Petunia Dursley has a particular method for slicing grapes.
She takes her stainless steel, perfectly polished knife and brings it down. Pressing too hard would make the juice go everywhere—and she loathes that—while pressing too lightly will just make the grapes bounce all over the kitchen. Therefore, she puts just the right, tediously calculated amount of pressure on the blade. The fruit opens into lovely little half-moons, and she can drop them in the bowl and place them on her lovely, varnished oak table.
Petunia removes her frilly, lacy apron—she got it at the finest boutique in Little Whinging, for half-off—and folds it flawlessly. She sets it in its place—as everything in this kitchen has its place. She smooths out her straight, dark hair and examines herself in the shimmering window for a moment. Her lip liner does not have a single smudge, her foundation looks as if it isn't even there, and her crow's feet are barely showing. A success in make-up, if she may say so herself.
"Grannnn..." her young granddaughter whines, her voice so like her father's. Petunia could never resist rising to Dudley's every need, and this translates to her new little one. Eleven years old tomorrow. Such a big girl. "I thought you got the red ones."
She is a true Dudley, albeit far thinner. The girl is gangly, all knees and elbows. It's entirely unsightly, to Petunia at least. It reminds her that she ought to get the first cake in the oven for the birthday supper tonight.
"Well, darling, the green ones are quite delicious," Petunia attempts, but the girl's lip begins to tremble.
"I wanted the red ones." She begins to sob and Petunia wraps her in her arms, gently rubbing her back.
"There, there," she breathes, just as the normal, perfectly average grandmother would.
And then, as if to mock Petunia, one of the grapes begins to swell. And another. And another. Petunia is rather reminded of the night her sister-in-law was sent soaring out of the window. Poor dear. Petunia snatches the bowl before anyone can see it and tosses the grapes in the sink. She's been trying to beat it out of the poor little darling. No more magic in this family.
The Dursleys do not need a lick more magic.
Petunia was not exactly pleased when she discovered her granddaughter was a witch. It didn't take much thinking. She could recall all of the freakish accidents that surrounded her late sister. And Dudley's daughter has every inclination of becoming just like the atrocity. Petunia would like her family to be prim, proper and entirely usual, thank you very much. And so no one is to know.
And that is exactly why she made sure the girl would be staying the night for her eleventh birthday. To have a nice, calm conversation, and hopeful persuade her out of this whole school for freaks of nature. She knows it will not do to simply burn the letters. That certainly did not end well last time.
"You know what, dear?" Petunia says, tapping her granddaughter's cheek. "I'll go fetch some red ones."
On that note, Petunia is out the door.
There will be no more magic in this family.