Petunia Dursley hates her nephew. Even as a toddler, all messy black hair and brilliant green eyes, pudgy body swaying as he pulls himself upright. Only her deep, in-bred resolve to never hurt a child keeps her from shoving the brat over, from nudging him into the cupboard under the stairs. Instead, he has his own, rickety crib in a corner of Dudley's second bedroom. Dudley's cast-offs. That's the ticket. Never treat him like a normal child. Because he's not normal.
As the two boys grow up, she lavishes praise on Dudley and heaps insults on the boy. She refuses to call him his name. The name Lily picked out. "Harry." What a nasty, common sort of name. When her husband starts calling him "Freak," some part of her winces, thinks of the way Lily's face would whiten in anger and hurt, but she goes along with it. It becomes surprisingly easy as time goes on. Her little Dudders, and the little Freak. Freak doesn't belong to anyone. Not like Dudley. Dudley is loved. Dudley belongs. She presses sweet, pursed-lip kisses on Dudley's head, smooths his pale hair, so unlike the freak's scruffy mop.
"I love you, Dudley," she tells him, and his face lights up as he clutches his stuffed teddy to his chest. He is a big boy, and growing bigger, but Petunia dismisses her concerns. He is growing, that's all. Not like the freak, who remains stubbornly, painfully thin, no matter how many scraps they feed him. And she does feed him. She has no desire to have Child Services knocking on her door. They won't understand.
When he shows accidental magic, she locks him in the cupboard under the stairs, lecturing him through the vent in the door until he bursts into heaving, silent sobs. His green eyes lock with hers in mute distress, but she ignores him, focusing instead on the jagged lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
"That's all magic will get you," she hisses through the door. "That's all freakiness will get you. Scars and death. Don't you dare turn out like her, you-you freak!"
To vent her feelings, she makes Dudley a very large bowl of ice cream, with two toppings on it, just as he likes. The more she hates the freak, the more she loves Dudley. She knows that perhaps it is unfair, perhaps spoiling him is wrong, but how can she do anything else?
When he is seven, she walks in on Dudley, by himself. He is levitating his toy train, laughing in childish wonder, and for a moment, her heart stops.
"Dudley!" she shrieks, as he turns to her, mouth sagging open in dismay at the frightened expression on her face. "Dudley, don't do that!" And then she is rushing forward, scooping him up in her arms (nearly falling because he is a growing boy), and babbling inanities into the crook of his neck as her tears splash against his shirt.
"Nothing happened," she tells him, setting him down in the hall with a firm pat. "Your cousin, that's all. Your cousin was being a freak again."
"I hit the freak?" Dudley asks innocently, eyes gleaming with mischief. Petunia nods, giving him an encouraging push, as Dudley wanders the house in search of his cousin.
Petunia leans against the wall, shaking in reaction as the tears well up once more. What have I done? she asks the world, but there is no response.
There is nothing.