Your Fight
It had been years. Or days. Sometimes it felt like he was still 11, just packed off to Hogwarts, and all the roiling tension in his stomach was just nauseating combination of excitement and the nervousness of leaving home. But then he'd reach into his pocket, realize his pet was missing – squashed during a skirmish – and be brought back to reality.
Harry Potter stood proud in the center of the Burrow a map of Hogwarts spread out in front of him with black and white pieces shaped like people spread out all over. The pieces shifted in their positions, the borrowed chess pieces confused with the newest arrangement. Harry flicked his wand at one and the person (magiced into a perfect likeness of Ron) shuffled over to the side.
"We'll have a frontal attack here, but the real hit will come from the back…" He said, outlining his plans for the last battle. "—and you should all stay out of the way when the Lestrange's come along. This is my fight, and we need it to go perfectly."
The burrow was cramped, with the number of people crammed into its limited space. The meeting should have been held at Grimmauld Place, but with the secret keeper gone, getting all the necessary people there would have been impossible. The war had spread further than the Order of the Phoenix anticipated, in recent battles.
There was a shifting off to the side as if someone wanted a closer look, before everything calmed again.
"Voldemort will be in the center," Harry continued "And be sure not to interrupt my fight with him. Everything will rest on the outcome of that part of the battle, and I can't protect people if they just pop in. It'll be far too dangerous for anyone."
Neville Longbottom was sitting off to the side on one of the couches that had recently been squeezed in for the purpose of these meetings. He shifted again, the rustle louder as he clenched his fists at Harry's words. Taking a deep breath Neville began to count to 10.
"I don't want anybody getting hurt that doesn't have to. Leave my fight to me, I want you all as safe as possible."
The counting didn't work. As Harry said the words 'my fight' for the third time Neville's hands clenched, and he surged to his feet. Standing up, he gained everyone's attention, his chest heaving in silence for a moment as he attempted to regain a grip on his emotions.
His gran had always taught him that a wizard didn't make a scene.
"Why do you keep saying that?" Neville finally found his voice, and it rang out over the mumbles that had begun from the silence caused by his abrupt movement. Harry's head snapped toward him, surprised.
"What do you mean, Neville?"
"'Your fight' you always call it your fight. It's not your fight." Neville's hard fought composure buckled slightly under Harry's oblivious reaction.
"Yes it is, the prophecy said so."
Neville's eyes hardened as he finally gave up trying to keep any of his temper in check. "Fuck the bloody prophecy." Gasps were heard around the room at the usually calm boys' words, and Neville felt himself blush slightly at his own audacity.
"You think you're so damn special just because you have a scar and a crazy woman's reading. You keep saying 'your fight' like you're the only one that lost something! Did you know that Hermione's parents died last week? She hasn't cried yet," Neville's arm swung around, and he pointed at Dean Thomas. "And how about Dean? He watched as his sister was tortured to death for hiding the fact that she knew where the Order was. Then there's Finnigan, his mother was a pureblood who had the bad taste to marry a muggle. He came home to the Dark Mark over his house one night. You call it 'your fight', like you're the only one who's lost something. Like you're the only one affected. That's a load of bullshit and you know it. It's what you wrap around yourself at night when everything is hard to make yourself feel better. It's how you make yourself believe that your self-pity has a reason and is right."
Now Neville's eyes filled with tears. "Do you even think about what others have lost? The ones dead? And what about the ones in St. Mungos? The ones that lost their minds at Voldemorts hands. All you can think about is how the Dark Lord killed your parents before you knew them. How Sirius died. Well get over it! Lots of people are dead. Dead in ways much more painful than stepping through a curtain or getting flashed by the killing cure! Lots of people are dying. You say you don't want us to be hurt. This is a war, Harry. We're already hurting. We're hurting, and we're dying, and we're all fighting without the special powers and help that you get. We're not fighting because we're in some fucking prophecy that tells us we have to. We're fighting because this is our lives, and it's all we know."
His face twisted as the tears spilled. "Next time you want to call this your fight, go outside and look at the sky, filled with Dark Marks. Next time you want to call it your fight, go to the Quiditch Pitch, and look at the graves. Really look. See all the people who have died. Think about all the children who watched their parents get killed brutally, go to St. Mungos, and look at the people who have gone crazy from the horrors that they have gone through and seen! This was never your fight. This is the fight of all who have watched too much murder, this is the fight to save people's very idea of life. So next time you want to call it your goddamned fight, shove the bloody words up your flaming arse, and GET OVER IT! We're willing to die for this, and by trying to say we don't belong you cheapen everything we've done, and every sacrifice we've ever made."
Neville was panting by the end of his speech, the unusually large rush of words having left his cheeks tinged red and his head spinning. But his point was made. He gave one last disgusted glance to The Boy Who Lived, and walked out of the house without a backward look. The door closed behind him with a creak and a quiet thump that was swallowed by the room full of shocked silent people. The drop of a pin could be heard as the people stared blankly around them.
The silence as what he had said sunk in was absolute, and slowly -ever so slowly- Harry Potter drifted towards the ground and, for the first time, really thought about what everybody else had lost.