The Forbidden Forest was a place of pragmatic solitude for Severus Snape, a realm of shadows where an omega could move unseen, harvesting the rare and dangerous ingredients his craft demanded. The world had adapted to the near-extinction of alphas; the Ministry’s clinical breeding potions, while sterile and unnatural, were a necessary substitute for a biological imperative that had all but vanished. It was a quiet, resigned reality.

Which was why the scent that coiled through the pine and damp earth was so impossible it felt like a physical blow.

It was rich and warm, a hypnotic blend of amber and teakwood, with a undercurrent of something wild and profoundly, undeniably alpha. His mind rejected it. It had to be a trick, a hallucination born of exhaustion. But his omega instincts, long suppressed and derided, erupted with a force that stole his breath. They screamed a single, deafening truth: Alpha. Unclaimed. Near.

He moved as if in a trance, following the scent to a small, moon-dappled clearing. And there she was.

She was asleep, her back against the trunk of an ancient yew, looking less like a creature of the forest and more like a pagan offering left for the gods. Her clothing was scandalously minimal—a single, deep red tunic with a neckline cut so low it bared the elegant architecture of her entire collarbone and the smooth, vulnerable column of her throat. Her legs were bare, her feet pale and clean against the forest floor. Her hair was a masterpiece of intricate braiding; two loose plaits framed her face before merging into a complex tapestry of longer braids intertwined with strands of living, emerald green. A few soft bangs brushed her forehead. Around her neck, not one, but two necklaces lay against her skin, each adorned with green beads and silver serpents. The sight of those Slytherin symbols sent a jolt of possessive pleasure through him. Ours, his omega side hissed. See? She is meant for us.

His rational mind was a distant, fading echo. The sheer, overwhelming presence of her—her scent, her unguarded state, her implicit claim to his own house’s heritage—unleashed a frenzy in his blood he had never known was possible. The careful control he had wielded like a shield for decades shattered. The primal drive to claim, to bond, to ensure this miracle could never be taken from him, became the only law he recognized.

He was on his knees before her before he had even formed the conscious thought to move. His breathing was ragged, his vision tunneling on the perfect, unmarked skin of her neck, so temptingly exposed. The world narrowed to the pulse he could see beating there, a rhythm that seemed to call directly to his soul.

He did not think. He did not hesitate.

With a low, guttural sound torn from the deepest, most instinctual part of his being, he bent his head and sank his teeth into the junction of her neck and shoulder.

The bond magic, ancient and absolute, flared to life the moment his teeth broke her skin. A searing, golden heat erupted from the mark, a tangible connection that locked into place with the finality of a vault door slamming shut. It was done. The claim was made.