"I'm going to be a weatherman for Halloween," Dudley declared at the dinner table. Vernon choked; Harry burst into laughter. Petunia, casting her dirtiest glare at the two of them, calmly passed her son the dinner roll basket.
"A weatherman, dear?"
"Yeah!" he frowned at Harry. "What's so funny, twerp?"
"You can't be a weatherman," Harry told him. Vernon shoved a roll in Harry's mouth.
"You can be whatever you want to be, big man," he assured Dudley.
"Good." Dudley puffed up his chest. "Mum, I need a microphone."
"Every good weatherman does," Vernon agreed.
Dudley ran down the stairs at precisely 7 p.m. Halloween night in full costume. Petunia, wiping away a tear at her "big big Dudley-kins," made him pose with Vernon for a picture. Harry peeked out from his staircase bedroom and fell back onto his bed in laughter. Dudley, with his slicked-back hair, tweed suit, and large microphone, posed seriously next to his father.
"The temperature today is cloudy," Dudley declared, running a hand over his hair smoothly. "I predict lots of candy this night."
"Oh, he's a natural!" Petunia squealed, smashing her son against her chest.
"A fine young man," Vernon agreed.
Harry couldn't catch his breath.
WC: 204. For the Hogwarts Writing Competition; "temperature."