THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Across Lifetimes

James’s heart had been a storm of emotions ever since his mother informed him about his betrothal. At just eleven, he had never expected to be involved in something as consequential as marriage, especially since his mother had always been adamant about delaying any such commitments until her children were at least fifteen. But the look in her eyes told him this was different. There was something deeply important behind her decision, so he agreed without question, trusting her judgment as he always had.

His bride-to-be, Lilith Tully, was the only daughter of the Lord of the Riverlands, a powerful alliance for their family. Yet this arrangement felt strange, given the hidden complexity of their lives. His true father, Daemon, lay secretly within the Red Keep, guarded by magic so intricate that only a select few knew that he had returned. It made him question why his mother would involve him in a match at such a delicate time. Even if there would be no marriage until Lilith turned sixteen, the thought of a bond so soon unsettled him.

The name Lilith, however, was what struck him hardest. It sounded hauntingly like Lily—his Lily, his brave, brilliant, inventive wife from another life. How he missed her, her spirit, her laughter, her boundless creativity. He had sworn to her once, to love her beyond death, beyond worlds, beyond all possible barriers. And here he was, feeling the ache of that promise as he prepared to greet someone new, even as he knew his heart could never truly belong to anyone but his Lily.

But as he stood there, waiting, a feeling unlike any other swept over him—a pulse, a tug, that familiar, unmistakable bond that had once connected him to his soul’s other half. His mother’s knowing smile only deepened his confusion, but before he could question it further, the carriages arrived. His heart stopped as he caught a glimpse of a face he’d thought he would never see again in this world.

A small, familiar figure peeked out from the carriage, and their eyes met. It was her. Lily. His beautiful Lily, now Lilith Tully, but unmistakably the same soul. In that moment, he felt the world shift, a piece of his heart that had been lost suddenly clicking back into place. All his words, all his carefully held thoughts, vanished into the air. He felt a wave of gratitude so profound that he could scarcely breathe. His love, his Lily flower, had somehow returned to him.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched her approach, his heart pounding in disbelief and relief. It was true what they said about Potters—they loved only once, and that love was eternal. He had fallen in love with her all those years ago, and he would rise and fall in love with her forever, even if it meant finding her across lifetimes and worlds. His beloved Lily, his soul’s match, had returned to him, and in that moment, he needed nothing more than to be hers once again.

Lilith Tully—or rather, Lily Violet Potter, as she still thought of herself— remembered everything from that night in 1981, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The echoes of her husband's final breath, the hurried whisper of incantations as she cast blood runes onto her daughter’s crib, carving her own magic into the very air. Then, the flash of green light. She'd known that sacrificing herself was her only chance to save Sitara from Voldemort's wrath, and so she had let go of her life willingly. But death hadn’t been the end; she and James had lingered, bound to their daughter through the sheer force of their love. They had walked beside her, invisible yet present, watching with pride and anguish as she grew up.

If Lily were honest with herself, she would have gladly handed Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley straight over to Bellatrix Lestrange if she could have. Not that she could—being dead rather limited her options. But it didn’t stop her from scaring them senseless. Whenever Sitara wasn’t around, Lily would make her presence known, shuffling objects in Petunia’s pristine kitchen, rattling windows, creating cold drafts. Anything to give them a taste of their own medicine. She could still see the way Petunia’s face would drain of color, and how James would double over laughing, calling her a vengeance seeker. “They didn’t call me the ‘Bleeding Lily’ in the first war for nothing,” she’d quip, a glint in her eye.