The So-Called Inheritance

"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 had hoped you might offer me something to drink,"

Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon. "It now appears that such expectations were absurdly optimistic."

With a third casual wave of his wand, a grimy bottle and five glasses appeared in midair.

The bottle tipped itself, filling each glass with a honey-colored liquid, then the glasses floated toward each person in the room.

"Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead."

Dumbledore raised his glass to Harry, who caught his own and took a small sip.

He had never tasted anything like it before, but he liked it very much. The Dursleys exchanged a quick, terrified glance, then desperately tried to avoid their glasses.

This was not easy, because the glasses kept gently bumping their heads to remind them.

Harry could not help wondering whether Dumbledore was doing it on purpose.

"Now, Harry," Dumbledore turned to him, "we have a problem, and I hope you can help us solve it.

By 'us,' I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first, I must tell you that Sirius's will was found a week ago. He left everything he owned to you."

Uncle Vernon turned his head on the sofa, but Harry did not look at him. He could not think of anything to say except, "Really?"

"This is the relatively simple part," Dumbledore continued. "There is now another large sum of gold in your account at Gringotts, and you have inherited all of Sirius's personal possessions.

The problematic part of the inheritance is..."

"His godfather died?"

Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look at Mr Dursley.

The glass of mead was now relentlessly knocking against Vernon's head, while he