Petunia’s eyes widen at the sight of her favorite china set broken into pieces on the ground in front of her.
“Dudley,” she asks, working to control her voice, “did you do this?”
Her son looks up at her, flashing her a smile with his white teeth. “No, Mummy, I didn’t. It was Harry.”
Perhaps a part of Petunia realizes that this is a lie, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Harry! Get over here!”
It probably wasn’t fair, but there was nothing she could do about it. Dudley could convince her to commit murder with that bright smile of his.