The Potions classroom was steeped in a chilly quiet, broken only by the low hiss of a slow-bubbling cauldron and the rhythmic scrape of a stirrer against copper. It was well past midnight. A single flickering gas lamp illuminated the far corner, casting Severus Snape in a pool of dim, golden light as he monitored a delicate brew—the final stage of Slughorn’s anti-Dark Arts commission. He was alone, just as the Marauders had surmised, having waved off Evan Rosier an hour earlier with promises of swift success.

Severus felt an unnerving prickle on the back of his neck. It wasn't the magic of the potion; it was the cold pull of the Unmarked Constellation—a sensation he was now agonizingly attuned to, a cruel indicator that James Potter was nearby.

He straightened, his back rigid. "A cowardly method of entry, Potter," he drawled, not bothering to turn around. "Did you require the cover of night to avoid embarrassing witnesses to your failure?"

The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind James, the sound echoing in the dungeon silence. James didn't answer with a sneer or a retort. He simply walked toward the copper light, stopping a few feet behind Severus.

"I didn't come here to duel, Snape," James said, his voice quiet and low, lacking all its usual theatrical bravado. "I came here because this is the only way you'll stand still long enough to hear me. You and your friends have managed to avoid me for three weeks, but this—" he held up his left wrist, the faint, silver lines of the constellation catching the dim light—"this doesn't go away just because you deny it."

Severus finally turned, resting his weight against the workbench, his dark eyes sharp and utterly hostile. He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture tense. "If you felt a 'bond,' Potter, perhaps it was simply the lingering trauma of four years of mutual animosity finally manifesting itself as delusion. I felt nothing but disgust."

"Stop lying," James commanded, taking a determined step closer. "I know you felt it. I saw the look on your face. The magic hit us both. I didn't stop bullying you because I was bored, Snape, I stopped because I realized the person I'd been tormenting for four years is the person I'm magically bound to spend the rest of my life with."

Severus let out a bitter, surgical laugh. "And this is supposed to be the great confession? The grand apology? Your soulmate is a poor, greasy-haired half-blood who struggles to keep his robes clean, so your solution is to force him to acknowledge a fate he never wanted? How terribly generous of you, Potter."

He stepped away from the bench, his voice dropping to a cutting whisper. "I have no mark. I felt no bond. If you have been struck by some pathetic curse that has convinced you of a ridiculous, one-sided destiny, that is your affliction, not mine. I refuse to be your reluctant prize."

James felt a genuine pang of hurt, a deep, frustrating ache that the bond amplified. "Why? Why are you fighting this so hard? I get it—I was an absolute bastard to you. I was. I'm sorry for that. But we can start over! The bond is a chance—"

"Start Over?! A chance?!" Severus’s voice rose, laced with savage sarcasm. "A chance for what? A chance to stand beside the Boy Who Bullied and be pitied? A chance to forgive the fact that you, with your gilded life and your parental wealth, mocked the fact that my clothes were tattered and my magic was different?"

Severus moved quickly, pulling up the cuff of his own robe and exposing his forearm—clean, white skin. "Look, Potter. No mark. No silver constellations, no binding magic. You are alone in this fantasy. I ran because you suddenly froze, and I assumed it was the precursor to the most humiliating prank yet."

The gesture—the exposed, clean skin—was calculated and brutal. It was the perfect lie, and James was desperate to believe it. He knew the magic in his own blood. Severus had to be hiding it, but the force of his denial was terrifying.

"I don't care if you hide the mark, Severus," James persisted, refusing to look away, the determination warring with a sudden, sinking dread. "I feel the bond, and I know it's real. And I will keep showing up. I will keep apologizing. I will not stop until you admit it, because you are mine, and I won't let four years of my stupidity ruin what magic intended."

Severus smiled then, a cruel, cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. "You think you can pursue me, Potter? You think you can wear down my resolve with clumsy, half-hearted kindness? I have endured far worse than your desperate affections."

He gestured vaguely at the gloom of the dungeon. "I have ambitions, Potter, and they do not include fixing the conscience of the boy who made my childhood hell. Go back to your warm dormitory and your adoring friends. I am not the reward for your sudden nobility."

James stood there, immobilized by the pure, unyielding venom in Severus’s words. He had expected anger; he had expected a hex. He hadn't expected the calculated, absolute dismissal of his very destiny.

Finally, James's shoulders slumped. He nodded slowly, his eyes dark with pain and frustration, but not surrender.

"Fine," James conceded, the word tight. "You have your space. But I won't give up. I will prove to you that the James Potter who hurt you is gone. And when you finally look at that mark and admit the truth, I will be there."

Without another word, James turned, the bond screaming in silent protest at the separation. He let himself out of the Potions classroom, leaving Severus standing alone in the copper light, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench, his false calm finally shattering.

Severus stared at the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pressed his hand to his side—not where his ribs ached, but over his heart—where the silver constellation on his torso pulsed with agonizing, unacknowledged heat.

He believes me, Severus thought, a sharp, horrible triumph mingled with a deep, private sorrow. He believes the bond is one-sided.

He was free of James’s pursuit—for now. But the cost of that freedom felt like a slow, deliberate drowning.