The silence in the bar was almost deafening.
Merle was silently polishing the counter, which was already spotless.
Having heard this unpleasant truth, Petunia stared blankly at the reflections of the lamps on the polished wood.
The words “you are your own worst enemy” echoed in her head, and she involuntarily remembered all the harsh things she had thrown in her parents’ faces before leaving home.
Her chest tightened, and angry tears welled up in her eyes.
She wiped them away with the back of her hand.
“How — ” escaped her.
“How did you know?!” She jerked her head up, her gaze demanding, boring into his face.
He remained equally impassive and simply continued wiping the counter.
When he finished, he meticulously folded the cloth, stashed it somewhere below, and looked back at her.
His impenetrable black eyes chilled her to the bone, but Petunia was known for her stubbornness.
Gritting her teeth, she didn’t look away, even though she felt she was about to fall into some kind of void.
Then he blinked, and the feeling of being seen through disappeared.
“Well, I was once a rebellious eldest son myself.” The unexpected explanation made her flinch, and she looked away.
Then she looked back.
However she turned it, the handsome man behind the counter just didn’t fit the image of a rebel.
“You were?” The obvious disbelief in her voice seemed to amuse him.
He smiled.
It was a crooked, almost self-deprecating smile, as if his face wasn’t used to showing such emotion.
“I was, of course.” He picked up a glass polished to transparency and dropped a few ice cubes into it.
The cubes clinked against the glass bottom, a sound that reminded Petunia of the first spring thaw.
Merle took a bottle from the shelf behind him, uncorked it, and filled the glass two fingers high with a green liquid.
Petunia unconsciously sniffed the air — it smelled of fresh spring foliage, the very first tender leaves and trembling buds hurrying toward the sun, unafraid of the lingering frost.
Toasting Petunia with the glass, Merle took a sip.
“Though, unlike you, I was far more gifted than my kin.
There wasn’t a single skill or talent they possessed where I couldn’t boast more impressive successes.” Petunia blinked in confusion.
It didn’t add up.
She tried to imagine that she had been the witch, not Lily — surely, with her dream right in the palm of her hand, nothing else would have mattered?
Though…
“Were they jealous of you?” she ventured cautiously.
“Your family?” His answer was a cheerful laugh.
“Jealous?
Creator forbid, Petunia, those are strong words.” He took another sip of his green drink and closed his eyes, savoring the taste.
He enjoyed it so openly that for a moment, Petunia wanted to try it herself.
“What’s more, even when I fell lower than the lowest, when the things I’d done couldn’t be mentioned without disgust, my younger brother still loved me.” He shook his head, as if surprised by it.
“I didn’t understand it then.
I thought it was weakness.” At his words, her heart ached.
Lily had loved her too.
Even if she could be an insufferable know-it-all sometimes.
“And now?” she asked impatiently, but instead of answering, Merle poured her some of the same green drink and slid it toward her.
“I…” He chuckled.
“I noticed you wanted some too.
Try it.
It’s a homemade liqueur, not strong at all.
A perfectly suitable drink for a well-bred young lady.” A hint of mockery colored the last words.
At any other time, Petunia wouldn’t have risen to the bait and would have refused.
Since childhood, she had watched every word and deed — otherwise, as her mother said, she wouldn’t be accepted in society.
But in this strange bar, where not a single other customer had come in besides her, it was surprisingly easy to push aside those ingrained principles and take the glass in her hand.
It was pleasantly heavy, cold, and slightly damp.
The ice cubes in the emerald-green liqueur looked like precious gems against the light, clinking and shifting as she gently swirled the glass.
She raised the glass to her nose and sniffed.
The first impression of spring green was gone, replaced by the aroma of anise and a hint of citrus.
But the scent still carried freshness and lightness, like in childhood, when eating your favorite candy or getting a kiss from your mother could solve any problem.
Making up her mind, Petunia took a cautious sip.
Her lips and the tip of her tongue burned and went a little numb, but then the liquid rolled across her tongue and reached her throat.
Petunia swallowed and gasped.
Her tongue was experiencing a riot of flavors — sweetness and bitterness, a slight sourness and a summer astringency, all blending into a unique and unforgettable taste.
“Well?” asked Merle.
He was leaning casually back against the shelf, watching her carefully as he sipped from his own glass.
“Amazing!” Petunia was even surprised when the words left her mouth.
Usually she would have said “not bad” or even “acceptable,” but to speak so plainly…
then again, since entering this bar, she had been doing and saying things she shouldn’t.
“I detected sourness.
That’s some kind of citrus, isn’t it?
And bitterness.
Reminds me of wormwood.
Am I right?
But I can’t identify the main ingredient.
Definitely not anise.
There’s a freshness, like mint, but…” Merle nodded at each of her guesses, then replied: “It’s just tarragon.” Petunia took another sip and rolled it on her tongue, savoring the taste.
In her mother’s kitchen, she mostly used anise and fennel.
There was no tarragon there.
No wonder she hadn’t recognized it.
“It’s also called ‘estragon.’ Though in both cases, it means the same thing — ‘little dragon.'” “I wonder why,” Petunia murmured to keep the conversation going.
She was looking at the glass in her hand.
Somehow, as if by magic, the drink in it had halved, and the ice cubes stuck up above the surface like islands.
Merle handed her a green sprig.
The plant had narrow, long leaves without stems; some forked at the end, like snakes’ tongues, and they gave off that same scent.
“As you can see, the leaves look like dragon tongues.
That’s where the name comes from.” “Do you like dragons?” Petunia asked, and was astonished at how instantly the bartender’s face changed.
For a few moments, it softened, revealing a tenderness usually reserved for mothers looking at their precious children, and then it returned to its previous expression.
But Petunia understood.
“I’ve never seen one.
Only in pictures in my sister’s textbooks.” “You borrowed your witch sister’s textbooks?” the bartender asked with mild astonishment.
She blushed and hid behind her half-empty glass.
Then, with all seriousness, he said: “I like you, Petunia.
Your behavior reminds me of myself.
And I want to help you avoid the same path.
Believe me, there’s nothing good on it.” The liqueur in her glass was gone, and the conversation had taken a serious turn.
Petunia set the glass on the counter, carefully using her pinky to avoid clinking it too loudly.
Merle took the glass and put it in the sink.
“My bar may be called ‘A Helping Hand,’ and I am obliged to help anyone fate brings here, but I’m not willing to help everyone with my whole heart.” He gave a slight bow, pressing his right hand to his chest.
“Will you accept my help, Petunia?” Petunia sniffled.
Tears welled up in her eyes again — why, she couldn’t say.
But her chest felt warm, and the bittersweet taste on her tongue gave her a glimmer of hope.
“How can you help me, Mr.
Corey?” she asked, wiping away her tears.
“I can’t become like my sister, no matter how hard I try.
I — ” And she told him about the old story with the letter.
About how unbearable it was to see and hear her sister and her friend mocking her when they found Dumbledore’s reply in her room, among her things.
And how, every year after that, she saw Lily return from her school and listened to her stories of the miracles there, and was forced to endure her envy, which gripped her insides tighter and tighter with its claws.
In the end, she couldn’t hold it in any longer and said many, many terrible things to her parents and sister.
“So that’s it…
I was fired, my severance pay isn’t enough for another month’s rent, and going back to my parents…
no.” “You’re ashamed, and you can’t bear to apologize, because deep down you don’t believe you’re entirely to blame,” the bartender voiced her thoughts, and she nodded fiercely.
He sighed.
“You really are like me.
Though the scale is different, I too was once consumed by envy.” “Of whom?” He gave a crooked grin.
“Our father.
He…
he is the Creator, and many unique things came from his hands.
And from the very…
hmm, from the very beginning, I wanted to be able to do the same.
My father said I lacked the spark, the talent, but I didn’t listen.
I tried.” He spread his hands.
“But everything that came from my hands was, at best, a handicraft; at worst, a travesty.” His face darkened during this speech, and Petunia suddenly felt again that he was far more than a simple, if somewhat magical, bartender.
“In the end, I sank so low I wanted to destroy everything he had created.
Everything I could get my hands on.” Petunia swallowed and asked cautiously: “And what happened?” Merle didn’t answer immediately.
He seemed caught up in his own heavy memories, which cast deep shadows over his face, distorting and warping his features.
For a moment, Petunia thought she saw a stern, gaunt visage crowned with a three-horned diadem, and darkness spreading in all directions — greedy and merciless.
She blinked, and the vision vanished.
Merle wiped his palm across his face, erasing the old pain, and replied in a businesslike tone: “First, I was punished.
Then, I was helped.
And now I can help you, if you agree, of course.
Do you?” “You still haven’t said what your help would be,” said the pragmatic, sober-minded part of Petunia, while her adventurous, curious half was dying to know what the punishment had been.
He smiled.
“I’m sorry, but those are the rules.
Without your consent, I can’t do anything.
But…
I can assure you that nothing irreversible will happen.
In a year, if you’re not satisfied with my help, you can refuse and return to your old life.” “And did many refuse?” There was no answer.
Merle started washing glasses, as if he hadn’t heard her question.
“Right, it’s probably a secret,” Petunia muttered.
She licked her dry lips.
She reached into her purse for lip balm, and her hand first touched the envelope with her pitiful severance pay, then the newspaper with the ads.
London still needed nurses and waitresses, and that shop job was probably already filled.
She should have gone straight there instead of sitting in a bar.
It might have seemed that Petunia was trying to convince herself to take a risk, but deep down, the little girl who had wanted to learn magic had woken up, made her decision in an instant, and was eagerly awaiting her magical adventure.
Resisting her was utterly impossible, and capitulating, Petunia said: “I agree to let you help me.” Merle extended his hand for a handshake.
Petunia cautiously placed her hand in his and gasped at the strength of his grip.
“For some time now, I’ve liked mortals far more than the First Children,” he said cryptically, and smiled contentedly.
“You have more potential, and you’re almost perfect for me.” Petunia blinked and smiled in confusion, unsure how to react to his words.
He bent down, retrieved something from a drawer under the counter, and placed two things in her hand: a rectangular piece of cardboard and a large old key.
“Here’s my first help: a roof over your head and a job.
Maybe not as prestigious as a typist position in an office, but it’s not for you to be picky, is it?” Petunia stared blankly at the cardboard.
It was a bus ticket.
The route number — 379-1 — was printed at the top, and the destination below.
“Rivendell?
The Lonely Lands?” “A bit more lonely than they once were, yes,” Merle confirmed.
“But don’t worry, Petunia, it’s a very pleasant place.
Don’t be late for the bus.
The service isn’t regular, unfortunately.
And when you get off, head to the fence and turn right.
Goodbye.”