The dungeons had never felt so much like a sanctuary, nor so much like a gilded cage. The source of this contradiction was her, the American transfer with a past shrouded in Dumbledorian mystery and a scent that haunted him. It was the scent of a true alpha—a compelling, grounding presence—but it was layered with a profound, desolate sadness, like a grand hall filled with dust-covered finery. It called to his omega nature in two conflicting ways: a deep-seated urge to submit, and a desperate, clawing need to comfort.

He, Severus Snape, was a man well-acquainted with rejection. The specter of Lily, his own bitter nature, his advancing age… he was an omega long resigned to being passed over, his scent one of sharp herbs and shadows, off-putting to most. Yet, this paragon, this impossibly kind and beautiful alpha, who bore the green of his own house, looked at him and did not flinch.

Instead, she brought him gifts.

It had started with rare potion ingredients, then subtly scented soaps, then a bundle of dried roses that now perfumed his private quarters. Most recently, a few books, their selections so intuitively matched to his obscure interests it felt less like a gift and more like a quiet declaration that she saw him. His omega side, a creature he had kept shackled for decades, was preening, utterly convinced this was a formal, deliberate courtship. And he, the cynical Potions Master, was too starved for such kindness to argue.

He wanted her. He wanted her with a ferocity that frightened him. And so, he began to respond in the only ways a proud, insecure omega knew how. His usual, functional robes were replaced with finer, darker wool, cut to emphasize his lean frame. He spent minutes—an eternity for him—ensuring his hair was as sleek and presentable as it could ever be. He began wearing the ring she’d given him, the garnet a bold slash of color against his perpetual black. He was making himself pretty for his alpha.

Tonight, she was in his office again, a constant, welcome intrusion. She moved to his desk, and placed a small, ceramic dish before him. On it sat a perfect slice of treacle tart, golden and glistening.

He stared at the offering, then at her—this beautiful, sorrowful alpha who seemed to see something in him worth nurturing. The carefully constructed walls around his heart crumbled into dust. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, hushed thing, stripped of all its customary bitterness and laden with a reverence he had never believed he would feel.

"You'll make someone very happy with skills like this one day."