If he'd had his druthers, Domitian wouldn't have come at all. He didn't go out of his way to interact with the rich, pureblood crowd — not for the past ten years. Even when no one was bringing it up directly, he always felt that his own blood status was lurking in their minds, and that they were judging him, or pitying him, or feeling superior to him, none of which were things he wanted to encourage. He didn't want to be seen as desperate to fit in, but he knew he could also not be noted to be openly unfriendly towards anyone. At least as long as he had an inheritance (as long as his son had an inheritance) from Cosmo Zabini, he had to keep on as though nothing had changed, though of course everything had changed, and everyone knew it.

Sometimes he felt it would be a relief if his father disowned him, just to be done having to pretend — but if he was disinherited, Matilda would probably leave, and likely take the children with her, and that he could not stomach. So he'd keep pretending, keep treading water as long as he needed to. If having to be surrounded by these people left him tense and irate by the end of the night, at least he was used to it, by now.

He glanced up at his sister's question. He'd been watching his wife talk to one of her sisters across the room, trying to discern from her expression the content of the conversation, and hadn't noticed Camilla approach. The question itself was inane; she was probably expecting him to say something vague and complimentary about Mrs. Prewett's hosting skills, but he wasn't in a particularly fit mood to do so.

"A person born on the day in question," he replied dryly. "And some other people who weren't, to make up a party."