wretched. ripper got sick.
i would've left him with the others, but he pines so when i'm away. don't you, darling? aunt marge puckers her lips at ripper and leads him down the hallway. harry follows with uncle vernon.
so. still here, are you?
don't say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone. damn good of my brother to keep you, if you ask me. it'd have been straight to an orphanage if he'd been dumped on my doorstep. just then dudley -- sitting comatose before the tv -- emits a hollow, brain-dead chuckle.
is that my dudders! hm? is that my neffy poo? come and say hello to your auntie marge. marge flashes a thick fan of pound notes. dudley blinks, waddles forward, and extends his plump palm obediently. harry looks on, then sees ripper snuffling about his ankle.
just a small one. a bit more.  a bit more.  that's the boy. aah. excellent nosh, petunia. it's normally just a fry-up for me, what with twelve dogs. she smacks her lips, lowers her brandy, and lets ripper take a slobbery lap out of the glass.  then catches harry looking.
what are you smirking at! where is it that you send him, vernon?
i see. and do they use the cane at st. brutus's, boy?
excellent. i won't have this namby-pamby wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. still. mustn't blame yourself for how this one's turned out, vernon. it all comes down to blood. bad blood will out. what is it the boy's father did, petunia?
of course. and a drunk, i expect --
what did you say?
not to worry, petunia. i have a very firm grip. harry stares at the shattered glass in surprise.
quiet, vernon. it doesn't matter about the father. in the end it comes down to the mother. you see it all the time with dogs. if there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup.
vernon. don't you dare -- but he does. he lets go. falls to his knees. and watches aunt marge float away.