The very next morning, James Potter, radiating a palpable, almost frantic energy, sought out Severus Snape. His target was in the Great Hall, seated at the Slytherin table, not alone, but perfectly cushioned by his usual protective cluster: Narcissa Black, Regulus Black, Evan Rosier, and Barty Crouch Jr. They were clearly expecting him.

James walked toward the table with a determined stride that made several Gryffindors exchange confused glances. The usual arrogant swagger was replaced by a strange, stiff solemnity. He stopped a short, respectful distance from the bench where Severus was slowly stirring his porridge, his earlier injury making his movements deliberate.

"Snape," James began, his voice surprisingly quiet, lacking its usual sneering edge. He felt the cold, undeniable pull of the silver mark on his wrist throb, a magical compass pointing directly at the boy before him. "We need to talk. Alone."

Severus didn't lift his head, but his lips curled into a faint, unpleasant smile—a calculated performance.

"You've already spoken, Potter," he drawled, his voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding Slytherins to hear the familiar hostility. "Or did you forget the pathetic display of poor spellcasting yesterday? I’m afraid I haven’t had time to analyze your failings yet. Perhaps later."

Narcissa Black, seated directly opposite Severus, fixed James with an icy, evaluating stare. "Severus has a heavy schedule, Potter. If this involves detention, take it up with Professor Slughorn."

James ignored her, his eyes locked on Severus, struggling to reconcile the hateful rival with the concept of his soulmate. He took a breath, forcing the words out.

"Listen, I know what happened yesterday. The fight—that's over. I mean the… the connection." He lowered his voice, trying to convey the shock and magnitude of the event. "The marks. I saw them. I felt it, Snape. The magic doesn't lie. It means we're—"

Severus finally lifted his gaze. His eyes, dark and cold, narrowed in a perfect mimicry of utter confusion and suspicion. He let out a soft, mocking laugh, glancing quickly at his allies as if seeking confirmation of James's madness.

"The connection? The marks?" Severus repeated, his tone laced with venomous sarcasm. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about, Potter? Did you sustain a head injury yesterday? You certainly looked shocked, but I ran away because I assumed you’d frozen, desperately trying to calculate how to avoid a suspension for dueling on the first day back. I didn't want to be involved in your inevitable pathetic fallout."

Regulus Black leaned forward, his voice politely dangerous. "Are you suggesting Severus is your soulmate, Potter? Because if you are, I must remind you that years of systematic, unprovoked harassment tend to—shall we say—nullify any supposed bond. Magic has ethics, even if you do not."

James felt a sickening lurch in his gut. The bond was right there. He could feel the anchor it threw into his own soul. Severus was denying it. Was it possible the conflict had broken the connection on one side?

"Don't be ridiculous, Regulus," James snapped, dismissing the junior Black. He focused back on Severus, his face serious. "It's not nullified. I saw the marks on my wrist. You felt the shock, I know you did. It means we have a bond, a destiny—"

Severus pushed his porridge bowl away, his movements radiating disdain. "A destiny? With you?" He stood up slowly, deliberately favoring his side—a subtle reminder of the pain James had inflicted over the years. His voice dropped to an icy whisper meant only for James. "Let me be perfectly clear, Potter. I have no such mark, no such feeling, and no such destiny with a self-absorbed, ignorant bully like you."

He paused, letting his gaze scorch James. "I am not blind, and I am not stupid. The only thing I felt yesterday was relief that you were momentarily stunned, giving me time to escape your childish spectacle. Now you've stopped bullying me, which is suspicious enough, but to concoct this bizarre, fantastical tale about a 'soulmate bond' just to continue tormenting me? It's insulting to my intelligence."

Narcissa stood beside Severus, her hand subtly resting on his forearm. "He's not interested in your dramatic games, Potter. Go find someone who actually likes you to practice your theatrical apologies on."

James stared, completely stunned. The furious certainty that had fueled him since the night before wavered. If Severus was telling the truth—if he felt nothing—then James was bonded to someone who actively despised him and planned to reject the bond forever. The magic on his own wrist pulsed, but the connection was fiercely, violently one-sided.

"I am not joking," James said, his voice flat with genuine hurt. "The bullying stops. I will apologize for everything, and I will prove to you that this is real."

Severus sneered, his mask of cold disbelief holding fast. "Do what you like, Potter. I don't care about your apologies or your sudden, forced attempts at civil behavior. But if you mention this ridiculous 'soulmate' fantasy to me again, I will assume it's simply your newest, most pathetic form of psychological torture."

With a pointedly dismissive turn, Severus and his allies walked out of the Great Hall, leaving James standing alone, bewildered and aching with the unrequited force of a magical bond he was now certain only he could feel. His pursuit had officially begun—and it had been instantly, brutally rejected.