Chapter 12: Five Years Later
The years passed, one by one, like pages flipping in a book half-ignored.
Number Four, Privet Drive remained as neat and bland as ever. Its walls were still pale beige, its curtains stiff with starch, and its flower beds clipped into submission. Yet inside, a quiet undercurrent of change had threaded itself through every corner of the Dursley household.
Five years had passed since that cold November morning.
The twins, Harry and Hardwin, had grown.
They were no longer bundled infants swaddled in mystery. They were now five-year-old boys with scraped knees, matching mop-tops of wild black hair, and eyes that glinted in completely different ways.
Harry's were warm and curious, ever wondering.
Hardwin's were sharper—green like his mother's, but holding something ancient behind them, as if he were always calculating, always aware of the edges of things.
And indeed, he was.
Because Hardwin wasn't like the others.
He remembered. Not everything, but enough.
In his past life, he had been born in India. He'd grown up in a small village outside Varanasi, surrounded by temples, sacred chants, and deep tradition. He had spent hours reading old scriptures, learning the ways of breath, body, and silence. And though he had lived in what the modern world called the muggle realm, he had felt something more. A thread of power in the ancient mantras, the resonance of sound against the air, the unseen waves that pulsed when the right syllables were spoken with breath and focus.
Now, in this world—this magical world—he found eerie parallels.
Wandless magic, to these people, was rare and difficult.
But in India?
The ancients had practiced energy shaping through breath. They spoke mantras, used hand gestures known as mudras, focused their thoughts with clarity and discipline. It was not so different from casting spells.
Here they said Alohomora. There, it had been Apavada. Different tongues, same intent.
Hardwin had spent months, in secret, piecing these fragments together.
He rose early, before even Aunt Petunia, and padded out barefoot into the small patch of backyard. The cool dew kissed his toes. The grass crunched faintly underfoot. The sky above was lavender, blushing into soft gold at the horizon.
He placed his palms together. Namaskar.
Then he stretched, breathed, aligned his body with the rising sun. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of wet soil and distant chimney smoke. Each movement flowed like water, smooth and deliberate.
In this quiet, he felt most like himself.
He could remember walking along the Ganges in the early morning mist, the chants rising from temples, the scent of sandalwood and incense drifting through the narrow lanes. The calm was the same. The discipline, too.
It helped him focus.
And perhaps, just maybe, it strengthened his magic.
He didn't tell anyone, of course. No one would believe him. Not Petunia, who barely tolerated their existence. Not Vernon, who saw no use in anything not directly related to business or food. And certainly not Dudley.
But Hardwin watched Dudley closely.
Dudley was like a storm cloud—loud, messy, prone to tantrums. But easily manipulated.
Hardwin didn't dislike him. In fact, there was a strange sort of affection buried under it all. Dudley was predictable. That made him safe.
"Dudley," Hardwin would say, watching his cousin fling blocks across the room, "you know, dragons like gold more than fighting. If you build a tower, the gold lives on top."
It worked. Dudley would stop smashing things and start stacking, imagining himself guarding treasure. Control through redirection.
Later, when Petunia glared, Hardwin would quietly sweep the mess or fetch a tea towel from the sink. Small tasks. Simple gestures. Not because he enjoyed them, but because he understood.
Peace came at a price.
He studied everything: the shape of people's faces, the way the kitchen light flickered when Vernon's voice grew too loud, the faint hum in his fingers when he focused too long on an object.
Magic was not just in wands.
It was in intention.
In precision.
In breath.
And Hardwin had all three.
Some days, when he sat beneath the backyard's old tree, its bark rough against his back and the rustling leaves above casting dappled shadows, he would murmur softly under his breath:
Om Shreem Namaha...
And he could feel it. The subtle ripple in the air. The warmth in his fingertips. The grass around his hands seemed to stiffen, respond, tremble faintly in rhythm with his breath.
He didn't know exactly what it meant yet. But it was there.
Sometimes when he meditated, he focused not only on breath but on intention. He imagined threads of light weaving around him, entering his skin, pulsing in sync with his heart. A low buzz would fill his ears—not from outside, but from within.
He would press his thumb and forefinger together in gyan mudra, a posture of knowledge, and concentrate on the stillness that formed in his chest.
Petunia occasionally caught glimpses of him in this state—sitting so still he seemed made of stone, eyes closed, posture perfectly straight, hands balanced on his knees.
She said nothing. But her eyes lingered.
Hardwin noticed.
He noticed everything.
During breakfast, he made sure to speak politely and to help Harry with buttering his toast. He fetched the salt when Petunia looked like she was about to call. He offered to wipe the table. He smiled when Vernon grumbled.
He did all this not because he feared punishment—though punishment came often in the form of cold silences or extra chores—but because he understood something the others did not.
Survival was about harmony.
About stillness amid storms.
About strength that waited and watched.
Sometimes when Harry asked questions like "Why is the sky blue?" or "What makes the clouds move?" Hardwin would answer with gentle explanations that blended science with wonder.
"The sky is blue because the light bends. The way a spell bends intention. But the truth is, the sky is also a mirror. What we put into it, it gives back."
Harry would blink and laugh. "You talk like a teacher."
Hardwin only smiled.
They slept in a small room with twin beds and a single narrow window that let in just enough light to see the stars at night. Often Harry would fall asleep to Hardwin's quiet chanting, rhythmic and warm.
Petunia never entered their room when he chanted. But she listened from the hallway.
The scent of jasmine oil still clung to Hardwin's belongings, something left from his infancy. He kept a tiny wooden bead under his pillow—a reminder, perhaps, of who he had been. Who he might become.
Once, when Dudley threw a tantrum over a toy, Hardwin knelt next to him and whispered, "If you roar like a tiger too much, people stop hearing you. But if you purr like a cat, you can sit anywhere. Even laps."
Dudley had blinked, confused. Then calmed.
Hardwin's influence was like a slow-moving river—quiet but powerful.
And every morning, as the sun rose over the quiet suburbs, and the steam from Petunia's kettle curled into the air like incense from a temple, Hardwin Potter sat in the garden, breathed the air of this new world, and waited.
Waited for the day his knowledge would matter.
Waited for the storm he knew was coming.
Waited for the moment to begin.