At Hogwarts, nicknames had a habit of taking on lives of their own. Most died after a week. Some survived for years. Ron Weasley’s had survived almost his entire academic career. “Ron the Munch.” To be fair, it had started innocently enough. The boy ate like he was preparing for a famine. Entire plates disappeared in front of him at alarming speeds. It was a perfectly reasonable nickname. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, it had stopped meaning only that. The worst part was that Ron genuinely gave people very little material to work with. He was surprisingly normal. Annoyingly normal. Tall, broad-shouldered, perpetually freckled, and usually found somewhere near Harry Potter, a chess board, or a plate of food. And yet somehow the nickname persisted. Year after year. Rumor after rumor. Growing just enough with each retelling to become impossible to kill. Which was exactly how Hogwarts liked its legends. Some involved ghosts. Some involved monsters. And some involved Ron Weasley and a nickname nobody could hear with a straight face anymore.