Mr. Dursley, esteemed resident (as he personally liked to think) of Number Four Privet Drive was rather flustered. That's to say he was very flustered. So flustered in fact, that he was hopping from foot to foot, oscillating so tremulously between the balls of his feet, the telephone clasped in one pudgy hand, that an untrained observer might have put it down to an extreme case of paranoia. Mrs. Dursley however, was not untrained in the antics of her husband, so she merely tutted irately, producing a similar auditory effect to what you might expect to hear if observing a cat gargling with mouthwash.
"What is it now Vernon?" she asked in an irritated manner, as though Mr. Dursley was quite prone to such convulsive and sporadic fits of indecision (which, as a matter of fact he was).
"It's Mrs. Figg," he began croakily, running his fingers through his hair in vexation. "Got some sort of life-threatening fever, apparently." he rolled his eyes conclusively as though he didn't see why they should get all worked up about it. His wife seemed to share his view.
"Well, I don't see why that should stop her." she remarked icily. "Bit selfish of her if you ask me, cancelling at the last moment and dumping him with us." Mr. Dursley thoroughly agreed on this matter. Wherever Harry Potter (or Mr. Dursley's preferred name 'that boy') went, he left a trail of inexplicable destruction meandering behind. There was no way that they could simply bring him along to the annual Grunnings Charity dinner!He'd be the laughing stock at work. That obstreperous child would just have to turn up on Mrs. Figg's doorstep, and if she was simply too ill to let him in then so be it. Mr. Dursley told this to his wife, as if daring her to disagree. Fortunately she didn't, or there could have been an unfortunate incident involving a large frying pan (a weapon of Petunia's favour). His relieved thoughts were, at that moment, interrupted by the appearance of the small, ugly child himself. Standing in the doorway, he squinted up ungratefully at them (and Vernon Dursley was shocked at his nerve) through the very glasses that they had been forced to shell out for. He trudged mischievously across the floor, leaving (to his Aunt's horror) a revolting trail of filth behind his now ruined shoes. Well, thought Mr. Dursley triumphantly if he didn't look after his belongings, they certainly weren't going to buy him any new shoes in a hurry.
The boy flung himself unceremoniously on to the spotless dry-clean-only white sofa and slowly and purposefully dragged his feet up onto it, (causing his Aunt to shriek in terror) his piggy eyes staring at them evilly.
At times, Mr. Dursley often wondered why they'd taken him in in the first place, and after much contemplation had put it down to the interminable generosity of their hearts. Nevertheless, he shot the boy an antagonistic glare and chewed his moustache nervously while checking his watch for the umpteenth time.
Now Mr. Dursley was not an impatient man. He did however posses a certain lack of patience. In fact in order to find any less patient person, it might be necessary to take a six-thousand-year-round trip to the planet Galgomanicifin, the home of a colony of the most impatient beings in the universe. Many of the most patient of its residents still can simply 'not be bothered' to suffer through that seemingly inexorable amount of time before their birth. Mr. Dursley was at his most impatient state if his work was being threatened. He simply didn't hold with anyone who attempted to get between him and his work. A great number of interested (yet rather sad) psychiatrists have spent many an entertaining hour comparing this particular trait of his to that of a cow's attachment to its calf. Mr. Dursley was determined that nothing; nothing would stand in the way of the Grunnings Charity Dinner.
At that moment, Petunia sighed defeatedly and sank into a spindly, delicate armchair soporifically (but not so soporifically that she was careful not to accidentally snap off one of the armrests).
"That's it Vernon, he's just going to have to come with us."
"With us?" began a flabbergasted Mr. Dursley "With us? Well just what, pray tell, do you suggest he wears?"
"Just lend him one of your suits." she replied as though this sorted the matter. Vernon coughed.
"One of my suits, did I hear you say? Well there certainly is only one, the problem is, I happen to be wearing it." This argument was interrupted by the arrival of another child. Mr. Dursley adored this child. He was the quintessential example of a perfect child in every respect: his angelic, golden hair was parted neatly at one side creating a lightly tousled effect; his blue eyes erupted majestically from their sockets, piercing you with a penetratingly true expression; his soft, rounded cheeks spoke of health along with his well sized body, encased in a ravishing blue striped suit that contemplated his glistening features perfectly. This boy was Dudley Dursley.
Dudley Dursley walked into the room.
"What's he doing in here?" he said, backing into the wall, trembling as though the Potter boy was something dangerous (which he most certainly was).