Dudley Dursley graduated from Smeltings a year late, and at the bottom of his class. He got a good deal of ribbing about this from his school friends, all of whom were heading off to prestigious universities when he started his last year, and he dealt with it as gracefully as he could - which was to say, with a series of short but vicious fist-fights. He never spoke about the year he had taken off from school. If anyone asked, he'd shrug and say that his family had been spending time out of the country. He never spoke about his cousin, either, but Piers and the others were used to this, and did not consider it worth remarking on. Dudley and his cousin were as different as night and day, and had never gotten on well.
The letter came a few days after he graduated, while he was looking through his rejection letters from various universities and half-listening to his mother's diatribe against all the schools that had turned down her precious son. Dudley himself was not especially concerned about this; he'd gotten a boxing scholarship to a small school overseas, and had already determined to go. He was still trying to work out a way to break this to his mother that wouldn't result in her bursting into tears when the small, plain envelope slid out from between two papers and into his lap. It was addressed, succinctly, to "The Dursleys" and while there was no return address, Dudley thought he recognized the spiky handwriting.
He glanced up to see whether or not his mother was paying attention, but she had already segued into a tirade about the next-door neighbors and the state of their flowerbeds. She was standing at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes with such force that her frilly apron was liberally splashed with suds.
"...disgraceful, just look at them," she said loudly, squinting out the window at Mrs. Well's impeccably trimmed rosebushes.
Dudley nodded and muttered something in vague agreement, then, keeping the envelope under the table and out of his mother's sight, slit it open and pulled out the letter inside.
To: Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley, it said, and Dudley sighed. Of all the bloody days his cousin could have chosen to write...
I assume that you are well. I wrote last June to tell you that I am still alive. I wasn't planning to write again, but I think you should know that Ginevra Weasley and I plan to be married in three years time when I finish my training as an Auror. You haven't met Ginny - she's my friend Ron's younger sister. I have no idea whether or not you care in the least, but she talked me into writing this letter, and so here you are.
Enclosed is a post-office box address. If you want to write, send any letters there by Muggle mail and I'll get them.
Harry.
A photograph was folded in with the letter: Harry, with his arm around a pretty redhead. There seemed to be something wrong with the picture and Dudley squinted at it for several minutes, almost dropping it when he realized that both people were moving. The girl - Ginny - kept glancing at a small, sparkling stone on her left hand, and sunlight was glinting off of Harry's glasses. They were both grinning shyly at the camera.
Dudley looked at the photograph for a long time before deciding that it wasn't likely to discover any additional tricks and stuffing it, and the letter, into his pocket.
Petunia looked over at him when he stood up. "Is something wrong, darling?"
"'M going out for a smoke," Dudley grunted.
She gave him a reproachful look. "Sweetums, I wish you wouldn't...your father will be home soon and I thought we could all go out to a nice dinner to celebrate your graduation..."
"Sorry, Mum," Dudley said, and escaped before she could say anything more.