I knew it, this needs to be settled with fists

Beneath his messy hair, a lightning-shaped scar.

Ron stared, eyes wide: "Is this what You-Know-Who did?"

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

Ron shuddered: "Oh, no, I knew it, I just thought—of everyone, you're the only one who would actually say his name."

"So, why can't one just say Voldemort?" Harry remained curious.

The books didn't explain why.

Any text mentioning "Voldemort" was replaced with "the Dark Lord" or "that man."

Ron was stunned, his brain beginning to lag: "I... I don't know either, but my parents have said it since I was little. Saying the Dark Lord's name invites bad things."

"A curse?" Harry thought of a passage in Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defense—"Beware of those ancient, evil words; the words themselves contain the power of a curse."

Ron looked uncomfortable, his tone carrying a hint of pleading: "Oh, can we please stop talking about this? Why don't we talk about which Quidditch team you like?"

Harry didn't press the matter.

Even though he was indeed very curious about it.

They started talking about other things; seeing the world from the perspective of a young wizard was quite an interesting experience.

Witchers were never very good at chatting.

But Ron was.

By noon, after buying some snacks, Ron's chatter hadn't ceased for a moment.

Clang.

Just as Ron was contemplating whether the booger-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean tasted better than the dirt-flavored one.

The door was shoved open rudely.

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

Harry looked up, glanced at her, but didn't speak.

"What are you looking at? I asked you a question." The girl maintained her haughty tone.

Harry spoke, sincere and puzzled: "Are you an orphan without parents like me?"

The girl froze.

This question...

He must be insulting her, right?

Definitely.

But how should she retort? He had insulted himself in the process... perhaps this person just didn't know how to talk and was genuinely curious?

The girl struggled for a moment: "Oh, no, sorry, I'm not an orphan."

Harry raised a hand and pointed at Ron: "He has seven siblings at home, and his parents taught him to knock before entering someone else's compartment. Why haven't you learned that yet?"

Ron, his mouth stuffed with pumpkin pasty, looked up blankly.

He was just an innocent bystander, so why had an arrow suddenly pierced his own knee?

He understood the meaning.

But why... did it sound so uncomfortable?

The girl's face turned red: "I'm sorry, I was just in a rush, but Neville's pet is missing."

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

The girl backed out, hurriedly pulling the door shut: "Thanks, sorry to bother you."

Ron looked at the person sitting across from him with a complex expression: "Harry, I don't mean anything by it, but has anyone ever told you that your way of speaking might have some issues?"

Harry nodded in agreement: "Yes, many people have said that, and I think there are some issues too."

"You know? Every time I think I'm communicating with others very gently, it always ends up turning into a fistfight."

"Then you should change that," Ron offered a very reliable suggestion.

Harry looked over, puzzled and righteous: "Isn't it fine as long as I can win the fight?"

Ron opened his mouth, speechless.

He looked at Harry with concern—that thin, small frame really didn't look like someone who could fight.

Clang—the compartment door was pulled open again.

Still no knocking.

The number of people entering had increased; there were three boys. The leader was a pale-faced boy with platinum-blonde hair. The brown-haired girl's arrogance had been in her tone, but his arrogance was plastered all over his face.

"I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment." He looked between the two of them. Upon seeing Ron, a look of blinding disgust appeared on his face, and he immediately turned his head to look at Harry, "So that's you?"

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

Ron interrupted hurriedly: "He has parents, the Malfoy family's... this attitude is truly nauseating."

Malfoy looked puzzled.

Everyone has parents; isn't that common sense?

"Then why don't you knock either?" Harry changed the subject, asking quite bluntly.

Malfoy held his head high with arrogance and extended a hand toward Harry: "I came here to make friends with you, but it seems you've already made a friend ahead of time?"

"However, Potter, even among those from wizarding families, there are differences."

"I've heard my father speak of them—the Weasley family, the scum of purebloods who birthed a litter of stinking brats."

"Clearly—"

"Potter, I don't think you'd want to make friends with the wrong sort."

Ron clenched his fists, his face turning bright red.

Harry didn't reach out, staring straight at Malfoy.

A pair of cat-like eyes met his, sending a chilling, eerie coldness deep into his heart.

"We are already the wrong sort, aren't we?" Harry smiled, shook his head, and spoke.

Malfoy pulled his hand back, his expression turning so cold that his already pale face took on a sickly cast: "The wrong sort? It seems you've spent too much time in the world of Mudbloods!"

"Potter, if I were you, I'd be very careful. Hanging around with riffraff like the Weasleys, you'll end up being riffraff yourself sooner or later."

Harry sighed and clenched his fists: "I was trying to have a serious conversation with you."

"But it seems the result is a breakdown."

"Then let's just skip the nonsense." He stood up and assumed a fighting stance, "Whether you come at me together or one by one, it makes no difference to me."

Malfoy took a step back: "What do you think you're doing? Are you trying to fight?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Harry countered.

"Goyle, Crabbe, teach him a lesson!" Malfoy glanced at his two lackeys and sneered, "Let this ignorant Scarhead cool off."

Harry felt nothing inside.

He knew it would come to this.

He side-stepped and threw a jab, landing squarely on Goyle's nose—blood and snot sprayed out, staining Malfoy's platinum hair with a touch of red.

Crouching low, he threw a hook that smashed into Crabbe's chin.

He lacked the strength to send him flying.

But the blow to the jaw caused Crabbe's expression to twist in agony, and Harry seized the opportunity to follow up with a swing.

Eleven-year-old children, no matter how big they are, don't have much resistance to impact.

The two of them clutched their heads, kneeling on the floor and wailing in pain.

Malfoy looked at Harry in terror.

"Are you still coming?" Harry asked expressionlessly, shaking his hands to flick off the blood and snot.

Malfoy stumbled and fled in retreat.

Crabbe and Goyle also scrambled and rolled their way out of the compartment.

Harry closed the door.

When he sat back down, Ron's expression was strange, even a bit excited: "I believe you now, you really can fight. Those two big lugs, you took them down in two or three punches."

"They were weak." Harry shook his head, feeling no pride at all; bullying children even gave him a second or two of guilt, "As wizards, they didn't even cast a spell."

Of course... he wouldn't have given them the chance to pull out their wands anyway.

"No, young wizards don't know how to cast spells before they start school." Ron immediately shook his head to deny it, but halfway through, he remembered Harry's levitation charm and added hesitantly, "You're an exception, after all, you're the Savior."

Harry unwrapped a licorice wand and bit into it: "Was there something wrong with what I just said?"

Ron was startled: "Which part?"

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

Ron's face twisted: "It's a nasty word, a slur used to discriminate against Muggle-born wizards. It's very ugly, and only those evil, hopeless Dark wizards would say it."

"Like Malfoy, for instance."

"And that whole bunch of naturally evil people in Slytherin."

Harry *crunch*ed, biting off a piece of the licorice wand: "But isn't 'Muggle' the same?"

"Muggle, isn't it the same?" Ron didn't quite understand the statement.

Harry swallowed what was in his mouth: "I mean, isn't 'Muggle' just like 'Mudblood,' carrying a very strong sense of discrimination?"

"Why would you say that?" Ron was very confused.

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

"Don't you notice anything wrong with it?"

Ron remained blank.

"Do wizards not study vocabulary?" Harry raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised.

Ron's face flushed red: "No, we do, of course we do!"

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

Harry sighed: "The root of Muggle is M-U-G, mug."

Ron retorted: "That doesn't mean a cup."

"It can also be used for people, meaning a fool." Harry tapped the table.

In truth, he preferred the term for non-magical humans found in History of Magic books—No-Maj.

Ron's brain stopped responding once again.

He found it somewhat hard to accept that a word he had used for so long actually carried such a meaning.

Inside the carriage, a strange male voice rang out.

"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your trunks on the train, they will be taken to the school separately."

Harry stood up, waved his wand to retrieve his school robes, and patted Ron on the shoulder: "Don't overthink it, it's just a label."

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

Ron struggled: "But you said it means a fool."

"Mug is a fool, but Muggle isn't." Harry shrugged, changing his clothes, "A label doesn't change anything."

Ron nodded: "Oh, alright."

"Have you decided which House you want to go to?"

He adjusted his mood quickly; after all, he was a man who insisted he would become a Gryffindor. In almost an instant, he had cast the unpleasant matter to the back of his mind.

Harry thought for a moment: "Perhaps it will be Gryffindor."

The heads of the four Houses all possessed relics, and Gryffindor's relic was a sword forged by goblins—that might be an extraordinary magical item, and for a Witcher, nothing could be more attractive than a fine sword.