The first light of dawn painted the sky in streaks of orange and pink as the distant crow of a rooster echoed across the Hogwarts grounds. The castle remained quiet, its inhabitants still lost in sleep, but down on the vast Quidditch pitch, movement broke the stillness of the morning air.
Hagrid, clad in his usual moleskin coat, trudged across the damp grass, his boots leaving heavy imprints behind him. He had been up before the sun, as always, tending to his duties as Keeper of the Grounds and Keys, making sure the creatures in his care were fed and that the grounds remained in good condition.
It was on mornings like these that he sometimes found himself wandering to the Quidditch pitch to inspect the field. But what truly drew his attention these days wasn't the field itself—it was James Dawson.
There he was again.
A lone figure, running in steady strides along the perimeter of the pitch.
Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breath came in rhythmic bursts as he pushed himself forward, completely focused on the path ahead. His movements were controlled, efficient—not the mindless exertion of someone simply trying to stay fit, but the disciplined training of someone with a goal.
And for the life of him, Hagrid still couldn't figure out why.
James had always been diligent, waking with the sunrise to train, but for the past week, Hagrid had noticed a shift. It wasn't just diligence anymore—it was obsession.
Every morning, without fail, the boy was here. Running. Pushing himself harder than ever.
And Hagrid, ever the curious one, couldn't help but ask.
He waited until James slowed to a stop, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
"Yeh alright there, James?" Hagrid called, stepping forward. "Been noticin' yeh out 'ere every mornin' lately. Yeh pushin' yerself a bit hard, don' yeh think?"
James wiped the sweat from his brow, giving Hagrid a lopsided grin as he straightened.
"Someone's gotta carry the boats, Hagrid," he said, stretching his arms behind his back.
Hagrid blinked.
"...Boats?"
"Yeah." James rolled his shoulders, not offering any further explanation.
For a moment, Hagrid just stared at him, utterly baffled.
"Fer Merlin's sake, he's a wizard! If yeh need boats carried, just levitate 'em!"
But James wasn't the type to spout nonsense without reason. He was sharp—one of the smarter students Hagrid had come across, always thinking several steps ahead. So why was he doing this? Why was he treating his body like it needed to be as strong as his magic?
"James," Hagrid tried again, folding his massive arms. "Yeh don't have to be doin' all this, yeh know. Yeh already got talent. Magic'll do most o' the work fer yeh."
James looked up at him, his expression unreadable.
"That's the problem, Hagrid," he said. "Magic can fail."
And with that, he dropped down into a set of push-ups, continuing his training as if the conversation had never happened.
Hagrid watched in silence.
He didn't fully understand what James was after, but he could see it in the boy's eyes—that unwavering determination, the need to push past limits that most wizards wouldn't even consider.
And that… well, that made Hagrid uneasy.
He let out a long sigh before shaking his head and heading off to finish his morning duties.
James, for his part, didn't stop until he was done.
Once his body had given everything it had to give, he got up, dusted himself off, and gave Hagrid a quick nod.
"Anyway, I'm off," he said, stretching his arms. "Got things to do today."
"Still early compared ter the others," Hagrid pointed out, watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Yeah, well," James shrugged, already walking away. "I have something to do."
And with that, he disappeared into the morning mist, leaving Hagrid standing alone on the field.
The half-giant frowned, glancing back at the spot where James had been training just moments ago.
The morning sun filtered through the dormitory windows, casting warm golden light across the room. The peaceful silence of early morning was broken by the familiar rustling of blankets and the groggy grumbles of boys waking up to face the day.
James, freshly showered and feeling refreshed, stood by his bed, towel draped over his shoulders as he watched his dormmates stir. Unlike most mornings, today was different—today was his rest day, a day he had deliberately set aside to recover from his brutal self-imposed training regimen.
Ever since he had learned that this world wasn't just the Harry Potter universe but also High School DxD, his entire perspective on power had shifted.
Magic alone isn't enough.
He needed more than just spellcasting ability. If devils, angels, and gods existed, then magic was just one part of the equation. He had to develop his body to its peak, push himself beyond his limits, and tap into other sources of power—Touki, Ki, Chakra—whatever this world had to offer, he would master it all.
That was why his training had intensified.
Mornings were brutal workouts that left his muscles screaming, days were spent juggling academics and honing his spellwork, and nights often ended with impromptu dueling sessions against ambitious Slytherins.
But today?
Today, he would rest.
The rare thought made him chuckle to himself as he turned to see his dormmates groggily waking up.
"Hey, guys," he greeted casually. "Good morning."
Harry sat up first, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, his hair looking as messy as ever.
Ron, on the other hand, blinked blearily at James before groaning.
"Again?" he muttered, flopping back onto his pillow. "I tell you, mate, you are one big weirdo. Who wakes up this early voluntarily?"
James smirked, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "We all have our weirdness, Ron. Now, let's get breakfast "
Ron yawning as he sat up properly.
"So, what's the plan today?" he asked. "More studying with Hermione as usual?"
Harry, still halfway through stretching, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's what I figured too. You usually disappear for the whole day after breakfast."
James, however, gave them a sly grin.
"Actually, no studying today," he said. "Let's play Quidditch instead."
There was a beat of silence.
Harry and Ron's heads snapped toward him in unison, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You?" Ron said, voice laden with shock. "You want to play Quidditch?"
James shrugged. "Yeah. Why not?"
"You hate Quidditch," Harry pointed out.
"I don't hate it," James corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. "I just don't get the hype like you lot do. But it's my rest day, and I figure running drills on a broom is as good a way to relax as any."
Ron gaped at him as if he had just suggested that Snape should be the next Minister for Magic.
"Are you feeling alright, mate? Should we get Pomfrey?"
James rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Weasley. Now, come on, let's go before the first-years swarm the Great Hall."
Still looking mildly shell-shocked, Ron and Harry exchanged glances before shrugging and scrambling out of bed.
If James Dawson—the James Dawson—was willingly suggesting Quidditch, then Merlin help them, they weren't going to waste this opportunity.