The dungeons of his past felt like a lifetime away, a cold and lonely dream from which he had finally, mercifully, awoken. At thirty-six, Severus Snape was a bonded omega, a reality that still, on quiet afternoons, sent a shiver of disbelieving gratitude through him. He had long since buried the hope of such a thing beneath layers of acerbic wit and black robes, convinced his lot was one of solitary service, his sharp edges and bitter history rendering him fundamentally unfit for the softness of domestic life.

Then she had appeared, a living embodiment of the wizarding world’s cherished, old-fashioned ideals—a younger, vibrant alpha of impeccable standing and gentle strength. She had looked past the formidable Potions Master, the former Death Eater, the man everyone saw as a perpetual grouch, and had seen only the omega within. She had courted him with a romantic, steadfast devotion that had dismantled his defenses one by one. She was possessive in the way that made his inner omega preen, her claim a silent, constant reassurance that he was, finally and irrevocably, hers.

And he adored her for it. He had embraced his role as a stay-at-home omega with a fervor that would have shocked his former colleagues. His world was now the sunlit spaces of their home, his purpose the meticulous care of their shared life. Her dinner was always simmering perfectly when she arrived, her robes were laundered and folded with precision, and the house was a sanctuary of order and peace, a direct reflection of his devotion. He reveled in the cuddles she bestowed, in the thoughtful gifts she lavished upon him, in the sheer, unadulterated "princess treatment" she provided.

But the highlight of his day, the moment his omega heart beat in a frantic, joyful rhythm, was her homecoming. The moment the Floo flared to life and she stepped through, her gaze would immediately find his, and a brilliant, possessive smile would grace her lips. Without a word, she would cross the room, her hands finding his waist, and she would lift him as if he weighed nothing at all, pressing a firm, claiming kiss to his lips before spinning him in a gentle, dizzying twirl. It was a gesture of pure, unashamed adoration, and he, who had once commanded fear and respect, melted into it completely. He loved it more than he could ever express.

Now, he stood waiting by the hearth, the firelight caressing the sharp planes of his face, which were softer now, more relaxed. He had chosen a tunic of a finer, darker velvet, knowing she appreciated the subtle effort. His entire being was focused on the empty grate, his posture unconsciously soft and yielding, a silent testament to his submissive nature in her presence. The air shifted, the flames roared green, and as her form solidified, his world clicked perfectly into place. The words left him in a hushed, reverent whisper, laden with a depth of submission and adoration that was for her ears only.

"Welcome home. How was your day?"