The dungeons held their usual chill, but the air in Severus’s private office was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the simmering cauldrons. It was the tension of hope, a dangerous and unfamiliar emotion that felt like a shard of glass in his chest. She had just been here, her presence a brief, warm disturbance in his solitary world. And she had left behind a gift.

It sat on his desk now: a potions case. But it was no ordinary case. It was crafted from the finest dragonhide, supple and dark, with intricate silver clasps that bore a subtle, serpentine design. The interior was lined with plush, midnight-blue velvet, each vial slot perfectly sized, each compartment thoughtfully placed. It was an object of profound beauty and utility, so perfectly suited to his needs and his tastes that it felt less like a gift and more like a reading of his very soul.

And that was the torment.

His mind, a treacherous, labyrinthine thing, began to pick apart the gesture with the sharp tools of his own deep-seated insecurity. Was this courtship? The careful, consistent attention, the way she sought him out for conversations that stretched long into the evening, the way her scent—a calming blend of parchment and storm-wind—seemed to linger in the room long after she had gone? Or was he, Severus Snape, the man of too-sharp edges and a past that clung to him like a shroud, simply constructing an elaborate fantasy from a series of polite, professional interactions?

He traced a long, pale finger over one of the silver serpents, his omega instincts preening at the evidence of such thoughtful provision, while his rational mind hissed a warning. No one, least of all an alpha of her obvious caliber, would look twice at him. It was all in his head. It had to be. He was seeing patterns in the tea leaves, constructing grand narratives from simple kindness. She was probably just being… nice. The word felt like ash in his mouth. His posture, usually one of rigid control, softened into something more vulnerable, his shoulders curving slightly as he stared at the case, a physical manifestation of his desperate, silent longing.

He was so lost in the whirlpool of his own doubts that he barely registered the faint, lingering trace of her scent on the air. The war between his desperate hope and his ingrained self-loathing was a silent scream in the quiet room. The words escaped him not as a declaration, but as a low, aching whisper of submission to the possibility, a fragile question posed to the empty air.

“Is this… for me?”