Vernon Dursley was not having a good summer. If there was one thing he valued above all others in this world, it was routine. "Normality and regularity are what make the world go round," his dear, sainted mother had often said, and it was advice he kept foremost in his mind at all times. But this summer had not been normal or regular in the slightest.
The first sign had been that evening, soon after Dudley came home from school for the summer, when he'd returned from work at Grunnings and found no one home, no supper waiting on the table, and only a cryptic note from Petunia about shopping for boxing gloves. Certainly it was important for his son to have top-of-the-line sporting equipment, but he'd been coming home at precisely five o'clock every weekday for the past 20 years, and Petunia had never before failed to greet him at the door with a peck and an announcement that dinner was on the table.
He'd sat and stewed for half an hour until his prodigal wife and son had suddenly appeared on the garden walk, looking completely flustered and out of breath. And worst of all, with no boxing gloves to show for their efforts. (He'd taken special notice of the day two weeks later when the gloves finally arrived in the post.) Petunia had been profusely apologetic in a way that instantly told him she was covering something, and he'd been watching her ever since.
Dudley was acting peculiar as well. There'd been the day a week ago when he'd gone into the kitchen for a bit of leftover pudding after supper and found his son, Smeltings boxing champion, washing dishes with Harry like a common houseboy! And he couldn't help feeling from the guilty look that Dudley occasionally cast his way that the boy was hiding something from him, probably at the request of his mother.
Today had been worst of all. Dudley and Petunia had been avoiding him as much as possible, and Harry had been sulking in his room all day. Clearly something was afoot. And so, when an imperious rapping sounded at the door, Vernon had thrown it open, already in a black mood. What he saw didn't ease his mind one bit. There at the door stood a pale, pointed boy of about Harry's age, wearing a most unusual black traveling cloak affixed at the collar with a silver pin in the shape of a dragon. He was instantly sure that this was one of Harry's kind. "Who the hell are you?' he barked.
"I'm Draco Malfoy, sir," the boy stammered.
"What are you doing bothering us at this hour?" Vernon interrogated further.
Before the boy could reply, Petunia stepped up behind Vernon and said, in the flustered way that was her hallmark of late, "Vernon, this is Dudley's friend Draco, from school. He is going to be spending the week with us."
Vernon turned on his wife. "And why was I not informed of this?"
Petunia stammered, "Because it was supposed to be a surprise. For Dudley. For his birthday tomorrow. And I know how you could never keep a secret from your own little boy, so I thought it best not to tell either of you."
What Petunia had just said was obviously a load of hogwash, but it was best to be civil for the time being. He turned back to his visitor and instantly put on his most ingratiating tone. "Come in, come in, Mr. Malfoy, was it? Make yourself at home. I'm sorry I was so rude to you earlier, but I thought you might have been one of my nephew's friends. He hangs around with the most disagreeable sort of people, you know. He goes to St. Brutus' School for Incurably Criminal Boys."
For some reason, the pale boy smirked at this. "Oh, yes, Mr. Malfoy, it's quite shocking. Happens in the best of families these days, I'm afraid." While he prattled on, Vernon had been leading Draco into the living room, where they now sat down. The boy took off his traveling cloak, revealing a perfectly normal but quite expensive-looking gray cashmere sweater with tailored wool pants. Pound signs went off in Vernon's head.
"Tell us something about your family," he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. "Where do you live, what does your father do, and so on?"
"There isn't really much to tell," Draco said smoothly. "My father has ties to the Ministry, in an unofficial capacity, of course. He's away from home more often than not these days. My mother is quite busy at the moment as well, arranging social events for our Lord. We live at Malfoy Manor."
Vernon's ears perked up at this. It sounded like the boy came from some kind of minor nobility. "And just where is this Malfoy Manor, boy? I'd like to look it up on the map."
"Oh, you wouldn't be able to find it on any map. It's unpl—I mean, too unimportant to show up anywhere."
Just then, Petunia entered the room. "Vernon, why don't you show Draco upstairs? I'd thought he could stay with Dudley."
Vernon had a much better idea. "Nonsense, my dear, I'm sure Mr. Malfoy would like some room to spread out. Why don't we put him in Dudley's second bedroom?" He nudged her in the side.
Petunia looked taken aback, but quickly agreed, and the matter was settled. After a quick check to make sure Harry hadn't left any incriminating items around, Mr. Dursley carried Draco's trunk up to his new room.
Back down in the living room, Vernon took a moment to reflect upon their visitor. He still didn't trust Petunia, but whoever this Malfoy boy was, he seemed like exactly the sort that Dudley would want to know later in life, the kind with connections in the right places. Yes, he wouldn't mind having this boy around at all.