The morning air was sharp, cool against James' skin as he gripped the steel bar.
His fingers curled tightly around the cold metal, chalk dust puffing from his palms as he took position in front of the weights. The ground beneath him was solid, unmoving. Good. He needed that kind of certainty right now.
His muscles coiled, back straight, shoulders locked into position.
And then—he lifted.
The bar rose inch by inch, the plates rattling ever so slightly with the strain. Veins bulged across his forearms, his jaw clenched tight. His breath came out in short, guttural bursts through gritted teeth.
"Rrhhhhh—come on—" he hissed to himself, eyes narrowed with focus.
The final set pushed him to the edge. Not pain exactly—more like pure, raw exertion. He screamed—not in agony, but in effort—as the weight reached the top of the lift. A deep, animalistic sound. Then with a controlled breath, he lowered the bar, letting it rest against the floor with a satisfying thud.
"Blimey," a voice rumbled behind him. "That's... well, tha's more than I've seen most grown wizards manage."
James straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. Hagrid stood nearby, arms folded, an expression of mild disbelief creasing his face beneath that wild beard.
"You alright there?" Hagrid asked, stepping forward. "Not tryin' to kill yerself, I hope?"
James let out a short breath, still winded. "What? That? Nah. Just finishing my last set. No biggie."
"No biggie, he says," Hagrid muttered, chuckling to himself. "You're liftin' twice yer body weight. Fer a human, that's… well, not normal."
James smirked, rolling his shoulders as he walked over to his water bottle. "Maybe I'm not normal, Hagrid."
"Yeah, maybe," Hagrid said, glancing toward the stables in the distance. "Not in a bad way, mind."
James took a swig, then pointed toward the supply crates stacked near the barn. "You've restocked early. And cleaned the stables too. Over-prepared, even for you. Someone coming ?"
Hagrid scratched the back of his neck, trying to look casual but failing miserably.
"Er... well, delegations are arrivin' today. You weren't supposed to know yet."
James raised an eyebrow. "Delegations? For what?"
Hagrid paused, grimaced, then waved a massive hand. "Nothin' official. Forget I said anythin'. Anyway, I've got it all handled."
James gave him a look, half amused. "You sure you don't need a hand? I've picked up a few things helping you."
"That's true," Hagrid grinned. "Quick learner, you are. Shame you didn't take Care of Magical Creatures, though. I'd've made you my apprentice, easy."
James shrugged, tossing his towel over his shoulder. "I'm already learning from you, aren't I? Doesn't matter what the timetable says."
Hagrid's smile softened, but then dimmed a bit. "Yeh heard I'm not teachin' this year?"
James nodded, more serious now. "I did. Thought it was odd. What happened?"
Hagrid let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Lucius Malfoy happened, tha's what. Kicked up a storm when Draco got hurt last year. Said I was reckless. Twisted things 'round, like he always does."
James frowned, eyes darkening. "That's a shame. You were a good teacher. I've heard it from other students too."
Hagrid blinked. "They said that?"
"Yeah," James said simply, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. "They did."
"Well then," Hagrid said, clearing his throat. "Thanks, James."
James gave him a brief nod, then turned toward the castle path. "See you around, Hagrid."
"Bye now," Hagrid called, still standing there, watching him go.
As James walked toward the castle, the sun rising behind him, he let the weight of the conversation linger.
===
Everything was unfolding the way it should.
At least, that's what the headlines wanted people to believe.
Triwizard Tournament Sparks New Era of Unity!
Hogwarts Welcomes Foreign Champions in Historic Magical Event!
Ministry Restores Order After World Cup Chaos!
The Daily Prophet had done its job well. The Ministry's frantic scrambling had paid off. No more talk of the burning woods. No whispers of shadowy figures falling like puppets. No mention of the name "Ashen."
All neatly swept under the rug. Forgotten by the public. Buried by the spectacle.
And oh, what a spectacle it was.
Durmstrang's ship had emerged like a ghost from the Black Lake, trailing mist and mystery. Their students, draped in thick furs, moved like soldiers—disciplined and silent. At their helm, Karkaroff stood like a blade sharpened by time, and beside him, Viktor Krum—the youngest Seeker in professional Quidditch—walked with a heavy kind of grace. There was something oddly respectful in the way the crowd had parted for him.
Then came Beauxbatons.
The skies shimmered as their carriage descended—graceful as falling snow, drawn by winged Abraxans with manes like silk and eyes full of fire. Their students descended with a ballet's elegance, expressions distant and proud. Madame Maxime glided at the front, her sheer stature commanding, her movements effortlessly dignified.
And the Veela.
Even now, James could recall the subtle shift in the air when they appeared. Like reality itself held its breath. The laughter dimmed, voices faltered. The world turned in their direction. Beauty wasn't the right word—it didn't do them justice. They weren't human in any conventional sense. They were a pull, a song, a storm.
He had heard of them, of course.
But hearing was nothing like feeling.
Still—James held still. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Breathing even.
One hand in his pocket, fingers brushing the cool glass of a small vial he always kept near. The other hung loosely at his side. He didn't shift, didn't twitch.
Control. Always control.
It was easier now than before. Not effortless, but familiar.
The castle had come alive with the new arrivals. Banners of gold, red, silver, and blue rippled in the corridors. French, Bulgarian, and other accents mingled with the usual chatter. Food tasted different—richer, more spiced. Even the ghosts had taken to hovering more theatrically, performing for their foreign guests.
For once, Hogwarts felt like a place of celebration.
And James—James was just another student, leaning against a sun-warmed column just outside the courtyard. The early autumn breeze rustled the sleeve of his robe. He let his eyes drift toward the fountain, where laughter echoed through the stone arches.
There they were.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Sitting like any trio of teenagers would—legs crossed, hands gesturing wildly, voices rising and falling with that beautiful, chaotic rhythm only friendship knew.
Harry had just finished some story—Ron was doubled over, wheezing through his laughter. Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, but even that couldn't hide the grin tugging at her lips.
James watched them.
Watched Harry.
The boy who was supposed to be in the center of it all. Who, by all accounts, should have been yanked into another deadly plot, another tragic twist.
But not this time.
Because James had ended it before it began.
His fingers curled slightly in his pocket.
He remembered the way Barty Crouch Jr. had screamed as the Auror approached. Then he got demenator kiss .
He'd thought it would bring closure.
Instead, it brought dreams.
Nightmares, more accurately. Visions of cities on fire, of accusations echoing from unseen mouths. Of standing above someone broken, of being the monster they saw.
James shifted his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders. The tension had crept up again—subtle, coiled at the base of his neck. He exhaled, long and slow.
Then, something broke through the haze.
A hand.
Harry had spotted him and waved.
Just a small gesture. Casual. But real.
Hermione followed his gaze and gave a slight nod. Ron, mid-bite of something, lifted his sandwich in a makeshift salute.
James blinked.
He hadn't expected it.
A beat passed. Then he raised his own hand in return, offering a faint smile. Almost surprised his face remembered how.
That's what made it harder.
They didn't know.
They couldn't.
He was the shadow walking beside their peace, and they were too wrapped in sunlight to notice. And part of him… part of him wanted to keep it that way.
Let them have this.
Let them be children.
Let them not carry the weight of the war he'd already begun to fight.
He pushed off from the column, letting his robe swish softly behind him as he began to walk.
Cedric Diggory. Hogwarts' golden boy. A good choice—capable, humble, everything a champion should be.
Viktor Krum. Durmstrang's pride. A born athlete. Stoic and serious.
Fleur Delacour. The shining star of Beauxbatons. All grace and sharp edges.
Three names. No darkness. No traps.
Just honest competition.
At least, that's what everyone hoped.
James doubted it would stay that way.
But for now… he would play along.
He moved toward the Great Hall, slipping through a crowd of students. Conversations swirled around him—bets on the first task, excitement about Yule Ball rumors, complaints about homework. All so normal.
And him? Just another student in the crowd.
Ashen didn't exist in Hogwarts.
James Dawson did.
But in the quiet moments—in the stillness between heartbeats—he could feel the other version of himself waiting. Watching.
Because peace never lasted.
And he knew that better than anyone.
====
start writing a book , when the world awoke . Go read it .