James Potter didn't remember the walk back to the Gryffindor common room. He remembered the feeling: the ice-cold shock when he looked at his own wrist, the furious, blinding heat of the shared magic, and the sickening, utter conviction that the silver scar wasn't a mistake. He remembered Severus Snape's immediate, desperate flight—a silent confirmation of the catastrophic truth.

His mind was a blank canvas splashed with the horrific realization: Snivellus was his soulmate.

He moved through the castle as a ghost, past students, past portraits, his vision tunneling on the familiar sight of the Fat Lady's frame. Sirius’s frantic questioning—“Oi, Prongs! What was that? Why did you let him go?”—sounded muffled and distant, like shouting underwater. James didn't answer. He didn't even register that he was still clutching his own forearm, his thumb pressing desperately against the fine, elegant star-lines that had erupted on his skin minutes ago.

The moment he tumbled through the portrait hole and into the familiar, warm roar of the Gryffindor common room, the numbness broke. He didn't stop to greet anyone. He vaulted up the stairs to the fifth-year boys' dormitory, Peter and Sirius trailing behind him, confused and annoyed.

The trunk lids were open, detritus from their holiday belongings still scattered around the beds. James barely registered the room. He walked to his four-poster and simply collapsed onto the mattress, his breath catching in his throat.

"James, talk to me!" Sirius demanded, slamming the door shut. He grabbed his friend's shoulder, forcing him to sit up. "What in Merlin's name possessed you? We had him cornered, and you just froze up like a—"

James didn't hear the rest. He pushed Sirius’s hand away and spoke, the words rushing out in a terrified, hyperventilating stream.

"It's true. The stories are true," James gasped, his hands shaking as he held them up, palms out, staring at the silver constellations etched onto his inner wrist. The lines, faded now but still unmistakable, looked wrong against his skin. They belonged on a telescope, not on him.

Remus Lupin, who had been quietly organizing his things, moved swiftly to the edge of James's bed, instantly recognizing the signs of extreme shock. He calmly forced a glass of water into James’s hand. "What stories, James? What happened back there? Who is it?"

James gripped the glass until his knuckles were white. "It was an accident," he whispered, staring into the water as if it held the answer. "We were fighting, our arms—they touched. And it felt like… like being hit by a thousand Bludgers and then suddenly landing at home. Everything went cold, and then hot, and the magic… the magic was absolute."

Sirius leaned forward, his face serious now, all bravado gone. He looked at James's wrist, then his own clean skin, then back at James with wide, disbelief. "You got your soulmark? Now? James, that's… that's incredible! Who is she?"

"It's not a she, Padfoot!" James choked out, slamming the glass down on the bedside table. "It's not incredible! It's wrong! It’s the cruelest, most sick, pathetic joke the universe could ever play on me!" He finally looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears of rage and disbelief. "It's Snape."

A beat of stunned silence enveloped the room. Peter Pettigrew made a small, choked sound. Remus blinked slowly, absorbing the information with his usual painful deliberation.

Sirius, however, laughed—a sharp, incredulous, almost hysterical bark. "Right. Very funny, Prongs. Trying to deflect from the fact that you froze up and let Snivellus escape. Who is it, honestly? Tell us."

"It's him!" James roared, leaping off the bed and frantically pacing the cramped space. "I saw the marks on my own skin! I felt the pull! It's that greasy git! That sneaking, awful, Snivellus!" He scrubbed his hand violently over his face, as if he could wipe the memory away.

Remus stepped in, his voice low and firm. "James, look at me. You felt the bond. Magic doesn't lie. Why are you so upset? You should be elated."

"Elated? Remus, I hate him! I bully him! I spent four years making his life miserable!" James argued, the realization crashing down on him in waves. He didn't consider Severus’s feelings, only the profound, immediate disruption of his own established hierarchy. "I'm James Potter! I'm supposed to be bonded to a brilliant, funny, powerful witch—someone like Evans! Not… him!"

He stopped pacing, staring out the window at the setting sun, his mind racing through the thousands of insults he’d hurled, the jinxes he’d cast, the sheer, systematic abuse he'd inflicted on his soulmate. The horror was selfish: What does this mean for me?

Then, the innate, arrogant entitlement that defined James Potter surfaced, overriding the shock.

He turned back to his friends, his shoulders straightening. His eyes, though red-rimmed, had found a cold, fierce focus.

"Fine," he said, the word clipped and resolute. "Magic decided this. Not me. But I won't ignore it. I'm James Potter. And if he's my soulmate, then he's mine." He ran a determined thumb over the faint silver stars on his wrist. "The bullying stops. Now. He's my responsibility. I didn't choose him, but I'm bonded to him, and I'll pursue him until he accepts it. I always get what I decide I want."

The shock had worn off, replaced by a reckless, absolute determination.

Sirius stared, his jaw slack. "You're serious. You're actually going to pursue Snivellus?"

"Absolutely," James confirmed, the edge of hysteria replaced by a fierce, new drive. "And I'm going to start by making sure he understands that I am no longer his enemy. No matter what it takes."