It was the only thing he was left to do, as the shadows of Azkaban were intruding his mind. He needed a mental image that would help him survive, something that would make him recover every day's torment; he needed a face of a person, dear and true to become his company. And he tried to think of his family, but there was nothing that could inspire love there. He tried to think of friends, but his friends were gone long ago.
Love wasn't a sentiment strong enough to feed him.
So he decided to forget about the dear faces.
And found another company, another image, the image of an enemy; a blond pureblooded wizard with a sardonic smile. A smile Lucius seemed to be saving for him, a smile that held mockery for the imprisoned wizard.
Maybe the dark Lord had killed Regulus himself. Then again, maybe he had asked one of his minions to do his dirty job.
What difference did it make? Voldemort had no face, Lucius did, and it was a pretty one.
And in the dark corners of his mind, along with the rest of his irrational morbid thoughts, Lucius became his brother's murderer, a cruel heart to hate, a beautiful face to keep him company in the dark cell.
Hatred, as Sirius discovered in time, fed him well.
Fin
