I Knew It Would End in a Fistfight

Beneath his tousled hair, a lightning-shaped scar.

Ron stared in awe. "That scar…did the Dark Lord do that?"

"Yes." Harry nodded, leaning forward. "Actually, I'm really curious—why do you all call Voldemort the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Ron shuddered. "Oh, no… I knew it—if anyone would actually say his name, it'd be you."

"So, why can't we just call him Voldemort?" Harry pressed, still curious.

No book he'd read had explained it.

Whenever Voldemort was mentioned in text, it was always "the Dark Lord" or "You-Know-Who."

Ron froze, his brain seemingly stalling. "I…I don't really know. My parents always said that speaking his name brings bad luck."

"A curse, maybe?" Harry thought of something he'd read in The Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defense—"Beware of ancient, malevolent words. The words themselves can carry a curse."

Ron looked uncomfortable, his tone almost pleading. "Could we…not talk about this? Why don't we chat about something else? Like, which Quidditch team do you support?"

Harry didn't push it.

Even though he was genuinely curious.

They moved on to other topics, and seeing the world through the eyes of a young wizard was fascinating.

Witchers were rarely conversationalists.

But Ron was a natural.

By midday, as they bought snacks, Ron hadn't run out of things to say.

Bang!

Just as Ron was debating whether booger-flavored or mud-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans tasted worse, the door burst open.

A girl with large front teeth and thick, bushy brown hair stuck her head in. "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost his toad."

Harry glanced up but didn't respond.

"What are you looking at? I asked you a question," she said, with an imperious tone.

Harry replied, sincere but puzzled, "Are you an orphan, like me?"

The girl blinked.

Was he…insulting her?

He must be.

But how could she respond? He'd included himself in the insult…maybe he was just socially clueless?

After a pause, she replied, "Oh, um, no, I'm not an orphan."

Harry raised a hand and pointed at Ron. "He's one of seven kids, and his parents taught him to knock before entering someone's compartment. So why haven't you learned?"

Ron looked up, a mouthful of pumpkin pasty, bewildered.

He was just a bystander, yet somehow he'd been dragged into this.

He understood the point.

But still…it felt oddly uncomfortable.

The girl's face flushed. "Sorry, I was just in a hurry because Neville's pet is missing."

"We haven't seen it," Harry replied.

She withdrew, closing the door hurriedly. "Thank you, sorry for bothering you."

Ron gave Harry a conflicted look. "No offense, Harry, but has anyone ever told you that your way of talking…might be a bit off?"

Harry nodded in agreement. "Yes, plenty of people have. I think so too."

"Because, you know, every time I think I'm being polite, it somehow turns into a fistfight."

"Well, maybe you should work on that," Ron suggested helpfully.

Harry looked puzzled and answered matter-of-factly, "Isn't it fine as long as I can win?"

Ron opened his mouth, but had no response.

He looked at Harry—this scrawny kid didn't seem much of a fighter.

Bang—the door swung open again.

Once again, no knocking.

This time, there were three boys. Leading them was a boy with platinum blond hair and a pale face, his expression as smug as the bushy-haired girl's, except his arrogance was plastered all over his face.

"I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment." He looked between them, saw Ron, sneered in disgust, and quickly turned his gaze to Harry. "So it's you, then?"

"You are…" Harry began to ask.

Ron quickly interjected, "He has parents. Malfoy style really does make people sick."

Malfoy was confused.

Everyone has parents, isn't that obvious?

"So why didn't you knock?" Harry changed his question, directly and plainly.

Malfoy held his head high, extending a hand toward Harry. "I came to befriend you. But it looks like you've already made a friend?"

"But let me tell you, Potter, not all wizarding families are equal."

"My father told me about the Weasleys—filthy blood traitors who have a litter of stinking red-headed kids."

"Clearly—"

"Potter, I doubt you'd want to befriend an outcast like him."

Ron clenched his fists, his face red with anger.

Harry didn't extend his hand, but instead looked straight at Malfoy.

His amber cat-like eyes met Malfoy's gaze, sending a chill down Malfoy's spine.

"We're all outcasts already, aren't we?" Harry said with a smile, shaking his head.

Malfoy withdrew his hand, his face going cold, his pallor taking on an even more sickly hue. "Outcasts? Seems like you've spent too much time in the Muggle world!"

"Potter, if I were you, I'd be careful. Hanging around with people like Weasley will only drag you down."

Harry sighed and clenched his fist. "I'm really trying to have a conversation with you."

"But I suppose it's not working."

"Let's just skip the small talk, then." He stood up, adopting a fighting stance. "Whether you want to come at me one by one or all at once, I'm ready."

Malfoy stepped back. "You want to fight?"

"Isn't that what this is?" Harry asked.

"Goyle, Crabbe, teach him a lesson!" Malfoy glanced at his two lackeys, sneering, "Give this scar-headed fool a bit of a reality check."

Harry felt nothing.

He'd known it would come to this.

He sidestepped, landing a jab squarely on Goyle's nose—blood and snot sprayed, speckling Malfoy's platinum hair.

He ducked and crouched, delivering an uppercut to Crabbe's chin.

Not enough power to send him flying.

But the impact twisted Crabbe's face in pain, and Harry took the chance to follow up with a hook.

Even big kids of eleven couldn't take too many punches.

The two of them clutched their heads, half-kneeling on the floor, groaning in pain.

Malfoy looked at Harry in terror.

"You still want a go?" Harry asked, expressionless as he shook his hand, flicking off the blood and snot.

Malfoy staggered back, fleeing the compartment.

Crabbe and Goyle scrambled after him, practically rolling out of the compartment.

Harry shut the door.

As he sat back down, Ron wore a strange look, half excited. "I believe you now—you really can fight. Those two were huge, and you took them down in a couple punches."

"They were weak," Harry said, unfazed. Bullying kids like that left him with a twinge of guilt—if only for a second or two. "As wizards, they didn't even cast a spell."

Of course…he wouldn't have given them the chance to pull out a wand anyway.

"No, most first-year wizards don't know how to cast spells yet," Ron corrected him, then hesitated, remembering Harry's Levitation Charm. "You're an exception, of course, being the Boy Who Lived."

Harry unwrapped a licorice stick and popped it into his mouth. "Did I say anything wrong back there?"

Ron paused. "Which part?"

"Every part." Harry looked puzzled. "And what does 'Mudblood' mean?"

Ron grimaced. "It's a horrible word, an insult for Muggle-born wizards. Really foul. Only nasty, irredeemable Dark wizards use it."

"Like Malfoy."

"And those Slytherin types who seem born to be evil."

Harry bit down on the licorice, snapping it. "But Muggle isn't much better, is it?"

"Muggle isn't better?" Ron struggled to understand.

"I mean, Muggle also has a heavy air of prejudice."

"What makes you say that?" Ron asked, confused.

"How do you spell Muggle?" Harry traced the word in the air. "M-U-G-G-L-E."

"You don't find that strange?"

Ron still looked lost.

"Do wizards not study word origins?" Harry asked, surprised.

Ron blushed. "No, we do! Of course we do!"

"It's just… I don't get your point. What's odd about it?"

Harry sighed. "The root of Muggle is M-U-G, which means 'fool'."

Ron objected, "It also means a cup."

"It's also used to refer to people, meaning someone gullible." Harry tapped the table.

In truth, he preferred the term in A History of Magic for non-magical people: No-Maj.

Once again, Ron's brain seemed to stall.

It was hard for him to accept that a word he'd used for so long could have this other meaning.

A male voice announced in the compartment.

"We'll be arriving at Hogwarts in five minutes. All students, please put on your uniforms and leave your luggage on the train. It

will be delivered to your dormitories."

Harry stood up, waved his wand, and retrieved his uniform. He patted Ron's shoulder. "Don't overthink it. It's just a word."

"If you're used to it, keep using it."

Ron frowned. "But you said it means 'fool'."

"Mug means fool. Muggle doesn't," Harry shrugged, changing into his robes. "Words don't change much of anything."

Ron nodded slowly. "Alright, then."

"Do you know which House you want to be in?"

Ron perked up instantly, his bad mood fading. A self-proclaimed future Gryffindor, he shook off his worries almost instantly.

Harry thought for a moment. "It might be Gryffindor."

Each House head had a powerful relic, and Gryffindor's was a goblin-forged sword—a potentially extraordinary magical artifact. For a witcher, nothing was more enticing than a legendary sword.