Harry walked back into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He looked along the hall and up to the second floor landing. Everything was brightly lit and warmly colored, and, if not spotless, still clean and livable. There was only the normal amount of clutter to be expected from a home with three children living in it.

  Beside him, something gave a soft cough. Harry schooled his expression to politeness, and turned to face the painting on the wall.

  “Mother Black, you’re up! Are you feeling well? I do hope the children didn’t wake you?”

  “No, Mister Potter, it wasn’t the children. I’m an old lady, and I don’t need much sleep.” She sighed, just a little extravagantly. “And I am feeling as well as can be expected. I do not feel one of my episodes coming on.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful! We do worry, you know. Has Professor Black been able to visit lately?” Harry glanced at the painting on the opposite wall, which showed only a muddy brown background.

  “Oh, yes, he drops in every night or two, and we have a nice chat, about family and the school. He always has the most fascinating news.” (Harry thought ‘gossip’ would probably be a more accurate term). “I can’t expect more than that, of course. He has a very responsible position at Hogwarts, I know the Headmistress would be lost without his counsel.”

  “I’m sure,” Harry said gravely. Putting Professor Black’s painting up downstairs had been one of Ginny’s best brainstorms, back when they first considered making Grimmauld Place their permanent home. It was part of a long-range plan to ameliorate Mrs. Black's distress. She had shown a slow, but steady improvement from that point, partially due to Professor Black’s influence, and partly to Kreacher’s faithful ministrations. Once the true matter and manner of the death of her son Regulus had been explained to her, and fully comprehended by her, the ferocity and frequency of her ‘episodes’ began lessening. By the time James was born, she had become resigned to their presence, with only the occasional lapse. Harry had devised slight variations on the Muffliato and Obscuro spells to render even these tolerable.

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  Mrs. Black continued, “It is also nice when the children visit.” Harry smiled at that. While James could take or leave her, Harry’s younger two actually seemed fond of her. Al, and to a lesser extent, Lily, were night-owls, given to late hour wanderings through the rambling old house. Their parents were used to finding them asleep in the oddest places.

  It had still been a bit of a shock for Harry when, on a late night trip to the loo, he had overheard soft voices coming from downstairs. He crossed to the railing, only to see the most curious vignette. Al, about five years old at the time, was sitting on the low bench below Mrs. Black’s painting, which was still high enough to leave his crossed feet swinging in the air. On one side of him was Lily, leaning against him with her feet curled up on the bench, almost asleep. On the other was Kreacher, ears perked, looking in fascination over Al’s shoulder.

  Al was reading a book out loud, haltingly, sounding out the words he did not know. Mrs. Black was gently guiding him through the hardest ones. Harry listened long enough to realize that the book was “Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.” Professor Black was also present, interjecting with waspish little commentaries on the ancient witches and wizards mentioned in the book. That, most of all, was what decided Harry to not intervene. The Blacks were not promoting any pure-blood agenda to his children, but rather making historical figures seem human and real.

  “Young Albus reminds me, in many ways, of my Regulus.” A little painted moisture glistened in Mrs. Black’s eyes, (Harry resisted the sudden urge to ask if James reminded her of Sirius. Her older son was still a somewhat bitter memory). “Professor Black thinks the world of him as well, says he would do wonderfully in Slytherin.” (Harry’s twinge of a grimace went unnoticed). “And, of course, Lily is a delight. I had so wished for a girl. Cassiopeia Electra, we would have called her.”

  “A lovely name,” Harry agreed. “Very fitting. Well, it has been nice talking, but I do have to get back to work. We will see you about dinner time.”

  “Have a good day, Mr. Potter.” Her head nodded down on her chest, as her curtains slid gently closed by themselves.