The air in the deserted corridor on the third floor was thick with the ozone scent of spent hexes and sheer, volatile hatred. The semester had only just resumed after the Christmas holiday, and the pain in Severus’s ribs—a grim souvenir from his father, Tobias, who’d intercepted and destroyed several attempts at correspondence—made every breath a calculated effort.
James Potter, flanked by Black and Pettigrew, blocked his path. "Well, well, if it isn't Snivellus, looking like his pet cauldron just exploded," James sneered, his tone carrying that familiar, entitled arrogance that scraped Severus's spine raw.
Severus felt the familiar knot of bile rise, but the physical pain made his usual cutting sarcasm sluggish. He straightened, fighting to ignore the dull, throbbing ache. "And if it isn't Potter, still confusing a corridor with a stage for his tired, simian theatrics," he managed, his voice slightly tight. He hated that the injury betrayed his composure.
"You really are a piece of work, aren't you? Always lurking, always smelling of bad hygiene and worse intentions," James retaliated, his eyes flashing.
"Better bad hygiene than bad taste in friends, Potter. You surround yourself with sycophants," Severus countered, his own wand lifting. This time, he was more desperate to end the confrontation quickly, needing to be alone.
"Enough," James snarled, and the fight began—fast, messy, and brutal. They exchanged curses, but Severus was slow. The sudden motion caused a searing pain beneath his robes, and the movement he needed to dodge a Langlock was delayed by a crucial half-second.
In the desperate scramble to disarm and flee as a warning about an approaching prefect rang out, Severus stumbled back, not just from the fight, but from a dizzying spike of pain. James, moving quickly to haul him out of sight, grabbed his thin forearm just above the wrist.
The contact was a blinding, electric shock that stole Severus's breath, eclipsing the rib pain entirely. He knew, instantly, why. The silvery scar—the Unmarked Constellation—had pulsed faintly for years, but this contact was a catastrophic discharge. The pain in his side, however, made him hiss involuntarily, a sound James wouldn't have typically ignored.
A searing, liquid heat shot up Severus's arm, followed by the blinding vision: James's hand tracing the silver marks on his own.
James froze utterly. The moment his skin met Severus's, a cold shock ran through him, followed by an intense, undeniable warmth and a horrifying sense of completion. But what truly made him hesitate was the soft, raw hiss of pain Severus let out—a sound that wasn't rage or defiance, but genuine hurt. Instinctively, James glanced down.
There, on his own wrist, were the fine, silver lines—the constellation—glowing with the same heat he felt radiating from Severus’s arm. Severus Snape was his soulmate.
He let go as if Severus's arm were fire. The shock was a devastating blow that shattered his world.
Severus didn't wait. He didn't need to see the utterly stunned horror in James's wide eyes. The sight of James’s sudden, sickening realization was confirmation enough. He yanked his arm back, clutching his aching side through his robes.
Without a word, Severus turned on his heel. He didn't run like a shadow; he fled with a hobbling, desperate urgency, rounding the corner and disappearing. The only thing worse than the pain in his ribs was the terrifying knowledge that James Potter now possessed the ultimate, agonizing truth.