[For a minute, almost a full sixty seconds, Ron just basks in the warm afterglow of unsettling Bellatrix Lestrange. Black. Whoever she is. It feels like a tiny revenge for Sirius. And the attack on the Burrow.
The basking lets him get his temper under control, though it also lets his arrogance strut on out.]
What could I possibly know? I'm just an ickle blood traitor.
Re: privated ––
The basking lets him get his temper under control, though it also lets his arrogance strut on out.]
What could I possibly know? I'm just an ickle blood traitor.