Theodore watched Ingrid disappear with a thoughtful exhale of smoke and a tap of his cigarette. He was wondering how to phrase his question without seeming rude; the matter of death eaters and murders might have been an old one, but it was no less indelicate or, really, distasteful. She might have been been an open book, but no doubt some of the pages had been sullied by the destruction of the last war. And the first war, if he remembered his history correctly (he knew he did). Susan Bones, the progeny of an unfortunate family, marred badly by blood politics, by his own relatives, he was sure.
He disliked the taste in his mouth, but he had to know.
"Why are you sharing a meal with me?" He began, tapping his finger absently on his cigarette case. It was cold and smooth, but for a single deep scratch, and the edge of his nail caught on it once, twice. "You know my father was a death eater. I know what your family has been through. This seems --" he searched for the word that could adequately express the malaise that ought to have been present between them. "-- potentially uncomfortable."