There had been a table at Malfoy Manor, ancient, carved from dark mahogany with legs twisting into ornately clawed animal feet. It had stretched from end to end of the great dining room, and seated hundreds of pure-blood witches and wizards over hundreds of years. It was a Malfoy heirloom, and prized as such.
And then the Dark Lord had come, had sat at the table's head during dark twisted gatherings of Death Eater, had tortured and killed people at it, innocent people. They had pleaded for mercy over that dark table, but their entreaties were met only with cruel laughter.
Draco was glad, fiercely glad, when he stood with his parents, his wand drawn, and they incinerated that table together.
But his table, his and Luna's, was as different as a table could be. It was a small, cosy sort of table that fit exactly ten people if they squeezed tight: three up each of the longer sides and two at each end. The legs were flat and plain, and the whole thing had been painted white, by hand, so that one could see the brushstrokes, and a few hairs that had fallen out of the paintbrushes and been caught in the paint.
Luna had persuaded Draco that it would be fun to paint that table themselves, just the two of them. He'd had his doubts, but then she had smiled up at him, with such a look in her eyes that he couldn't help but kiss her. He felt that he couldn't really say no after that.
(It had been fun, he admitted afterwards, though they ended up with more paint on themselves than the table.)