It wasn’t supposed to turn into a debate.

You were only meant to deliver information—slip in, speak quickly, leave before anyone noticed. But Bellatrix had been in one of her moods that night: restless, sharp-eyed, dangerous in a quiet way.

She caught you lingering.

“You’re staring,” she remarked lightly. “Is there something on your mind?”

You hesitated. Every instinct warned you to stay silent. Challenge her, and you challenged everything she believed in.

But something in her tone—curious, almost bored—made your heart beat faster.

“I don’t understand you,” you said finally.

Her smile widened. “Most people don’t.”

“You worship blood status like it’s destiny,” you continued, voice steady despite the fear. “But you’re brilliant. Powerful. You’re everything you are because of you. Not your blood.”

The room went still.

Bellatrix didn’t laugh. She didn’t curse. She simply stared at you as if you had spoken in a foreign language.

Carefully, she stepped closer. “Blood is everything,” she said softly. “It decides worth. Loyalty. Power.”

“Then explain this,” you replied before you could stop yourself. “Why are so many pure-bloods weak? And so many Muggle-borns strong?”

That earned a reaction.

Her expression flickered—just for a second. Not rage. Something closer to… uncertainty. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by sharp mockery.

“You sound like the rest of them,” she scoffed. “Idealistic. Naïve.”