Anonymous Submission
To my father, to many father's of the war, the whole concept of lineage and bree breeding was very important, of utmost importance - I can name my ancestors back for generations and they keep going even after I've forgotten the names - but in the end it all came down to the importance of blood. Blood and inheritance. I can do no more than anyone else to change the blood in my veins, but my inheritance is that of the men and women who thought that the blood of the Wizarding World could be changed by removing that which didn't fit, didn't fit into their veins; their hearts pumped differently, still pump differently but the most we can do, as a civilised society, is lock them away. They didn't have to spill their blood into the cracks of flagstones of an institution that sheltered so many, or be forced to spill it in order to follow the path that was put before them. They made that path, they wanted those flagstones soaked in blood, the wrong kind of blood, so that the right kind of blood could walk over it. They didn't have to spill anything or sacrifice anything to keep their blood in their veins, but they're still allowed to keep it now, who didn't have their chests cracked open and their innocence pulled out when their lives should have been Quidditch and studies, who are imprisoned but safe, safe when every victim walks around and can't remember what safe feels like anymore, aware that there is no such thing. Chests still hanging open and everything inside vulnerable and raw. Bloody. It all comes back to blood. And they love it; nothing excites them so. Pleases them more, even the wrong kind.
I have inherited their crimes; a legacy as ingrained in me as blood, condemning fingerprints in secret parts. All I can do in memoriam: craft small punishments; accept blame; give each small piece of me to the wronged or waste it away in some small apology now mine to give for those who do not feel remorse for what they've done, and ensure that inheritance stops with me. At least that small piece.