Macchine da Guerra

Avete Sognato Questa Sensibilitia (You Dreamt This Feeling)

Rushing into the bustling kitchen, the chef noticed the various stations snap to attention. He smiled at their crispness and cleanliness. The stations were spotless and well stocked with any needed ingredient. He gave a rare smile at his sous chef and resumed his position at the head of the kitchen.

With a machinated buzz, the printer at his table began dispensing an order. Sweeping up the ticket from the printer he began to slip comfortably into his role as head of the kitchen. "Okay gents! Two top, hot apps: one Caprese, Amuse: small Nicoise. Apps fire tomatoes now for dual pick up with Nicoise. Amuse fire tuna in two." And so on the night went, the orders filing in and plates flying out. The familiar motions lulled his body into autopilot. His brain, no longer needed to control the dinner service this evening, began to reflect on the events of the night so far.

He never thought his grand opening would turn out such a crowd. He was impressed by the quality and quantity of the turn out. He was only caught off guard once in this whole chaotic affair. Peeking out through the kitchen doors, he had heard singing. No not singing, it was, to his surprise, some form of opera. He had never enjoyed opera, but the voice seemed to usurp his attention and immobilized his body. He had no idea music could halt his very breath. Hurriedly, his eyes searched the tables for the gentleman who was singing, but found no one in the sea of diners. His search quickly became useless as his eyes became blurry and vision was now impossible. He reached up to wipe his eyes and, to his surprise, his hand came away with tears. He removed his glasses and wiped away the effects of this lovely aria.

When the singing stopped everyone remained still. The silence burned his ears and, to him at least, the colors seemed to fade a bit without the song accompanying them. 'I don't want to move a thing, it might change the memory.' The though surprised him as did the yearning in his heart. Pain and solitude. He slowly realized everyone was staring at a blonde head that was facing away from him out the window. An urgent twitch rifled through his body as he felt curiosity well up inside him.

'Who is that man?' He began to walk towards the blonde, not having any idea of what he was going to say or do upon arrival, but that did not seem to matter to his scattered brain, he just needed to see the blonde's face. He ducked around women occupying the aisle and neared the table he sought. The rest of the restaurant seemed to not exist nor did they appear to impede his quest until...

"Excuse me," chimed an elderly voice. "Are you the chef of this restaurant?" He took one look at the blonde head and sighed in dejection. He allowed the old woman to lead back to her table to introduce him to her friends so they may unleash great accolades on him. Accolades that, at the moment, fell on deaf ears as he feigned gratitude to his patrons.

"Yes, madame, I am the chef de cuisine here at The Golden Snitch, and who do I have the pleasure of conversing with?" He smiled at her as she rattled off some name that she felt was rather important, but he couldn't care less. "It is a pleasure, madame. Was everything satisfactory? I trust your meal service was pleasurable." The smile in place, he resumed his persona as gracious restaurateur. After her deluge of compliments finally dried out, he scampered back to the kitchen before anyone else could waylay him.

* * * * *

Draco placed his ford down on his empty plate and sat back to enjoy the meal he had just eaten. The cuisine was, for lack of a better word, exquisite. The menu had impressed him. From the simplicity of the food to the unpretentiousness of the presentation, this was definitely Michelin material. He was still perplexed as to the identity of the genius responsible for this epicurean delight, but he was sure to find out soon.

"So birthday boy, did you save room for dessert?" Pansy smiled at him in a most un-Slytherin manner.

'Genuine pleasure suits her quite well,' Draco noted. She always did seem a bit out of place in the snake-eat-snake world of the Slytherin dungeons. The light played upon the points of her irises that were the brightest making it look like they were painstakingly fashioned out of the purest crystal. She really had grown out of the pug-faced school girl of their childhood. She had become quite a catch, if only he were straight.

"Pansy love, you should have been sorted into Hufflepuff, or maybe Ravenclaw." As he looked up his eyes were met with the beginning of that pre-dinner sneer he had just had the pleasure of forgetting about. His smile quickly faded and he had to fight to hold back a stammer of fright. He hastened on his next sentence before she could jump to the wrong conclusion. "Everything has been perfect tonight. More than I deserve, really. You must have been planning this for a month. I express my full gratitude for this wonderful evening." He looked down as he felt his cheeks flush. He wasn't used to being so honest about his emotions. Before the war, he would have expected this treatment solely because he was a Malfoy. Now the name meant little more than excrement to the general populace. It had been hard on him; losing his family, his home in Wiltshire, and his dignity, all for a war he never believed in. One terrible fight against a horrible, bald, slit-nosed lunatic of a wizard, that was all it took to rip the world out of his fingertips leaving him bereft of friends and family. Well, except for Pansy.

A small, warm hand enveloped his slender wrist and he looked up into the deep, coffee-colored eyes. Pansy's touch was gentle, almost comforting, as if she knew what torturous thoughts were raging through his brain, but the there was a different look displayed on her face. Some smoldering emotion lay just below the surface of that porcelain face. Something that seemed to be fighting its way out of her repressed sub consciousness and vying to take control of her actions...and it was winning.

Slowly her grip moved down to Draco's hand and intertwined with his fingers. Draco's own hand, normally a few degrees cooler than normal, was icy as a level of dim comprehension dawned in his mind. How could he have missed the clues this was happening. The flitting around the house, the expensive dinner, the smiles all night, Pansy Parkinson was enamored with him. Draco, looking into her eyes again, surmised that 'enamored' might be the wrong word for what this was, she was in love. His heart quickly sank to his feet as he realized this. He didn't want to lose his last friend on this earth, not to some stupid emotion. Her smile narrowed as seduction overcame the joy that had been present on her face. Draco's pulse quickened as she rose from her chair to lean across the table bringing their faces less than a foot apart. The blush on his normally pale cheeks deepened as he saw her lick her lips. Mere centimeters separated her lips from his. His eyes slammed shut in foreboding of what would follow in seconds.

"Two," she purred.

"Huh!" Draco sputtered as his eyes shot open.

"Eloquent as always when under pressure, I see." Her laugh was smoky and low. "I have been planning this..." she swept her hand between the two of them. "...for two months," she stated while giggling. She leaned in a bit closer, closing the gap. Draco had to suppress a reflex to retreat to a safer distance which, at the moment, seemed to entail nothing short of five miles at least. "And don't think I have done this 'just' for your birthday, mon petite neigeux dragon. There is something you have never given me that my heart craves for." Her grip tightened around his fingers painfully.

Draco was growing afraid. Pansy looked determined. Maybe he had misjudged her; Slytherins never strike until every duck was in its row. Then, and only then, would they dispatch their objective, thus guaranteeing completion of their goals and imminent victory.

"All y-you had to do was ask." Draco had no idea what to do, stalling for time was something to be considered.

"Oh no, Draco, what I ask for, you would not freely relinquish. I have to steal it from you to ensure that it was genuine." Her other hand dipped into her pocket and grasped something inside. Before he could panic a bright flash flooded his vision. He froze, he was dead on his feet and he knew it. The flash had been too quick to tell what color it was. He though he had made a sound of some sort, but the only thing he could hear was the blood still pumping in his ears. He felt softness and moisture at the very tip of his nose.

'Lips!' he thought. 'Why do I feel lips?' Slowly his visions became focused and saw Pansy's face, once the picture of cold blooded deviance, revert back to its earlier glee. The sinister smile and narrowed eyes were gone; erased as if never there.

"What is the meaning of this, Parkinson!?" He began to sputter in rage. "You must have some sort of-" He never got to finish due the cessation of sound coming from his mouth. His eyes, newly reintroduced to the world of sight, had been riveted to the object in her hand. 'A camera.' He was nearly purple with rage.

Knowing the depths of Draco's temper prompted Pansy to act quickly and appropriately in the face of such doom. She burst into fits of laughter. Tears fell down her cheeks as she fell back into her chair.

"My payment, darling, was proof that you ARE human and can be reduced to shambles by the mere proximity of a woman just like the rest of the male populace. The picture of course, is evidence. I can't wait to have that look that was on your face enlarged." She was now laughing entirely too hard to form coherent sentences and ceded to pointing at the camera between giggles.

Draco's eyes narrowed in livid fury. 'Oh she's definitely a bloody Slytherin.' Not bothering to begin a pointless argument or reprimand her, he stood and stiffly strode out of the establishment leaving his portion of the bill for her to manage. Not the best revenge, not by a long shot, but he was truly amazed at her recent duplicity. Gods, he missed his verdant house's poise and cunning. He would have to begin plotting a more appropriate revenge for her or he would be perceived as soft and that was always when the real vultures began to drop in. As he began to plot his retribution, he lit a cigarette and waited for Pansy to pay and join him.

* * * * *

A French brasserie wasn't really Draco's ideal drinking establishment. Looking around he began ticking off the features that annoyed him: the repetitive squeeze box music, garish antique decorations, and lack of modesty were found aplenty among the unshaven university crowd already deep in their cups. But still, Draco noted, the Scotch was delicious and Pansy's company more than made up for the air of the pretentious French. Armed with these constituencies, he gladly let the tempo of chit chat, smell of the aged Oban and the cigarette in his hand lull into a relaxed torpor.

* * * * *

"Come on, mon directeur! The kitchen, along with the restaurant, is closed. Our day's work is done and the first round of Vezelise is on me. Hello?!? Harry are you hearing me?" The deep baritone deftly reached the chef's ears in his back office, indeed he could hear his sous chef's voice so well that he could pick out the French accent that Jean Michel argued was subtle.

"Alright Jean, I am closing up. It is time to celebrate indeed, but I am warning you, tonight I am no cheap date." A rare smile snuck onto his face as he thought about the restaurant's opening, his restaurant. He let himself revel momentarily in his first night of success. The turnout had been magnificent both in the stature of the patrons, many of the city's patrician class turning out along with the local upper class, and in quantity of guests. The kitchen, although well staffed, had been running on full steam since the beginning of dinner service.

Removing his chef's jacket and toque he glanced in the mirror. His black hair was still passable for a night out at a bar. He never did learn how to manage it, but the latest wave of pop stars and actors were making the rumpled look more en vogue which was fine by Harry. His undershirt emphasized the smallness of his waist and the definition of his arms. Although no longer in Quidditch shape, the rapid hustle and bustle of life in a kitchen had kept him in shape and retained his small amount of muscular definition. He was still short and very slight of stature of course. The Dursley years had made sure that Harry's physique would've never matched those of the ordinary men his age. At only 5'5 he was fairly small compared even too the younger comis on the line, and they were only fourteen.

Conceding his physique to the powers that be, he donned a plain blue button down and his favorite black beanie. Absently pulling the beanie's rim over the faded scar on his forehead and cuffing his sleeves he made his way to the front of the restaurant and the awaiting Jean Michel.

"Well, Harry, I was beginning to wonder if I should leave you to your precious Golden Snitch and seek a pint by myself. What were you doing? Primping and preening, I suppose. Ha!" Jean Michel inclined forward and peered down his nose at the shorter man in a way that reminded him of Ron's mother inspecting the state of her boys. A quick pain shot through Harry's chest as the unwelcome memory stirred to the surface before being quickly beaten down to the depths of his psyche.

"You never know, Jean Michel, maybe your dreams are finally coming true and I bat for your team. Prat." The older sous chef gave a weak sneer at Harry. Jean's preference, although never talked about at work, was a slight dig that Harry snuck in once in awhile.

"Tsk, tsk, Harry don't you know my motto? 'Enough alcohol and no one is straight' holds true for men of all ages. You should stay on your toes, mon cherie." The laugh was light and playful, but Harry knew there was something lying underneath that was never discussed.

"Er...right! My dear Jean, the night is young and indeed we are closed. Let the antics ensue and follow us until morning!"

They began their walk to whatever bar the Frenchman chose. The blonde head once again became the object of his thoughts. Tempering his reverie into silent contemplation, he walked on wondering, who was that man with that beautiful voice? The thoughts so engrossed Harry that he paid little notice to their path and silently walked on as Jean Michel prattled on about some thing or other, his voice accompanied by much emphatic gesticulation.

It wasn't until they rounded the corner and the soft neon lights of Le Maison shown on their faces that Harry exited his thought and took in their surroundings. Noticing the bar, Jean Michel's favorite, he grimaced to his companion.

"This bar again," Harry whined with exasperation in his voice. Throughout their friendship and planning the restaurant Jean Michel had turned Le Maison into their second home of sorts. "Don't you think we could pop off to a proper pub, like Smythe's, or something more...er subdued?"

"Harry, a veritable tiger of culinary arts you may be, but outside the kitchen you are still an uncultured buffoon. Must I mention this again, Le Maison is not a bar." Jean Michel emphasized the word with overt derision. "This is a brasserie, a FRENCH establishment."

Harry was about to launch into a string of well practiced protests regarding the snotty Frenchman's opinion of culture when he noticed a blonde head facing the bar floating amongst many others. 'It can't be,' he thought. Harry assumed Le Maison would be too bourgeois for most of his clientele to patronize, but then again here was proof of his error.

Sidling past the surprised Jean Michel, Harry called back, "One second thought, boss buys first." He hurried to the bar smiling as he noted the shocked response his actions caused his friend. His nerve lessened as he neared the bar. 'What do I say?' he thought realized the shoddy planning that went into this venture. Peering at the blonde he realized the other man was, in fact, very attractive. The other man wore a designer suit, seemingly tailor made to fit, which brought attention to his near perfect body. The man's aristocratic stature and bearing made him seem extremely out of place among the various students and locals here. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he searched for something to say without sounding dumb or trite. He began to sweat as the minutes crept by and nothing popped into his mind. He froze as he heard a voice acknowledge him.

"Just a moment and I'll be out of your way," the voice sounded accommodating, almost friendly until Harry heard him continue on. "Then you can stop ogling my bum and look at my face like an ordinary bloke." Harry's face visibly paled and he averted his eyes in shame.

"Um, er...quite alright I'm sure. About the waiting I mean! I don't have anyone to...er that is, I mean, I am in no rush," stammered Harry. "A-actually I was wondering if I had seen you earlier tonight."

Without turning around, the other man scoffed. "Well, that's an original line. Maybe you should scamper on, twink. Find someone more your own speed." There was no malice in the voice, but it made Harry blush further, in spite of himself.

"What I meant was; I think I saw you earlier dining at The Golden Snitch this evening. Was that you? I think you might have been singing or something." Harry quickly shut his mouth before his speech began to ramble.

"Oh, why yes, I was there earlier. Delightful place, you simply must try it. Well that's it for me." The blonde began turning around and Harry noticed the pristine grin, but as his eyes found the blonde's, both of them gave a gasp of astonishment.

"Malfoy?"

"Potter!"

From somewhere far away Harry heard glass shattering on the ground and saw fear leak into those icy silver eyes. There, in his corner of London, sat Draco Malfoy...Death Eater!