I Knew It Would Come Down to Fists

A lightning-shaped scar beneath his fringe.

Ron stared at it. "You-Know-Who did that?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, leaning forward. "Actually, I've been wondering why you call Voldemort You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord, or the man whose name must not be spoken."

Ron shuddered. "Oh, no. I knew it. I knew you'd be the only one of all of us who could say his name."

"So why can't you say Voldemort?" Harry was still curious.

The book didn't say why.

Whenever it mentioned "Voldemort," it used "the Dark Lord" or "that man" instead.

Ron was stumped, his brain buffering. "I... I don't know either. My parents have always said that, ever since I was little. They said saying the Dark Lord's name would bring trouble."

"A curse?" Harry recalled a passage in Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defense: "Beware of ancient, evil words. Words themselves can hold the power to curse."

Ron looked uneasy, and his voice took on a pleading note. "Oh, can we stop talking about this? Why don't we talk about which Quidditch team you like?"

Harry didn't press him.

Though he really was curious.

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

Witchers weren't much for conversation.

But Ron was.

By noon, they'd bought some food, and Ron still hadn't run out of things to say.

Clatter!

Just as Ron was trying to decide whether booger-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans or dirt-flavored ones tasted better,

the compartment door was yanked open.

A girl with prominent front teeth and a thick mass of brown curls stuck her head in. "Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

Harry looked up at her but didn't say anything.

"What are you staring at? I asked you a question." The girl still sounded haughty.

Harry spoke, sincere and puzzled. "Are you an orphan, like me?"

The girl froze.

That question...

He must be insulting her, right?

He definitely was.

But how was she supposed to answer? He'd insulted himself, too... Maybe he just didn't know how to talk and was genuinely curious?

The girl hesitated. "Oh, no. Sorry, I'm not an orphan."

Harry raised a hand and pointed at Ron. "His family has seven children. His parents taught him to knock before entering someone else's compartment. Why haven't you learned that yet?"

Ron, his mouth full of Pumpkin Pasty, looked up in confusion.

He was just an innocent bystander, minding his own business. Why had a stray arrow suddenly hit him in the knee?

He understood the point.

But why... did it sound so unpleasant?

The girl blushed. "I'm sorry. I was in a hurry, but Neville's pet has gone missing."

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

The girl backed out and hurriedly pulled the door shut. "Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

Ron looked at the person sitting across from him with a complicated expression. "Harry, I don't mean anything by this, but has anyone ever told you that there might be something wrong with the way you talk?"

Harry nodded in agreement. "Yes, lots of people have. I think there's something wrong with it, too."

"You know, whenever I think I'm talking to someone in a perfectly reasonable way, it always ends up coming to blows."

"Then you should change," Ron suggested. It was a perfectly sensible piece of advice.

Harry glanced at him, puzzled and utterly unapologetic. "As long as you can beat them, what's the problem?"

Ron opened his mouth, then had nothing to say.

He eyed Harry uneasily. With that small, skinny frame, Harry hardly looked like someone who could fight.

Clatter—the compartment door opened again.

Still without a knock.

This time, more people came in: three boys. The one in front was a pale little boy with platinum-blond hair. The brown-haired girl wore her arrogance in her words; his was written all over his face.

"I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment." He looked between the two of them. When he saw Ron, a blatant look of disgust crossed his face. Then he hurriedly turned to Harry. "So you're him?"

"Are you also..." Harry began, about to ask.

Ron hurriedly cut in. "He has parents. He's from the Malfoy family... That attitude of his is revolting."

Malfoy looked confused.

Everyone had parents. Wasn't that common knowledge?

"Then why don't you knock, either?" Harry changed tack and asked bluntly.

Malfoy lifted his chin arrogantly and held out his hand to Harry. "I came to make friends with you, but it looks like you've already made one."

"But, Potter, even among wizarding families, there are differences."

"I've heard my father talk about the Weasley family—a bunch of red-haired boys, born to a bunch of blood-traitors."

"Obviously—"

"Potter, I don't think you'd want to be friends with a freak."

Ron clenched his fists, his face flushed red.

Harry didn't take Malfoy's hand. He stared straight at him.

Their eyes met, and the catlike gaze sent a chilling sense of coldness through Malfoy to the very core.

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

Malfoy pulled his hand back. His expression turned so cold that his already pale face took on an even more sickly cast. "Freaks? Looks like you've spent too long in a Mudblood's world!"

"Potter, if I were you, I'd be very careful. Spend time with lowlifes like the Weasleys, and you'll end up one of them."

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

"But it's probably about to fall apart."

"Then let's skip the pointless talk." He stood and took a fighting stance. "You can all come at me together, or one at a time. I don't mind."

Malfoy took a step back. "What are you going to do? Start a fight?"

"Isn't that the point?" Harry shot back.

"Goyle, Crabbe, teach him a lesson!" Malfoy glanced at the two boys beside him and sneered. "Cool this Scarhead down."

Harry felt nothing.

He knew it would come to this.

He dodged sideways and landed a jab square on Goyle's nose. Blood and snot sprayed out, spattering Malfoy's platinum-blond hair with red.

He crouched and drove an uppercut into Crabbe's chin.

He didn't have enough strength to knock him flying.

But the blow to the jaw twisted Crabbe's face in pain. Harry seized the chance to follow up with a hook.

They were only eleven. No matter how big they were, how much punishment could they take?

The two boys clutched their heads and dropped to their knees, groaning in pain.

Malfoy stared at Harry in terror.

"Want another go?" Harry asked without expression. He shook his hand, flinging off the blood and snot on it.

Malfoy stumbled backward and fled.

Crabbe and Goyle scrambled out of the compartment, half rolling as they went.

Harry closed the door.

When he sat down again, Ron looked at him strangely, even a little excited. "I believe you now. You really can fight. Those two huge blokes went down in two or three punches."

"They were weak." Harry shook his head, not proud at all. Beating up children even made him feel guilty—for a second or two. "They're wizards, and they didn't even cast a spell."

Of course... he wouldn't give them the chance to pull out their wands.

"No, young wizards can't cast spells before they start school." Ron immediately shook his head, then remembered Harry's Levitation Charm and added hesitantly, "You're an exception, though, since you're the Chosen One."

Harry unwrapped a Licorice Wand and put it in his mouth. "Was there something wrong with what I said just now?"

Ron blinked. "Which bit?"

"Every bit." Harry looked troubled. "And what does Mudblood mean?"

Ron's face screwed up. "It's a bad word, a slur for Muggle-born wizards. It's really nasty. Only evil, hopeless Dark wizards would say it."

"Like Malfoy."

"And those naturally evil Slytherins."

Harry crunched down on the Licorice Wand. "But isn't Muggle the same?"

"Muggle's the same?" Ron couldn't quite understand what he meant.

Harry swallowed. "I mean, doesn't Muggle have a strong sense of prejudice, just like Mudblood?"

"Why would you say that?" Ron asked, confused.

"How do you spell Muggle?" Harry traced the letters on the table with his finger. "M-U-G-G-L-E."

"Don't you see anything wrong with that?"

Ron was still bewildered.

"Don't wizards learn words?" Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised.

Ron's face reddened. "No, we do! Of course we do!"

"I just don't understand what you mean. What's wrong with the word?"

Harry sighed. "The root of Muggle is M-U-G. Mug."

Ron asked, "Doesn't that mean a cup?"

"It can be used for a person, too. It means a fool." Harry tapped the table.

Actually, he preferred the term used in the History of Magic books for humans who couldn't use magic: No-Maj.

Ron's brain buffered again.

He found it hard to accept that a word he'd been using for so long had another meaning.

An unfamiliar male voice sounded in the compartment.

"Five minutes until we arrive at Hogwarts. All students, please change into your school robes and leave your luggage on the train. We'll have it delivered to your dormitories."

Harry stood, waved his wand, and took out his robes. He gave Ron a pat on the shoulder. "Don't overthink it. It's just a name."

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

Ron hesitated. "But you said it means fool."

"Mug means fool, but Muggle doesn't." Harry shrugged as he changed. "A name can't change anything."

Ron nodded. "Oh, all right."

"Have you decided which house you want to join?"

He recovered quickly. After all, he'd sworn he was going to be a Gryffindor. In a flash, he'd put the unpleasant business behind him.

Harry thought it over. "Maybe Gryffindor."

Each of the four house heads had a relic. Gryffindor's was a sword forged by a Goblin. It might be some remarkable magical artifact. For a Witcher, nothing was more alluring than a sword.