Dudley always told himself that it was an accident. He couldn't have known that pushing Harry at that moment would have made him trip. Couldn't have known that Ripper was chasing him.
Couldn't have known that the mutt would go for the fallen boy’s throat.
Yet even though Harry never said anything (not that he could), or even indicated in any way that he blamed him, no matter he tried to tell himself it wasn't his fault, Dudley knew.
He was the reason his cousin brother would never speak again.
He hadn't known how it would come crashing down on him at that moment. Watching the dog lay into his cousin, screaming out for help, seeing his Aunt stagger out, drunk, take one look and laugh, gawking as his parents followed and did nothing.
It was then when he’d realised what they were, what he was becoming.
And he hated it.
It had taken him trying to tear Ripper off his flailing cousin that had made his parents take action, his tantrums that had made them take Harry to the hospital, his insistence on change that had let Harry get a chance to heal.
His cousin’s mangled throat would never again produce sound, but Dudley would be his voice. And he would be the voice Harry would have wanted him to be.
His chubby fist had met Polkiss’s face when his old gang had jeered at his now mute cousin when Harry had rejoined the school after months of recovery. His wide green eyes had made Dudley curse his previous behaviour.
He had sworn to himself, sworn to Harry, that he would atone for his last eight years of being an ass, that he would make himself the brother that he should always have been.
He had sworn that things would change, for the better.
Dudley had sworn to hear Harry’s soundless screams.