Chapter 13: The Mind Within the Body
By August 1987, Number Four, Privet Drive had fallen into an uneasy rhythm. The Dursleys remained their typical selves—Petunia stiff and watchful, Vernon loud and predictable, Dudley loud and spoiled. Harry grew cheerful and adventurous. But Hardwin moved through the house like a quiet force.
He had boundaries. Lines he would not cross.
One such line: meat.
From as early as he could remember, Hardwin never ate it. The scent of cooked flesh turned his stomach. The greasy sheen of roasted meat glistening on Dudley's plate made his throat tighten. The sizzle and pop of bacon in the morning made him grit his teeth. Even in this second life, fragments of his old self lingered like echoes. Born in India, he had been raised in a tradition where food was sacred. Where what one ate shaped not only the body, but the soul.
So he sat at dinner, composed and alert, scooping boiled vegetables onto his plate while Vernon carved meat with flourished pride. He didn't flinch. He didn't scowl. He simply did not partake. He did not judge others for their choices either. Harry ate meat. Dudley devoured it. Petunia served it daily. Hardwin remained silent, unaffected. His decision was personal.
"Why doesn't he eat chicken like normal boys?" Vernon grunted more than once, his fork scraping loudly against his plate.
"He says he's vegetarian," Petunia replied with a tight-lipped sniff, not bothering to hide her skepticism.
"That's not English, that's what that is," Vernon muttered. "Probably some leftover nonsense from wherever his kind came from."
But Hardwin said nothing. He did not need to.
Instead, he turned his attention inward.
He began eating more vegetables, often helping Petunia peel carrots or slice cucumbers. He requested garlic, onion, coriander, turmeric, cumin. He enjoyed the burn of green chilies and the fire of black pepper. His meals, though simple, were crafted with intention. His plate was vibrant—reds, greens, oranges—a small garden harvested into taste.
Soon, Petunia began noticing her pantry included spices she didn't remember buying. And she noticed something else: Hardwin was growing strong.
Every morning, after his meditation in the garden, Hardwin exercised. Not the wild running or flailing punches of Dudley, but disciplined, rhythmic movements. Squats. Push-ups. Breathing drills. Yoga stretches that flowed like water.
The grass was cool beneath his feet, and the morning air crisp with the faint scent of dew and chimney soot. His breath steamed in the chill, rhythmically timed. As the sun crested the rooftops, bathing the neighborhood in gold, he bent and straightened in tune with the light.
He believed in the old Sanskrit proverb: "A great mind must live in a strong body."
He didn't keep this practice to himself. He started encouraging Harry, then Dudley, to join him.
At first, they groaned and resisted.
"Come on, just ten stretches," Hardwin would insist, pulling Harry up by the hand. "Pretend you're flying like a broom."
"I don't want to be a broom," Harry mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"But you'll fly like one. Light and fast," Hardwin whispered, grinning.
Harry gave a little laugh and tried to copy Hardwin's pose. He wobbled, fell back, then giggled again.
Dudley huffed and puffed, trying to stretch. "This is boring."
Hardwin smirked. "Strong dragons don't whine. They train."
Slowly, the backyard became a haven of morning ritual. Three boys, imperfect but determined, moving through sequences of balance and breath. Sometimes they laughed, other times they fell into deep concentration.
Hardwin repeated poses. He corrected gently. He smiled and rewarded effort with little challenges and stories. Sometimes, without meaning to, he would whisper a calming word—old syllables from forgotten mantras—and the grass beneath his feet would warm, or the wind would shift slightly, wrapping around him like acknowledgment.
Magic responded to discipline, even without a wand. Somewhere deep inside, he knew it.
Petunia, peering from the kitchen window, watched them. Hardwin moved with a strange grace, unlike any child she had known. He was unnervingly quiet, too focused for a five-year-old. And those ideas he had been sharing—cutting the power to save money, silver as a hedge, children's toys as small business—where did he learn this?
She wiped her hands on a tea towel, frowning slightly.
He's not normal. But he's not dangerous, she thought. Still... he watches. He knows things.
In the library, he read constantly.
Anything he could find. Fiction, history, medicine, architecture, agriculture, even economics. He scoured magazines and catalogues. He quietly read Vernon's old financial clippings, analyzing patterns and scribbling thoughts in the margins of discarded newspapers.
In secret, he began to notice strange details about the world.
Stocks were rising rapidly. There was excitement in headlines. American interest rates climbed. Analysts spoke of unstoppable growth. But behind all that optimism, Hardwin could sense imbalance—inflated markets, greed-fueled speculation.
He didn't yet know the name for it, but he could feel it building: the tremors of an oncoming collapse.
Black Monday was coming.
October 19, 1987.
Hardwin didn't know the exact date until he pieced it together from hints, but by late August, he was sure. There would be a crash. A day when all the markets would plummet.
And on that day, while the world panicked, would come the chance to invest wisely.
One afternoon, while Petunia scrubbed dishes in the kitchen, Hardwin approached.
"Aunt Petunia," he said quietly, standing on tiptoe to place a newspaper clipping on the table, "Have you ever thought of buying silver? Or maybe some local stocks that are losing value now but could go up in a few months?"
She blinked at him, confused. "Where do you hear such things?"
He shrugged. "Books. The Times. Vernon talks about it too."
"Silver? That's for jewellery."
"It grows in value when others don't. Especially when people get scared."
She frowned but listened.
Over the weeks, he offered more subtle suggestions.
"Aunt Petunia, if we keep the electricity off during the day, you could save a little each month."
"Did you know a flat near the city is renting cheap? Maybe Dudley could live there when he grows up."
"It's better to hold onto savings in physical things when the banks start acting strange."
He even sketched ideas for small inventions. A toy made from spinning magnets and marbles that glowed faintly with friction. A hand-drawn comic strip based on everyday objects with magical personalities. "You could sell this at school fairs," he said. "Everyone wants toys that do something new."
Bit by bit, she began to follow some of his ideas. Reluctantly at first. Then with cautious curiosity.
She never admitted he was clever. But she didn't stop him from speaking.
Hardwin learned to measure his words carefully.
In his mind, he divided his time into disciplines. Morning: breath, strength, balance. Midday: learning, reading, observation. Evening: reflection, rest, and subtle spells beneath his breath when no one was listening.
He was building a foundation. Quietly. Relentlessly.
And when others ate their meat, when they bragged of bacon and lamb, he held firm. His path was his own.
He wasn't like them.
And he never would be.
Because he remembered what they didn't.
And the storm was coming.