Dinner that night was torture. Not, Hermione thought as she poured another glass of wine, the literal torture she'd feared when she'd first arrived in this house. It was the social torture of a drunk Lucius, a pleasantly vague Dolohov who'd stopped by because he so missed darling Narcissa, and a Draco on edge.

Dolohov tended to do that to people.

"That's a lovely hair clip," he said to Hermione. "Is it new?"

She smiled tightly. "We bought it today," she said.

"It's good to look the part," he said. He forked a mouthful of salad up and chewed for a bit while everyone sat in uncomfortable silence. "Some people, of course, are never going to accept you." He glanced rather meaningfully at Lucius.

"Hermione is a lovely daughter," Lucius said. He didn't even choke on the words. Hermione felt a weird burst of fondness for the old liar. When he'd decided to go down a course, he stuck to it, and if his wife had married his only son off to a woman he'd considered barely worthy of notice only a few months before, well, he would smile about that until hell froze and act as if he'd never once uttered a slur or sniffed that people like her had the temerity to exist. She had to give him points for consistency.

Of course, that stubborn consistency was how he'd ended up a Death Eater. It wasn't wholly virtuous.

"She is lovely," Dolohov agreed. Her skin crawled as he let his eyes roam over her face and hair. "Still, you know how people are."

"Do tell me how they are," Narcissa said.

"They feel unsafe," he said. "Muggle-borns make them nervous." He smiled and all his teeth gleamed. They were very white. Someone needed to tell him to back off the whitening charms. A little was good. Too much looked creepy. "It's hardly your fault, my dear. People do have their prejudices."

"Huh," Hermione said. She pushed some of the potatoes around her plate. "I would have thought people were uncomfortable because I was in the Order."

"There's that too," he agreed. "But winds shift and what was in fashion one year is out again the next. People see the Order as tired rebels clinging to an outdated cause today but next week?" He shrugged. "Who knows."

"But I'll always be a Mudblood," she said.

"And a Malfoy." Dolohov said as though that settled the matter. He turned to Narcissa, the physical movement making it clear that one topic had ended and it was time to begin another. Hermione shoved one of the potatoes in her mouth so chewing would give her an excuse not to speak. She was sure it was perfectly seasoned. It felt like sawdust. "Did you hear about the Lestranges, darling Cissa?"

Narcissa's poise didn't falter. "Do tell," she said as if her own sister hadn't been married into that family. As if they were strangers she was idly curious about. Hermione recalled Lucius' contempt for the brothers and flicked a glance at him. He caught her eyes and twisted his mouth into a smile.

"They have always been a family of great passions," Dolohov said. He paused as if he were concerned about bruising a delicate sensibility. "Will it hurt you to hear?"

"Because of dear Bella?" Narcissa raised a brow. "I always thought they were well matched. She was an intense, passionate girl who grew into an equally formidable woman."

"It seems Rodolphus might not have been wholly… faithful," Dolohov said.

"Oh?" Narcissa patted her mouth with her napkin.

"He has a child," Lucius said blandly. "Or so he claims. I generally assume that meant he had sex at least once."

"Archibald doesn't really look like… Madam Lestrange did," Hermione admitted.

Dolohov smiled at them with seeming pity for their naivety. "I think it might have been a bit more than that," he said. "He seems to have catted around much of London, leaving a trail of obliviated Muggles in his wake."

Lucius made a rude noise somewhat akin to a peacock coughing up a bit of bird seed it didn't like. "Lucky girls," he said. Hermione narrowed her eyes and he elaborated. "Would you want to remember having to fuck that loon? Because I would not."

She smothered her laugh with a quick sip from her glass.

"I'm not sure why you're telling me this," Narcissa said. "Do you expect me to avenge my sister's honor?"

"He and Amycus were apparently quite a pair," Dolohov said. "Alecto too, rest her soul. They made quite a trail it seems. Hard to believe good purebloods would be so uncouth but you never know about people, do you?"

"Did someone write a book?" Hermione asked. "I don't mean to be rude, but why do we care about this?"

"He's a gossip," Lucius said. He squinted at Dolohov and something akin to disgust settled around his mouth where it hung out with the line of wine along his upper lip. "Some kind of catty old fishwife."

Hermione had observed before in her life that Lucius Malfoy was a deeply unpleasant person. He was a snob, and had left 'morally dubious' behind years ago, passed 'amoral' on the road and taken up the company of flat out 'immoral.' What regrets he had about his actions as Death Eater seemed wholly focused on what the impact had been on his wife and son. She could imagine him stepping over a bleeding puppy in the street, irate the thing might have dirtied his shoes. He was, as her mother would have said, a piece of work. He hadn't turned that nastiness on her recently but even half-drunk and needing a shave he could use scorn like a weapon. He used it now.

"Cough it up, Dolohov, or go back to pretending the girls in Witch Weekly would give you the time of day."

Antonin Dolohov had survived the reign of Voldemort and, where Malfoy had withered, he'd thrived. He didn't so much as twitch at the insult. "Not keeping your finger on the pulse of power was always one of your flaws, Lucius."

Lucius snorted.

"Hubris," Dolohov said softly. "Hubris brings down the greatest, my old friend. It brought down the Dark Lord. Never discount the masses."

"Or the schoolboy," Hermione said.

Dolohov smiled at her. She kept her jaw from clenching in the face of that with more effort than she cared to admit. If Lucius was a piece of work, he was the whole puzzle.

Or maybe that was Yaxley.

"Indeed," Dolohov said. "Whatever became of dear Harry Potter, anyway?"

"I think he'd on the continent," she said. "You would probably know better than I."

"On the continent, working with that Molly Weasley and old Moody," Dolohov said. He sounded as if he were working an idea out in his head but she'd seen grandstanding before and she knew he had come prepared to deliver whatever tidbit he was about to drop on her. She hated being in agreement with Lucius Malfoy but she wished he would just get on with it, say what he'd come to say, and leave.

She decided she wasn't going to think about his possibly wanking off to Witch Weekly.

"Anyway," he said, picking up his wine glass and swirling the expensive vintage around. "Someone printed up a pamphlet on their escapes. No pictures, for which I'm sure we're all grateful, but enough salacious details to start up quite a bit of pub chatter."

Hermione shrugged. "So?" she said. "I could print up a broadsheet saying you turned into a cat on the full moon. Anyone can print anything."

"Yes," he said, "but this, it turns out, seems to have touched a nerve. This has made the good witches and wizards of Britain start to talk about how Dumbledore never behaved that way, how the Weasleys were a good family. Poor, but you never heard a whisper of this nonsense."

Hermione had no real response to this. She'd sent off endless details of the Carrows and Lestranges. Some of it had been more than distasteful. She wouldn't have expected their sexual appetites to become the wedge that pried them off the Death Eater block, but that did have the taste of Moody to it. She'd never been quite comfortable with that magical eye, spinning around, seeing through things.

"You were smart to marry your son off to this lovely young woman," Dolohov said. He pushed his chair back. "And, whatever else you may be, Lucius, we all know you've never strayed. I suppose Roddy is fortunate dear Bella is not more."

Narcissa's expression became quite cool. "Do explain," she said.

"Well," Dolohov said, "she'd kill him."

"De mortuis nihil si bonum," Narcissa said. It sounded like a warning and Dolohov's suggestion he could read the winds of power wasn't wholly false because he stood up, nodded his head in her direction in what might have been an apology and moved toward the door.

"One more thing," he said.

"Oh, for the love of -," Lucius said.

"While we've all been spared photographs in the pamphlet someone charmingly titled The Downfall of Walpurgis, I have seen two of your lovely faces in a picture lately, and with Yaxley in a foul mood because of this scandal, well, I'd expect an unpleasant visit."

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again.

"A warning seemed fair," Dolohov said.

And then he was gone.

"I hope a peacock attacks him," Lucius muttered.

"Draco?" Narcissa asked.

"We might have been photographed leaving that Ficus woman's art exhibit," he said slowly. Hermione closed her eyes. She'd been so relieved they'd made it away, that they hadn't gotten caught in an Auror dragnet with their polyjuice wearing off, she hadn't stopped to worry about that flash of light right before they apparated away. She should have. She should have tracked that down. How was she supposed to keep this many things in her head at once?

"It's hardly a crime to go to an art gallery," Lucius said.

"It can be when the artist in question is subversive." Yaxley strode into the room, Amycus Carrow at his heels. Four goons came in behind him. They were outnumbered. He'd brought enough people none of them would be able to stand up to him, but not so many he was expecting a battle. He saw her counting them. Saw her come to that conclusion. His smile reminded Hermione of a girl she'd known in primary. She'd been a pretty little thing. Her clothing had always been immaculate and every teacher had loved her. She'd been smart and sweet and every adult had good things to say about her. She'd also pulled the wings off flies and made the unpopular boys eat them.

"It wasn't very good," Hermione said.

"No," Yaxley agreed. He pulled off first one leather glove and then the other and handed them to Amycus, who took them with greedy eagerness. "Not that I know much about art, but it seemed second rate to me."

"Doesn't matter now," Amycus said.

Hermione tried to put a politely inquisitive look on her face but something had settled in the bottom of her stomach. Something bad. Something heavy. "Oh?" she asked.

"We burned it," Yaxley said. "I've been told the paint made an awful smell, but we just can't allow art that questions the state to be paraded around."

"Even bad art?" Narcissa asked.

Yaxley gave a little shrug. "What makes art good is so subjective," he said. "But it should uplift people's spirits, don't you think? It should remind us what is unique about wizarding Britain. Why we are better."

Hermione had to squelch the urge to ask, "But are we."

"We Malfoys usually stick to family portraits," Lucius said.

"A habit I would encourage your newest daughter to adopt," Yaxley said. He sounded regretful. Hermione didn't believe it for a moment. "I was able to silence the news that you had been at that disgraceful show," he said. "I comment your discretion in going in disguise. I'm sure getting out as a young, 'It' couple is hard, but you weren't careful enough and, as a Malfoy, everything you do reflects on the regime."

"We will be more careful in the future," Draco said.

"I know," Amycus could barely manage to contain his cackle.

"I think it's good for a husband to chastise his wife, don't you think?" Yaxley asked. Lucius had the sense not to answer that question, and Narcissa's gaze became so chilly Hermione was surprised frost didn't bloom on the windows. "A bit old fashioned of me, of course, but we're an old-fashioned country, going back to traditional ways."

"Tradition is often a good basis for life," Draco said. He knew his lines and she could see the way it hurt him to utter them but he was going to play along. "It's what gives us strength as a country."

"It does," Yaxley said. "Which is why you will now pull out your wand and crucio your wife to punish her for taking you to that art exhibit and almost being caught."

Draco's hand shook as he moved to draw his wand out of the pocket at his side. Hermione sucked in air through her nose and tried to calm herself. "Do it," she mouthed at him. There was no way out. He'd brought too many backups.

He looked sick but he leveled the wand at her and said the word. "Crucio."

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – 'De mortuis nihil sed bonum' loosely translates to 'Don't speak ill of the dead.'