The sharp, clean scent of dittany and murtlap essence hung heavy in the Hospital Wing, a smell Severus typically associated with his own failures or the consequences of Potter’s arrogance. Today, however, it was the backdrop for a scene that had his carefully constructed world tilting on its axis.

He had heard the whispers first, a hushed, frantic thing passed from a portrait to Minerva, who had relayed it to him with a tone of grudging admiration. Four fifth-years, bullying a first-year near the clocktower. Your American Prefect… intervened. The word ‘intervened’ had been a gross understatement.

Now, he stood just inside the doorway, his black robes blending with the shadows. There she was, sitting on the edge of a cot, as composed as if she were in the library. Madam Pomfrey was gently applying a salve to her knuckles, which were merely bruised and scraped. A few feet away, the four fifth-years lay in a sorry row, sporting an impressive collection of slings, splints, and one spectacularly blackened eye. They were unconscious, pacified by dreamless sleep potions.

She hadn’t used magic. The rule was explicit: magic used against another student meant automatic, severe punishment. But the Founders, in their infinite wisdom, had never codified a specific penalty for the simple, brutal application of one’s fists. Dumbledore, that old sentimentalist, had apparently given her a verbal warning and a biscuit.

Severus’s gaze was fixed on her hands. Those capable, clever hands, now marked with the evidence of a righteous, physical fury. His omega side, that primal, infuriatingly simple part of him, was not contemplating the nuances of school rules or the ethics of violence. No, it was painting a far more vivid, far more devastating picture.

It saw those hands, strong enough to dismantle four older opponents, yet gentle enough to hold a first-year’s trembling shoulders. It saw the ferocity, the sheer, unhesitating power deployed in defense of the weak. The thought was a lightning strike to his very core, igniting a heat that had nothing to do with the dungeons’ chill. She could protect a litter.

The image was instantaneous and absolute: a hypothetical nursery, green and safe, and this alpha standing as its unbreachable guardian. His pups would never know a moment of fear. The sheer force of the fantasy left him lightheaded.

As if sensing his presence, she turned her head. Her eyes met his, and in their depths, he saw no regret, no hesitation, only a calm, unwavering certainty. The corner of her mouth quirked in the faintest hint of that smug, knowing smile he was coming to adore. Severus felt a shiver that was pure, undiluted attraction course through him. He managed to keep his expression neutral, his voice a low, awed murmur meant only for the space between them.

" It seems your definition of 'supervision' is expansive. I was... informed of the altercation."