Neighbourly Deeds

You didn't want to drop by and visit the nice lady who had just moved in two streets away, but Petunia insisted and spent the whole afternoon baking the specially homemade apple pie she always gave the new neighbours. You grunted and complained and muttered something about work that needed to be done, files on prospective new clients to study, and other things that you knew were much more important than being hospitable to the neighbours, but Petunia insisted. It's only right, she said, only proper, and you grudgingly agreed.

You didn't like walking, but Petunia said driving the car wasn't neighbourly, and she held her freshly baked apple pie with pride as she marched down the street, quite sure the other neighbours were watching her and envying her pie, and you walked in your usual dignified manner, pushing the carriage that held both Dudley and that vile Potter kid.

Eighteen-month-old Dudley boxed little Harry on the ear, and you smiled indulgently.

The lady--Mrs. Figg, Petunia had gathered from Yvonne MacAllister, who had seen the movers on the first day and asked around--didn't answer the door right away when Petunia called. She knocked thrice, short successive raps on the wooden frame, and craned her neck to peek through the windows. You waited impatiently, glancing around the well-kept lawn and the nice little flowers you knew Petunia would want to put on your own front yard if either of you had a green thumb, and you were just about ready to turn around and go back home when Mrs. Figg finally came to the door, slightly out of breath but all smiles.

Petunia greeted her cheerfully, introduced yourselves to Mrs. Figg, and put up her freshly baked apple pie, still hot and mouth-watering, and you wondered why she couldn't have made another one for you. Mrs. Figg opened the door and let you in, and Petunia glanced around the tidy little place, which was almost empty, except for a couple of boxes scattered here and there.

Pardon the mess, Mrs. Figg said, in a cheery voice that reminded you of when you were younger, but she's hardly had enough time to unpack since she'd moved. Vernon could help you out, Petunia volunteered, and she didn't notice you glare at her. Wouldn't you, Vernon, Petunia asked, looking at you with eyes that said you had better agree, so you did. Mrs. Figg was gracious and worried that she would be imposing, and another look from Petunia made you assure her that no, it wasn't imposing at all, and don't neighbours do that sort of thing for each other anyway?

You didn't ask her anything, but Petunia did, and for the rest of the afternoon you found out more about your new neighbour.

Like you should call her Arabella--Petunia oohed delightedly and gushed over what a lovely name Arabella was, and didn't you think so, Vernon? (You nodded slightly.)--as 'Mrs. Figg' made her feel too old.

She'd lost her husband in an accident--Petunia sighed and patted her hand and wasn't it a pity, Vernon? (You said yes, it was, quite awkwardly.)--but it's been years since and she's quite moved on.

She was only thirty-eight--Petunia gasped in shock and said Arabella didn't look a day over thirty, didn't you think so, Vernon? (You agreed and said she looked much much younger, and she blushed, and she did look so much younger)--and not too many years older than you.

She liked cats--Petunia smiled and said if she had any kind of pet she'd have picked cats, wasn't that right, Vernon? (You plastered a smile and said yes, even though you knew Petunia disliked any sort of animal to begin with.)--and in fact took in strays on a regular basis, though her real pet was the orange one called Manuel.

She loved children--Petunia agreed and went on to discuss the many merits and joys that being parent of Dudley, who she knew would grow to do only great things indeed, brought, right, Vernon? (At this part of the conversation you felt inclined to join in, as you agreed wholeheartedly.)--and she smiled and made baby faces for both Dudley and Harry.

It was all in all a pleasant time, Petunia remarked later that afternoon on your walk back home, as Arabella seemed quite normal for a neighbour, discounting her appreciation for cats, and you still felt indifferently but you agreed.

---

You went to her house the next day, because Petunia said you should make good on your promise and help Arabella unpack, and you grumbled something about not offering at all but Petunia ignored you. She bustled around the house, changing Dudley's diapers and attempting to feed Harry, and when she was frying bacon for breakfast you held her by the hips and tried to kiss the back of her neck.

Not now, Vernon, she snapped. (You pouted and moved your hands up her waist.)

I mean it, Vernon, I'm busy, she said, and she moved away. (You glared but she wasn't looking. She never looked.)

You sat at the table and you debated whether or not to ask her if she could bake you some apple pie. She didn't appear to hear anything when you called out her name, though, so you didn't ask anymore.

You put down the files you were trying to read (Why must children be so noisy?) and decided to go out of the house for a while. You shouted a quick goodbye to Petunia, but she didn't hear you.

You only knocked once this time before she appeared on the doorway, still all smiles but no longer out of breath.

She hadn't really expected you, she said, thought you were only being polite, and you turned red because she was right, only you really didn't have anything to do. She said she hoped you really didn't mind, and you shrugged, and she wondered what she could do in return for the kindness and the apple pie.

You asked her what you had to do, and she said you only had to move the boxes upstairs, if that was quite all right. You glanced at the boxes, which looked very heavy and seemed a lot of trouble, and you said it was fine.

It wasn't.

They were heavy and were a lot of trouble, and it took you more than two hours of huffing and puffing up and down the stairs to bring all of them up. You wondered why you bothered as you wiped the sweat from your brow. Your jumper clung to your skin and your throat was parched and you hated the little beads of sweat that ran down your neck.

She came up then, a towelette draped on one hand and a tray with cold juice and a piece of the apple pie from yesterday balanced on both. You graciously took the towelette and wiped away the stickiness of summer, drank the juice and briefly thanked the trail of cold it left down your throat, and sank your teeth in the reheated piece of pie, which was every bit as sweet as you'd imagined.

She bustled about then, and in a way she reminded you of Petunia, only she bustled about for you.

Would you like more juice, Mr. Dursley? (You told her you'd love more, and would she please call you Vernon.)

How was the juice? (You said you'd never tasted anything as good.)

More pie, maybe? (Oh no, you shook your head. You've had enough and it isn't right to be eating what was meant for her, really.)

Oh, but you've been working so hard, surely you deserve more. (Well, perhaps just one more slice.)

Here, Vernon, let me get that.

She took a fresh towelette from out of nowhere then, and dabbed a bit at your forehead at the same time you reached up to wipe the sweat away. Your hands brushed, and her cheeks turned pink in a way that made you want to see if they could go redder.

She pulled back her hand, seconds later, and looked down. The blush in her cheeks deepened, and she mumbled, haltingly, stumbling through the words, maybe thanking you for your help, maybe saying something else. You didn't really hear, your eyes were trained on her lips and the way they moved, and you wondered what would happen if, what they would taste like if, so you leaned forward and kissed her.

She didn't pull away, so you put your hands on her hips.

She didn't snap at you, so you moved your hands up her waist.

She did kiss back, so you pulled her closer.

And she was soft in your arms and her lips were sweet and her breasts were pressed against your chest and you slid your hands lower to the small of her back. She ran her hands up your arms before hesitantly placing them around your neck, and you groaned when she pressed her body closer to yours, and you would have done more but something jumped on your back, and stayed there, and you pulled away in surprise.

She cried out, reprimanding Manuel the cat while you tried to shake off the sharp nails that clung through the fabric of your jumper into your skin. Blasted cat, you growled, as you threw off Manuel, who landed with a loud screech on the floor.

In the silence that followed after, as you stood in the middle of the room with your scratched up jumper, as she looked at you in shock a good few feet away, and as Manuel licked off the last of the apple pie, you remembered that Petunia was supposed to run a few errands downtown and needed you to look over the children, so you mumbled a quick excuse and made your way down the stairs.

Wait, she called, and you paused just as you were nearing the foyer. She really did appreciate the help, she said, and this time you heard her, because you were looking at the door instead of her lips, which you were sure were still a bit swollen and still a bit red and every bit as soft. Maybe, she said, maybe if you need help, she could look after the children. You shrug indefinitely and tell her you'll let Petunia know, and she nodded, but you weren't looking.

---

Petunia wanted to know what took you so long, and you told her there had been a lot of work to be done. She wondered why you did not excuse yourself earlier, and you told her it wouldn't have been neighbourly. She muttered something about how unneighbourly Mrs. Figg had been to let you work at all, and you told her she'd offered to sit for you. You walked past her to the kitchen, and she asked what had happened to your back. You let her look at the torn bits, and the cat hair, and you told her Arabella's cat had jumped on you. She frowned and said something about how horrid it was to have pets at all, and you told her you were hungry.

There's apple pie in the oven, Petunia said, putting on her coat as she walked out the door.