"I am your sister." Her wand doesn't move, lowered to her side, but her chin rises as she bites the inside of her cheek not to recoil from what Bella has become, from that terrifying moment of unrecognition. Her perception of her sister has always been somehow warped, contradictory; in her mind's eye Bellatrix burns like the Amazon star she's named for, bright and beautiful and horrific and always, but by the same token she's always known the inevitability of this madness. A part of her had been mourning before she'd even been gone.

If not Azkaban, something else - if not Azkaban, perhaps just her.

"I'm your damn sister, Bella," she says, quieter.