Harry Potter 'sTwin Brother

Chapter 15: Quiet Watcher

The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the lace curtains, draping warm patterns across the kitchen floor. Dust motes danced in the air, shimmering like tiny stars. Petunia moved with her usual quiet efficiency—tidying teacups, straightening the sugar jar—but her mind was elsewhere.

Hardwin noticed it all.

She was thinking. Watching. Her hand lingered over the newspaper longer these days. She double-checked the biscuit tin, reviewed her shopping list with tightened lips, and occasionally glanced at the envelope tucked beneath her recipe cards.

> She took the loan, he thought. She's preparing.

But he also knew—deep inside—that fear could twist preparation into panic.

He had to be careful.

That evening, as the sun cast its final amber light through the windows, Vernon settled into his usual armchair, the crinkle of his newspaper as steady as his opinions. Dudley snored softly on the rug. Petunia sat upright across from them, her teacup cooling in her hands.

Hardwin sat nearby, flipping through a financial magazine that Vernon had discarded the day before.

He chose his words with precision.

"Uncle Vernon," he began gently, "if someone wanted to buy shares in a company, is it better to wait until prices are really low?"

Vernon raised an eyebrow. "Well, of course. That's the best time—when everyone else is running scared, you go in and scoop up the bargains."

"So… when prices fall, that's good?"

Vernon gave a satisfied grunt. "If you've got the money and the patience, absolutely. That's when the smart ones buy."

Hardwin nodded thoughtfully. "So a crash... isn't all bad? Just… a chance, if you're ready?"

"Well, yes," Vernon muttered, flipping a page. "That's how real fortunes are made."

He didn't see Petunia go still.

Hardwin pressed, voice calm and even. "So if someone waited, kept some money saved, and didn't panic… they could make something better out of a crash?"

Vernon barely looked up. "You're seven. Where are you learning this nonsense?"

"I just read things," Hardwin said, shrugging.

Then, more softly, just loud enough for Petunia to hear:

> "Sometimes bad things have good doors hidden inside them. If you know where to look."

There was silence. Just the ticking of the wall clock. The steady hum of the electric heater. A single windchime tinkling outside the window.

Petunia raised her teacup to her lips.

Hardwin didn't look at her.

He didn't need to.

---

Later that night, when the house was asleep, Petunia opened her notebook again. This time, she didn't hesitate.

On a fresh page, she wrote:

> "Not a threat. A window."

"Buy when the world is too scared to think."

"Don't panic. Be ready."

"Hardwin isn't afraid. Neither am I."

She set the pen down gently.

And smiled—just a little.

Monday, 19 October 1987

The morning felt unusually sharp.

A crisp wind rustled through Privet Drive, shaking the hedges and rattling loose leaves along the pavement. Grey clouds hung low, pressed like a lid over the neat rows of houses. The air had that strange stillness before something breaks—unseen, but heavy.

Inside No. 4, the radio hummed quietly in the kitchen. Vernon grunted over his eggs. Dudley was still half-asleep, banging a spoon on the table in a messy rhythm. Petunia, unusually alert, was sipping tea she hadn't touched all weekend.

Hardwin sat on the carpet, fiddling with a pencil, pretending to sketch. But his eyes—always watching—flicked from the radio dial to the faint tension behind Petunia's eyes.

> It was the day.

Black Monday.

Suddenly, the voice on the radio paused. A new tone entered—urgent, controlled.

> "Breaking: Financial markets around the world are experiencing steep declines. The London FTSE index has fallen nearly 11 percent in early trading. Analysts are calling it the worst single-day crash in market history…"

Petunia didn't move.

The cup of tea in her hand trembled—just slightly.

> "Black Monday," the broadcaster said. "That's what they're calling it."

Vernon grunted. "Bah! Panic-mongers. Always overreacting."

But Petunia wasn't listening to Vernon.

She was listening to Hardwin—his voice from a week ago.

> "If someone waited, kept some money saved, and didn't panic… they could make something better out of a crash."

"Bad things have good doors hidden inside them."

She stood suddenly, brisk and focused. "Vernon, I'm going out later today. Library. Dudley needs new socks."

Vernon waved his hand dismissively. "Fine, fine."

---

Later That Day

The sky remained a dull iron-grey. Petunia walked briskly, almost with purpose. Beneath her coat was her handbag, and inside that—her brokerage login, notes, and account balance.

At the bus stop, she saw people reading newspapers with bold, black headlines:

> "STOCKS PLUNGE IN GLOBAL FREEFALL"

"MARKET CHAOS IN LONDON, NEW YORK, TOKYO"

Some were pale. Others angry. Many confused.

But Petunia—Petunia Dursley—was calm.

She stepped off the bus near her brokerage branch. The office was bustling. Phones rang, employees looked flustered, and screens showed tumbling numbers in red.

The receptionist looked up. "Mrs. Dursley?"

She nodded. "I'd like to make my first purchase."

---

Inside the Advisor's Office

A nervous young man with a loosened tie led her in. "It's mayhem today. Market's falling like a stone. Everyone's pulling out."

"I'm not," she said simply.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

She opened her notebook, neatly marked: Target Buys – Crisis Only.

She read out calmly:

Unilever

Associated British Foods

Tesco

Glaxo Holdings

GKN

Rolls-Royce

British Gas

She glanced at him. "Add gilts, please. A small amount. Long-term."

He stared at her as if she were mad. "You want to invest now?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "Now. Not tomorrow. Not when the papers calm down. Now."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "You're one of the first today... buying."

> The order went through.

And with each keystroke confirming her investment, Petunia felt a strange warmth grow inside her—not fear, not even excitement, but something sharper.

Power.

She was no longer just a housewife ironing socks.

She had acted when others froze.

Because she had listened.

Because of Hardwin.

---

That Evening

Back at home, dinner was uneventful. Vernon ranted about "market nonsense" and "rich men losing toys." Dudley spilled milk again. Hardwin sat quietly, eating green beans, watching his aunt from the corner of his eye.

Petunia caught his gaze just once. She didn't smile, but she gave the smallest nod.

> "It worked," her eyes said.

"I did it."

Hardwin nodded back—barely perceptible.

In the silence that followed, the radio played low in the background—numbers falling, economies trembling.

But inside No. 4 Privet Drive, a storm had been weathered before it arrived.

---

Early November 1987

The wind had grown sharper. A crispness in the air turned the corners of newspapers brittle and made morning fog linger a little longer over Privet Drive.

Inside No. 4, Petunia stirred her tea slowly, not tasting it. The newspaper lay open on the kitchen table, surrounded by the clinking of spoons and the low hum of the morning radio.

> "FTSE stabilizes after record-breaking plunge... recovery in defensive sectors… consumer staples and utilities show signs of bounce-back…"

She read the words again.

Bounce-back.

The scent of toasted bread filled the air, mingled with butter and the tang of marmalade. But it was the numbers—those little black digits—that carried flavor for Petunia this morning.

She set her cup down gently, the saucer clinking as it touched porcelain.

---

Later That Morning – Brokerage Office

The waiting room was quieter than usual. The frenzied panic from two weeks ago had dulled into hushed confusion. A few clients sat clutching folders, some staring blankly ahead, others wearing exhausted expressions.

Petunia, however, sat with her back straight, handbag folded neatly in her lap. Her heart beat steadily, like the ticking of the clock on the wall.

She was escorted to the small office. The same young advisor greeted her, a bit less pale now, tie slightly straighter.

"Mrs. Dursley," he said, his tone more respectful this time. "I've run the numbers."

He turned the screen slightly so she could see.

> Unilever – up 6.3%

ABF – up 5.1%

Tesco – up 4.9%

Glaxo – up 4.2%

British Gas – up 3.6%

Gilts – holding steady

Rolls-Royce – rebounding

GKN – slowly recovering

"You bought low," he said, still sounding surprised. "In less than three weeks, your holdings are already up by a combined average of 5.8%. That's remarkable—especially in this environment."

Petunia stared at the screen in silence.

"Would you like to take profits?" he asked. "Or reinvest?"

She took a breath.

"No. Let it grow. Don't touch a thing yet."

He nodded, adjusting his clipboard. "You've done very well. Most people waited too long or ran out too early. But you—"

"I'm not most people," she said quietly.

And she stood.

---

Back at Home

Rain tapped gently against the kitchen window. Dudley chased chocolate crumbs across the linoleum floor while Vernon rambled about a loud coworker and bad coffee.

Petunia sat at the table with a quiet pride she didn't wear on her face.

She wasn't rich yet. But something had shifted.

She knew it.

She had moved first.

She had trusted instinct over fear.

And while others scrambled to regain footing, she stood steady—quiet and dry while the floodwaters ebbed around her.

---

Hardwin Watched

From the living room carpet, Hardwin pretended to sort puzzle pieces with Harry. But his eyes flicked toward his aunt.

He noticed the small twitch at the edge of her lips. Not quite a smile—but not her usual tightness, either.

He saw her walk a little straighter. Stack dishes with more rhythm. Hum under her breath.

She didn't speak about it.

She never would.

But he didn't need her to.

She had won her first game of timing.

And it would not be her last.

---

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