A two-story affair in typical Muggle style, the house would probably have been quite nice in the care of the right family. Instead, it was devoid of personality: from the bright white paint, to the white picket fence that surrounded the yard, to the perfectly-spaced roses under the windowsill, it looked like it was inhabited by machines who had no concept of art or beauty. Even the silver Mercedes that stood in the drive was perfectly parked, positioned like something out of an architectural magazine for the rich and famous!
The rest of the neighborhood was only marginally better, as though they were trying to keep up with the Dursleys. Hints of life shone thorough in various places, but only just. They were also apparently quite nosy: women had peeped out at him from the windows of at least four different houses in the first thirty seconds alone.
Realizing that he looked rather strange standing there on the sidewalk, he turned and made his way calmly up to the front door, his professional mask automatically slipping down over his emotions. He already had suspicions about these people, but it simply would not do for them to know, at least not yet. He would play it straight with them, and react accordingly.
After taking stock of himself and making sure that all of his preparations were in place, he casually reached out and pressed the buzzer.
The door was opened by a tall, sickly-thin, horse-faced woman, whose nose was stuck firmly in the air, her attitude perfectly matching her environment. She wore a bad copy of a designer dress, and a gaudy gold chain hung around her neck, with a ghastly-looking heart-shaped pendant hanging in the valley between her sagging breasts. Her high heels added an inch or two to her height, but again they were bad knock-offs.
As a man who spent considerable time around full-blooded Veela, he would know: they certainly talked about their fashions enough!
"Yes?" she asked snootily.
"Petunia Dursley?" he queried.
"What do you want?" she snapped back.
"I am Seigneur Sebastian Delacour," he told her smoothly. "If you 'ave a few moments, I 'ave important business with you and your 'usband."
When he saw her eyes travel down from the clouds and over his well-dressed form, he was very glad that he'd thought ahead. From their finances he guessed that they might be impressed by money – and if they weren't, it wouldn't matter – and so he put on his best Muggle attire, which was far better than the vast majority could afford. And unlike the woman in front of him, his clothing was the real deal!
And sure enough, her eyes turned calculating as she studied him, probably trying to figure out how she could best take advantage of his presence. He didn't really care; as long as he got inside, he would gain the information he wanted. He just had to get off the street first.
"Very well," she said finally. "You can wait in the living room, and I'll get Vernon."
"Merci."
The inside of the house was just as sterile and lifeless as the outside. Only a few portraits lined the bright white walls, each showing a family of three. Nowhere in those images was Harry, which began to confirm his suspicions. The husband and son were disgustingly large, too, as though gluttony was their favorite hobby.
Petunia's heels beat a staccato rhythm on the spotless hardwood floor as she led him to a living room that was just as immaculate as everywhere else. And again, the only pictures present were of the Dursley family, no Harry. His hackles were starting to rise; it was quite clear that these people had no love of their nephew from that one clue alone!
Depositing himself on a sagging sofa – apparently ruined by the average weight of her family – he waited patiently for her return, images of hospital forms floating through his brain. He wanted to tie these people down and feed them Veritaserum, but it wasn't yet time for that. Caution was warranted so nobody could claim that he had done something wrong.
Finally Petunia returned with her husband, and Sebastian rose respectfully from his chair to greet the man. He badly wanted to act like he owned them – which he did if he so chose – but he pushed that impulse down. He had met people like this before, and they would make their bed soon enough.
Vernon was even more disgusting in person than in the pictures. He was dressed in an absolutely horrid gray suit, and the sport coat left a two-foot gap that his enormous stomach hung in. The white dress shirt was over-starched and looked like it was made of cardboard, and worse, there were a multitude of food stains on it! His large tie was bright orange, and scalded the eyes.
He had to ruthlessly suppress a disgusted grimace as he held out a hand.
"Bonjour, Mr. Dursley," he offered. "Seigneur Sebastian Delacour. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."
Dursley grunted and shook his hand, all the while eying his expensive Armani suit. Clearly this was a man who judged others by their means, rather than their motives. Not someone that Sebastian would willingly associate with to be sure.
"I'll get the drinks," simpered Petunia. "Please, Sebastian, do make yourself comfortable."
He was unable to prevent the very slight narrowing of his eyes at the rudeness of her form of address. In the circles he ran in, one did not use one's given name without permission! He said nothing, however, instead nodding and retaking his seat. Let them think they had the upper hand; they were in for quite a surprise.
It took almost the entire time Petunia was gone for Vernon to wedge himself into an easy chair. The man was four hundred pounds if he was an ounce, and barely fit! That alone would have had Social Services up in arms, especially since his son was just as bad! Sebastian had no illusions of it being a medical condition: the man was just plain lazy, and liked his food too much.