The moment Harry Potter became master of the Elder Wand, the house on Grimauld Place surrendered. And if this fact had been known, perhaps the shrieking portrait would have left where it was, to be silenced by the heir with a simple charm.

As it was, however, the portrait was taken down at last and destroyed, but this did not have the desired effect. Somehow the portrait’s occupant was released, and she took to walking about the house. Sometimes she even went outside and couldn’t find her way back in; she would wail and lament until the neighbors complained.

They had to take down all the wards and protective enchantments that had been placed on the house: it would be easier to modify a few memories once, and then let the neighbors explain to their visitors that Number 12 had always been there, and perhaps the casual visitor hadn’t noticed it because it had stood vacant for so long.

The new owner, said to have inherited the house from a distant relative, seemed nice enough. Barely out of school, he was, and his friends were always in and out, sometimes making so much noise that they drove old lady out of the house; she would wander the neighborhood muttering and complaining much as any old lady does.

It went for the best, all round, though. Most people she simply drifted past, ignoring them. The police, however, heard wild stories from the drug addicts and other petty criminals they swept up from the commons.

The bitch is sick as fuck! She curse everybody out, talking crazy shit, saying we took her reggae baby, we all like serious. What the fuck she talking?

After a while, mothers started to take their children into the park again, so the gate got repaired, the gardens replanted, and the old lady’s favorite bench cleaned and polished, so she could sit there of a summer night, staring peacefully into the distance.