What makes a legend?

Is it what they did when they were alive or how they are remembered when they're gone?

- The guardian

The Observer

The Eyes, the Ears

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Blaise Zabini was a particular child. A perfect heir, one could say. A quiet kid, one observed.

His papa was Italian, met his mama when he was travelled in France. He was a simple and honest man, his father. Devious mind that could rival his mama, but still sweet and naïve. A romantic, she would say – a dreamy and sad smile on her face – always trying to please her, treated her like his most treasured gem.

Blaise remembered that and more.

Always curious, always probing, always questioning. Curiosity kills the cat, they said.

Blaise was out with his papa that day when they were caught in a crossfire. He might be young, but he never forgot, could never forget his father's killer. He could never forget the deflected bullets that dropped his papa like a rag doll, could never forget the indifference pair of eyes that seemed so uncaring when a civilian was hit. Collateral damage, unintended accident, they said. Then a gun was put on Blaise's head. 'Sorry kid, cannot leave any witness', he had heard then.

Time seemed to stop, however. No no no no no no, papa papa papa, no no no no, I didn't even get to say goodbye, papa papa papa papa. His inside was burning, burning of vengeance, of wanting justice. Of not being able to say goodbye, of no last word, of his papa sudden death just because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Of his mama, who had no idea what would happen to her family if Blaise died here with his papa. No, I will not die here, not now, not when his mama still counted on him to return home.

Fuckers killed my papa, they killed what was MINE. UNACCEPTABLE. Blaise had wanted them to pay dearly, for the sins they had caused, for destroying what was once a happy family, for the griefs and sorrows they had caused. Purple flames violently appeared then. Fierce and strong, uncontainable, willing to destroy those who had wrong him.

Blaise, for the life of him, failed to recall what happened next and how he had gotten home safely with his papa's corpse laying next to him.

After that, his mama was devastated. They moved to England, for France was full of memories, of a reminder of a future that could never happen. Grief was something human had to face, everyone grief differently. His mama remarried and became widowed again and again; he became quieter, tend to hide in the shadow more (No need to draw attention to himself, after all. Lesson watched, lesson learned.).

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Blaise remembered the first time he met Dray, who was just 'the Malfoy heir' the first time they met at their mothers and the rest of the pureblood ladies – or as he viewed them: housewives, vultures, menaces that had nothing else better to do – Tea Party Club. He remembered how much of a brat Draco was when in presence of the adults. So much brattiness that he could not stand talking to him for more than five minutes.

'Son of Lucius Malfoy, so much potential. On a way to grow up just like his father. Oh Lady Malfoy, you must be so proud!' he had heard. (Thinking back, Blaise felt pretty stupid not to notice Draco expression back then, whose fist was clenched tight enough to cut off the blood circulation, teeth gritted and still tried to put on a polite and charming smile for their audiences.). So he ignored the Malfoy brat, he still polite of course – his mother would be disappointed if she was kicked out of the Tea Party Club, she loved her daily gossips – but careful to put some distance between them.

Until he heard about the kidnapping. From the house elves.

When Lady Malfoy came for the daily tea gossip alone for the first time, Blaise did not think much about it. After all, it's none of his business that she wanted to bring her son or not. The second time, then the third, and the fourth, and Blaise had begun to think the brat had finally convinced his own mother that he would not accompany her to the tea party any longer. Lucky imp, Blaise had thought.

But then he noticed one of the Malfoy's personal house elf was asking the rest of his House's house elves frantically and frighteningly.

Blaise was reluctant to admit that he was more of his papa's son than his mama's. 'Have you seen the young master? Oh, have you? Abby was such a bad elf, lost his own master, what to do what to do' – he heard.

Huh, he had thought, not so lucky after all.

Then nearly a month later, his brattiness was back. Now, even under the pain of death would Blaise ever admit this, but he was relieved. Still, there were no signs of kidnapping whatsoever. If Blaise had not known any better, he would have thought that he had been imagined things.

But then Blaise looked up at Draco eyes. The same kind of eyes that looked back at him every day. Those eyes were what made him halted his steps and really looked at Draco Malfoy for the first time.

The rest, as they said, was history.

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(And then, at eleven years old, Hyacinth walked into their lives.)