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Just so we're clear: this Novel is a fanfic of sorts. It's basically the life story of sevenmoreyears's Blaise Zabini. That particular RPG is an Alternate Universe to the Harry Potter series, so without further adieu I give you: None of the characters herein belong to me, nor does the Wizarding World, no matter how much I wish it were so. No proceeds will be made from this work, and all characters belong very much to J.K. Rowling.

That said...

Blaise Zabini was eighteen years old the day it happened, the day it began; and he'd never forget a single detail about it. He doubted anyone would, not an event like the one that happened near the end of his Seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 'Course, most sensible magic-folk who'd attended the school would ever forget their Potions N.E.W.T.'s, but that was neither here nor there.

The air around the school had been hanging heavily all day, the sort of heavy calm that comes between any storm, and when Blaise glanced around the Great Hall that day he realized he wasn't the only one who was uneasy.

He wondered how many other Students in this very room knew where his own personal uneasiness came from: a single bit of parchment, folded neatly in his left pocket, distracting him from his essay as he mulled over the short message written on it. Unsigned, though he was sure he recognized the penmanship:

     'Watch your fucking back, mate. It's happening tonight.'

He broke yet another quill-tip as his glance drifted away from the parchment on the table, toward the table directly across the room from he and his fellow Slytherins. Three key Gryffindor figures were very much missing from the picture; and while part of him wanted to smirk and hoot and chalk it all down to their nerves, he had a feeling that wasn't the case.

     It's happening tonight.

Whatever was happening was going to involve Potter, and just about anything that involved him ended with things being blown to bits, at the very least. Swallowing thickly Blaise returned to his essay, brow furrowed as he tried to recall just what the hell he'd been writing about in the first place. 'Belladonna,' he remembered, bottom lip between his teeth as he began writing again, his thoughts almost focused until a bright flash of lightning streaked across the enchanted ceiling and over the sky outside the school.

The entire castle all but sang with static, and Blaise wasn't the only student to visibly start when a deafening clap of thunder followed. The torches lining the Hall flickered unsteadily, and as confused voices began to rise into a din the temperature in the room dropped considerably; and it was Blaise who stood first at the table, all thoughts of N.E.W.T.'s vanished from his mind as he did the only sensible thing he could think to do: panic.

He wasn't the only one, not when the air continued to chill, not with the storm outside growing fiercer and fiercer - there was absolutely no way that lightning was natural - and Blaise was sure everything was ready to build into something resembling chaos until a booming voice called through the hall asking for calm.

Dumbledore.

Blaise glanced from his classmates to his Headmaster, noting the rather unnerved look in the old man's eyes as he held his arms out in a placating gesture, his unusually loud voice managing to fill the Great Hall and calm at least some of the people there; other Professors filing in behind him with each word spoken. Blaise and his fellow Slytherins looked to eachother in confusion when the Headmaster urged everyone to head toward the Dungeons, of all places; though it was his lot that obeyed such an order without question.

"You heard him, get going," Blaise heard someone say harshly, guessing it to be Malfoy by the utter snobbery in the voice, and he turned to comply, one hand clutching at the pocket that held the anonymous parchment as he chanced one last glance into the Great Hall. He froze in his spot, another flash of lightning brightening the sky outside enough to show a silhouette just before it crashed loudly and bodily through one of the Hall's many windows.

Blaise watched the body roll across the stone floor, brace itself on its hands and rise slowly to its feet. It was too dark to make out who it was, and he couldn't quite bring himself to care as he finally found his legs again and managed to back away a few paces, a chill passing over him as he realised the shadows gathering around the broken windows were dementors.

Swallowing thickly when he caught a glance of another coming through the window, Blaise made the first of many decisions to run that he'd make in his life.

He, like many others, never looked back.