"That sounds nice. And impressive. For a fictional story." Draco tried to be enthusiastic about it, but he knew he was failing miserably. And nothing dieing sounded an awful lot like Voldemort's fantasy. "If you were an elf, dear, Galadriel would have nothing on you."
"What wits?" Draco responded testily. "How about the wits that let a 16-year-old complete a mission that the Dark Lord meant would result in his death? The wits that allowed a 16-year-old to succeed in getting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, a task the Dark Lord couldn't accomplish himself. Or how about the wits that allowed my mother to not only subvert the greatest legillimens ever but make her Minister of Magic? And yes, my father lacks those wits, we've always known that."
He sighed, rubbing his brow. "I suppose I should talk to him." Why was his wife always so right? "Oh Merlin's beard, sweet on James, really?" If he were his father, he'd say he'd put an end to that, but Draco was not Lucius. Thankfully.
"You're welcome," he said with a fake smile.
"Here's to the most beautiful witch," he offered a toast in his wife's honor.