Chapter 31: Comede Noctem
Somehow the table had room enough for the four to eat without bumping elbows, but felt intimate and close. They didn't feel obligated to keep their voices down because they knew nobody would overhear them through the nondescript din of voices and music, but they could also hear each other with perfect clarity.
It was the sort of restaurant where, in the muggle world, the food would take an age to prepare and the deck-of-cards sized portion might leave a hungry person tapping their fingers. Comede Noctem, however, was not a muggle restaurant. Harry's party, especially Harry and Minerva, were ravenous and would have gotten quippy from low blood sugar, but no sooner had they spread the purple napkins over their laps than a small covered dish appeared in front of each of them. Minerva started to reach for hers, but Nicolas grabbed her hand before she managed to touch it.
In perfect synchronization, the four lids of the four dishes shot up into the air and disappeared. On each dish was a miniature person in silk, green formalwear. The little leprechaun men in front of Harry, Albus, and Minerva were adjusting their little golden bow ties of their little green tuxedoes with tail coats. The little woman on Nicolas's plate was smoothing down her green dress as her golden heels glinted in the dim light. They all stood with dramatic grace, striking elegant poses.
"We don't have to eat them, do we?" Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Albus shook his head.
Then the leprechauns began to dance. They started swaying their hips to slow music that Harry hadn't noticed was playing. They danced individually on their plates, and then the music changed, and Harry found his heart speeding up with the beat. The leprechauns stepped off their dishes to the center of the table and danced together, joining hands. Then three sat down and one had a dance solo with cartwheels or flips or leaps, and then two observed while the other executed delicate twirls and throws. By the end, all four danced in a circle. The four leprechauns broke apart again, each to their separate dish, snapped their fingers. The music stopped as if it was holding its breath, and the leprechauns stopped dancing.
In each of their hands was a little golden pouch. Eyes glinting, the leprechauns reached slowly into their bags and pulled out black capsules. As they bent to put the capsules on their plates, the beat of the drum started back up again, slowly and softly. The little people began circling their capsules, stepping to the accelerating beat. They waved their arms, and the capsules melted into the plates. They flicked water with no apparent origin onto the little lumps which began to grow. They kept circling, and soon it became apparent that the lumps were mushrooms, growing right there in front of them, swaying like willows to the beat of the music.
The mushrooms were unlike any Harry had ever seen. His seemed to be four distinctly different species of mushroom grafted seamlessly in quarters. It grew to about an inch tall and two inches in diameter, and came to a quivering stop, but the leprechauns kept dancing. As part of their dance, they seasoned the mushrooms from pouches of salts that appeared on belts around their waists. They grabbed bottles at their waists, tilted their heads back and took generous drafts of the contents. In unison, they rocked forward, spitting towards the mushrooms. When the liquid hit the air, it ignited and turned into jets of fire that toasted the mushrooms. The leprechauns crouched slowly around the mushrooms, making sure all of the sides were roasted evenly. When they'd all gone around three times, they stood and faced their respective diner.
In four part harmony, like a barber-shop-for-hamsters quartet, they sang "amuse bouche!" and vanished with a crack.
The four clapped excitedly.
"They never do the same performance twice here," said Nicolas. "No two tables, no two nights are the same ever."
The mushrooms defied description.
When the amuse boushe had been consumed, a long, thin dish appeared on their table bearing blini and caviar.
"Caviar of Bulgarian Sturgeon," Nicolas told them.
Though their wineglasses remained empty as they'd sat through the amuse boushe performance, as soon as Harry reached for the caviar, his glass lengthened into a flute and filled with pale liquid with the finest bubbles.
The food, though elegant and novel, did not dominate the conversation as it often does at elegant and novel restaurants. On the contrary, the conversation began with caviar, and quickly catalyzed a rich discussion on an entirely different subject.
Soon the platter was clean, and before any of the diners could lament its short life, petite cups appeared in front of each of them with persimmon sherbet. It was cold, obviously and smooth. Its delicate flavor made them forget the caviar. After tasting their palate cleanser, that dish, too, disappeared.
Despite the fact that Harry had only eaten a mushroom, few scoops of caviar, blini, and sorbet since breakfast, he no longer felt hungry at all. Of course, the conversation was far too stimulating for him to notice something like not being hungry.
During a pause after a particularly riveting story from Nicolas about acting in one of Shakespeare's plays, menus appeared in front of each of the four. The light in the room wasn't nearly as prevalent as the mysteriously charged darkness, but the menus were legible because the words were written in glowing gold script.
Harry looked at his menu. There were no descriptions, but each time Harry focused on one of the entrée names, a picture of the food floated into his mind's eye. He even felt like he could smell the dishes. It left no pesky "does that come with potatoes?" questions to be asked. Harry was sure that if he wished to know exactly what spices were on each meal, the answer would present itself to his stream of consciousness as if by pure intuition.
"I think I'd like the lobster," said Nicolas softly. Albus raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Nicolas's menu faded to nothing in his hands.
"I'd like the rack of lamb," said Minerva from Harry's right.
"And I the dragon," said Albus.
Harry turned his head quickly to the left to look at Albus, his eyebrows hidden under his hair. He hadn't noticed that option on the menu.
"It's a specialty of Comede Noctem," said Nicolas. "Very few other restaurants serve fillet of dragon. I'm quite partial to it, but after our work today, I didn't think I could stomach it…Don't you find, Albus?"
"My feelings are quite the opposite. Working with dragon blood all day has left me with an uncommonly persistent craving."
"Working in a slaughter house wouldn't deter Albus's appetite," muttered Minerva.
"Harvesting the parts of dragons can be quite humane, actually," said Nicolas. "They find dragons that are fighting over territory. Dragons will fight to the death and often both will die. Removing one from the equation is kinder than letting them fight and kill each other. –It doesn't happen very often, though, and only the highest bidders can get hold of their parts."
"How did you get the blood?" asked Harry.
"I was the highest bidder,' said Nicolas.
"Wealth, as well as generosity and idle curiosity, can be a fortunate symptom of uncommon age, as Nicolas frequently reminds me," smiled Albus.
"As well as the tendency to fall trap to the ambitions of young freeloading researchers," replied Flamel.
"Oh, is that what you did? I was under the impression you were more in the habit of finding busy scholars to take on your projects for you," said Albus, his eyes dancing behind his deadpan face. "What did you decide on, Harry?"
Harry was caught by the abrupt change in topic and had no idea what Albus was talking about.
"Your dinner," he clarified, gesturing to Harry's empty hands.
While Harry was watching Albus and Nicolas debate, he hadn't noticed his menu fade and disappear in his hands.
"I dunno. Do you recon it ordered me something?"
"When a customer is gripped by indecision, the menus of Comede Noctem will make a decision based on their subconscious. They're always right. In fact, the menus are only a formality, really. To a degree, they want their customers to feel like they've got a choice. After that, they assume the choice is close enough that a customer would welcome a point in the right direction. In my experience, people don't normally notice their menus are gone until their food's already arrived," explained Albus.
"How astute of you, Albus," said Minerva teasingly.
"I was looking," he said. Nicolas raised his eyebrows. Minerva rolled her eyes.
A wide, shallow bowl of soup appeared in front of each of them.
In front of Minerva was a tomato puree with dot of cream and a dot of pesto in the center. Nicolas had a buttermilk corn chowder with snippets of fresh chive. Harry and Albus had—
"It's...it's...it's green," said Harry.
"It is dragon consume," said Albus, picking up his spoon and dipping it into the glowing green sludge in front of himself. Harry frowned and gingerly mimicked the others. The moment he tasted it, Harry had to restrain himself from apologizing out loud to the soup for thinking of it as sludge. It was a culinary masterpiece.
The bowls vanished when all that were left were trails of soup too small to be picked up by the curvature of the spoons. There was no palette cleanser. Instead, the entrees appeared immediately. Flames burst from Harry and Albus's plates and Harry threw himself backward into his chair to avoid singing his eyebrows. The flames sunk into a low, but still lit pyre. Harry glanced at the others' dishes. If Harry hadn't heard Minerva order the rack of lamb, he'd have guessed at first glance that her plate held a bouquet. Vegetables crusted with pepper, rosemary, and truffle oil towered up in a foot tall spire. The lamb ribs protruded like petals of flowers between little heads of broccoli and zucchini cut into roses.
Nicolas delicately flipped his lobster over with his utensils and announced, "it is female."
"I've heard half of them are," remarked Minerva. Harry had to use magic on his face not to laugh.
"Though I may be old enough to be thrice senile and deaf as a flobberworm, I am neither," chided Nicolas lightly. "It is tradition to announce the sex of one's lobster to one's table."
"And what of one's dragon?" asked Albus, twinkling.
"Your dragon is male," said Nicolas. "Male dragons rarely engage in deadly fights, and so they are rarer on the market. Their meat is superior because they lead less stressful lives than the females, who are aggressive and fierce. Both are a delicacy, but, given our location, your dragon is male—not that it is a tradition to announce it."
They began to disturb their food. Nicolas tapped his nutcracker and lobster fork against the shell, and they began to unfold his lobster for him. Minerva began disassembling her spire, and Albus cut himself a slice of flaming meat and blew out the flame.
Though most foods are supposed to taste like chicken, the dragon tasted decidedly more like beef—the most tender, buttery beef Harry'd ever tasted. The flames kept the meat hot and the edge crisp, but didn't reach the center to over-cook it.
The conversation lulled as they each worked on their masterpieces, but picked up again as the plates were spent. The rest of the meal flew.
A plate came bearing strangely shaped cheeses and delicate crackers. Harry noticed that each time he tried a different cheese, the wine in his glass would change subtly to compliment the choice. There were several more small courses presented as gifts from the chef, and then, the desserts.
Harry received a lava cake decorated with raspberries and gold. It was almost as aesthetically pleasing as it was hypnotically delicious.
And then there was a small truffle for each of them
And then there was no more food, but the music from the background picked up. All four of them noticed a space in the center of the room that they hadn't before. Graceful, faceless people twirled and glided across the floor. Harry felt the music in his chest, picking him up, making him light. He didn't feel at all weighed down by his countless course meal.
"A dance, m'dear?" asked Nicolas, proffering his hand to Minerva. She giggled, and slipped her gloved hand into his, letting him lift her onto the floor. They blended into the glamorous orchestra of color.
Harry and Albus listened to one song, and then another in comfortable silence. Then Harry remembered their earlier conversation.
"So, what was wrong in the kitchens?" asked Harry.
"Nothing," said Albus. "By the time I arrived, everything was working just fine. It was most puzzling. I will be investigating when we return."
Harry hummed and frowned in thought. "Has it ever happened before?"
"Not that I know of."
They were silent for a moment.
"Harry, I must ask, why were you and Minerva in my pajama wardrobe?" asked Albus.
Harry grinned sheepishly. "That's hard to explain. Would it be enough to say... I didn't mean to go there at all, and I thought I was going somewhere else?"
"No." His eyes twinkled.
"Alright, er…" Harry tried to think of what he could say without giving too much away. "Your wardrobe is a one way vanish cabinet. So's Minerva's. We—well, I thought we were going through Minerva's." Albus raised his eyebrows. "I didn't make them! We found them and they were already vanishing cabinets."
"Are my quarters vulnerable to unwanted intrusion?"
"Oh, er…" Harry grimaced. "Only by me, I'm sure—and it won't happen again."
"I'm glad," said Albus, "that my pajamas are safe. I have spent quite a bit of time building that collection."
Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh, blush, or nod with sincerity. He didn't have to decide, however, because, at that moment, Nicolas and Minerva reappeared flushed and out of breath.
"I'm sorry to say that I'm finding myself tiring. Minerva is kind enough to let me take her home. Do forgive us for deserting you—I am an old man, after all." He winked. Minerva looked quite tired, herself, and Harry wondered if she'd asked Nicolas to cover for her exhaustion.
"Goodnight, Nicolas," smiled Albus.
"Congratulations on your discovery, Albus. They'll have to put you on a chocolate frog card for this one!"
"Don't tease me, Nicolas. I doubt anyone will even know about this."
"Only the ones who don't read the Prophet won't," said Nicolas mischievously.
"Nicolas…"
"Goodnight, Albus." Nicolas smirked, taking Minerva's arm. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Harry. I look forward to seeing you again."
"Cheers. You too," said Harry.
Nicolas turned, and he and Minerva waded through the crowd and disappeared.
Albus turned back to Harry. "Are you and Minerva working on a project?"
"Yeah, actually. We both decided we were interested in studying animagi. We went out to buy books—bugger! I left them in the—er…" Harry stopped himself before he said vault.
"Sorry, Harry? The what?" asked Albus, searching Harry's face. Why was he keeping it a secret again? Who would be better to share his discovery with? Who would appreciate it more than Albus? Who would be able to help him understand the significance of his find better than Albus Dumbledore? Who did he want to tell more than the man behind the blue eyes hanging on his silence?
"My Gringotts vault," said Harry.
"Ah. I would feel much safer knowing the door to my quarters is locked in Gringotts vault."
"What? I didn't say that! It's—"
"It's ok, Harry. I trust you."
"Why?" asked Harry, catching Albus off guard.
"Why do I trust you? I—"
He was interrupted as all of the dancers started draining from the dance floor. They slowly, gracefully accumulated at the edges of the floor, not going back to their seats. A song started, but no one was dancing.
"Is there something wrong?" asked Harry. "Did something happen? Why aren't they dancing."
"This is a men's dance," said Albus.
"Men's choice? Like the men get to choose their dance partners?"
"Anyone can dance to it, of course, but the song is traditionally a dance specifically for two men."
"How can you tell?" asked Harry, feeling like he was eleven again. It had been a while since he'd been introduced to something totally new in the wizarding world. –And the idea of two men dancing wasn't new, but in Harry's time…well, people had stopped dancing together in general. They'd still danced a bit when Harry was in school, but social events mostly devolved into disorganized jumping around.
"It's a tradition. The song is well known."
Harry examined one of his finger nails. "It's too bad no one's dancing. I think I'd understand what you mean better if—"
A hand reached into his down pointed plane of view, and Harry looked up. Harry hadn't seen Albus move from his chair, but he was standing directly in front of Harry, hand outstretched.
Harry groaned. "I definitely haven't had enough to drink for this." He slipped his hand into Albus's and allowed himself to be pulled up from his seat.