"Just because your family's idea of a fancy dinner is digging through the garbage in the posh part of town," Draco says, "that's no reason to –"
Ron forgets sometimes that a person can literally see red. It usually happens when the ministry sends him for a few weeks' long runs out of town.
Don't get mad, he thinks. Draco knows better than to think this subject's open for teasing, even non-Malfoy-style teasing. Something must be up. Stay calm and find out, like Hermione would.
He knows it's futile before he even tries. "Where the hell d'you get off –"
"I worked on this bloody dinner for hours," Draco says, cross. "And all you can say is –"
"You didn't work on it, the house elves did."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Draco demands. "It's not like you don't have to tell them every single detail or they'll just set things up the exact same way for sixty years in a row. You think I want to reenact my parents' romantic dinners?"
Ron shudders. "I bloody hope not."
"Right. At least you could show a little –" he halts. "Why do I sound like my mum? Weasley, this is all your fault."
"I just said I don't get it!" Ron protests. "What's all the fuss about? Why does it matter if the candles are in the chandelier or on the table? Is this really your mum's good china?"
"Yes," Draco says, through clenched teeth. "Your entire family sold into slavery's worth less than one plate."
Ron whistles. "See? I don't understand this. Why have it out where we can break it? Why bloody well buy it in the first place?"
"Because this is how things are done," Draco says. "You're in love, you have fancy dinners. Didn't your parents ever do this?"
Ron shakes his head. "With seven kiddies underfoot? Not that I can remember."
"My god," Draco says, in a voice that mixes wonderment, sympathy and slight disdain, "No wonder your mum and dad never tried to take over the world. They'd have nowhere to plot."