Bellatrix gasped loudly, and Hermione's chest lurched.

Every mouth and hand at the table froze. Even Rodolphus, who hadn't spoken more than ten words, turned to stare at her.

"You dare serve a guest before the lord of the manor?" Bellatrix breathed, placing her hand over her chest. "Where are your manners, Mudblood?"

Hermione bowed her head and took a shaky step backward, chest still thumping. She could vaguely hear Flint and Rabastan giggling into their napkins.

"Pardon her ignorance," Narcissa clipped. "We've always found house elves to be superior table servants."

Hermione walked the length of the table to where Rabastan sat, still chuckling.

"How unfortunate," Bellatrix responded. "I'm sure she could learn quickly with the proper motivation."

Hermione swallowed, and served Rabastan, feeling his gaze slither down her body. Her dress was conservative, but the fabric was too thin, catching her curves when she moved.

"I will discipline her as I see fit, Bella," Narcissa said, smoothing her napkin.

She stiffly moved counterclockwise, to Rodolphus next.

Bellatrix gave Flint an apologetic pout. "Unfortunately, my sister and I have always disagreed on the topic of 'discipline.'" She sighed. "It's the same with my dear brother-in-law, I'm afraid."

"Few can afford your methods of 'discipline,' Bellatrix," said Lucius. "What elf are you on now? The eighth?"

"Ninth," Rodolphus grunted. Bellatrix glared at him, but he didn't look up.

"A terrible waste, if you ask me," Narcissa said primly, letting her spoon drift through her soup. "Servants thrive under order and a certain degree of respect. Such draconian measures are unnecessary."

"'Respect!'" Bella sneered. She turned back to Flint just as Hermione arrived at his elbow. "Marcus, dear. Tell me, how do you discipline your whore when she forgets her place?"

Hermione glanced at Penelope, whose eyes were fixed on the floor.

Flint chuckled. "An excellent question, Mrs. Lestrange. But she doesn't forget. Not anymore."

She moved to Draco next, who had been completely silent since he sat down. He'd had a few spoonfuls of soup, but his wine goblet remained untouched. Hermione chanced a sideways glance and found him staring at his bowl, his eyes glazed over.

"And tell me," Bella said, "does your whore sleep in the dungeon? Perhaps your closet, like Rabastan's?"

A muscle in Draco's jaw pulsed as she set the bread on his plate.

"Well, she sleeps in my bed now. But in the beginning, when she misbehaved, she had a cage down the hall." He smirked. "Close enough for convenience, but too far to hear her rattling it."

Hermione gripped the basket tightly to her ribs.

"Of course," Bellatrix cooed. "And does she have her own room?"

"Not yet," said Flint, grinning, "but I've heard some inspiring stories about Draco's 'dungeon.'"

Rabastan chuckled.

"I meant some place safe and warm," said Bellatrix, leaning forward. "Does your little Mudblood have her own four-poster and en-bathroom suite?"

Hermione's feet stumbled.

Flint laughed. "She's a slave, not a house guest."

Bellatrix cackled, the sound shooting down Hermione's spine. Then she snapped her fingers, pointing to her bread plate.