"Thank you."
It wasn't a particularly impressive answer.
After eleven years without a family and several weeks spent searching for their home, I had expected something better of myself.
The woman in the portrait apparently had no such expectations.
"Come closer, dear."
I took a few steps.
She was the same woman I had seen earlier in the hall. In the photograph in the sitting room, her hair had still been dark. Here, most of it had turned grey; she wore it pinned back, leaving clear the face I could now recognise without difficulty.
I looked at the plaque.
Evelyn Carroway-Peverell
1921–1979
"My grandmother."
"Yes."
She didn't take her eyes off me.
"I've waited a long time to be able to tell you that."
Behind her was a painted sitting room. An armchair by the window, a little table, a basket of wool. I recognised the knitting she had left there before coming to the gallery.
"Did you know I was alive?"
"Since last year. Anunu told us the house had recognised the signet."
I glanced at the elf.
He stood a few steps behind me, his hands clasped.
"He wasn't certain before that."
"None of us were."
Evelyn glanced towards the register.
"We knew Elias had told him to wait for you. That was all."
For a moment, I studied her face.
Ten years.
To me, the years before Hogwarts. To them, a wait for someone who might never arrive.
"Anunu wasn't allowed to look for me."
"I know. Don't blame him for that."
"I don't. I revoked the order."
The elf's ears twitched.
Evelyn looked at him, then back at me.
"Good."
Someone in the gallery let out a breath. Only then did I realise how many people were listening.
A man at a desk closed his book. A woman in a green dress stood beside a fireplace. In a more distant frame, two figures had stopped talking.
Nobody tried to approach first.
Apparently, they had decided this beginning belonged to Evelyn.
"I understand you were living in an orphanage?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Anunu told us a little while ago. While you were having tea."
"It wasn't that bad."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I hadn't asked what it was like yet."
"You looked as though you were going to."
"I was."
I didn't know what to say.
Evelyn didn't press.
"First, I'd like to know whether you have somewhere to return to tonight, and whether anyone will be looking for you."
"I do. I have to be back by evening."
"Good. Anunu will keep an eye on the time."
I looked at the elf. He nodded as though he had just been entrusted with something considerably more important than watching a clock.
I turned back to the painting.
"You knew Elias better than anyone here."
Evelyn rested her hands on the arms of her chair.
"I raised him."
"Then perhaps you know why…"
I stopped.
Usually, I had no trouble asking questions. Now I was standing before my own grandmother, trying to find a way to ask why her son had left me on an orphanage doorstep.
I glanced towards the unfinished portraits.
"Anunu remembers my father's instructions and my mother carrying me in a blanket. He doesn't know what happened afterwards."
"Neither do I."
She said it without hesitation.
"By the day you were born, I existed only here. I saw less than I would have liked."
She touched the arm of her painted chair.
"What about before that? Did you notice anything?"
Evelyn thought for a moment.
"I remember one afternoon, while I was still alive. Aria brought me tea and spent a few minutes talking about the baby's room. Then she asked how old Elias had been when his first symptoms appeared."
I straightened.
"From his eyes?"
"Yes."
"What did you tell her?"
"What I could remember. She wanted to know whether the headaches or the pain in his eyes came first, and whether it had always been the same."
For a moment, I listened to the ticking of the clock.
"She was afraid for the baby."
"I believe so. But she didn't tell me what she needed the information for."
It wasn't an answer to the question about the orphanage.
Even so, I remembered every word.
"And Elias?"
"He worked a great deal. Sometimes I had to ask Anunu to remind him to eat. That wasn't new for him, so I can't separate his usual enthusiasm from anything that might have been more significant."
"Do you have more memories like that?"
"I do."
I reached for my notebook.
Evelyn smiled faintly.
"Bring it tomorrow. We'll sit down properly and go through everything in order. I wouldn't want to muddle the dates or give you a guess as though it were something I actually heard."
I wrote down Aria's question about the eyes.
"Tomorrow?"
"I promise."
I closed the notebook, keeping a finger between the pages.
"All right."
Evelyn watched me for a moment.
"Today, I'd also like to learn something about you."
Of course.
Over the past year, I had grown used to people interested in my name, my signet or why I had ended up in the wrong place again.
I wasn't sure how an ordinary conversation with a grandmother was supposed to begin.
Evelyn moved into her portrait by the window. I followed a few steps along the wall.
She picked up her knitting from the table, but instead of starting, she arranged the pale fabric in her lap.
"What are you making?" I asked.
She looked down.
"A blanket."
I examined the still uneven rectangle.
"A small one."
"It was meant for a very small child."
She raised her eyes.
It took me a moment.
"For me?"
She nodded.
I looked at the plaque beneath the frame, then back at her.
"You knew?"
"Aria told me she was expecting in seventy-nine."
Evelyn ran her fingers over the wool.
"I began almost at once. I didn't yet know whether I would have a grandson or a granddaughter. I chose a colour nobody ought to argue about."
"Grey?"
"Aria insisted it was silver."
"That sounds better."
"I thought so too."
For a while, I watched her hands.
"You didn't have time to finish."
"No."
I remembered the chest of drawers in my room.
The tiny clothes. The rattle.
The folded blanket.
"The one upstairs…"
Evelyn smiled.
"Aria finished it."
I turned towards Anunu.
"Is it the same one?"
"Yes, sir."
A few hours earlier, I had simply looked at it and put it away.
Now I knew it had begun in the hands of a grandmother I had never had the chance to meet, and been finished by a mother I couldn't remember.
I looked back at the painted wool.
"Why are you still making it?"
"When I learned about the pregnancy, I had it added here as well. I used to bring the real one so I could show the painter the pattern."
She lifted the needles slightly.
"This one stayed with me."
"Can you finish it?"
"I can. I can also unravel it if I don't like something. I simply can't hand it to you through the frame."
She said it calmly.
I looked at her hands, so close that I only needed to reach out.
Instead, I slipped my notebook into my bag.
"The real one's too small for me now."
"I had guessed."
"Much too small."
"You can keep it, Oliver. You don't have to fit inside it."
I gave a quiet laugh.
Evelyn's smile widened, and she put down her knitting.
"Now let me have a look at you."
"You've been looking the whole time."
"Stand up straight."
I stared at her.
"Really?"
"Please."
I straightened.
She looked me over from head to foot.
"You have your father's hair."
"So I've been told."
Her gaze settled on my eyes.
I waited for the question.
Instead, she asked, "Are you in any pain at the moment?"
I almost answered automatically.
Then I stopped.
"Not at the moment."
Evelyn noticed the distinction.
She didn't immediately begin an interrogation. She merely nodded.
"Put that on tomorrow's list as well."
Apparently, finding my family came with certain inconveniences.
"Evelyn, if you've finished inspecting the boy, perhaps you'll let us introduce ourselves."
I turned.
The woman in the green dress stepped towards the edge of her frame. Her dark hair was pinned high, and there was something in her expression that reminded me of Narcissa Malfoy.
"Helena Peverell. Born a Black."
I looked at her more closely.
"Black?"
"Does the name mean something to you?"
"I've met Narcissa Malfoy. And Abraxas's portrait."
"Ah."
Her smile changed noticeably.
"Does Abraxas still like to talk?"
"Yes."
"At least some things haven't changed."
The man in the neighbouring painting put down his book.
"Arthur Peverell," he introduced himself. "Helena is my wife."
The plaque gave his dates:
1811–1855
"It's good to meet you at last, Oliver."
He said it without adding a question about my eyes or the estate.
"You too."
Helena studied me with interest.
"How did you find the way?"
"Maps from Gringotts. The Malfoys' maps helped a little too."
"And the second stone?"
I hesitated.
"I had to understand that I was coming home."
Arthur nodded.
"Elias was never good at explaining things he considered obvious."
"He didn't get a chance to explain it to me."
"I know."
He answered quietly, without trying to rescue the remark.
Helena looked towards the more distant frames.
"Edmund, come over. Before Oliver decides we all intend to talk at him at once."
"You seem to be managing perfectly well without my help."
A man with dark hair, slightly grey at the temples, appeared in the adjacent painting.
Edmund Peverell
1627–1670
I recognised the name.
"Did you move the northern stone?"
Edmund went still.
Helena looked at him with sudden interest.
"What did you find?"
"A note on an old map. Someone wanted you to explain yourself to the Fawleys if you moved the boundary without permission again."
A woman laughed from a more distant frame.
Edmund turned his head.
"Cecily."
"I haven't said anything."
He looked back at me.
"The stone was in the wrong place."
"Of course," Helena said.
"It's a long story."
I smiled.
At Gringotts, it had been an amusing note left by someone long dead.
Now that someone stood in front of me and apparently still didn't consider the matter settled.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I met more people than I could remember.
Not everyone made a speech. Some introduced themselves, asked one question and stepped aside for the next person. The woman called Cecily turned out to be Edmund's wife. She asked whether Anunu had managed to feed me.
Anunu answered for me.
Several portraits received this with evident approval.
Then someone asked about Hogwarts.
"Slytherin," I said.
The reactions varied.
Arthur nodded. Helena looked pleased. Someone further away muttered that at least there wouldn't be a problem with the common room being green.
"Who is Head of House?" Evelyn asked.
"Professor Snape. He teaches Potions."
"A good teacher?"
I considered it.
"He knows a great deal."
Helena gave a snort of laughter.
"A careful answer."
"He doesn't like stupid questions."
"Do you ask many?"
"Not in my opinion."
"His opinion presumably differs at times," Arthur observed.
It was difficult to deny.
Evelyn asked about my favourite lessons. I answered far more readily than I had expected. Then came a question about friends, so I told them a little about Draco and Blaise.
I didn't mention the troll.
Nobody had yet asked whether my first year involved encounters with things trying to kill me. I wasn't about to broaden the subject myself.
I recognised Benedict by his name.
"Cupboards."
The man at the workbench raised his eyebrows.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The ones in the kitchen. Anunu said you enchanted them."
He smiled.
"Do they still work?"
"One opens for no reason."
"Beside the pantry?"
"Yes."
He sighed.
"Damned cupboard."
I laughed.
"You never fixed it?"
"Repeatedly."
"Perhaps it's still trying to get at my father's sweets."
Benedict looked at Anunu.
"Do you keep sweets in there?"
"Not anymore."
"Well, that's something."
Behind him hung sketches I couldn't make out from this distance. Some resembled cross-sections of walls; others were arrangements of overlapping lines.
"Did you design the protections too?"
"Some. Many people worked on this house. Sometimes sensibly, sometimes in ways that kept the next generation occupied."
"I'd like to look at them."
"First, I'll show you which ones you can safely examine."
I nodded.
"I saw similar structures on the maps."
Benedict studied me more closely.
"You saw them?"
I touched a finger beside my right eye.
He was silent for a moment.
"I see. In that case, Edmund should be part of that conversation too."
He didn't immediately start asking me everything at once.
I appreciated that.
Edmund waited in a nearby frame.
"Do you know Death's Sight?" I asked.
"I know the family eyes. Is that what you call them?"
"Yes."
He studied me without trying to force me to meet his gaze.
"I can tell you what I could do myself and what I learned from others. But I won't assume everything works the same way for you."
It was the best answer he could have given.
"Could you see lines of magic?"
"We'll discuss it properly. I'd like to hear what you mean by that first. Our family has sometimes used similar names for things that weren't the same at all."
I took out my notebook.
Edmund smiled faintly.
"You needn't begin a lecture standing up."
"I can sit."
"So I see."
He glanced towards the clock.
"Bring what you've already written down tomorrow. It will be easier to start with specific examples."
I added his name beside my sketch of the lock.
For the first time, I had someone I could show notes like these without explaining from the beginning why I could see something I wasn't supposed to.
It didn't mean he had the answers.
But he knew what to ask.
Arthur took an interest in the documents protruding from my bag.
"Have you been sorting out the estate?"
"I'm trying. The Ministry gave me an abridged extract. The full register runs to seven volumes."
"That sounds plausible."
"I also found six active long-term agreements."
Arthur moved the book on his desk.
"When you have their full text, we can go through them together. I'll probably recognise some. For the newer ones, we'll need the current legislation."
"Do you know about agreements made after your death too?"
"Some were brought here for discussion. Others were merely mentioned. I wouldn't rely on my memory alone when it comes to the precise wording of an obligation."
"Thimgrin would probably love that sentence."
"Does Thimgrin still handle our affairs?"
"Yes."
Arthur looked pleased.
"Good."
Helena approached the edge of the neighbouring frame.
"And when you've finished reading the agreements, ask who they were made with. Sometimes the name on the other side explains more than three pages of formalities."
"We'll check both," Arthur said.
This time, they didn't argue.
I began to understand how it might work.
Not one teacher who knew everything, but people who remembered different parts of the same history.
And who were willing to notice when someone else left out something important.
The family tree hung beside the register.
I had noticed it earlier, but only now did I move closer.
Thin lines connected names, dates and successive generations. The upper portion referred to older records. Further down began a sequence I could follow without consulting another book.
Osbert Peverell — 1534–1575.
Then Thomas, Giles, Robert.
Edmund.
I glanced at his portrait, then back at the board.
An odd feeling.
Beside each man, a line led to one son. Shorter branches extended from some couples. Sometimes with a name, sometimes only dates or a reference.
Evelyn moved into a painting beside the board.
"The full records are in the books," she said. "There wouldn't be room for everything here."
I examined one of the side branches.
Only a few years separated the two dates.
The next interval was shorter still.
"Daughters?"
"Yes."
My gaze moved down.
"None of them grew up."
Evelyn shook her head.
Edmund spoke from a nearby frame.
"None lived to see her thirteenth birthday."
He said it quietly and plainly.
I didn't need anything more to understand those broken lines.
In one family painting, a little girl sat on her mother's lap. Her face remained still, though the woman beside her turned to look our way.
"They didn't have time to prepare portraits?"
"Not ones you could speak to," Evelyn answered.
I turned back to the tree.
"And a son? Always one?"
"At most one," Edmund said. "In a lifetime. The child's death changed nothing."
For a moment, I stared at the main line.
It was long.
Now it also looked very fragile.
I began counting the years.
Forty-one. Forty. Thirty-nine. Forty-three.
"Which of them lived the longest?"
Edmund indicated the lower part of the board with his gaze.
"In this section of the tree, Nathaniel. Forty-five years."
I looked at the dates beside the name.
I knew the Peverells died young.
But a dozen successive entries did something a single sentence couldn't.
I thought of the teachers at Hogwarts. Of how many years they had to learn, work and make mistakes.
Some of the men here had barely had time to raise a son.
I lingered at Richard.
1919–1959.
Beside him, Evelyn.
1921–1979.
"You were thirty-eight when my grandfather died."
"Yes."
"My father was six."
She nodded.
"Did Florence help you?"
"A great deal. And Anunu."
The elf stood a little further away, but his ears moved when he heard his name.
"Was it often like that?"
"Often. Mothers and grandmothers remained. Someone had to raise the children, run the house and deal with matters that couldn't be put aside."
She looked at Elias's name.
"We didn't always know the best way to do it. But the children weren't left alone."
My name stood at the bottom.
Oliver Peverell — 1980–
An empty space after the dash.
"It turned out differently for me."
Evelyn looked at me.
"On this side of the family, there was nobody left alive who could simply come and take you home."
"I managed."
"I can see that."
She said it so calmly that there was nothing to argue with.
Then she added, "But I would rather you hadn't had to manage everything on your own."
For a while, I looked at the board.
I couldn't find an answer I wanted to say aloud.
Arthur joined us in an adjacent painting.
"Now we can at least make some things easier for you."
I looked at him.
"You won't have to guess at the meaning of every document or test every protection by trial and error. We should also establish what you've already learned about your eyes."
"I'd like that."
"Good. Your safety matters more than how quickly we sort through the archive. We don't have another heir if—"
He stopped when he saw my face.
Evelyn spoke quietly.
"Arthur."
For a moment, it was awkward.
"That came out badly," he said.
"A bit."
He nodded.
"I don't want you to repeat the mistakes of the people whose names you've just been reading. I was including my own."
That sounded different.
I looked at his dates.
Forty-four years.
"You could have started with that."
"I could."
Helena moved closer and rested a hand on her husband's shoulder.
She didn't make a joke.
Evelyn let the silence last a little longer, then nodded towards my notebook.
"Do you already have a list for tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"A long one?"
I opened it.
Arthur glanced at the filled pages.
"We'll need a table."
I smiled despite myself.
Later, I sat on a bench in the middle of the gallery.
The conversation stopped feeling like a succession of introductions. Someone asked about school; someone else mentioned a teacher whose name I had never heard.
Cecily told me the short version of the northern stone story.
Edmund tried to correct her twice.
The second time, she fetched a painted letter from the next picture, and his objections became considerably more cautious.
Benedict wanted to know what first-years were taught in Charms these days. When I listed a few topics, he asked about the wand movement for one of them.
I demonstrated it without casting.
He compared it with his own.
The difference was slight, but I began wondering what it changed.
Helena asked about the Malfoys. I described the visit, leaving out exactly what I had left out at Lucius's table.
She noticed.
She didn't press.
Evelyn mostly listened. She joined in when she wanted to ask something, rather than to supervise everyone else's contributions.
At some point, I realised I was sitting more comfortably. My bag was beside the bench, my notebook open on my knees.
I no longer waited for each question as though it were part of an examination.
Anunu appeared at the door when the light on the floor began turning gold.
"Master Oliver. Dinner is ready."
I looked at the clock.
"Already?"
"And afterwards, you must return."
I grimaced.
I hadn't forgotten the orphanage.
For the past hour, I simply hadn't had a reason to think about it.
"In a moment."
Anunu nodded.
He stayed by the door.
I looked at him again.
"Are you going to stand there?"
"Anunu will wait."
Helena smiled at her husband.
"At least one thing here works flawlessly."
I closed my notebook.
Before leaving, I approached Evelyn.
She had returned to her armchair. The silver knitting lay on the table, but she hadn't picked it up yet.
"I'd like to start with my father's study tomorrow."
"All right."
"And then talk to you."
"I'll be here."
I nodded.
"I'd like to hear about Richard too."
Her face brightened.
"I have considerably more to say about him."
"Abraxas mentioned him a little."
"Then you should certainly hear the other side."
I smiled.
Evelyn studied me for a moment.
"And will you tell me more about yourself?"
"What would you like to know?"
"What you do outside lessons. Who you spend time with. What you enjoy."
I remembered the Room of Requirement, the forest and several other places it would be wiser not to bring up before dinner.
"You won't like all the stories."
"I raised your father. I don't expect to approve of everything."
"That's good."
"Nor did I say I would always keep my opinion to myself."
"I'd worked that out already."
She laughed softly.
Then she grew serious.
"Oliver, when you don't know something, come and ask. Even if you aren't sure who might be able to answer."
I looked at the other frames.
"I have options."
"You do."
She didn't ask me to promise I would be sensible from now on. Nor did she try to convince me she could solve everything herself.
She simply pointed out somewhere I could come.
"All right."
She nodded.
"That will do for a start."
At the door, I looked back once more.
Arthur was opening a book. Helena was speaking to Cecily. Benedict had returned to his table, and Edmund was reaching for a book he had put aside earlier.
Evelyn picked up her needles.
It looked ordinary.
As though a family conversation had ended and everyone was returning to whatever they had briefly interrupted.
Over the past year, I had come to know the Peverells through documents, other people's memories and things left in a vault.
Now I could ask the man mentioned in a note on a map why he had moved a stone.
I could also receive three different answers and argue about which was true.
I looked at Anunu.
"There are a lot of them."
"Yes, sir."
"Will I eventually remember everyone?"
"They will help."
I didn't doubt it.
Helena's voice drifted from the gallery, correcting someone's date.
We headed down the corridor.
"The study tomorrow," I said. "Then Evelyn and Edmund. I'd like another look at the library too."
"Anunu will prepare somewhere to work."
I slowed beside the stairs.
I remembered the blanket in the chest of drawers.
"First, I'm going up to my room for a moment."
Anunu didn't ask why.
He waited downstairs.
The blanket lay where I had left it. I took it out and carefully unfolded it. It was small, soft and pale grey.
Silver.
I ran my fingers along the edge.
Then I folded it again and laid it on the bed.
I didn't have to take everything with me.
Dinner waited downstairs. After that, the orphanage, and tomorrow a path I was beginning to know.
This time, I would return because I had promised.