THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

The Dragon's Heirs

A few months later, James Potter felt a crushing pressure all around him, as though he were being squeezed through a tight, confining space. Then, without warning, a flood of sensations overwhelmed him—bright lights, sharp sounds, and cool air. His ears picked up the sound of crying, and for a split second, he realized it was his own voice filling the room.

Oh, Merlin’s beard, he thought. I really have been reborn.

Disoriented, James blinked his newly formed eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Everything felt foreign, yet familiar. The cold, gloomy atmosphere of the room was unnervingly reminiscent of the old Black family home at Grimmauld Place, with its dim lighting and heavy, oppressive air. Did I get reborn into the Black family or something? he mused, his mind still muddled.

Before he could dwell on it any longer, a pair of strong hands lifted him, and James found himself cradled by what must have been a midwife. Her rough, practiced movements were followed by a soft voice, a voice he knew all too well: "Give me my boy."

James stilled, his mind racing. That voice—it was unmistakable. As the midwife cleaned him and wrapped him in soft, warm fabric, he was passed into the waiting arms of a woman. When his bleary eyes finally focused, he saw her—his little Bambi. His daughter, his fawn, now drenched in sweat, her skin flushed from exertion.

She looks dreadful, James thought, his heart squeezing. Who did this to her? He didn’t realize, not at first, that it was him—the tiny newborn she held so tenderly.

The reality hit him like a Bludger to the chest: his precious daughter from his past life was now his mother.

James mentally groaned, sending silent prayers to every god he had ever heard of. What kind of cosmic joke is this? His mind buzzed with confusion and questions, but all his thoughts quieted as he looked into her eyes—those familiar, brilliant emerald eyes. His Bambi—no, his mother—looked down at him, her eyes softening as they locked with his. In that moment, something passed between them, a recognition that neither words nor time could erase.

Her lips curled into a smile as she whispered, "Jaemarys. Jaemarys Targaryen."

Jaemarys Targaryen? James blinked, his confusion deepening. Targaryen? He had never heard of that name in his world. It wasn’t one of the Sacred 28, nor was it a foreign pureblood family he was familiar with. What was this name? What world had he been born into?

His train of thought was interrupted as he glanced around the room. Aside from his mother, only one other person was present—a girl with bushy brown hair and a serious expression, standing close to his mother’s side. Hermione. James recognized her immediately. So loyal, he thought with fondness. So determined. She had always reminded him of Lily with her relentless studying. It was oddly comforting to see her here.

Suddenly, another sharp cry pierced the air. James turned his attention back to his mother. She was screaming again. Oh no, he thought, panic rising in his tiny chest. My twin.

After what felt like a long, grueling struggle, another baby was born, and James felt an odd sense of dread wash over him. His mind jumped to wild conclusions. Did my precious Bambi—marry that ferret-boy, Draco Malfoy? His heart clenched at the thought. He turned to look at his newborn sibling and saw a flash of platinum blonde hair. No, he thought in horror, it can’t be!

But then, as the newborn opened her eyes, they weren’t the steely grey of a Malfoy. They were a soft, violet hue.

James let out a relieved sigh. Okay, not a Malfoy, then.

His mother smiled tiredly and named the baby, "Helaena. Helaena Targaryen."

Before James could make sense of this Targaryen connection, the door creaked open, and a man walked in. He was older, far older than his mother. At least 13 or 14 years her senior, maybe even more. James's heart sank as he watched the man approach. His mother—his precious Bambi—looked so young, barely in her twenties, and yet this man, easily in his thirties, stepped forward with what was a bad mimicking of an air of authority.