Café

By King

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


Harry ground his teeth, utterly, completely bored. And from where his head sat, chin against the cool table, he could tell Malfoy was getting impatient too. Not that is was terribly noticeable; you could only hear it in the bell-like tinkling of a spoon against a teacup and the rare, softly whispered sighs.

These sorts of situations were common and both parties were used to it. Their silences might last an hour or minutes; they might begin abruptly or conversation would dwindle slowly. It all depended on their current moods and levels of patience.

Today, Harry had walked in, as usual, sat down facing Malfoy, as usual, all with his very usual drink: iced latte grande. The blonde across from him had said nothing and simply continued to stare down at his tea.

Harry sighed loudly, wondering if he should just get up and leave.

"Read the papers much, Potter?" Malfoy asked, as if he hadn't just spent the last half-hour ignoring Harry.

"Occasionally." His voice was completely devoid of any irritability; Malfoy wasn't the only one to masquerade behind wooden masks.

"There was an article a few days ago about this man down in Kent," said Malfoy, still not looking at Harry. "He was found wandering along the beach, completely soaked and dressed in a formal suit and white shirt."

Harry pushed himself up from his rather feeble position and watched Malfoy as he spoke. He wasn't sure, but Harry couldn't help but imagine a shimmer of brightness lingering about the other's eyes.

"He was disoriented, excited, vulnerable," continued Malfoy. "They brought him to a mental institute. The social service people there tried to get him to identify himself, but he would not speak a single word. They gave him paper and pencil and he began to draw an intricate depiction of a grand piano."

Malfoy's eyes finally looked up, but they skittered away from Harry, roving out the gloomily lit window. It was raining.

"He was taken to the chapel and shown a piano. Immediately, he sat down and began playing for two hours. It was only at the keyboard that he was ever calm or soothed.

"I'm sure many people would like to believe that he was some sort of second Mozart or Chopin, but he could only play a few tunes repetitively. A bit of Swan Lake and some John Lennon. He's simply an 'accomplished amateur'."

"You just ruined that story," Harry commented rather indignantly.

Malfoy finally gazed back at him, his expression and eyes inscrutable. "Did I?"

"Of course," said Harry, "the entire beauty of it was that this musician had found himself in such a plight. If you take away his semblance of greatness, his artistry, you make him an unpardonably ordinary person. And instantly his story becomes dull and a tad ugly."

"Mmm…" Malfoy sipped absently at his tea. "It's strange, isn't it? The media only put out that story because they knew that even the most plain of the middle class would be able to see the beauty in it. Even in idiocy man will see beauty. But rarely do they actually recognize it for what it is."

"And that is?" Harry prompted.

"One of the greatest ideals of mankind. Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, you know. One can convince oneself that anything is beautiful. A chair, a blade of grass, the huge nose of that man behind you." Harry resisted the temptation of swiveling around to stare at these last words. "But in general you'll find the most beautiful things to be the agonies of man."

"How morbid."

Malfoy nodded. "Perhaps, but was not the hopelessness of Romeo and Juliet's affair what excited your sympathy, your awe of the terrible beauty of it? The romantics of this world are the most unfortunate people, you know. Each time they encounter the beautiful tragedy of this man or that little girl, their hearts break from the sheer wonder of it all. They catch themselves up in the plays and despair with every pang of heart of the characters."

Subtle hints of passion flashed through Malfoy's metallic eyes and his hand arched smoothly through air, emphasizing each point in his monologue. His lips opened and closed, words that were clipped in a cool, aristocratic fashion left his mouth in an unhurried grace. Suddenly, Malfoy's passion for these words seemed incredibly 'beautiful' to Harry, as the ex-Slytherin himself would have put it. He wondered vaguely why this was so. But of course. It was simply the faith he held.

Martyrs are beautiful. Cowards are not.

Harry felt his eyes lowering.

"But really," Malfoy was still speaking, "beauty is the most transient thing you'll ever find. A woman will age and wrinkles will form. The girl who ran away with her true love will become homesick. The roses will wither away and die. It's an endless cycle of drama and romanticism."

They were silent. Each was unsure of where to look, what to say. Eyes, silver and emerald, slid over each other and everywhere. Throats were cleared and fingers tapped. Drinks were sipped, the liquid rushing down their throats. Neither was really quite sure why they had suddenly become so self-conscious and nervous.

"Is war beautiful, Malfoy?"

For a long moment he did not reply, simply staring back at Harry. It was odd. A moment ago he had been doing everything in his power to look elsewhere, but now he couldn't tear his eyes away even though this simple question probably terrified both of them.

"I don't know."


A/N: I haven't updated this in so long… Sorry, but I was working on other stories and I've been a bit busy lately with school and personal things… But hopefully I won't wait so long till next time.

The article Draco was talking about is actually true; you can search for 'The Piano Man' on the MSNBC website to find it.

Thank you again to all of my kind reviewers; it means a lot to me that people appreciate these things that I care so much about too.