The corridors of Hogwarts never truly slept. Even in the deepest hours, footsteps whispered on flagstones, portraits muttered in their frames, and candles guttered as though sighing with exhaustion. Severus Snape knew the castle's rhythms better than most; solitude had made him a student of silence.
That night, however, silence betrayed him.
He had left the dungeons late, books clutched close, parchment crammed with notes he would rewrite until dawn. Knowledge was his only defence, his only weapon. Pheromones might mark other alphas as powerful, commanding, but his own scent was little more than a breath—faint, recessive, forgettable. So he clung to what could not be mocked away: spells inked in margins, theories spun in candlelight.
The Slytherin common room had been loud with laughter, Narcis's voice carrying above the rest. Severus had slipped out like a shadow. It was easier than staying, easier than enduring the smirks, the deliberate flaring of dominance scents that pushed him to the edge of nausea.
But the silence of the corridor broke with a single voice.
"Burning the midnight oil, Snape?"
Severus froze. Lucius Malfoy leaned against the wall ahead, wand idly twirling between long fingers. His pale hair caught the dim torchlight like liquid silver. The air shifted around him—unreadable, oppressive in its very neutrality. Other alphas' pheromones shouted, Narcis's demanded. Lucius's said nothing. And that nothing was worse.
Severus adjusted his grip on his books. "Studying."
Lucius smiled faintly. "Of course you are. I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
It was not quite mockery, but neither was it kindness. The words lingered, strange and heavy.
"I've heard things," Lucius went on softly. "They say you're clever enough to rival the professors. Potions, hexes, counter-curses… some even say you're already beyond seventh-year work."
Severus's mouth dried. "Rumours."
"And yet," Lucius's eyes gleamed, "rumours have weight. Power. They move faster than truth. Do you know how to use them, Snape?"
The question caught him off guard. "What—?"
Lucius pushed away from the wall, moving closer with leisurely grace. Severus felt the faintest brush of pheromones—sharp, deliberate, gone as soon as they struck. A feint. A game.
"Rumours, pheromones, politics—tools are tools. The strong wield them. The weak…" Lucius's gaze swept him, deliberate. "…pretend they don't need them."
Heat crept up Severus's neck, shame laced with anger. "If you came here to insult me—"
"Insult?" Lucius's smile sharpened. "No. Observation. You've let them convince you you're powerless. That faintness of yours—" He gestured idly at the air around him. "It terrifies you, doesn't it?"
Severus's grip on his books tightened until parchment bent. He said nothing.
"Good," Lucius murmured, circling him like a predator who had already decided the outcome. "Fear is useful. It sharpens. It drives. But only if you let it lead somewhere."
"And you?" Severus forced out. "Where does your absence lead?"
Lucius stilled. For the first time, the smile faltered, as though Severus had pressed against something not meant to be touched. Then he chuckled, low and dangerous.
"Perhaps you'll learn, if you follow closely enough."
Severus wanted to spit back that he had no desire to follow anyone, least of all Lucius Malfoy. But the words tangled. For in the space between their breaths, he realised—Lucius had seen him. Not the shadow, not the recessive alpha to be pitied or mocked. But him.
And the recognition was a poison sweeter than any kindness.
Lucius stepped back, the spell broken. "Think on it, Snape. Power doesn't come to those who wait. It comes to those who play."
With that, he vanished into the corridor's shadows, leaving Severus trembling, unsure whether with anger or anticipation.
The next day, whispers chased Severus through the corridors. Narcis's laugh rang loudest, cutting through every other sound.
"Heard Malfoy spoke to you last night," Narcis drawled in the Potions dungeon, leaning across his desk as if to catch a secret. "Strange, isn't it? Lucius rarely notices anyone. Why you?"
Severus hunched over his cauldron, letting the fumes veil his expression. "Ask him."
"Oh, I intend to." Narcis's eyes glittered. "But I'd rather see if you squirm first."
With deliberate cruelty, Narcis flared his pheromones—dominant, intoxicating, sharp as blades. The air thickened, students shifting uncomfortably, some averting their eyes. Severus's stomach twisted. The instinct to yield rose, unbidden, and rage scorched it down.
He refused to move. Refused to breathe shallow. Refused to break.
But the pressure mounted, pounding against his skull. His quill snapped in his hand.
Then, without warning, the air cleared.
Lucius Malfoy had entered, calm as snowfall. His unreadable presence swept through the dungeon, silencing even Narcis's dominance. Not by challenge, not by force—by the sheer void of it.
Narcis sneered, but his pheromones withdrew. "Malfoy," he said smoothly. "Always appearing at such… opportune times."
Lucius's eyes barely flicked to him. They landed on Severus, who sat rigid, ink staining his fingers.
"Some games," Lucius said idly, "are worth playing. Others? Only children bother."
The words, casual as they seemed, sent a ripple through the room. Narcis's lips curled, but he said nothing further.
Severus felt the weight of Lucius's gaze like a hand on his shoulder. And for the first time in years, he did not feel entirely invisible.
It terrified him.
That night, as he rewrote his notes for the third time, the parchment blurred before his eyes. His mind returned again and again to Lucius's words.
Power doesn't come to those who wait. It comes to those who play.
Severus set his quill down, hands shaking. He hated himself for it, but part of him longed for Lucius to appear again.
Not for kindness. Not even for guidance.
For recognition. For the first game he had ever been invited to play.