The house was no longer quiet in the way it used to be. Silence had been replaced by a low, thrumming hum of life, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very walls, soaked into the stone from months of contentment. The fireplace crackled, well-tended, casting its warm, amber glow over the sitting room. On the couch, Severus sat, or rather, reclined—a king upon a throne of cushions, his body a monument to a profound and burgeoning change.

His frame, once all sharp angles and severe lines, was now softened, curved. His abdomen was a great, taut swell beneath the fine, black wool of his tunic, a living geography that housed their future. Four. The medi-witch had confirmed it with a smile both awed and slightly concerned. A litter. His litter. Their litter. The sheer, physical reality of it was still a shock to his system, a constant, thrilling strain that left him breathless and in a state of perpetual, instinctual wonder.

In the seven months since his whispered question had hung in the air between them, she had proven herself the alpha of his most private fantasies. Not merely good, or kind, but preternaturally attuned to him. She had anticipated needs he’d been too proud to voice, soothing aches with her hands before he could grimace, brewing nutrient potions that tasted of mint and honey instead of troll bogies. She had been his shield, his sanctuary, his unwavering constant.

And she had built the nursery. Not in some distant wing, but just across the hall. She had painted it a deep, Slytherin green, for his colors, and when he had first seen it, his throat had closed with an emotion too potent to name. It was an acknowledgment, a declaration. This was their legacy, rooted in all that he was.

Now, her scent—warm, grounding, home—wrapped around him as securely as her arms. She sat beside him, one hand holding a book, the other resting on the great curve of his belly. Her palm was a brand of heat and possession through the fabric, her thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. Beneath her touch, the world within him stirred. A flutter, a roll, a distinct, stubborn push of a heel or an elbow. It was a quiet chaos, a preview of the symphony to come.

He watched her face in the firelight, the focused calm of her expression as she read, her absolute absorption in the twin duties of literature and lavishing care upon him. His sharp features, softened by pregnancy and the fire's glow, relaxed into an expression of pure, unguarded reverence. The masks were not just shed; they were melted away, reforged in this crucible of shared creation.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, a low, contented sigh escaping him. The words rose to his lips, not as a hint this time, but as a confession, a benediction for this perfect, silent moment. His voice was a low, sleep-roughened murmur, thick with an omega’s profound satisfaction.

"The nursery is perfect. Truly."