The sudden displacement ended as quickly as it had begun.
First, Petunia choked on her own scream, and when she’d coughed it out, she discovered with unpleasant surprise that she had indeed ended up in a bar.
Not that she was very familiar with what a typical bar should look like.
It wasn’t a place for a proper young lady.
But a couple of times, while she was still studying at the typing course, she’d managed to sneak a peek into this world of forbidden male pursuits.
She had to add that she hadn’t liked it.
And she didn’t like it now either.
She stood on a small threshold, a level above the rest of the room, looking down slightly.
It was a not-very-large elongated room, divided by a bar counter into two unequal halves.
On Petunia’s side, several tall bar stools stood along the counter; on the other, a display case with numerous bottles rose up.
In the semidarkness, which was only broken by the weak flame of an oil lamp at the far end of the counter, nothing else could be made out.
Petunia didn’t like any of this.
She turned, intending to decisively leave this place, but found behind her only a flat brick wall and a complete absence of any door.
A cautious touch confirmed it — it was definitely a wall.
Cold and damp, as was appropriate for late February.
In despair, Petunia punched the wall with her fist, but only hurt her hand.
From the sharp, stinging pain, tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her field of vision, but when she wiped her eyes, absolutely nothing had changed.
“Hey, is anyone here?” she called out and sniffled.
As if on cue, childhood horror stories about those who descended into unfamiliar dark basements and never returned came flooding into her head.
Petunia strained her hearing.
At first it was quiet.
Then footsteps sounded — she recoiled backward and pressed her spine against the cold wall — a door she couldn’t see opened easily, and suddenly light flared.
Petunia stared.
Light streamed from elegant, openwork round lamps hanging from the ceiling on chains.
Inside them burned a blue flame, similar to the light of gas lamps, but without the unpleasant smell or any other signs typical of them.
“So I have guests,” a deep male voice brought her back to reality.
It came so unexpectedly that Petunia got even more frightened, awkwardly jerked in a foolish attempt to run — but there was nowhere to run — and, losing her balance for a second, began to fall.
And she was immediately caught.
“Come now, miss, be careful.” Petunia shrank inwardly — the hand supporting her by the elbow was large and warm.
She was seated on one of the stools, and only then could she get a look at the local bartender.
He was tall.
So tall that even sitting on a high stool, she had to crane her neck to look at his face.
Tall and broad-shouldered, like a heavyweight athlete or perhaps what blacksmiths looked like.
Though Petunia, of course, had never seen a real blacksmith in her life.
The man had long fair hair, gathered in a hairstyle, with a few loose strands framing a stern, sharp face.
“Welcome to the Helping Hand Bar, miss,” the bartender said in his deep voice and looked intently at her with eyes black as plums.
Petunia shuddered.
Under that gaze, she felt like an open book.
“Hello,” she squeaked and clutched her handbag tightly, as if there were nothing more steadfast in the world.
He nodded and walked behind the counter, revealing a long, thick braid hanging down his back.
In several places, the braid was held by beautiful metal clasps.
Gold, probably, Petunia thought with slight envy, and relaxed her fingers a little.
“It’s not gold,” the bartender said, as if reading her thoughts.
Petunia felt her face grow hot.
“Electrum.
Many visitors often ask,” he explained casually.
“My name is Merle Cury.
At your service,” he made a respectful bow.
“What would the young lady prefer?” The bartender turned sideways and gestured broadly with a gloved hand toward the display case behind him.
Petunia automatically followed his hand with her eyes and instantly got lost among the various bottles and labels.
The bottles were of different sizes, shapes, and colors, and the liquids inside them were also different colors.
At home, drinking alcohol wasn’t customary.
Sometimes, especially at the end of a hard work week, her father would allow himself a bit of brandy — but that was it.
Her mother would occasionally add a spoonful of liqueur to her coffee.
She and Lily were forbidden from even going near hard liquor.
Of course, once, Petunia had stealthily stuck her nose into her father’s brandy bottle.
The drink was bitter and burned her curious tongue.
After that time, she swore off alcohol.
And then there was old man Snape to consider.
The whole town knew he drank heavily, and almost everyone had seen him completely drunk at least once.
Be like that drunken pig?
No way.
That fleeting memory made Petunia grimace and declare: “Nothing.
I don’t drink… that.” And she braced inwardly, ready for this strange man to look at her with contempt and tell her to clear out and stop taking up space.
Why else would you go into a bar if not to drink alcohol?
However, his reaction surprised her.
He simply nodded, acknowledging that the miss didn’t drink spirits, and offered her milk.
Taken aback, Petunia agreed.
A few minutes later, milk appeared before her in a large clay mug that looked more like a small pitcher.
The mug’s walls were covered in condensation, and a mountain of fluffy milk foam towered over the rim.
Next to the mug, the bartender placed a small plate of cookies and gestured invitingly.
“Help yourself, miss.” A question hung in the air, and Petunia, reaching for the milk, introduced herself: “Petunia Evans, sir.” “Pleased to meet you.” The milk tasted sweet and creamy, cold enough not to freeze her insides but merely to refresh pleasantly — almost like the milk the milkman left on their doorstep every morning, but tastier.
Remembering her parents’ home, Petunia felt her nose prickle and tears well up.
She blinked, trying to dispel the moisture, but a single stubborn tear rolled down her cheek and fell into the mug.
A paper tissue appeared in her field of vision.
“You seem to miss home very much, Miss Evans,” Merle Cury remarked.
Petunia stole a glance at him.
The man was busy — his hands deftly sorted through bottles, moving them from place to place in an order known only to him, hung glasses polished to perfect clarity on a special rack, clinked with numerous spoons, stirrers, and God knows what else for mixing cocktails.
And despite all that, he’d managed to notice that his early guest was crying.
Petunia remained silent, and to avoid blurting out anything unnecessary, she picked up a cookie from the plate and bit into it.
The cookie crunched appetizingly and broke.
The larger piece remained in her hand, while the smaller went into her mouth and immediately began to dissolve on her tongue, leaving behind an unimaginable sweetness.
Petunia closed her eyes, savoring the taste, and remembered.
Once, in childhood, when she was still a very little girl and her younger sister hadn’t yet shown her magical nature, and there were no friendlier sisters in the whole world, her mother had baked cookies.
They had — exactly the same taste.
As if from one bite, the world became radiant and happy, with no room for grief or sorrow.
Then, as she grew older, that taste disappeared.
And although her mother still baked those same cookies, they tasted completely different.
Without noticing it herself, she’d eaten all the cookies she’d been offered and mechanically grabbed at empty air, while only crumbs remained on the plate.
“Very tasty,” she mumbled sheepishly and covered herself with the empty mug.
But those simple words seemed insufficient, so she expanded on her thought: “When I was little, my mother baked cookies just like these.
I could never forget that taste.
Too bad…” The bartender wordlessly refilled her mug with milk.
“That the taste changed since you grew up?” he finished her sentence for her, plucking the words right from her lips.
Stunned, Petunia stared at him with huge eyes.
“Can you read minds?” her voice wavered.
She scanned Mr.
Cury’s figure, looking for where he might be hiding his wand.
According to Lily, most wizards were helpless without their wand.
And even a Muggle, if quick and agile enough, could win a one-on-one fight.
“Heaven forbid, Miss Evans,” his voice was serious, but his black eyes were smiling.
“A good bartender doesn’t need to read minds at all.
In fact, I’d say that would be a completely useless skill.” “But… then how?” her throat tickled, and Petunia took a gulp of milk to moisten it.
Merle looked at her carefully and asked: “Is this your first time in a bar?” He waited for her nod of agreement and said, “I thought so.” He fell silent, thoughtfully rearranged a few glasses, stirred a pile of ice cubes with tongs — ice that miraculously wasn’t melting.
Petunia waited tensely for what he would say.
“A bar, Miss Evans,” he finally said, “isn’t just a place where people come to spend time drinking.
I’d even say the drinking isn’t the main thing here.
Rather,” he paused, as if choosing his words, “a bar is a place where anyone can come to find their true self or a solution to their problem.” Hearing this, Petunia immediately remembered the name of this place.
“Helping Hand.” Wasn’t that a bit too good to be true?
“Is that possible without magic?” she asked skeptically.
Merle shook his head.
“Not at all.
Knowledge of psychology and life experience is enough.” That confident statement made Petunia’s skepticism give way a little, and somewhere deep down, hope timidly peeped through.
After a moment’s hesitation, she asked: “So, can you solve my problem too?” The serious, intent gaze of those black eyes made her shiver and feel uncomfortable.
But after everything that had happened today, Petunia simply dug in her heels and returned the gaze, even though she felt uneasy.
As if the man behind the bar were something supernatural.
A slight smile touched his lips, and he said seriously: “Since you’ve ended up here, I will definitely help you.
After all, that’s what ‘Helping Hand’ is for.” How presumptuous, Petunia thought, and straightened her back.
“Well then, go ahead.
Solve my problem.” She said it dryly and defiantly, implying that either the bartender would be wrong about her problem or he couldn’t help solve it at all.
And what could he do anyway?
Go to the interview for her?
Or give her money to pay next month’s rent?
The bartender gave her another long, intent look, and only sheer stubbornness kept Petunia sitting still and not shrinking — his gaze was almost physically palpable, as if it were X-raying her through and through.
And then he said: “Your problem, Petunia, isn’t that you were fired, that you have no money for rent, and that returning to your parents’ home would be too great a blow to your pride.” Petunia flinched as if she’d been slapped across the face and stared unblinking at the bartender.
“And it isn’t that your sister got everything you think you deserved more than she did.” She opened her mouth to ask how the hell he knew, but not a sound escaped her suddenly parched throat — only a weak, half-strangled wheeze.
As if in mockery, milk was poured into her mug.
“Your biggest problem,” he raised his hand and poked her forehead with his index finger, “is yourself, Petunia.
And the persistence with which you bury yourself in envy of your sister and greed for her life, instead of sorting yourself out.
Want me to tell you what awaits you at this rate?” She twitched her head, which could be taken as a nod, so he continued.
And each of his words sank like a red-hot needle into her agitated mind.
“In about fifty years, you’ll find yourself on your deathbed, a bitter and miserable old woman.
Your entire life will have been wasted on an unloved and boring husband, and whatever talents you were given will have gone to fulfilling the whims of a spoiled son.
And when you look back on those years, even standing before your Creator, you won’t be able to say your life was worth it.” He looked at her and finished without a trace of pity: “In the end, you’ll have no parents, no sister, no self left — only black envy, eating you from the inside.
That’s your problem, Petunia.
Now, do you want me to help you?”