HP Approaches the Magical World

"I'll talk about it later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Sit down."

Harry sat down in the other armchair, trying not to look at the Dursleys, who seemed too frightened to speak.

"I thought you'd give me something to drink,"

Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon: "It now appears that such expectations are ridiculously optimistic."

With a third flick of the wand, a dirty wine bottle and five glasses appeared in the air.

The bottle automatically turned sideways to fill each glass with honey-yellow liquid, and the glasses floated to each person in the room.

"Lady Rosmerta's finest oak-aged mead."

Dumbledore raised his glass to Harry as he spoke, and Harry took a sip from his own glass.

He'd never tasted anything like it before, but liked it a lot, and the Dursleys exchanged quick, startled glances before trying to avoid their cups.

It's not easy, as the cup keeps bumping their heads gently to remind them.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore was playing a trick on purpose.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning to him, "now we have a problem which I would like you to help us solve.

When I say we mean the Order of the Phoenix, however, let me first tell you that Sirius' will was discovered a week ago, and he left you everything he had. "

Uncle Vernon on the sofa turned his head, but Harry didn't look at him, and couldn't think of what to say, so he just replied, "Really?"

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"Basically it's relatively simple," continued Dumbledore, "you've added a large sum of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you've inherited all of Sirius' personal belongings.

A bit of a questionable part of the legacy..."

"His godfather is dead?"

Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look at Mr. Dursley.

The glass of mead was hitting Vernon's head relentlessly now, and he was trying desperately to drive it away.

"He's dead? His godfather?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore didn't ask Harry why he hadn't told the Dursleys about it.

"The question now is,"

He continued to Harry, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Sirius also left 12 Grimmauld Place to you."

"Leave him a house?"

Uncle Vernon said greedily, narrowing his small eyes, but no one paid any attention to him.

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"You can keep it as the headquarters."

Harry said, "I don't care, you can use it, I don't really need it."

Harry never wanted to set foot in number 12, Grimmauld Place again, if he could.

He felt he would never forget Sirius wandering alone in those dark musty rooms, imprisoned in a place he longed to leave day and night.

"That's so generous."

Dumbledore said, "We vacated the house for the time being, however."

"Why?"

"That's right,"

Dumbledore ignored Uncle Vernon's muttering, and continued: "The tradition of the Black family stipulates that the house will be passed down from generation to generation, and it will be passed on to the next male surnamed Black.

Sirius was the last of his line, as his brother Regulus had died before him, and neither of them had children.

While his will clearly states that he leaves the house to you, there may have been some spell or spell cast over the place to ensure that no one who wasn't a pureblood would occupy it. "

An image flashed through Harry's mind, the portrait of Sirius' mother screaming and cursing in the Great Hall of Twelve Grimmauld Place.

"It must be so."

"yes,

"Dumbledore said, "If there is such a spell, then the ownership of this house is likely to belong to the oldest surviving member of the Black family, that is, Sirius' cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange is gone. "

Harry jumped up before he realized what he was doing, rolling his binoculars and sneakers to the floor.

Sirius' murderer, inheriting his house?

"No!"

"Yeah, we sure don't want her to get it either."

Dumbledore said calmly, "The situation is quite complicated. The ownership of the house does not belong to Sirius, and we don't know some of the magic we cast on it, such as making it impossible to plot on the map, etc. Now we don't care use.

Bellatrix will be at the door any moment, so we'll have to move out until the situation is cleared up. "

"But how can you find out if I can have it?"

"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is an easy test."

He put the empty glass on the little table beside the chair, and before he could do anything else, Uncle Vernon called out, "Can you get these damned things off of us?"

Harry turned to see that all three of the Dursleys were covering their heads with their arms, as their glasses were bouncing up and down on their skulls, spilling wine everywhere.

"Oh, sorry."

Dumbledore said politely, and raised his wand again, and the three glasses disappeared in a flash.

"But you know, it's more elegant to drink it."

Vernon seemed tempted to say something nasty in retaliation, but he just huddled in the sofa cushions with Petunia and Dudley, saying nothing, his little pig eyes fixed on Dumbledore's wand.

"You see," said Dumbledore, turning back to Harry, continuing as if Uncle Vernon hadn't spoken at all, "if you do inherit that house, you will also inherit—"

He swung his wand for the fifth time, and with a loud crack, a house-elf appeared, with a bulging nose, large bat-like ears, and bell-like, bloodshot eyes.

He was squatting on the plush rug in the Dursleys' house in filthy rags.

Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising scream, and Dudley quickly lifted his big pink bare feet off the floor, almost above his head, as if he was afraid the monster would follow him. The pant legs of the pajamas seemed to climb up.

Uncle Vernon growled, "What the hell is that?"

"Kreacher," Dumbledore continued.

"Kreacher no, Kreacher no, Kreacher no!"

said the house-elf hoarsely, almost as high as Uncle Vernon's, stamping his long, wrinkled feet and tugging at his large ears: "Kreacher belongs to the Blacks." , Kreacher wants a new mistress, Kreacher does not belong to Potter, Kreacher does not—"