Harry Potter 'sTwin Brother

Chapter 14: Hardwin's word

The morning sun spilled across the front garden of Privet Drive, lighting up the pale brick like honey poured from the sky. Hardwin sat cross-legged under the bay window, the crisp pages of the Financial Times spread before him. A cup of warm herbal tea rested beside his knee, steeped in tulsi and black pepper. His sharp eyes scanned the columns for the fifth time.

He wasn't alone in his thoughts.

In the quiet recesses of his soul—anchored to the knowledge of a life once lived—echoed the calm, deep-toned voice of Arvind, his mentor from the previous life in India. Arvind had been a professor of economics and an unorthodox investor. His mantra had always been: "Invest not in noise, but in the rhythm beneath."

Hardwin could almost hear him now:

> "Everyone will chase the rising stocks—glamorous, inflated, too sweet to resist. But you must look where fear grows. Where there is fear, there is opportunity."

Hardwin paused over a listing for IBM, another for British Petroleum, and another—unremarkable but stable—for a company called Texas Instruments.

> "Diversify by logic, not by emotion," Arvind's voice echoed. "Steel. Technology. Agriculture. Transportation. Think in cycles. Think five years ahead."

Hardwin scribbled in the margins of a discarded envelope:

Buy during fear: October 1987 (Black Monday)

Hold: Silver, mid-tier US railroads, food producers, semiconductor manufacturers

Watch: Chemical manufacturers in Germany, undervalued by trade restrictions

His thoughts moved like a chessboard.

> "Avoid the buzz of Wall Street. Trust local knowledge, but check the foreign charts," Arvind used to say. "Use your magic not to cheat the system—but to understand human behavior."

Hardwin closed the paper, his eyes burning with clarity. He didn't have money—not yet—but knowledge was its own capital. If he played this right, even Petunia might find herself on the winning side of history.

His fingers flexed slightly. Somewhere in the grass, a dandelion bent its head toward him—an echo of will and focus.

The magic and the markets were both rooted in rhythm.

He had a plan.

And thanks to Arvind, the rhythm had never been clearer.

Later that week, as Vernon droned on at the breakfast table about market gains and "good English shares," Hardwin sipped his warm milk quietly, eyes flicking toward the financial section folded beside Vernon's elbow.

"Uncle Vernon," he said softly, "why do you think the stocks are going up so fast?"

Vernon paused mid-chew. "Because confidence is high, boy! The world's waking up. People are investing. Growth means profit. That's how it works."

"But doesn't growth need real support? Real value?" Hardwin asked, tilting his head.

Vernon scoffed. "Hah! It's supply and demand. That's what it is. Demand is up, so shares go up. That's how markets work. You're too young to get it."

"I was just thinking," Hardwin said calmly, "that if everything is rising so fast without balance, maybe it's getting too high, too quickly. Like a tree that grows too fast—it might snap in the wind."

Vernon grunted. "Nonsense. It's booming. Everyone's making money. That's all you need to know."

That afternoon, Petunia caught him sitting on the back steps with a small notebook, his pencil moving slowly.

"Still with those stock notes?" she asked, slightly amused, slightly uneasy.

Hardwin looked up. "Yes. I've been watching how prices behave—some of them are rising three times faster than they should. No company grows profits that fast without something being... off."

Petunia frowned. "So what does that mean?"

"It means," Hardwin said, turning the notebook toward her, "that they might all fall at once. A big drop. Like a burst. And people will panic and sell everything."

"And then?"

"Then the strong ones will still be there—but cheaper. That's when smart people buy."

She sat beside him, unusually quiet. The breeze lifted the curtains through the open window behind them. A bird chirped on the fence.

"You're talking about investing? With what money?" she asked, half-snapping.

"You've got a tin box," he said quietly. "Some saved. It's not about how much—it's about when."

"And you think... a crash is coming?"

He nodded. "Soon. I don't know the exact day. But it will be soon."

She blinked. Her hands moved to smooth her skirt, restless. "And what would I even buy?"

"Companies that make food. Or trains. Or electronics. Nothing fancy. Things people will always need. Or maybe silver. It holds value when the paper doesn't."

Petunia stood up slowly. "You think too much."

"I just observe," he replied.

That evening, she didn't say a word to Vernon. But while he watched telly and Dudley dropped peas down the radiator vents, Petunia quietly opened the biscuit tin and counted the notes inside.

He's seven, she reminded herself. A child.

But the unease didn't go away.

She found herself flipping through one of Vernon's magazines. She didn't understand most of it—but she recognized some of the company names Hardwin had spoken about. Food, transport, steel.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, she wrote down three words: Hold. Wait. Watch.

Hardwin, from the shadows of the hallway, watched her with calm, knowing eyes.

The wave was building.

And soon, it would break.

Here's Scene 3 in a natural narrative form, rich in sensory detail, internal monologue, and subtle emotional shifts in Petunia's perspective:

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The kitchen was unusually silent.

The clock on the wall ticked methodically, its sound echoing between spoon clinks and kettle hisses. Petunia sat at the dining table with a fresh copy of the Financial Times, a cup of tea untouched beside her. The golden liquid had cooled by now, the faint scent of bergamot fading beneath the stronger smell of lemon polish and dish soap.

Her fingers traced the edge of the paper. Headlines danced across her vision:

> "Dow Jones Reaches Record Highs"

"Wall Street's Golden Season"

"No End in Sight to the Bull Market Surge"

It was all so loud. So positive. And yet…

> "If everything's going up so quickly without balance, maybe it's getting too high, too fast. Like a tree that grows too fast—it might snap in the wind."

Hardwin's words echoed in her ears. Again.

She flipped the page slowly. Charts. Bars. Names she didn't recognize last month—now familiar: General Electric. Coca-Cola. Ford. And others. All climbing, day after day.

Too fast.

She didn't know how, but she could feel it now. The way the news forced optimism. The way everyone spoke as if nothing could go wrong. That was the same tone Vernon had used when he'd bought a new VCR on credit last year—just before his bonus got canceled.

And Hardwin… little, strange Hardwin, had been right. About the shop that closed. About the fake tins of peaches that caused food poisoning. About silver prices gently rising while paper currency faltered. She had watched it all happen, quietly ticking each thing off in her mind.

Now he was warning of a stock crash. A fall. A perfect time to buy, he had said.

> "Buy when there's panic," he had murmured one morning. "Buy when no one else wants to. The value will still be there. Just hidden."

She stared at the paper, her throat tight.

He's seven.

He reads economic forecasts before breakfast.

He folds her towels.

He organizes her spice drawer by weight and frequency of use.

And now he wants her to prepare for a financial collapse.

But he hadn't been wrong yet.

She pushed away the cold tea, stood, and crossed the kitchen in stiff, determined steps. From the cabinet, she pulled out her small record book and began flipping through their savings. It wasn't much. Some from Vernon's office bonuses. Some from small rebates. Tucked envelopes labeled "school clothes" and "holiday cake."

It wasn't enough to do anything significant.

But maybe… maybe if she had more.

Her mind turned to the local bank.

They offered small loans. Household loans. Manageable. She could say it was for a conservatory, or a small car upgrade.

If Hardwin was wrong, she could return the money quietly, little harm done.

If he was right…

Her heart thudded faster.

She wiped her palms on her skirt and sat back down, staring at the paper again. She didn't understand all the words. She didn't need to. She understood tone. And she knew when something too good was being pushed too hard.

Hardwin had noticed. Before everyone else.

She glanced down the hallway, where she could hear the soft creak of a page being turned. He was reading again. A seven-year-old boy reading about inflation curves and commodity value.

She took a long breath, exhaled slowly, and whispered to herself:

> "If it happens… I'll be ready."

She opened her ledger and, for the first time in her life, wrote in bold ink:

Bank Meeting – Thursday Morning.

The pen shook slightly in her hand.

But her resolve did not.

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