Half Evans

Dudley is far more relaxed on the train ride home than he was on the train ride to Hogwarts. He still is not a good traveller, but thanks to a quick visit to the hospital wing and an anti-nausea potion from Madam Pomfrey, he manages the entire ride without so much as a stomach twitch.

There’s also the fact that nobody bullies him on this ride. As a matter of fact, his former bullies are now squished into a car with him and Harry, laughing and talking like old friends.

Because they are old friends.

Draco is crammed in a seat with Dudley, Vince and Theo, and Harry is sitting far more comfortably between Ron and Hermione.

“It’s a shame you can’t come visit over the holidays.” Dudley says. Draco shrugs his shoulders and stuffs another chocolate into his already stuffed mouth.

“M’parents don’t like muggles or muggleborns. “He says nonchalantly. “They’re fine with us being friends at school but..” His voice trails off and Dudley sighs.

He’d become well-versed in the politics between purebloods and muggleborns after a particularly nasty confrontation between Pansy Parkinson and Hermione, in which the former had called her a mudblood. She’d been chastised by Gerald and had it reported to Professor Snape, but Dudley got the distinct impression that it was less of a big deal to the other members of Slytherin house than it should’ve been. When he’d finally plucked up the courage to ask Draco and Theo about it, they’d both given him the history.

In short, purebloods – who made up most of Slytherin house – were supposed to hate people like Dudley and Hermione. The fact that they’d been placed in Slytherin was an anomaly in and of itself. He also learned that many people felt it was a disgrace to the house that two muggleborn students had been placed there.

He also learned that everyone he considered a friend had been raised to hate him.

“It’s kind of why I was such an ass at first.” Draco had confessed one late evening.

“But how’d you even know I was muggleborn?" Dudley had asked, and Draco had given him A Look.

“Clothing, Dursley.” He said dryly. “No self respecting pureblood would ever be caught dead in jeans.”

The conversation had ended with Draco reassuring him that his Slytherin loyalties transcended blood status, which shockingly hadn’t comforted Dudley all that much, prompting Draco to begrudgingly admit that he actually liked Dudley, even without factoring in house loyalties.

“We’re friends, Dursley.” He’d said with a roll of his eyes, and Dudley had smiled.

He liked having friends.

“You’ll write though, yeah?” He asks. Draco rolls his eyes.

“We’re on Christmas break, Dursley, not moving across the country. We’ll be back in two short weeks.” He stuffs another chocolate into his mouth. “Of course I’ll write.” And Dudley relaxes back into his seat.

“Well Harry, my mum said she’d be happy to have you visit over the holidays.” Ron says, prompting Draco to roll his eyes again. “She said she’ll write to your mum to set up a time!” Harry grins.

“That’d be great! Maybe you can come visit while Hermione’s down. My aunt is planning a get together with the Grangers.” Ron grimaces before smiling painfully.

“Yeah!” He says forcefully. “That sounds.. great.”

Dudley sleeps for thirteen hours when he arrives home. He collapses into bed, unable to answer even one of his mum’s interrogatory questions, instead falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

It is the first dreamless sleep he’s had in weeks.

When he awakes, he finds a delicious hot breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen; bacon, eggs, toast and jam, as well as hot chocolate with candy canes as a special treat. Harry arrives only moments after Dudley is seated, bleary-eyed and equally rested.

Their day is nearly perfect.

They watch three hours of television in the morning, catching up on all their favorite cartoons and lamenting the fact that Hogwarts has absolutely no televisions, which Petunia seems to think is its only redeeming quality. Then, she sends them outside where they have a massive snowball fight, and Dudley utterly pummels Harry for the first time in his life. When they finally drag themselves back into the house, completely soaked and chilled to the bone, Petunia is waiting with a delicious supper and homemade chocolate cake for dessert.

“Your friend Ronald’s mother wrote to me today.” Petunia says to Harry, as he slurps his soup loudly. “And stop that infernal slurping!”

“Wha’she say?” Harry asks, stuffing a roll into his mouth. She swats his hand and scowls at him.

“Manners, boy! I certainly hope you don’t behave this way at school.” Harry shrugs, taking another mouthful of food.

“You should see Dud’s friend Malfoy. Got worse table manners than a chimpanzee, and he’s supposed to be all proper and whatnot.” Petunia wrinkles her nose in disgust, and Dudley hides a grin. Draco did have horrid table manners, in spite of what Theo said was an incredibly strict upbringing.

“He had to take etiquette lessons.” He adds.

“Anyway,” Petunia says slowly. “As I was saying, your friend Ronald’s mother wrote to me and wants you boys to come visit tomorrow.”

“Can we?” Harry asks, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Dudley? Do you want to?” Dudley shrugs his shoulders.

“Sure,” He says. He’s not particularly excited about spending time with Ron, who he finds exhausting, but Harry likes him, and Ron’s nice enough, he supposes.

That night when they both retire to their room, Dudley grabs a piece of parchment and pens a quick letter.

Draco,

Hope you’re having a good holiday with your family! I know you said you can’t come visit, but we’re going to the Weasleys tomorrow, and I remember them being pureblood. Maybe you could come visit us there? It’d be nice to get together at some point, don’t you think? I’m sure Ron wouldn’t mind.

Happy Christmas!

Dudley.

Dudley goes to the window and gives a short whistle. The grey owl lands on the sill, and he sets about tying the parchment to its leg.

“Who are you writing to already, Dud?” Harry asks from his bed.

“Draco.” Harry snorts.

“We just got home yesterday, Dudley. You can’t possibly miss him that much already.” Dudley exhales noisily, irritated by the comment.

“I just thought he might be able to visit at the Weasleys where they’re pureblood.” Harry sighs, and Dudley watches as he swings himself off the top bunk.

“I doubt they’ll let him come.” He says bluntly. “Ron says his family’s considered blood traitors.. Guess if you’re a pureblood but you consort with us lesser folks that makes you a traitor or whatever. Ron said they’re like shunned from pureblood society.” Dudley’s shoulders sag in dejection.

“Oh,” He says sadly. “I thought it might’ve been a good compromise.” He turns away from Harry and settles into his bed, rolling over to face the wall. The mattress sags slightly as Harry slides in beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey Big D,” He says quietly. “It was a good thought, yeah?” Dudley shrugs his shoulders.

“Sure,” He says. Harry gets up off the bed and climbs back onto his bunk.

“I’m sorry your friends have terrible families.” He says softly.

“I’m sorry your friends are traitors.” Harry gives a small laugh.

“I think I’d rather the traitors.” Dudley smiles sadly.

“Yeah.” He says. “Me too.”

The holiday seems to pass in a bit of a blur. They spend a day at the Weasleys, which goes far better than Dudley could’ve hoped for. Even his mum seemed to get along with them well, trading recipes with Ron’s mum and engaging in a lively political conversation with Percy, who Dudley was shocked to see was taking notes.

They also have the Grangers over for supper, an evening which in Dudley’s opinion is much more fun than the Weasleys, although Harry disagrees. He and Hermione spend the evening playing chess until Harry drags them down to the living room to watch a Christmas movie, complaining that he can’t listen to another lecture on the Benko Gambit, and they end up falling asleep on the large floral sofa to the sound of It’s a Wonderful Life.

Draco even writes to Dudley, apologizing (in a very Draco-ish way) for not being able to make it to the Weasleys, and tells him about his holiday, which seems infinitely more boring than Dudley’s. Apparently Draco’s been forced to go to no less than three balls this holiday season, and according to his letter he will die of spontaneous combustion if he has to put on another set of cufflinks. Dudley stifles a giggle as he tries to imagine Draco at a decadent affair like a ball, but he can’t shake the image of the boy holding a turkey leg in his bare hand, chewing on it like a rabid dog.

Before he even realizes what's happening, Christmas Eve arrives.

It’s been customary since his parents first separated, that he spend Christmas Eve with his dad. He picks him up in the morning, and they go to breakfast at the same little diner in town. Vernon orders an omelette with bacon and sausage and a black tea, Dudley orders hotcakes, bacon and porridge. Then they go home. They chat for a bit, Vernon asks what he’s been doing, if he’s playing any sports, how school is going. He asks about his mum, mumbles “good, good” at whatever Dudley says, and pointedly does not bring up Harry. They’ll have lunch together, eat in relative silence, and retire to the living room to watch TV. Near suppertime, they’ll open presents, exchange thank yous, and then Vernon will pack up Dudley and his belongings in the car and deliver him back to Petunia.

It's the same every year.

But when Dudley comes down the stairs this Christmas Eve morning with a small duffel bag filled with the gifts he’d purchased for his father, he finds his mother sitting in the kitchen with her eyes rimmed in red.

“Mum,” He says. “What’s going on?”

Petunia turns to him and presses her lips together in a grim smile.

“Oh, Dudley.” She sighs. “Good morning, love.”

“Morning..”

“I was just thinking of putting on some breakfast. How do you fee about French toast?” Dudley sets the duffel bag down, eyeing his mother warily.

“I usually have breakfast with Dad,” He says slowly. “We go to Diana’s. It’s tradition.” Petunia smiles again, that same, tight-lipped smile. “Mum.. what’s going on?” Petunia sighs again.

“I just thought you might like some breakfast at home, love.” She pulls out a chair at the table, gesturing for him to come sit, but he doesn’t move.

“Mum.. where’s Dad?” Her shoulders sag, and she seems to grip the back of the chair a bit tighter.

“Why don’t you have a seat, love, and we’ll chat.”

“Where’s Dad?” Petunia’s knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip.

“Your father..” She says slowly. “Your father called this morning. And it seems he can’t come.” Dudley feels faint. He feels sick. He feels..

“What do you mean he can’t come? Is he ill?” Petunia shakes her head slightly.

“No, love, he’s not sick.. he’s.. well..” Dudley shakes. His mother doesn’t know what to say. She always knows what to say.

“He doesn’t want to see me.” He says flatly as realization floods him. Petunia goes silent, which gives Dudley all the confirmation he needs. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“He doesn’t think it’s a good idea.” Dudley feels the floor swaying beneath his feet. He should’ve sat down.

“Why?” He hears himself ask. “What was his reason?”

“Dudley..” He hates the pity in her voice.

“It’s the magic, isn’t it.” He hears himself say.

“Your father.. he’s never been able to –“

Dudley turns suddenly, dropping the duffel bag on the ground and runs.

He can hear his mother yelling his name, but he doesn’t care. He runs out the front door, his boots slipping on the ice outside the step. He runs down the driveway. Down the street. Dudley runs until his chest aches, until his cheeks burn from the cold winter air, until his muscles ache and his chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

He runs until he can’t anymore, and he collapses on the curb, ignoring the way the snow melts underneath him, soaking his pants and freezing him.

He doesn’t care anymore.

His mother’s words echo in his ears, burrowing deep in the recesses of his mind.

He can’t come.

He doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

He can’t come.

He can’t come.

He can’t come.

Except he can come. There’s nothing preventing him from coming. He could come if wanted to.

He won’t come.

He won’t come.

Dudley’s father won’t come.

Great tears well in his eyes and he wipes them away furiously. He doesn’t want to cry. Not over him. Not over some deadbeat who won’t even see his son on Christmas.

He hates him.

Dudley hates his father.

He thinks the words over and over again, whispering them into the frosty morning air.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

A car pulls over. A portly man with a moustache that reminds him of his father’s leans out the window.

“You alright son? You need a drive somewhere?” Dudley shakes his head.

“I’m alright.” He says.

“It’s awfully cold out there, m’boy. I can give you a drive home if you’d like?” Dudley sighs. His legs have gone numb. His trousers are soaked. His mother’s probably gathering a search party right now.

“You know what? Yeah, actually. Yeah. That'd be great.” He says, standing up. The man leans over and unlocks the passenger door and Dudley climbs in, immediately relaxing into the blast of hot air that hits him.

“Where to?”

Dudley doesn’t think. Doesn’t consider his words. He just speaks, the words tumbling out before he has a chance to reconsider.

“Number 4 Privet Drive.”

Dudley stands on the step of his father’s home for a good five minutes, unmoving.

He doesn’t know what to do.

At one point, it was his home. There wasn't a Dudley's Home and Vernon's Home, they were just one and the same. In another life he’d still be living here. He wouldn’t stand on the step wondering if he’d be welcome, he’d know that he was. His dad would chortle the way he always had, probably call him some stupid name like “little tyke”, and ruffle his hair in a way that Dudley always pretended to hate, but secretly loved. He wouldn’t worry about whether or not his father loved him, because he’d never know anything different.

But that is not the life he lives, and as he stands on the porch of a house that is not his home, he realizes that he is a stranger, and the man who lives inside is a stranger too.

They are strangers.

It’s why he can’t bring himself to knock. Why he stands on the doorstep of the house he used to call home debating his next move. Why he’s terrified the door will swing open and expose him.

They are strangers.

Dudley moves off the step. The snow crunches under his feet as he makes his way down the length of the walkway to the street. He remembers that there’s a store on the corner, and he hopes that they’ll let him use the phone to call his mum, and maybe she’ll pick him up. He hopes she’s not too angry, and that he hasn’t ruined Christmas.

He turns one last time back to the house. He briefly hopes the door will fling open, that his father will run out calling his name, that he’ll apologize and say he’ll always love Dudley, no matter what.

But the door stays shut.

The curtains stay drawn.

And nobody comes.

To his surprise, Petunia doesn’t yell. She doesn’t ask where he’s been, or why he took off. She doesn’t even lecture him on hitching a ride with a stranger.

They drive in silence.

She doesn’t yell when they get home either. She just tells him to go upstairs and get changed, to make sure his dirty clothes go in the laundry basket and not beside it, and then tells him she’s putting cookies in the oven momentarily.

She doesn’t even comment when he doesn’t respond.

He trudges up the stairs to the bedroom he shares with Harry and says a silent prayer to whatever magical god exists that his cousin is gone before flinging the door open.

But of course, he’s sitting right there at the desk they share, and he nearly knocks Dudley clean over when he tackles him in a great hug.

“Where the bloody hell were you?” Harry exclaims when he finally releases him. “I thought Aunt Petunia was going to have a stroke! I wasn’t even awake when she started screaming for you, I thought you’d went and blown yourself up or something!” Dudley shrugs.

“I just went for a walk.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Okay, sure Dud I’ll pretend your mum was screaming and crying because you went for a walk. Seriously, where were you? I thought you were going with your dad today.” Dudley doesn’t want Harry’s words to affect them the way they do, but he can’t stop from flinching.

“Just leave it alone, Harry.” He snaps, much harsher than he’d intended to. Harry furrows his brow, his expression going from curiosity to concern.

“Did something happen with your dad? Is he alright?”

“Just shut up!” Dudley roars, and Harry falls silent, his eyes wide. Dudley sighs. “Just.. I don’t want to talk about it, alright? So please.. I’m exhausted. Just.. I need to lie down.” Harry doesn’t respond. Dudley flops onto the bed, tugging the quilt over his head.

There have been very few moments in Dudley’s life where Petunia did not know what to do. She hadn’t hesitated when Dudley questioned why they were leaving his father. She hadn’t paused when Albus confirmed his magical ability. She hadn’t even faltered the first time he conjured a small flower in his pudgy little fist. But as she watched him get into the car, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast down the street from Vernon’s house, she found herself at a loss for words.

She doesn’t know how to fix this.

She wants to tell him a great many things. She wants to tell him that his father is an idiot, that he’s a bigot, that if he was a parent that was actually worth anything he would love Dudley no matter what. She wants to tell him that his magic makes him spectacular, not unlovable. She wants to tell him that his magic changes nothing about him, that he’d be the same kind, gentle soul he is now without it. She wants to tell him a great many things.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she watches him trudge up the stairs, silently, slowly, sadly.

She knows that heartbreak is a part of life. She knows it inevitably finds everyone, and that in spite of her best efforts, she will never be able to protect Dudley or Harry from it. But she also knows that a parent should never be the heartbreaker.

The timer on the oven buzzes, and Petunia turns, pulling a tray of hot cookies out of the oven. 

She doesn't know how to fix this. But, she thinks as she plates two cookies, a little snack never hurt. 

Dudley hears the creak on the stairs, and he groans. He just wants to be left alone. He doesn’t want to endure a conversation with his mother, or talk about his feelings, or God forbid try and explain his actions this morning. He just wants to be left alone.

“Dudders, I made some cookies I thought –“

Dudley hears a crash.

Then a scream.

He jerks up out of bed, the quilt falling onto the floor as he realizes what had made his mother scream.

Harry was standing in the centre of the room, exactly where he’d been when Dudley snapped at him. Except he wasn’t just standing there, it was like he was frozen, rooted to the spot. His eyes were wide with fear, tears streaming down his face, and his mouth worked as though he was trying to speak, or yell, or scream. But there was no sound.

“Dudley what’s happened?” Petunia screeches. Dudley looks from her to Harry, his own eyes wide with fright.

“I, I don’t know!” Petunia crosses the room and grabs Harry roughly by the arm, tugging hard. He doesn’t move.

“Harry, Harry!” She yells, and she pulls harder. He still doesn’t move. She whirls around to face Dudley. “What did you do?” She snaps. Dudley pales, his heart pounding.

“I didn’t do anything, Mum, I swear!”

“This isn’t normal, Dudley!” She cries, jabbing an arm towards Harry. “This is magic! Tell me what happened! Everything that happened!” Dudley wracks his brain.

“I uh, Harry wanted to talk about today, about where I went. And I didn’t want to, and I yelled at him to shut up. I don’t know, Mum, I was angry! I didn’t mean to do anything!” He watches in horror as Harry’s mouth opens and closes without sound.

“Accidental magic,” She mutters suddenly, and she turns, running back down the stairs. Dudley approaches Harry slowly, his heart sinking as he does.

“Harry,” He whispers. “Harry, did I do this? Did I.. did I curse you?” Harry opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out. “Blink once for yes?” Dudley suggests, and Harry blinks. “Did I do this?” He whispers again.

Harry blinks.

Dudley feels his own eyes fill up with tears.

“Harry, I.. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it, I swear!”

Petunia runs back into the room, her hair falling out of the bun she’d tucked it into this morning.

“Albus is on his way.” She says, and she kneels down in front of Harry, grasping him tightly by the shoulders. “You’ll be fine, Harry,” She says in a stern voice. “Just relax, yeah?” His mouth opens again, and Dudley looks away, shamefaced.

Albus wastes no time assessing Harry, walking around him in slow circles as he hums. The mediwitch from the school – Poppy Pomfrey – is also there, scanning her wand over his body, paying particular attention to his chest and throat.

“Lungs look good,” Poppy murmurs. “Oxygen flow is excellent, no damage there. Vocal cords seem to be intact. In terms of the voice, Albus, I think it’s safe to say we can rule out any physical changes.” Albus hums his agreement, and mutter some nonsensical words that Petunia assumes are a spell of sorts, and then he raises his eyebrows.

“Oh ho!” He chuckles, and Petunia narrows her eyes. “Exceedingly powerful, Mr. Dursley, I must say. You’ve rendered all of Mr. Potter’s external dialogue as internal dialogue.” Petunia stares at the man.

“What exactly does that mean?” She asks. “He can’t speak?” Albus bends down, peering directly into Harry’s eyes.

“No, young Harry can speak perfectly fine. It’s just that he’s the only one who can hear himself.” Petunia furrows her brow in confusion.

“So he’s just.. thinking?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not to worry though, it’s entirely reversible, his external dialogue will become external in no time at all.”

“And the movement?” Petunia asks sharply. Poppy presses her lips tightly together as she drags her wand up one side of Harry’s body and down the other.

“A tad more complex, I’m afraid,” She says tightly. “His muscles are bound.” Petunia feels her heart drop and Dudley looks as though he could vomit.

“What does that mean?” She gasps. “Is it reversible?” Poppy squints as she focuses on a spot on Harry’s spine.

“It is reversible,” She says slowly. “But not quite as simple as the speech. His muscles have in essence solidified.”

“Solidified???”

“Quit reversible, I assure you. But it will require a liquefier.”

“A LIQUEFIER?!”

“And then of course a solidifier.” Petunia staggers back, gripping the dresser tightly, and Poppy looks up at her. “He should get on to St. Mungo’s straight away. The longer we leave him solidified the longer it will take to liquefy his muscles.” Petunia straightens up, the color drained from her face.

“Right then,” She says weakly. “We should get on. How do we get there, to St. Mungo’s?”

Harry is whisked away as soon as they arrive at the hospital, taken off to a room somewhere to have his muscles liquefied. He sits in silence as a physician in mint green robes walks Petunia through the process, reassuring her that protective spells will be placed on the rest of Harry’s body to protect them from being liquefied, and how Harry will be kept under sedation until the resolidifying has taken place for his own comfort.

He watches as his mother sits back against the uncomfortable yellow chair, her eyes staring unblinking at the wall as they wait, and Dudley feels hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

It had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to hurt Harry. He’d never mean to hurt Harry. He just didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to answer questions. He just needed quiet, he just –

“Dudley.” He looks up as his mother speaks. Her wide, unblinking eyes are now fixed on his face, which is wet with tears.

“I’m sorry, Mum.” He whispers, as more tears fall. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear it.” She wraps one arm around him, pulling him close.

“It’s okay, Dudley.” She says. “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s alright, love. It’s not your fault.” She wipes tears off his cheeks, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “It’s not your fault.” She repeats.

But Dudley knows the difference of that.

After the resolidifying, and a series of physical tests from his physician, Harry is cleared to return home the day after Christmas, and they celebrate by opening their presents and enjoying a massive Christmas feast that rivals even the Hogwarts feasts.

Dudley receives a new journal, several comic books, some clothes, more sweets than he knows what to do with, and a large green and silver sled (“custom painted!” Petunia adds) that he can’t wait to take outside. Harry receives a new chess board, several more comics, some clothes that he snorts at (“Don’t be ungrateful!” Petunia snaps), just as many sweets as Dudley, and a brand new pair of skates in red and gold. They are both also surprised to receive a small pile of presents from their Hogwarts friends. Harry gets a large book about quidditch from Ron, a tin of homemade cookies from Hermione, a hand knit jumper with the letter “H” on it from Ron’s mum, and a large bag of goodies from Zonko’s Joke Shop, that Petunia promptly informs him can be saved for Hogwarts. Dudley, on the other hand, receives a spell checking quill from Theo, a box of dungbombs from Vince, which Petunia is less than thrilled about, a tin of cookies from Hermione, and his own hand knit jumper from Ron’s mum. However, his favorite gift is one that comes from Draco. He’s momentarily speechless when he unwraps the beautiful leatherbound journal, running his fingers over the silver DD inscribed on the front. But it’s the note that falls from between the pages that takes his breath away.

Dudley,

Theo’s cousin gave me these journals, and I thought you might like them. Whatever you write in one appears in the other. I’ve got the other one, so you’ll be able to write to me whenever you want without having to wait for owls. I know you were upset about not being able to get together at all, but hopefully this helps. I tried it out with Theo and it works great.

Write me as soon as you open it!

D.M.

Dudley opens the journal, tracing his fingers over the crisp, blank parchment.

“Mum!” He says suddenly. “I need a pen!” He watches with growing impatience as his mother fumbles around for a pen, before she finally tosses him one. He scribbles a quick hello on the page and watches as the ink fades after a moment. And then:

Took you long enough

Dudley grins. Draco was right, this was going to make things easier.

Dudley spends the rest of the Christmas holiday writing back and forth with Draco. He tells him everything, all about his father abandoning him (“What a prick!”) and about solidifying Harry’s muscles (“that’s SO cool!”). In turn, Draco tells him all about his Christmas. He tells him about the Christmas ball, his mother threw and how his weird aunt and her creepy husband spent Christmas day with them. Both boys agree that although it was nice to be home, they can’t wait to get back to Hogwarts.

Petunia waits.

The boys are safely packed away on the Hogwarts Express, probably gorging themselves on treats that she hopes they’re sharing with their friends. She has undecorated the tree, packed away the stockings, and put her house back in order. She should be relaxing. She should be diving into her new novel. She should be doing whatever she wants.

But instead, she waits.

She waits until she hears the knock at the door, and her breath hitches in her throat as she opens it, and Albus Dumbledore steps through for the second time in the past two weeks.

“You wanted to speak?” She says, by way of greeting. Albus smiles that small, saccharine smile of his.

“Yes,” He says quietly, making his way to the living room uninvited. “I thought it was about time we chatted about Dudley.”