The only introduction I can offer as you enter my world is abrupt, but I assure you this: if it shocks you, makes you recoil, or if it even sounds incredulous due to the dramatic nature of the announcement, none of that is intentional. What I tell you, I do so sincerely.
I, Sesen Zabini, have left a long trail of death in my wake. Six, and counting, in fact.
Remember that this is a factual declaration.
For years, I have been the subject of much speculation, gossip and rumour on account of these statistics. Six husbands. Six deaths, none of them proved to be homicidal. Accidents, illnesses, suicides. But never a murder.
You may think what you wish; I cannot stop you from drawing your own conclusions. You’re smart enough to come up with your own.
All of my deceased husbands left me their gold. This information has fueled the wizarding world’s imagination for years now. They call me the Black Widow, and if you look at things from that angle, the epithet is quite … suitable. My husbands tend to die not long after they have appointed me heiress to their wealth. If I were not me, I’d say the same about Sesen, too. If I were not Sesen, I’d search for ways to find out the truth. I’d chase her, trail her, sneak up on her, and then make her confess. I’d ask her the question people have been dying to ask: Did you kill every single one of them?
But I am Sesen, so the onus of that task does not lie upon me. It lies on nobody, except Aurors, and future husbands. If you are curious, however, I’ll entertain you for a while.
If you want to know what really happened, then listen carefully.
If there is one death that I would own up to bringing about, it is Demeke’s.
I sometimes feel sad that nobody will put him on the list of suspected victims. His untimely death certainly holds much more meaning for me than the rest combined. It was an act marked with passion, and without any other motive save for vengeance.
Yes, murder for vengeance is the sweetest.
Demeke was the son of one of my father’s close friends. He was three years older than me. He often visited us. Perhaps, he could tell I was less-loved from the way my father occupied me with books and studies along with the boys, while his other daughters spent their time dancing in pretty clothes. Perhaps, he knew that I wasn’t allowed to play with the girls in the family, making up for the absence of a son from a wife who had died a premature death. Perhaps, he suspected my half-brothers didn’t care much for me, for I was always smarter than them. Whatever it was that gave him the confidence, Demeke chased me into father’s expansive orchard and forced a kiss out of me when I was fifteen.
As soon as he was done and readying for more, he said he did it to help me feel like a girl. He said a boy’s kiss was needed to make a girl feel pretty.
I still remember what it had really felt like – a mass of blubbery flesh forcing itself against my mouth. It made me feel ugly and alien. To this day, I cannot kiss anyone without being reminded of it. The mere idea of my lips coming into contact with another’s repulses me and makes me retch.
It was my magic that saved me that day. Even now, I can clearly recall the burning heat that had emanated from my body, bruising his hands and arms while not affecting me in the slightest. He stopped making advances after that, but I wasn’t done with him.
Demeke was the boy who taught me something about men which I’ve put to use so many times in my life. Men find it hard to resist the temptation offered by a welcoming, beautiful woman; when that woman is me, it is impossible to do so. My name is, after all, Sesen – desire.
A year later after the incident, I invited Demeke over when I was alone in the house. I was waiting deep inside the same orchard, biding my time. He came half-running, half-walking, the lust apparent on his face even from afar.
The last thing he kissed was the poisoned skin of my neck.
This is where Demeke’s story ends. I hope you paid attention, because I am not telling you more. After Demeke, everything is hidden in smoke and under shrouds. After Demeke, I find that the events of my life are not worthy of my time. I personally do not find them interesting. People made them interesting, not me.
I am on my seventh marriage now. Lucas is a lovely man. In fact, he is one of the few gentlemen I’ve met in my life. Amiable, sweet-natured, funny, intelligent and doting. Always attentive to my needs, but I digress.
Coming back to the original issue at hand, I must say I’m happy you took the time to be here, hear me out and indulge me. Sometimes, I get in the mood for a chat – a personal, reflective, introspective chat. You have no idea how lonely it is to miss out on the company of confidantes.
Not that I’d particularly like to keep one. Yet sometimes, even I fall into the temptation of confessing, and at this moment, more so because I can sense it. The wizarding world is about to be thrown into the same old routine yet again; it’s going to fall victim to the familiar tangy taste and intoxicating aroma of scandal. It will raise its puny fists and bark at Sesen once more, before being subdued by the irresolvable nature of a crime that gets its name only from circumstances, and not solid evidence.
I must say, I cannot wait.
Rendezvous with Mrs Zabini by hestiajones
Chapter Endnotes: If you like stories about Mrs Zabini, I urge you to read Diary of a Black Widow Woman by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor. You won't regret clicking on it.