You didn't pass dinner cloths to House Elves. It was simple common sense.
Walburga had never done it; if the filthy scum could make off forever with nothing but a hat, then it was truly far too risky to pass them the dinner cloths. Nasty little vermin'd run off—first chance they got. It was an immutable truth, she could see it when she looked at the sorry little scrap she had. Common sense; simple common sense.
"Would mistress like Kreacher to set the table for all four masters and mistresses?" the House Elf asked, and bowed his aging head. Walburga gave him a severe glare.
"You shall set the table as you always do." She said quickly.
"Yes, mistress." The animal nodded. As he hobbled off, Walburga strode to the pantry. She had no time for House Elves, and yet she had all the time in the world left now. The other residents of the house never disrupted a thing, nowadays. All Kreacher had to worry about now was her.
And, disturbingly, he did worry.
She snarled at the pantry wall; she had a habit of talking to herself, little flits of expressions passed on her face more readily than they did if she was with company. She narrowed her eyes and looked around for the dinner cloths. There; that small wooden box. She looked at it for a moment before religiously picking it up. The air around her hummed. The air around her was sharp and dense. The air around her. For a moment she felt a little light headed; there was such immense pressure all around her. She was fixated on the box. This box. This box with four cloths; black, blue, green and grey. Her head, Merlin's Beard her head was swelling and for a second she felt like she couldn't breathe. She was drowning. She tried to inhale, but she couldn't and she had a feeling she knew why, but if the air around her was water that she drowned in, the reason why was a hungry shark.
"GET UP, GET ON UP, GET ON THE SCENE LIKE A SEX MACHINE!" Blasted through the house. Her paralysing pressure shattered. She blinked slowly, before she realised what it was. Sirius' muggle music machine. It was enchanted—cursed, rather—to start up once every once in a while. She listened to the music for a few seconds, before storming out of the pantry.
"Kreacher!" She shrieked. "Sirius turned his music on again! Turn it off!" She heard shuffling and muttering. She looked up the stairs, listening for whatever was said. Nothing was said. Sirius' music box stopped.
The dinner tables were all set much neater now. No one disrupted the tidy, orderly table. They were all so quiet.
She busied herself with setting the dinner cloths. "A black one for Sirius, the heir." She said, almost affectionately. Almost. Sirius said nothing. It was like his mind was somewhere else entirely. "Blue for the husband," she said briskly, burying herself in her one job. "No, no, let me," she said. She walked to the other side of the table and fixed the wrinkle. Such a small detail, and it wasn't like he would notice anyway. He never noticed anymore.
"And green, for the youngest child. My boy." She said. It was the most affectionate she had ever let herself be. Regulus couldn't respond.
"Kreacher. The food." She snapped. Kreacher nodded.
"Yes, mistress. Right away mistress." And with a click of his finger and a bow of his head, there were four plates of hot, bland food.
"Kreacher, leave." She snapped lazily.
"Of course, mistress. As you say, mistress." Kreacher bowed his head even lower. He disappeared, and appeared again on the landing, looking down on the kitchen scene below. His mistress babbled away, but everyone else remained silent as the grave.
He had neither the heart nor the right to tell her that Orion had died, Regulus has gone missing and Sirius had run away and gotten himself imprisoned in Azkaban. Walburga Black sat seated with three empty chairs.