The portraits did not disappear.
Nor did they linger deliberately. They did not demand attention or insert themselves into Harry's thoughts. They were present in the way stable things are—quietly, reliably, without urgency.
Harry understood quickly that this, too, was part of the lesson.
Power that requires constant affirmation is rarely stable.
Knowledge that insists on being heard is almost always incomplete.
The Black estate responded again.
There was no dramatic unlocking of doors, no flare of ancient wards. The resistance simply vanished. Doors that once felt sealed yielded without effort. Corridors shortened themselves, subtly altering their paths, as if the house itself had decided where Harry was meant to go.
"It no longer tests you," one of the Black ancestors observed. "It tests how you think."
Harry felt it.
The estate was no longer guarding itself against him.
It was working with him.
He began with the archives.
Not the shelves placed in plain sight. Those were curated—clean, selective, designed for visitors who were never meant to stay. The true records lay deeper, in windowless rooms where the air itself preserved memory better than parchment.
The archives were not organized by subject.
They were organized by consequence.
Harry did not realize this at once. Only after hours of reading agreements that seemed unrelated—yet led to similar outcomes—did the pattern emerge.
The ledgers came first.
They recorded debts never meant to be repaid. Favors exchanged without witnesses. Agreements written to outlast not only their signatories, but their heirs as well. The language was dry, precise—more binding than any spell.
"Wording magic," one of the Potters remarked quietly. "They don't teach it at school because it doesn't look dangerous."
Harry read slowly, forcing himself not to skim.
When he misinterpreted a clause concerning guardianship and responsibility, one of the ancestors interrupted.
"Look at what isn't written," the portrait said. "Not what is stated—but what is deliberately omitted."
Harry reread the passage.
And understood.
The contract did not forbid.
It assumed.
That difference changed everything.
From the Blacks, he learned something else entirely.
Their records were harsher. Less polished. They made no attempt to appear moral. They were practical.
Failures were documented as carefully as successes. Betrayals. Broken alliances. Decisions made too early—or too late.
"Loyalty is a myth," one Black stated without inflection. "There is only alignment of interest. And an expiration date."
Harry did not argue.
He remembered.
The Slytherins spoke rarely.
But when they did, it was always about timing.
When to intervene.
When to wait.
When to allow others to exhaust themselves while conserving your own strength.
"Victory," one of them said, "often lies not in force—but in arriving last."
This was education without a single spell.
And it reshaped Harry's thinking more thoroughly than any duel ever had.
Only then did magical training begin.
Not demonstrative.
Not combative.
Craft-based.
The portraits established boundaries immediately.
"You already wield a great deal of power," Lily said gently. "But you do not yet know how to stop."
She taught him to work with magic not as a flood, but as an instrument.
Less force.
More structure.
Less emotion.
More intent.
Harry learned to:
collapse spells before full formation
limit magical leakage deliberately
maintain stability without constant reinforcement
It was difficult.
It demanded patience.
And it worked.
James focused on something else.
"Magic isn't only concentration," he said. "It's movement."
He demonstrated how magic and body should function together. How not to lock oneself into a single stance. How motion preserved options.
"If you're standing still," James said with a grin, "you've already lost."
Sirius added his own lesson.
"Never rely on one style," he advised. "Habit is an invitation."
When theory reached its natural limit, the house opened the family vaults.
Not Gringotts.
Ancestral.
The Black vault came first.
Harry sensed it before the doors opened. The magic here was dense and ancient, woven not into runes, but into steel itself.
A gladius rested on a pedestal.
Short. Broad. Perfectly balanced.
"This isn't a relic," one of the Blacks said. "It's a tool. It was never meant for display."
Harry took the blade in hand and felt the magic respond—without pressure.
The weapon was complete.
It required no enhancement.
Only a hand that knew when not to draw it.
The Peverell vault was different.
No weight. No oppressive magic. Only silence and precision.
The bow lay in a simple case. Dark wood. Smooth. Unadorned.
"Hunting is not about killing," a Peverell said. "It's about controlling distance."
Harry drew the string.
The bow was not powerful.
It was accurate.
The Potter vault was last.
And the heaviest.
Here rested armor crafted from dragon hide—not ceremonial, not polished. Practical. Remarkably light for its protection.
"It wasn't made for war," Harry's grandmother said quietly. "It was made for coming home."
Harry touched the hide and felt warmth.
Then Lily stepped forward with the coat.
Long. Cut from the same material. Clean lines. No excess.
"I gave it to James," she said. "He hated armor. Said it restricted movement."
James smiled.
"The coat held up better than I expected."
Harry took it without speaking.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was memory made wearable.
When everything was gathered, Harry noticed something unexpected.
He did not feel stronger.
He felt whole.
Inheritance no longer pressed down on him.
It supported him.
And for the first time, he understood that leaving would not be an escape.
It would be a continuation.
End of Chapter 2.2