"Then you're attempting to persuade one of us of a conclusion based on a faulty premise." He leans back in his chair, sipping the tea with a meditative look. "If it's me, you needn't bother. I may not understand your desires, but I understand his. Rodolphus is not ambitious on his own behalf. He likes blood and the freedom to pursue it, but he doesn't really need help for that, only a reasonable discretion. The only thing he wants that he absolutely cannot acquire for himself--well, apart from necromancy, obviously--is the imposition of his ideals on this muggle infested world, unquote.
"That's the dream the Dark Lord seduced his absolute loyalty with, and," he leans forward a little over his cup, elbows on his knees, "that's what he will be hoping for from you. As I should just about think you know. And let me say this: if Bellatrix thinks she can prevent me from making the most basic of extrapolations simply by pulling the same divisive claptrap she crippled the Dark Lord with on you, then she is the most predictable of jealous fools who ever brought doom down on her own head with an engraved invitation. Will you really be advised by the evaporated ghost of such a mind? Should I have come earlier to send her into hysterical fits just with the sight of me, as was habitual for her in our last years, to underline what years of torture left of her sanity, instead of respecting the memory of the Bellatrix Black who was a very great and gracious lady and trusting to your good sense?"