Chapter 4: The Letter and the Burden
Spinner's End, 1 August 1981
The fog rolled low and thick over the soot-stained rooftops of Cokeworth. Early morning light filtered dimly through the grime-caked windows of a narrow brick house, casting a pale gray glow onto the dusty books and potion-stained vials lining its shelves.
Severus Snape sat in a threadbare armchair, the remnants of last night's potion bubbling faintly in a cauldron near the fireplace. The air carried the sharp tang of burnt sage, ash, and something bitter—as though regret itself had a scent.
He hadn't slept. Again.
The quiet had been shattered an hour before dawn by the soft tap-tap-tap of an owl's beak on the windowpane. At first, Severus ignored it. But the owl persisted, and when he finally opened the window, it flew straight in and dropped a parchment envelope sealed with gold wax.
The handwriting on the front made his breath catch.
Lily.
His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the letter. He had read it once already. Now he read it again.
> Severus,
I know it has been long since we last spoke. But today was the twins' first birthday, and I found myself thinking of you.
Hardwin is... special. Not just because he's my son. But because I feel something in him that goes deeper than I understand. I want him to have guidance that even James or I might not be able to offer. I want you to be his godfather.
You once told me magic is in the stillness, in the quiet minds. Hardwin lives in that stillness.
If you would accept... please come visit. You'll see what I mean.
With hope,
Lily
He let the parchment fall gently onto the armrest. His black eyes, usually so cold, softened as he stared into the dying embers of the fire.
> Hardwin, he thought. She named him Hardwin. The old name from the Potter line. But what does she mean by special?
The ache in his chest deepened. He had once known Lily Evans better than anyone. Her thoughts, her dreams, the fierce compassion that shaped every spell she cast. But that was before. Before he chose the wrong side. Before he said the word that tore them apart.
> Mudblood.
He closed his eyes. The word still echoed, years later.
He had tried to justify his path—that the Dark Lord was the only future for wizardkind, that power and purity were strength. But none of that mattered now. Because he had made a mistake far greater than he could ever undo.
He had repeated the prophecy.
He had told Voldemort.
> Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
The prophecy had seemed vague. A puzzle, a fragment. Yet Voldemort had taken it seriously. Too seriously.
Snape knew the implications. There were only two children born at the end of July 1980 who fit the prophecy.
Neville Longbottom. Harry Potter.
And now—Hardwin Potter as well.
A twin. A second boy.
> He didn't know there were two, Snape realized. I never told him there were twins.
He buried his face in his hands.
He had tried to take it back, tried to ask Voldemort to spare Lily. But he hadn't known about Hardwin. Something about the child unsettled him, even in a letter. Lily's words hinted at a deeper magic, something not even James understood.
Snape stood abruptly. He crossed the room and opened the cupboard where he kept a box—a wooden chest, heavily warded. Inside were relics of a life he had buried: an old photo of Lily and himself as children, a dried petal from her favorite rosebush, a half-broken hairpin she once enchanted to levitate.
He placed the letter inside.
> If she trusts me still, he thought, then I must be worthy of that trust. I must do more.
But another part of his mind whispered:
> You already doomed them.
He walked to the window, staring at the gray sky above the chimneys.
Outside, a storm was coming.
And far away, Voldemort was already turning his gaze toward Godric's Hollow.
Severus clutched the windowsill.
> Let it be Longbottom, he whispered. Not Lily. Not her sons.
But deep down, he knew. The Dark Lord was not one to leave things to chance.
And now, there were two Potters.
The prophecy was no longer a riddle.
It was a target.
And Severus Snape, cloaked in shadows and guilt, found himself standing between his master's wrath and the last light of a love he had long since lost.
---
In the stillness of the Potter cottage, Hardwin stirred in his crib. The wards around the home glowed softly, and moonlight filtered through the curtains.
He did not cry.
He dreamed.
Of green eyes. Of betrayal. Of fire.
And of a voice calling out from the future he left behind.
> Protect them.
The fire crackled faintly in Spinner's End.
And the story moved forward, one shadow at a time.