Here's where my story begins, my face buried in the fluff of Hagrid's wool coat. It smelled like smoke and pine, a scent I couldn't escape.

Hagrid had bitch-tits. Because humans and giants weren't supposed to be able to breed, he was born with a chemical imbalance due to his mother's dominant genes. The surplus of estrogen caused fluid buildup in his chest.

With one meat-hook holding me close and the other petting my head, he whispered into my ear. "Professor Dumbledore is going to have to shrink my pecs again. I know how yer feelin', Harry, like there's so much anger in ya that you just can't get out. It's just like the fluid in my chest... ya can't get it out."

He pulled me back and looked at me, his eyes shrink-wrapped in tears. "It's okay, Harry. You can cry."

Face buried between the grounds keeper's massive hooters, smelling the smoke and pitch of his old coat, I let go. I grabbed onto his beard as all the frustration and rage and unrequited sexual friction poured out of my eyes like they were faucets.

I don't know how long I cried, but when I pulled away and saw an imprint of my face in his coat, I knew that I had to find another way to release my emotions. These weekly sob-meetings with Hagrid were starting to make me feel queasy.

Plus, I think he wanted to diddle me.

"The first rule of Hogwart's Fight Club is that you don't talk about Hogwart's Fight Club."

I stood in the center of the Hogwart's secret, sentient room, walking in circles like a werewolf Alpha rallying the other shapeshifters before a hunt. This room only opened when there was a need for it. It had opened up for me, for this.

I needed this. Everyone needed this.

"The second rule of Hogwart's Fight Club is that you don't talk about Hogwart's Fight Club."

I saw all their faces in the circle around me, eyes fierce like a basilisk, all of them smiling serpents. There was Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin. But houses here were about as useless as nipples on a dragon.

"The third rule: no shoes, no shirts."

"But 'Arry!" cried out Ron, the little ginger bastard always trying to cause a problem, "What about da girls? You can't seriously be finkin' they'll show their knockas."

"No shoes. No shirts." I snapped at Ron. It put him in his place. We had all agreed that personal concerns had no place in our Fight Club. We had no names in Fight Club, we had no genders. In Fight Club, we had no souls.

"Fourth rule: no wands. Fifth rule: fights will go on as long as they have do - if someone taps out or goes limp, the fight is over."

"The final rule," I said, unable to hide my hyena glee, "if this is your first time at Hogwarts, you have to fight."

And then I retreated to the shadows outside the ring. The leader had no place once the fights started. This was not about leaders. It couldn't be about leaders. It was about people being stepped on and terrified and attacked every single year at school who were standing up and making themselves feel strong again.

From the outside of the crowd I called, "Hermione. Ron. Go to it."

Cheers went up from the others as both shirtless combatants stalked into the ring. Rome had fallen almost two thousand years ago, and with it were lost the days of the gladiator. This was our Rome. This room? Our coliseum.

Hemione had tied her hair into a bun. She lifted her fists to her head as Ron stared at her with his vacant eyes. He looked at me.

"Bloody 'ell, 'Arry. I can't 'it 'Ermione, she's just a girl. 'Sides, I might 'urt 'er or touch 'er knockers or s..."

Hermione was on him in an instant, her leg planted firmly between his thighs. Ron screeched and hit the floor. Hermione thrust her hands in the air and released an Amazon's cry that sent the rabid wolves waiting for their turn at violence into a Church-like frenzy of speaking in tongues.

Ron struggled to his feet and squared off. Hermione charged, Ron slapped away her first few punches and then countered with a vicious hook that knocked the know-it-all out cold. She fell to the ground, limp.

The crowd charged Ron to congratulate him, to praise his devout worship in this cathedral of primal violence. His back was red from all their slapping, and they cheered him on in a neandrathal din of voices, no one really sure what they were saying, but sure that they were saying something important.

And in a way, their gibberish was more eloquent than any lesson on magic any of us had ever been given. Hermione was carted off to the corner where Nevil - our designated medic - cast a spell on her to reduce the swelling and bring her back to consciousness.

One minute later, and I was in the ring. I handed off my glasses and brushed back my hair. My fingers touched the scar on my forehead and it felt good and hot. The thin, pretty blonde facing me was someone I'd hated for a long time. But here, in the ring, there was no hate. There were no names.

My opponent was not Draco Malfoy. He was simply Opponent.

He came at me with a flurry of blows that were quick, but weak. He split my lip proper, but my guard was up enough to turns the blows into something less damaging. As I hunkered down when he pressed against me I saw and opening and took it, planting my knuckles into the smooth, pale skin covering the lowest part of his sternum.

The cry he forced out was whimpering and pathetic. Normally, it would have filled me with a much different fire that it did. As he hunched over I grabbed his ears and held his head down at my groin.

I'd done it before, but not for this purpose.

My knee made a mess of his face. I hit him once - twice - and then a third time before finally letting go. He slumped to the ground and I straddled his hips. We'd been here before, and I guess you could say it was a certain kind of fighting that we'd done, but it wasn't as violent as this.

I started hitting. Draco became less than an opponent. He had become all my frustration, anger, and hate personified, and I would beat all of my hangups into submission.

I don't know how long I pounded him. He managed to open his mouth and say something eventually. "Potter," he spit in a spray of blood, "I... I thought you... loved me..."

I said nothing, I just kept pounding.

"We made... luh... love, Potter... you loved me..."

"No Potter," I said, "just fist."

Eventually, he went limp. There was no cheering as I rose, finally feeling the sting of the bone-cuts on my knuckles. There were red, finger-painting smears on the stone floor all around Draco's limp form. The circle of fighters parted for me as I walked away.

From her corner, topless Hermione stared at me as I passed.

"Where did you get off to, psycho boy?" she asked.

"I just felt like destroying something beautiful."

I felt a large, leathery hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Dumbledore, his beard almost covering his dark-red, old-man nips. "Good job, Harry. I always knew you'd make your parents proud.

"But I have to go fight now. I'm up against Pavarti. I've been wanting to take the piss out of that little Indian girl for a minute."

I created it for all of us. It was our way of fighting back against everything. And it was much better than crying on Hagrid's shoulder.