The common room below had emptied hours ago, leaving only the distant sounds of the castle stirring—students hurrying through hallways, the occasional clang of a breakfast tray, the soft echo of footsteps on stone. Upstairs, the Slytherin dormitory was silent except for the quiet shuffle of Severus’ boots on the floorboards, the occasional sigh as he paced. His heart hammered, not from exertion but from calculation. From desire. From need.

He had been planning this for weeks. Every glance she had spared him, every small moment of kindness, every time she let him cling to her in ways others wouldn’t understand—he had cataloged them. He had memorized her scent, the weight of her presence, the way she shifted when she laughed at something only he could know. She had become his axis, his anchor, his reason for breathing. And now, he was ready to push the boundaries, to tip the scales, to claim the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

His hands trembled slightly as he drew a deep breath and let the suppressants sit untouched on his desk. He had hidden them carefully earlier, making sure no one would see. Without them, the heat he had been suppressing began to bloom like fire in his blood, spreading through him with the inevitable precision of an omega’s body. His chest heaved, and his limbs ached with the need to be claimed. He felt weak and dizzy and achingly alive all at once, the smell of his own scent already reaching out, heavy and undeniable.

He had already removed layers of clothing and rearranged his chamber into the sort of nest his body craved, soft blankets pulled together, pillows haphazardly piled for comfort. Every detail had been considered. Every element designed to make her presence unavoidable. She would notice the scent of his need. She would see the way he was trembling, the desperate ache in his posture. And she would have no choice but to claim him.

When she arrived, summoned with the carefully worded excuse of needing help with a potion or a book, he was waiting, knees drawn, hands twisting the fabric of the blankets around him. His chest rose in uneven breaths, his eyes dark with heat and longing. She knew him, in a way no one else did—how he recoiled from touch and yet clung when permitted. Tonight, she would see the raw, undiluted truth.

He shivered as she approached, the scent of her hair mingling with his own, pulling him closer even as he sank into the softness of the bed. The quiet tremor in his hands betrayed the careful control he usually maintained. He didn’t need words; he needed her. Needed her to see him like this, helpless and desperate, every ounce of omega instinct flaring.

He leaned forward slightly, pressing a hand to the edge of the pillow as though to anchor himself, to keep himself upright. His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking as he finally whispered, trembling and open and utterly exposed:

“Alpha, I’m yours, please take me.”