Chapter Text
Severus Snape was so nervous he could’ve howled.
Not once, in all the time since presenting as an omega, had he found himself in such a catastrophically humiliating situation.
He shoved his hair back and squeezed his eyes shut, pacing the ten steps from one end of the hut to the other like a prisoner awaiting execution.
Not even during the war had he been this close to having his secondary gender exposed. And now? Now?
He bit at the cuticle on his thumb—a habit reserved for moments when he was teetering on the edge.
How in Salazar’s rotting balls had he managed to land himself in this nightmare?
He threw a glance toward her.
The damn cocky alpha sprawled in the chair, legs wide in a display of dominance so blatant it made his blood boil.
Everything about her screamed control. Power. Authority.
Hermione fucking Granger.
Of course she’d present as an alpha. And of course she’d become his worst bloody nightmare.
He pushed his hair back again. It was itchy. Or maybe it was the heat creeping up his neck, the flush of suppressed panic.
How the hell had he lost the bag with his suppressors?
The fight with the last surviving Dementors had been brutal—but manageable. Not his first, not hers either.
They’d fought side by side before. Back during the war. Before she turned twenty-one and became… this—a walking, talking, scent-leaking disaster for his self-control.
When she’d written to ask if she could apprentice under him and write her PhD in Potions, he hadn’t even thought to ask her secondary gender.
He’d just assumed—foolishly—that she’d be a beta. Like him. Or like the beta he pretended to be.
Instead, she was this.
And he was losing his mind.
Thunder cracked outside as he threw his arms up, half fighting with himself and half hoping the storm would just kill him already.
“Severus, sit. Damn it. You’re driving me crazy with all that pacing.”
Merlin’s festering ass—he almost obeyed her.
He, Severus Fucking Snape, was about to listen to her. That insufferable, bossy, infuriating girl.
He didn’t dare look at her directly. The artefact they’d retrieved was stashed safely, ready to be exchanged for a rare herb they needed for an experiment.
He huffed.
Scratched the back of his neck. His gland was swollen, aching, humming with unwanted heat.
It was her scent. Her.
It clung to the air like dark honey, thick and maddening. It had him sweating, aching, needy. His cunt throbbed with a sharp, low ache—part pain, part desperate, humiliating lust.
Fuck.
She tilted her head to the side, crunching into a bruised apple like this was just another calm evening in the countryside.
The fire crackled beside her, and she was far too close. Close enough that her scent was crawling into his skin.
Could she smell him too?
“You sure you don’t want one?”
She lifted the half-eaten apple, gesturing toward her bag with maddening casualness.
“No, I don’t want your damn apple.”
He practically growled it.
It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t being fair. He knew it.
Salazar’s spotted balls, he knew it.
Hermione had become a good friend over the years. Loyal. Brilliant. Brave.
And ever since she presented as an alpha, he’d treated her like absolute shit.
Because now… now she smelled like power.
And it was unraveling him.
She couldn’t know.
She absolutely couldn’t find out that her mentor—her Potions Master—was a damn omega.
Omegas were supposed to be rare, revered, cherished.
But everyone knew the truth. Behind the polite phrases and scientific journals, omegas were little more than sex toys for influential alphas.
Coveted, hidden, locked away in golden cages and bred like prized animals. That was the kind of fate Severus had narrowly escaped for thirty-nine years.
Until now.
Until her.
He’d been lucky—never looked the part. His mother had expected him to manifest as an alpha: he was tall, sharp, stubborn, and cold.
Omegas were supposed to be soft. Sweet. Gentle.
There was nothing soft about Severus Snape.
At least not if he could help it.
He pulled a crumpled pill from his pocket and bit down on it hard.
The last suppressor.
Not enough. Not even close.
He usually avoided alphas. It wasn’t difficult—most of them were arrogant bastards anyway.
But now… now Hermione Granger was here.
Alpha Granger.
And she didn’t look anything like the girl he used to teach.
Her body had become a damn dream—lean muscle and effortless grace, power radiating from every confident movement.
She was too close.
Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like a collar.
And worse—his mind was betraying him.
He’d started to wonder what it might feel like… to ride out a heat with the right alpha.
Someone he trusted.
Someone he… liked?
He pushed the thought away like poison.
He didn’t like her.
Not like that.
This was Granger. It didn’t matter that her hair now curled in soft waves instead of that rat’s nest she used to fight him with.
She bit into her apple again. A drop of juice slid down her chin, catching the golden light from the fire.
He wanted—Merlin help him—he wanted to lean in and lick it.
Don’t be an idiot, Severus. Alphas don’t kiss. They rut.
"Severus?"
Her voice snapped him back.
She was watching him now. Her eyes narrowed, focused on his face. She knew him well enough to know something was off.
And she was right.
She'd seen him fight through a burning hex that blistered half his back before allowing her to cast the counter-curse.
She’d seen him bleeding and silent, still saving lives.
She knew that pressing him would only make him shut down harder.
"What?" he snapped.
She didn’t flinch.
Typical bloody Gryffindor.
"I’ll take the first shift. Get some rest."
She nodded toward the narrow bed in the corner.
He scoffed.
As if he could sleep with her scent in the air, coating his tongue, making his cunt ache and his skin crawl with need.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t suggest cuddling.
She wouldn’t dare.
But she was blushing. Her cheeks flushed as she looked anywhere but at him.
Hermione Granger, Alpha of the Golden Trio, with her hands full of firepower and stubbornness… blushing like a schoolgirl.
The moment she developed her alpha anatomy, she’d expected the old crush to disappear.
It hadn’t.
It had grown teeth.
She took a shaky breath.
Merlin, he smelled good.
Too good.
She had never smelled a beta that made her mouth water like this.
But Severus wasn’t a beta, was he?
Not really.
She clutched her apple tighter.
"I’m not tired," he barked. "And you’re not the mission leader, Granger."
The bite in his voice sent a jolt through her.
She jumped to her feet.
He acted so alpha, so sharp and cutting, that she felt challenged.
And Hermione Granger had never once backed down from a challenge.
"I think you need to rest," she said, stepping into his space.
He was a little taller, but she didn’t shrink. Not after everything she’d survived.
She clenched her fists.
"I can take the first shift."
She rolled her eyes, exasperated.
"Suit yourself."
He huffed.
But then it hit her again.
That scent.
That scent.
Chocolate and mint and the dusty warmth of an old library. Her favorite things. All tangled in him.
It made her head spin. Her fangs dropped without warning, pressing against her lower lip.
Fuck. Merlin’s knotty cock.
That only ever happened when she was aroused.
And the only times that happened were when—
She turned away sharply, ashamed.
She couldn’t look at him.
The man had been the main character of her spank bank since she was fifteen and had no business knowing what to do with her hands.
She moved toward the fire.
The golden light painted her shadow across the wall, twisted and long. A spiderweb shimmered in the corner, catching sparks of flame.
"There’s a kettle," she said, voice tight. Trying to distract herself. Trying not to think about how close they were to something dangerous.
He would never accept her knot.
Not the way she fantasized about it when she was tired, aching, and too far from reason.
"SEVERUS?"
He exhaled and sank onto the edge of the cot. Still fully dressed, still armored in wool and dignity.
He dug his nails into his palms.
She needed to stop talking. Salazar’s shriveled dick, she needed to just shut up.
Her voice slid down his spine, hot and slow. And the slick—
Merlin. The slick.
It was gushing.
Soaking his thighs. Coating his skin.
If she had any experience with omega heat at all, she’d smell it by now.
But maybe she didn’t.
Maybe she was too young, too oblivious.
"YES?" he snapped.
"We’ve had worse situations," Hermione said, and it nearly shattered him.
She was right.
"Yes. Indeed."
Fuck. She had no idea.
He should run. Escape into the night. But if there were another alpha out there, he'd end up cornered. Taken. Claimed.
He didn’t even notice when she handed him a tin cup of steaming tea.
"Whatever it is… if you want to talk…"
Her fingers brushed his as she passed the cup.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything.
But it did.
Her skin was warm. And the way she smelled this close?
It was obscene.
For the first time in his life, Severus Snape craved touch.
Not dominance.
Not pain.
Not sex.
Just... touch.
And it terrified him more than death.
Severus had finally fallen asleep, if it could even be called that.
He was still sitting on the edge of the cot, arms folded tightly across his stomach, boots still on. The fire crackled low behind her as Hermione stood at a distance, trying not to let her gaze linger too long on the curve of his spine or the trembling in his jaw.
He was shaking.
Not visibly, not enough that anyone else would have noticed—but she’d watched him too long not to see it.
He looked exhausted. Pale and taut, like a bowstring drawn too tight.
She told herself to let him be. To take the first shift like she promised. To stop staring at him like some feral alpha who didn’t know how to handle her rut-happy brain.
But then he whimpered.
Soft. Broken. Pained.
Hermione froze.
It wasn’t the sort of sound Severus Snape ever made.
She’d heard him injured before—gritted teeth, sharp exhalations, the occasional hissed insult.
But never this.
Never a low, breathless moan that scraped against her nerves and made the hair on her arms stand up.
She stepped toward him.
"Severus?"
No answer.
He was curled slightly now, one hand gripping the edge of the cot. His breathing was ragged, shallow. The smell in the room had changed, too—she couldn’t place it, but it was thick. Warm. Almost metallic.
She moved closer.
"Severus, are you—"
He moaned again. Louder this time. His whole body twitched.
And then it hit her. Like a punch to the gut.
The scent.
Not hers.
His.
It was omega.
Sweet, sharp, cloying. Like blood and magic and want.
Like dark chocolate left to melt on warm skin. Like mint and old books and the underside of an unsaid confession.
Hermione staggered back a step, breath catching in her throat.
No. No.
Her eyes dropped to the floor beneath him. There—dark patches of damp, glistening on the inside of his thighs. His cloak hid most of it, but not all.
“You’re not a beta,” she whispered, stunned.
Severus moaned again, his mouth parting, throat arching like he was chasing a phantom touch. His fists clenched into the thin blanket beneath him.
It wasn’t just a scent.
He was in heat.
And he was trying to suffer through it in silence.
Hermione reached for him before she could stop herself.
"Severus—hey, look at me—Severus, you’re—"
He didn’t open his eyes. But his body responded to her voice, hips shifting toward the sound like instinct alone had taken control.
His mouth moved around half-formed words, fevered and lost.
"No—don’t—please, not—"
He shivered violently.
Hermione dropped to her knees in front of him, hands hovering, unsure whether to shake him or pull away. Her own body was reacting now—fangs dropping again, the heat of her alpha instincts pulsing low in her gut.
He didn’t tell her.
He never told her.
All this time—he’d been hiding it.
And now he was breaking apart in front of her, soaked in his own slick, glands pulsing, completely at her mercy.
"Severus," she said, softer this time, trying not to tremble.
"You need to wake up. You need to—"
But he didn’t.
He only gasped as if her voice itself was a touch. His head tilted toward her, his lips slightly parted.
And Hermione—sweet, brilliant, overachieving Hermione—realized something terrible.
She wanted to taste him.
She wanted to press her nose to his throat and breathe him in.
She wanted to hear how he'd sound if she knotted him.
She cursed and stood quickly, stepping away, trying to calm herself.
Trying not to shift. Not to claim.
But he was still moaning. Still sweating. Still suffering.
And she didn’t know how much longer she could stay away.