Once he's sitting, she does too; a moment later, folding her hands primly and wishing she were better at this, that it could be smoother. The thought that there is no good way of having such a conversation is a poor comfort.

"Bellatrix is dead," she says, and it feels unreal. Dead again. Dead this time. Existing in a constant state of better off that way-- Merlin, it's a mess. She's wondered so many times what sort of a man Rodolphus might have been if not for her sister and sitting here watching him now, she supposes she mourns for having never met such a man as much as for the mad ghost of her sister. Perhaps more. What might he have been--? Was this so inevitable for him as it was for her?