[Barty bears no fault for that, or no more fault than the rest of the inner circle. They are all willingly blind, to some extent, and each enticed by a unique manipulation. Voldemort perceived her truest self and spoke to that: the inner tempest, the restless violent creature that no amount of learned decorum could contain. Supremely proud though she is of her family and blood, her temperament's ill-suited to the role and expectations that naturally follow. The Dark Lord resolved that dilemma for her. Where others saw elegance, he claimed to see power. To be valued for a quality with value. What more could she ask?

It's a grand deception, making each of them think what they wish to think: seeming to give them precisely what they want. Their master's greatest talents are the ones they'll never be aware of.]

No, by all means, say what you will. You'll know very quickly when I mind.

[At best, Rodolphus is her ally. At worst, he's a concession to the life it would kill her to lead. She's only discussing him this far because it's indirect. It really has more to do with Barty. Her tone is matter-of-fact.]

His opinion differs, naturally. He thinks you're a little boy. Told me so.

[Now this is a game she's only half-heartedly playing. There's nothing in it for her. What'll happen will happen whether she fans the flames or not. She's fanning them just because.]