Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Butterflies and Bezoars
By Silver Sailor Ganymede
When Blaise was a child, he used to tear the wings off butterflies – rip them off and pull them to shreds with his hands like some common muggle. There would have been no beauty in using magic; it was too easy to use magic on a creature that fragile. Better to do it with his hands, all the better to be able to feel their pain as he watched the life ebb out of them.
This is all Blaise can think about as he huddles into the stands that grey evening, watching the Ravenclaw team's Quidditch practice. If they see him, they'll probably think him a spy for Slytherin and attempt to hex him, but he isn't worried about that. Blaise is very, very good at making himself invisible, and it's impossible that any Ravenclaw will catch sight of him; they're all too idealistic, their heads in the clouds, to be able to spot a casual observer in the stands. Even if one does see him, they'll no doubt decide that no one in their right mind would willingly be watching a Quidditch practice on such an awful day. They're not going to see him.
Butterflies. That's all he can think of as he watches Cho Chang fly. Butterflies. He remembers dimly that her name may be derived from the Japanese word for 'butterfly', but he cannot be sure about this. Her family may not even be Japanese – they might be Chinese, they might be Korean, he's not sure. All he knows is that Cho herself must have been born somewhere in the north of this country. Her voice makes him think of northern England, possibly even Scotland, but Blaise has never been any good with accents, especially northern ones. He despises the north, despises Hogwarts for its northern location. The only reason he refused to go to Durmstrang was because it is so far north – northern and dark and cold and wet, deprived entirely of sunlight during the winter. No, a butterfly like Cho can't really be from the north; a delicate creature like her would die there, he's sure.
Yes, she's delicate and beautiful and that is why he's drawn to her. A fragile creature, slightly off when on the ground but so lovely when in flight: truly a butterfly. Had she had wings, he would have torn them from her already. Of course she doesn't, so Blaise contents himself with thinking of other things he could do to a delicate creature like that. Perhaps he'll borrow Mama's trick, get a confused old house elf to poison tea and give it to her. Of course it has to be an old house elf, a stupid, forgetful animal; then no one will realise he's behind it. Then he'll watch her cough and choke as the blood freezes in her veins and the life ebbs out of her – only to cram a beazor down her throat at the last second, to tear her away from death, so she'll open those beautiful dark eyes and he'll be able to see the fear, the agony, and the delight with him at having saved her life.
The only thing that has to die for such a plan is an old house elf, and such things are expendable.
Blaise can't really kill her, of course. He can only think about things like this. He's not his mother, not willing to seduce a filthy half-blood just for the elation of killing it. Blaise is not his mother; he won't kill butterflies, only torture them, and that is why he contents himself with watching and wondering, wondering.
If he had his way with her, Cho Chang would never fly again, and butterflies are only beautiful when flying.