The decisions of Sirius; in the words of Shakespeare
To kill, or not to kill, that is the question:
Thou must stopeth thou hatred of Death Eaters
Killed by unforgivable curse is thou fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-
No more- and by a sleep to say we end
The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of Death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this muggle coil
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.
The pangs of adored hatred, Voldemort's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That culprit merit of the unworthy takes,
When himself might his quietus make,
With a bare wand? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life.
But that the dread of something after Death,
The undiscovered curse, from whose bourn
No wizard returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than dissaparate to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sickled o'er with the pale cost of a pensive,
And enterprises of great pith and movement
With this regard their curses not turn away,
And thou, Sirius, shalt must forth kill Bellatrix Lestrange!