The young Mrs Dursley, of Number 4, Privet Drive, is trying to get through the grocery with two one-year-olds, when the handsomest man to ever speak to her says, "Can I help you?"
Her first assumption is that he must work there. But he's dressed too nicely, in a jumper and trousers that are clearly a bit posh. He's a bit posh, himself. The blue of the jumper makes his eye color jump, and his short, swooping dark hair looks recently trimmed. His hair's unfairly glossy.
Petunia's sister had once offered to let her use a hair potion that made hair look that glossy, but Petunia Dursley, then Evans, had turned her sister down.
(After being turned down from her sister's magic school, Petunia had spent a lifetime turning down her sister. Petunia had turned down several pleas from Lily to meet with her, about a year before her sister died.
She was still getting used to those words: died, and dead, meaning really, this time, gone.)
For this man to be offering help, she must look overwhelmed. She is overwhelmed. Her hair is askew. Dudley is letting out the low wails that prelude a scream, and the other one is sitting in the cart, not as properly secured as none of the carts were built for two children this size, and she couldn't well leave him in the car or home alone, could she. Some new woman named Figg moved onto Privet Drive and has offered to help watch the boys, but Petunia's not about to leave Dudley with her and not sure what this Figg woman's after, anyway. After the way this trip has gone, she may have to take her up on it, next time. Vernon certainly isn't going to be picking up the groceries himself, after his long days in the office…
"You could pass me that milk carton," Petunia says grudgingly. She continues eyeing Mr. Too-Handsome as he puts the milk right in her cart. Right next to Harry.
"Is your… little one all right in there?" he asks, eyeing Harry, who's a little small even in the carrier Dudley outgrew at six months.
"He's not mine," snaps Petunia, instinctively, and then, because now she's gone and said the sort of thing she has to explain, "He's my sister's son. I'm… watching him."
"Kind of you," says Mr. Handsome.
Harry reaches for Mr. Handsome's finger, and Mr. Handsome hesitates, looking at Petunia, before drawing his hand just out of reach.
"Do you have a shopping list?" says Mr. Handsome, his hand still hovering emptily.
"Of course I have a shopping list."
Mr. Handsome shuffles from side-to-side a little, impatiently. "If you give it here—er, if you'd allow me to assist, we'll have you out of here and home in half the time."
It's not exactly pleasant, being at the store with two babies needing this much care, but part of Petunia recoils, at being stuck home again. Everything was so much easier, with just Dudley; it wasn't so hard to get out of the house, for one.
"Thank you, but that's not necessary," says Petunia.
"It's not a bother."
"It's not necessary."
"I'd like to help you, though."
"Why?"
"Because I'm nice," barks Mr. Handsome, and Petunia instinctively pulls the cart closer to her.
Mr. Handsome holds up his hands and says, slowly, "Because my… mother raised me right, and I can't in good conscience go about my shopping watching you struggle."
"Everyone else seems to manage," Petunia says sharply, and finds herself blasted by the full force of Mr. Handsome's blinding smile.
"I'm not everyone else," he says. "May I help you?"
Petunia will never be sure quite what came over her, if it was the novelty of a man this good-looking wanting to run her errands or that she can't remember when someone last offered her help and meant it. But she pulls her shopping list out and places it in his still-extended hand.
"If it means so much to you, well," she says, as he peruses her handwritten list. He blinks, and for a moment she's not sure he can read it.
"It isn't a long list," she adds.
He swallows, tucking the list away. "You've very pretty handwriting," he says, sounding a little far away.
Something is wrong with this man. Petunia still blushes at the compliment.
"If you're not going to check the list, I'll be needing it back," she says, but he's already reaching for eggs, exactly the size she intended.
"I've memorized it," he says.
"Oh, have you?" Petunia says archly. "I'll be cooking what, exactly?"
"The stuff of dreams," he says, "in the shape of Spaghetti Bolognese."
"…That's Shakespeare."
"Is it?" Mr. Handsome says. "Surely not the Spaghetti Bolognese?"
Dudley has, without Petunia fussing to get him to quiet, halted the brewing temper tantrum on his own. To her consternation, as soon as she turns her attention back to him, his little face screws up, ready to yell again.
"Duddies, here's your dum-dum," she says, swooping a pacifier out of her purse, quickly. Dudley had lost interest in his pacifier, but since Harry's arrival, Dudley's been trying to grab at Harry's and wanted his own again.
By the time Dudley's settled again, Petunia's lost sight of Mr. Handsome—and him with her list—but follows Harry's wide, green (Lily's) eyes to where Mr. Handsome is collecting the correct cheeses and the roast she'll need for Sunday.
"Thank you," Petunia finds herself saying, more times than she is comfortable with, every time he runs something back to the cart, and eventually, as it just makes sense and the moving cart seems to keep the babies at ease, she finds herself going through the store with him, pushing along as he collects the pasta and the like.
An older woman gives her a furtive, approving look with one look at Mr. Handsome's blue jumper—and that's not a new feeling, not at all, Petunia's been proud, always, to be out in public with Vernon, felt that I've got a boyfriend, look, I've got a husband rush, it's just… she's not used to so much actual looking. And then she passes the woman from Number 7 Privet Drive and oh, no, she's been asking enough questions about Harry's arrival already—
Dudley saves Petunia from having to talk to her neighbor with an absolutely explosive sound from his diaper. The smell, too, is instantaneous, and Harry, immediately downwind, bursts into tears.
Dudley, hearing the wail, starts in himself.
"Never mind the rest of the list," Petunia says, ready to get out of there. She has a nappy change for Dudley in the car, but checkout line looks to be a nightmare first.
Mr. Handsome, looking between the cart full of both babies and groceries—he's been stacking them very cautiously around Harry's carrier—manages to harangue another, empty cart that seems to have just drifted toward them down the aisle.
Before she can ask what he's doing, he's moved the groceries into the second cart.
"I'll handle the rest of the list," Mr. Handsome says, determinedly.
If it comes to it, Petunia will come back for groceries on another, normal day, without slightly wild-eyed men in blue jumpers present. More concerned with the ongoing screams and smells, she takes her cart, emptied of anything but babies, and sets about heading outside to change Dudley in the backseat of her car. Though Harry's often oddly, eerily silent in comparison, like a story of a changeling child, he's crying avidly in his carrier, and seems to be trying to say "foot".
He can talk, pretty well, for age one. Not much of a walker, not like her Dudley, but he certainly does more talking. He can say Mama and Dada all too well and Petunia's had to hush him in front of Vernon several times already, for asking very clearly for lights and a "wand".
Harry's vocabulary's annoyingly ahead of Dudley's, for that matter. Petunia's about to draw out a wipe when she realizes Harry needs a change, too; he can wait until she gets home, she thinks, but sighs, if she has to go back in, she's certainly not going to leave him in the car… so she's finishing changing her second diaper, and her hands still smell two wipes on and she's worried something landed on her dress, and can't find the spot, but she can tell… when Mr. Handsome emerges with the cart of groceries, all bagged.
"Here we are," he says. "I'll just put these in your trunk, shall I?"
Petunia stares at him. "Are they waiting for me inside to pay?"
"Oh, no," he says. "It's fine."
Her first thought is that he's stolen groceries, something about his expressions suggests to her he may not be above doing so, but she's reminded, looking at him, how posh and glossy he looks.
"I have my checkbook," she says, fumbling for it. "How much do I owe you?"
"It's fine," he says. "I've got money." He pauses, tilting his head almost hopefully. "I've got a good amount of money, really."
"That must be nice for you," says Petunia. Dudley's reaching for her, and not buckled into his seat yet; she swings him up and onto her hip, even though he's heavy these days. She has the car door open, still, and Harry's cooing, for some reason.
"It's other things that're nice, really," Mr. Handsome says. "Money's just… metal. Paper, that is. Both."
Only people who have downright heaps of money say things like that. Posh, indeed.
"It comes in handy," Mr. Handsome says, popping the latch of her trunk. He loads the bags in.
"I'm certain," Petunia says. "But I don't hold with charity—"
"What's wrong with charity?"
Dudley's pulling at her hair. She frees a strand, with difficulty. A few blonde strings remain in his fist.
"I suppose, if someone needs it… but my husband makes good money. I can pay you back."
"It's a gift," he says. "A kindness. Like you watching your sister's son."
She'd forgotten she'd told him that. She almost protests. Because it's not true. She's not kind. She hasn't been feeling particularly kind toward Harry, at all. She just doesn't know what else to do.
"I can't accept," she says, buckling Dudley into his car seat.
Mr. Handsome closes the trunk. "You can throw the groceries out of your car, if you like," he says. "Be a shame though, wouldn't it?"
He makes a little face, at Dudley or Harry or both of them. Harry coos, again. It's not a sound he's been making much on Privet Drive.
"Who are you?" Petunia demands.
"My name?"
He doesn't offer it. She'd meant a little more than that, but straining for politeness, Petunia says, "Yes. You haven't given your name."
"You haven't given yours?"
"Dursley," Petunia says. "Mrs. Petunia Dursley."
"Your given name's prettier than the last," he says.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Phonetically. Trips off the tongue a little better. Don't you think so?"
"I don't think of such things, generally," she said. He's looking at the boys like he wants to ask their names, but thinking better of it, and she's increasingly… suspicious. She's not sure, what, exactly, she suspects him of, and he was too distractingly handsome to wonder in the first place. Vernon's always saying things, about men this pretty, and they're floating through her mind now, making her question his intentions.
"I'm a Mr. Black, myself," he says, in a rush. He pauses, looking for her reaction, as if she might know the name—Black's a wildly common surname—then mutters something that sounds like "Ryan".
"Ryan?" There was an American actor on a soap named that; mostly, though, she's met a few girls named Ryan, taken after the surname. But the only boys she know with that first name are closer to Dudley's age. "That's unusual."
"Is it?" Mr. Handsome Sounds-Like-Ryan Black says, sounding vaguely concerned. "It's spelled, er… R-i-o-n."
"Unusual," Petunia says, again. "Was the spelling to make it less Irish?"
"I reckon it'd make it more Irish," Mr. Handsome says, baffled, and Petunia decides not mention Vernon's thoughts on things being too Irish and how they certainly don't mention any of the Irish relatives in her own family tree.
She brushes through another 'thank you' and secures both children firmly, then goes to get in the front seat of her car.
"Do you shop here often?" Mr. Handsome blurts.
Petunia gets in her car. "Why?" she asks, her hand poised to shut the door.
"I'm—new around here," he said. "Trying to learn the neighborhood. Think you could show me about, sometime?"
Petunia does not like that she currently owes the man the cost of groceries. She'd almost think he's—no, that'd be silly. More concerningly, his gaze keeps flicking to the car's backseat. To the boys.
"I'm very busy," she says, and shutting her door, starts her car.
Her engine makes a popping noise, and the car does not turn over. She tries again. She has a perfectly in order, new model car, Vernon sees to that.
Two minutes later, she's still trying to turn the car over, both Harry and Dudley are fussing, and Mr. Too-Handsome is mouthing 'can I help you' as he raps on the window.
She rolls down her window, to say she'll need to phone from the grocery, for a tow.
"I could take a look under the hood for you," he says.
She declines—her husband wouldn't want anyone less than a professional fiddling with the car.
"I'd offer you a lift home to avoid the wait, but I've only—" He waves, vaguely, and she follows his hand to a parked motorbike.
Something in her relaxes. There's something funny about him, and since Harry's been around, she's been paranoid about any funny people. But Lily's sort, they don't drive motorbikes. It's all the ridiculousness of chimneys and broomsticks. Hooligans, generally, drive motorbikes, and Vernon wouldn't like it, at all, but Petunia thinks she understands now: he's simply that rich, the sort of rich who do whatever they like.
"What do you do for a living?" she asks him, interrupting a bit of a ramble of how he may not be a professional mechanic but keeps his bike well enough in order.
Mr. Too-Handsome hesitates, as if remembering, before answering. "Family business. And investments."
Vernon approves of that sort of wealthy far more than hearing independently wealthy, a state which is enviable but annoying. She nods, approvingly, beginning to fetch the boys out of the car to go inside to use the telephone, when another man about their age comes walking up.
His jumper and trousers look decidedly less posh than Mr. Handsome's, though very respectable and tidy, and Mr. Handsome starts at seeing him, thrown off by the stranger's approach.
"Can I offer you a jump?" the man says, holding out the appropriate cables. He's young but drawn and tired; he's badly in need of some meat on his bones. "I'm parked right there."
"Which car?" Mr. Handsome asks, sounding startlingly skeptical.
The tired-looking man nods at a green car one over, and Mr. Handsome scoffs, apparently unimpressed by the vehicle.
"We can get you moving in a moment, ma'am," the new man says, very firmly, looking as if he's staring down Mr. Handsome. "We wouldn't want you stuck here in the grocery lot. I can tell it's a very simple fix."
"Oh, you can?" Petunia and Mr. Handsome say at the same time, Mr. Handsome with far more irritation.
"Would you allow me?" the man says, and Petunia, anxious to get going, lets him pop the hood. She doesn't see him pull out his keys, but he opens his own car easily enough and Petunia's never seen anyone jump a car faster in her life. Her engine roars to life.
Tired-looking man and Mr. Handsome are now muttering to each other, seemingly about the motor, but there's something oddly familiar about them together and a hefty amount of exasperation being exchanged, for a meeting between strangers.
Petunia may be almost discourteous, in how rapidly she runs through her thanks and peels away. The car seems to be running absolutely fine. Once back in her driveway, she makes sure it's starting properly, multiple times.
She does not tell Vernon about the car trouble, or the interesting man- men, really- at the grocery. She thinks she'd better not.
But she wakes up that night to the sound of an engine's put-put-put that distinctly sounds like a motorbike looping down the street. Unable to go back to sleep, she finds herself going to the nursery where they've stowed Harry beside Dudley, until they find somewhere better for her sister's son, and thinks about kind and nice and other things she knows too well she isn't. An hour later, she thinks she hear that motorbike engine again.
On the porch of Number 4, Privet Drive in the morning, only after Vernon's left for work with a kiss goodbye and coffee she made him in hand, she finds a bouquet of cultivated petunias on her porch. Petunias are most certainly not in season.
Thinking of the last time she found something on her porch, and how much trouble that's been, Petunia promptly, without opening the attached note, drops the flowers into the nearest bin.
Despite herself, the next time she hears a motorbike, she still finds herself rushing to the window blinds.