gold in her Gringotts vault increased in both size and number. It was almost as though she had lost interest in the thrill of the chase. Albert, for instance, had the habit of placing his large feet on his mother's favourite coffee table, the varnish wearing away bit by bit underneath his sweaty socks.
Breaking away from the embrace long enough to glance at Blaise, Gisella said, "Darling, why don't you be a good boy and run off to bed?"
He had to work to keep down the food he had eaten, not sure whether to be grateful for an excuse to leave the table or offended that he was being treated like a child. Swallowing, he met his mother's gaze and replied, "I think I'm old enough to decide when I should go to bed, Mother."
Gisella rolled her eyes, but her next words were cut off by Albert. "Now, don't show your mother cheek, boy. Go on, off you go," he commanded, waving his hand towards Blaise.
Blaise's eyebrows knitted into a frown. Just over a month since the wedding, and the bastard was already trying to act like his father. Even yesterday, Albert had had the nerve to order Blaise to clean his room of its 'junk', as he held a tattered piece of parchment in his beefy hand. His mother had stood by, lips pursed, as Blaise snatched the folded paper from him. He had half expected his mother to reprimand him, but her eyes had been focused on the parchment, almost wistfully so. She had then left the room, dragging Albert away with her.
Feeling his arms begin to shake from anger, Blaise pushed out his chair and stood up. Through gritted teeth, he corrected the man. "It's Blaise, not 'boy'."
Albert's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline, cheeks growing red. Blaise braced himself for the oncoming tongue lashing, yet was spared as Bipsey popped back in carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle of Merlot.
Placing both hands against Albert's face, Gisella planted a kiss on the man's mouth. Then, turning to Blaise with a wink, she said softly, "Go on, love. I'll see you in the morning."
Blaise wavered on the spot for a moment, watching his mother brush away Bipsey's gnarled hand and pour Albert's glass of wine herself. Meanwhile, Albert glared at him, his meaty hands clasped possessively over one of his mother's delicate ones. He wanted Gisella all to himself—to keep her caged in like a canary.
With a shrug, Blaise turned on his heel, leaving the room. Albert could try all he wanted, but his mother could never—would never—be locked up.
"Ms Zabini! How are you feeling?"
Blaise blinked as several cameras snapped away, their bulbs burning black holes into his retinas. His mother held up an arm—her long, winglike robes draping across her face and hiding it from the awaiting paparazzi. The moustached wizard linked to her other arm barked at them to step away, waving his cane at the Quick-Quotes Quills hovering near the reporters' heads.
Unfortunately, none of the reporters took the hint, and Blaise soon found his personal space being invaded. With a quill at the ready—the feather, ironically, seemed to belong to a falcon—the over-enthusiastic witch began firing questions at him.
"When will we see the announcement for the next wedding? Does your mother even remember the names of her victims?"
Blaise pushed the witch back roughly and continued walking. He didn't want to be at the funeral in the first place; this witch was lucky he had enough restraint to not clobber her.
The girl was persistent, however, and continued to press him for answers. "Did you help murder your stepfather?"
Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. She was really getting on his nerves. His mother was going to be found out soon enough; honestly, the way she was parading her gentleman 'friend' around now was enough to make people question her morals. It was fast becoming old watching her get away with it; he might as well end the game now.
Blaise parted his lips to reply, the witch shoving her quill and parchment to his face ready to scribble down his confession. The quill caught his eye, however, and he paused, thinking back to last week, and his mother's gaze as she eyed the origami falcon in his hand. She had looked almost regretful, resigned—like a bird who knew it had to hunt to survive, no matter what the cost.
Looking up, he saw his mother had paused, her new partner still swatting away the press. Her head was turned in his direction, as though she could hear his thoughts. Touching the pearls at her throat, she allowed a single, real tear to slide down her cheek.
Perhaps she couldn't change, even if she wanted to.
Meeting the young witch's vibrant blue eyes and winking at her, he let out a laugh. "Honestly, what are people going to come out with next? My mother had very strong feelings for Mr Fairclough—for all of her husbands, really. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go ensure she's alright."
Turning his gaze to the falcons circling above, Blaise smiled wryly. Both his mother and father had loved falcons. Unfortunately, one didn't believe that they were beautiful, majestic, and dangerous birds of prey, and he had paid the price for it.
A/N: I would like to thank the amazing Cara for beta'ing this fic, as well as the lovely Ari, Arty and Mal, and everyone on the team who helped vote on plot ideas when my mind was unable to function with the freedom we got this round. You guys are awesome :D This round was new for me, as I absolutely hate having word limits, let alone having 500 less than normal; however, it was a good challenge. I hope I did the Blaise/ Gisella relationship justice, and that you like my interpretation of 'Black Widow Zabini'. If you are wondering why she is still a Ms Zabini, I used a combination of the wiki description and headcanon in that I think (despite it being good cover) she would know her husbands wouldn't last long, and thus changing her name would be inconvenient to say the least (especially as a model, or any job; signing new contracts and the proceeding, even in the Wizarding world, would suck). Her name, too, is headcanon, adopted from a few other fantastic fics I have read that mention Blaise's mother.
Falcons for the win! xx