Macchine da Guerra

Arie In Argento

Draco wiped the steam from the mirror in the shower and his face, haloed with blond hair looked back. His wet hair hung about his face in long tresses, the strands hugging his cheeks. His usually pale complexion was quite ruddy after his very hot shower. With approving eyes he smirked at himself in the mirror, the look saying everything. "I would most definitely fuck me!"

As he prepared to go out he went through his usual toilette. The Muggle radio was blasting out the intoxication THUMPA-THUMPA of his newest musical purchase; a techno CD. Draco had discovered the music at his first gay bar in Muggle London a few weeks prior. It unleashed something in him that made him feel feral and sensual at the same time. It brought out a side of him that most music rarely touched. The music spoke to his id and said one thing: SEX.

Slowly, he danced around the bathroom, naked and alone, as he relived that first night. That night he had finally let it all go and acknowledged many things about himself that had lain dormant during the war. His mind had had more pressing issues to sort out, things like survival and stealth. He had spent the duration of the war hiding everything that would portray weakness, and being even remotely effeminate was totally out of the question. Also fun was a sparse commodity and could be ill afforded by most. Now that the dark times lay more than two years in the past and the rest of the world was on the mend it was time for rediscovery and re-acquaintance.

During the various machinations the svelte young man performed to attain his inherent dapperness, he began to reminisce. He had lived through the war, surprisingly, yet barely. He had had many epiphanies about life during that horrible period of his life. Now that the war was over he had freedom, real freedom. Life can be fun, he can enjoy things, and most importantly he had the chance now to share his life with someone special. Not that he had anyone in mind, but the option was there. The last thought, still brought him into shivers. That particular hope had never entered into his head. Life would have ended up being, for him, what it had been for Lucius; duty, station, pathos were paramount. Why should he have been allowed to be happy?

"Draco, hurry up in there, I'm starving!"

The voice startled him from his thoughts. Merlin, but Pansy could be a dreadful bitch sometimes. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Panse, it'll rumple your dress," he said uncaringly. She knew he would not leave until he felt he was at the pinnacle of fashion. Draco was never anything less than drop dead gorgeous.

"Where are you dragging me to, anyway? It would be so much easier to dress if I knew the tortura del giorno." Draco tried to make his voice sound bored and inconvenienced; a feat once easily accomplished during his stay at Hogwarts. However, a lot of real life had happened to Draco since then. He grimaced, now that the effect was nonexistent.

"Well, it's obvious isn't it, Draco, darling." He could practically see the sneer in the voice he heard. "Since I am quickly wasting away to nothing, which must mean I am in dire need of sustenance. Now only a dolt or a pauper would show up at your door in such a state without having prior reservations. As I am neither, it would most likely be a safe assumption that we are going to a restaurant."

Draco blanched in the mirror at a very red-faced Ms. Parkinson appeared in the doorway. She did look a bit piqued. Her nostrils flared as her face scowled into its reflective surface. The familiar lines of her usually calm face were darkened as her ire reached Draco. Shite, mate, better put a move on!

"Now, if you don't get the fuck out of the bathroom post-haste I will forget that I am a lady and hex you into next year." The threat slinked though her gritted teeth. "The little Weaslette's bat-bogey hex will seem like a lover's caress after I'm done with you!" With that she abruptly spun on her heel and stalked out of the room.

Upon her exit Draco felt his heart rate return to normal and he exhaled. Dementors couldn't hold a candle to an irate Pansy Parkinson. Quickly he fixed his hair and got dressed in his favorite black silk shirt and snug grey slacks. Muggle clothes were also a great discovery of his after the war. He particularly enjoyed their very comfortable shirts that accented his lithe frame and delicate skin tone and bone structure. His physique, though a bit malnourished from the fight to survive the war, was still that of a defined Quidditch player. Michelangelo, eat your heart out, he leered.

"Shall we go, O demonically voracious one? Or shall I have the servant bring in a burnt sacrifice for you instead?" he smirked as Pansy's temper rose and then, just as quickly, faded. Her face opened into a smile.
"Draco, you bloody ponce," she giggled, definitely a better reaction to his quip than the chance of her going supernova again. "Honestly though, making a poor girl wait two and a half hours to take you out for you birthday dinner is a bit much on even the most patient witch."

Draco scoffed, vaguely offended. He nodded his head rigidly acknowledging her statement, but also letting her know she had cut him. She put her hand on his elbow, as close to an apology as the once great Prince of Slytherin would accept, and they left his flat.

* * * * *

As the car pulled up to the curb of the restaurant Draco could already tell he liked the place. It was an old fashioned building with moderate size and excellent décor. There were several velvet chairs to sit on and the light was subdued for ambience. Several fine bottles of wine and aged liquor graced the shelves of the dark oak bar that served as a lounge for the waiting patrons. The bar was full of people, wizard and Muggle alike, sipping their drinks and passing the time with idle chatter. Yes, Draco was quite taken with the small establishment.

"Do you want to grab a drink? We are a bit early for our reservation," Pansy asked with her usual this-is-not-a-request tone. Draco dutifully went up to the bar and perused the bottles there for his viewing. He was impressed by the selection of vintage wines and aged liquors. He watched as the bartender calmly attended each guest with an unhurried grace of a professional. Finally, his gaze hit Draco and he made his way over to the blonde.

"What can I offer you sir?" A hint of a smile peeked through the younger man's face. The tips of his ears took on a faint tinge of red. Draco's eyes narrowed with a predatory gaze at this man. Malfoy, so schooled in controlling his emotions, didn't acknowledge the blush and proceeded with his order.

"I will have two fingers of Oban, and a glass of Chardonnay, something fruity and not too dry." Pansy's taste in wine didn't merit much more of an explanation. Sometimes he was surprised to remember that she had the same privileged pure-blood upbringing he had during his formative years. Some people are just destined to be unrefined. The thought make him smirk.

The bartender turned and began preparing the drinks while quickly stealing glances at Draco's face. Draco's gaze flitted to the other man's eyes, quickly catching the surreptitious glance and causing the boy's face to grow more flushed. He was in control, Draco relished control; he was quite addicted to it. He darkened his face into a visage of lust and his eyes told the boy his wants, all the while keeping those piercing brown eyes captured in the gaze of silver that had him spellbound. A casual observer would have remarked at the scene being comparable to an asp with a mouse caught in a corner.

"Draco-" Pansy's voice averted his attention and broke the spell. The bartender's eyes darted around in confusion and embarrassment. When he spied Pansy, his face momentarily darkened in jealousy at her position at Draco's elbow. Draco noticed and returned the glare with an erotic leer of his own. "What's taking so long? You've been nearly..." Her eyes flicked from Draco's to the bartender's and her scowl returned. "Oh, no you don't Draco! I am your company tonight and my evening will not be interrupted by sporadic visits to the linen closet or the stockroom for your sordid couplings. And I especially will not be made to wait while you bugger the servants." She looked down her nose at the bartender. Her gaze seemed to remind him of his station and he hurried over to the other end of the bar to begin wiping down glasses. Leave it to her to ruin my fun and tastefully keep the servants in line with one wag of her tongue. He steeled himself for the lack of physical passion this evening was sure to hold for him now.

"I can never have any fun with you Pansy," Draco whined. He began to wander over to the plush seats Pansy had procured for them. Handing her the goblet of wine, he turned and slowly sat in the seat. Appreciating both the comfort of the furniture and the taste of the extremely fine Scotch he began to relax. He began to notice his fellow diners and their various appearances. Since the war had ended it had gotten steadily more difficult to pick out wizards among Muggles. The need to blend in unnoticed had since been deeply ingrained in all wizards.

After a few minutes of small talk, a very distinguished steward arrived to show them to their table. Once situated he quickly ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir for the table and emphasized, with practiced pomposity, the particular year and winery he wanted. Pansy sighed knowingly. He was testing the sommelier's craft and the restaurant's revenue to be able to stock such an extravagant wine. The steward turned with a swift movement and was gone. Draco and Pansy picked up their menus and began to peruse the cuisine.

"Huh!" scoffed the blonde. "I never would have thought that the chef d'cuisine of such a fine establishment would serve treacle tart as a dessert. Seems a bit bourgeois, don't you think Pansy, darling?" She looked up to see his eyes peeking around the menu to bat his eyelashes coquettishly.

"Oh, don't start tearing the place apart yet," Pansy scolded. "It's the grand opening of this place and the critics have been talking about it for weeks. I thought you would appreciate attending the opening of a culinary mystery." Pansy's lip quickly folded into a pout as she quietly added, "Plus I thought you would like the name."

"Name?" he questioned.

Upon turning over the menu his eyes shot open in disbelief. "The Golden Snitch" embossed on the front of the fine parchment glittered back at him. Draco quickly hid his shock. Who would have thought of such a name in Muggle London? Well, no one, but a wizard. Who was it?

"Votre vin, Monsieur." The waiter held the bottle out for Draco's view. Upon his approval the man began to open the bottle and pour a small bit into the crystal goblet sitting to the right of the plate. Draco slowly swirled the glass and watched the red alcohol inside swirl in an eddy of flavor and aged perfection. He sipped, inhaling the aroma of the vintage and the texture of the liquid on his palate he spoke.

"Le vin est passable. Remerciez le sommelier de son goût exquis," he complimented.

The man's pleasant face remained unchanged at the compliment, but Draco seemed to detect a twitch at the edges of the man's lips. "Merci, monsieur. Je transmettrai par relais votre compliment. Veuillez apprécier votre repas." With a short bow the man was off again.

Definitely a new restaurant, and with something to prove apparently, Draco thought.

"Don't be so smug, you show-off," snarked Pansy clearly jealous at Draco's French. She had tried so hard to learn the language, but to no avail. She could barely manage to request the check or the location of the lavatory and even then it was hopeless. Draco spoke French with the same adeptness in which he did anything, flawlessly.

Dismissing her comment with a shake of his head he sat back into the high backed chair to enjoy his wine. The light dinner atmosphere was intoxicating. Muted light from crystal chandeliers lit the room in an undeniable romantic ambience. The noise from conversations at other tables was somehow non-existent as if the very walls soaked up the sounds and left their speakers in a world of their own. The only noticeable sound was a piano playing lightly in the background. Draco's eyes slowly looked far away and a sad smile played out on his lips as he recognized the slow tune being played. It was an aria from Puccini's Gianni Schicci, one of his favorite operas. Unconsciously, his fingers began flitting across the table as it were a piano.

"Well, I see my humble choice in dining establishments pleases 'Monsieur Connoisseur d' Cuisine'," she said sarcastically, trying to jibe at his French. "You seem to be enjoying yourself. I had no idea you listened to opera, especially an opera about unrequited forbidden love." Pansy's smile was ear to ear. She was happy Draco appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself.

Meeting her gaze, he smiled (more to himself than to her) and, on a whim, Draco began to quietly sing along to the aria in his light resonant tenor. "E se l'amassi indarno, andrei sul Ponte Vecchio, ma per buttarmi in Arno! Mi struggo e mi tormento! O Dio, vorrei morir!"

Pansy's eyes widened with astonishment. This hidden 'gift' of Draco's unseated her sensibilities and drew her into his world. She quickly took as sip of wine to ease the tightness out of her throat. She was spellbound. His beautiful voice flickered across the sad aria slowly rearranging the soprano notes to fit his tenor timbre. His eyes had closed and his voice unconsciously rose in volume until it was audible to the rest of the patrons in the dining room. Draco sat up straight and rigid, his features twisted with emotion at the inflections of the words he sang, his words were sung with an unnatural talent Pansy would never have guessed the diminutive Slytherin was capable of. Her heart began to melt.

All the emotion of the previous years screamed to the forefront of her mind, Draco's voice had given them added presence, as if his voice held all her feeling to itself to be released when he saw fit. The sad, arioso tones picked out the sensitive hurts and most private loves of each listener and caressed them into the light. Betrayal, pain, desire, and love sprang out of the cracks and crevices in Pansy's soul like demons slinking out of their banishment from Heaven.

The whole dining room seemed to have stilled and turned their attention to Draco. Their various reactions went unnoticed, some where gaping at him in unmated appreciation while others, like Pansy, were unabashedly weeping at the beauty of the impromptu performance.

"Babbo, pieta, pieta! Babbo, pieta, pieta!" Draco slowly opened his eyes as the final noted faded into the room. His usually cold, silver eyes were full of tempered sorrow; sadness was seeping out of his sullen visage. He suddenly felt tired and wanted to be alone, the room seemed suddenly garish and oppressive. He had to fight away the urge to run. The emotion was only there for a split second until, in typical Malfoy ardor, the self composed mask sprang into place. Glancing around the room, he took in the effects of his pseudo-operatic performance. A polite applause began to issue from somewhere in the room and the rest of the patrons joined in. Without a shred of uneasiness, he stood up and glanced around at every patron in one fluidic sweep on his head. Then, the most appreciative smile that was ever seen on the face of a Malfoy alit on his lips. Quickly, he gave a small bow and sat back down in his chair.

The silence slowly gave way as private conversations began anew; some women proceeded to get up and adjourned to the powder room to adjust their cosmetics. Most diners occasionally gave Draco glances of appreciation and admiration throughout their remaining meals.

He turned back to Pansy who was hurriedly composing herself, yet trying to conceal her reaction to the sonorous event. He grinned at her sheepishly and averted his eyes to allow her time to settle. Yes, the war had changed many things in the denizens of England, wizard and Muggle alike.

His eyes, while idly flicking around the room, found an unkempt mane of black hair mostly penned in by a chef's toque darting into the kitchen, as if the end of the song brought back the weight of the night's duties with a resounding crash of panic. Draco noticed that the man, although darting through the door, was wiping at his eyes with his apron. Draco gazed that the swinging kitchen doors, quizzically, for minutes after the sentimental chef had disappeared. Yes, the war had changed all of them. It made one think of the joy of being allowed to live and the morbid question of whom of your acquaintances before the war hadn't had the same luck.

"That was the most beautiful thing I think I've ever heard," stammered Pansy. Her face was still flush with emotion, but since it resembled numerous other faces in the scenery, Draco felt it could escape mention. "You really are the most intriguing person I know."

Draco nodded in assent and, noting the arrival of the waiter, proceeded to order his birthday dinner...complete with treacle tart.