He laments, in the quiet and dark of his cell, the hatred he felt for a certain dark-haired Gryffindor. Hated the laughter, and love that the eldest Black brother received during his days at Hogwarts and how it ate at his best friend slowly. And at the wet, heaving sobs that come from the cell next to him, he talks about how, when Regulus was cradling his burning arm which now held the brand of the dark lord, all Regulus had whispered over and over, was: