Something Worth Fighting For

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Author: tlyxor1.

Chapter One

It's a bright, sunny day in London, the streets bustling with commuters headed to and fro, and in the din, it's not long before they're on their way to Platform 9 and 3/4, Harry wedged securely between his parents. His mum is already teary-eyed, his father not far behind her, and Harry's just grateful they'd gone through the private farewells at Grosvenor Square. He's fairly certain that if his mum were to hug him now, she'd probably never let him go. Moreover, if anyone he knew saw her hugging him?

Merlin, but Harry would never hear the end of it!

"Here we are," James quietly observes. He gestures minutely at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, and then glances at Harry, "You ready for this?"

"Yeah," Harry answers. He's pretty sure he's been waiting his whole life for this, "Let's go."

"All right," James acquiesces. He offers Harry an encouraging smile, squeezes him on the shoulder, and reminds him, "It's easier if you close your eyes."

"I know," Harry rolls his eyes, but he closes them all the same, and then he steps forward blindly. His parents guide him, one of their hands on each of his shoulders, but soon both of their hands fall away, and Harry opens his eyes to a different site entirely.

The hustle and bustle of the non-magical side of King's Cross Station is gone, replaced by an open air platform, alongside which awaits a gleaming scarlet steam engine. It's the Hogwarts Express, somehow larger than he'd expected, and all the more wondrous for it.

"Wow," he breathes.

"It's just like I remember," Lily marvels, a nostalgic smile on her face, "It hasn't changed a bit."

"It hasn't," James concurs, "Those were some good times."

"They were, weren't they?"

His parents share a glance, sad and wistful. They both get like that sometimes, lost in thoughts of friends and family who'd died in the war. Harry had learned a long time ago that the only way to bring them out of those memories is to distract them with something else. It doesn't always work, but sometimes is better than never, he supposes.

"Should I go find a compartment, then?" He asks.

"That would probably be best," James concurs. There are still ghosts in his eyes, but he at least manages a smile for Harry, "I need to enlarge your trunk, so I'll come with you. Lily?"

"I'll wait here," Lily answers, "Keep an eye out for anyone we know."

In silence, Harry approaches the train beside his father. It's relatively easy, the platform not yet packed in with parents, siblings, pets, and luggage. It doesn't take them long, then, to board the train, and neither does it take particularly long to seek out an empty compartment.

"Here we go," James murmurs to himself. He deposits Harry's miniature trunk on the floor of the compartment, and then enlarges it with a careless flick of his wand. Another flick sends it under one of the bench seats, and afterwards, he offers Harry a conspiratorial wink. "Don't tell your mum. You know how she gets."

Harry grins. His mother's a firm believer in not relying on magic to do what one can physically do themselves. As far as she is concerned, it promotes laziness in body and in turn, laziness in thought, and neither is something she can abide by. The latter, in particular.

Harry's lost count of how many rants he's heard over the dinner table, about the general public's willingness to blindly believe anything and everything they're spoon-fed by Albus Dumbledore and/or the Ministry of Magic via the 'Daily Prophet'. He's also, consequently, heard more lectures about the values of independent research and critical thinking, and also lectures regarding the reality of author bias than anyone else he knows.

To combat laziness in mind, body, and spirit, therefore, his mother has cracked down on using magic (and house elves) for simple tasks including - though not restricted to - lifting, moving, and cleaning things, but according to the stories Harry's heard, his father has always been one to toe the line. That hasn't changed over the years.

"I won't," Harry replies.

His father ruffles his hair, glances at his watch, and determines, "We'd best go find your mum. She'll be wondering where we've gotten to."

As it happens, Harry's mother isn't wondering where they've gotten to. She's in conversation with Alice Longbottom instead, reminiscing over the time they'd spent together in hospital, and marvelling over how quickly the years have passed by since. Nearby, Alice's husband, Frank, is offering their son, Neville, last minute advice of what to expect from Hogwarts, reassuring him that the mysterious Sorting Ceremony is nothing to worry about, and reminding him to write home at least once a week.

"Uncle Frank, Aunt Alice," Harry greets them. They both smile at him fondly. "Neville, hi. Are you excited?"

"Very," Neville confirms, "Nervous, though. You?"

"About the same," Harry answers, "Mostly excited."

Neville nods his agreement, shifts on his feet, and glances anxiously at the adults. They're all in conversation now, light-hearted and easy, but there's a tension in each of them that gives away their discomfort. They don't like being surrounded by so many people.

"I hope they'll be okay," Neville frets. His parents still carry scars from the war, apparent in the cane Frank uses to support his weight, and in the way Alice's hands tremble with every gesture she makes.

His own parents' scars aren't as obvious, but they're still there too, never spoken of, but never forgotten, either.

"They'll be all right," harry assures his friend, "They've got a lot of people to look out for them."

Neville purses his lips. He knows this, knows that his Gran Augusta and all of his parents' friends have their backs, but he'll still worry.

Harry glances at his own parents, at the hand his mother has tucked into the crook of his father's arm, at the way they both glance anxiously between Harry, their companions, and the rest of the crowd, and acknowledges to himself that, yes, he'll worry, too.

To distract himself from the thought, Harry glances at his watch. It's 20 minutes to 11, and the reality sends a thrill of excitement through him. "It's nearly time."

Neville glances at his own watch to confirm this fact, they share a grin, and then approach the adults.

"We're going to go wait on the train," Harry informs his parents. "It's almost eleven."

His mother smooths a hand over his hair, but nods reluctantly. "Take care of yourself. Write often. Study hard."

"Have fun," James interjects, "Make friends. Eat your greens."

"And don't forget we love you."

"Love you too," Harry replies. He glances between them, grins, and then approaches Neville where he waits beside his trunk, "See you at Yule."

Together, Harry and Neville haul the latter's trunk onto the Hogwarts Express, and between the milling students, discarded luggage, and assorted pet carriers, Harry leads the way to his own compartment. The trunk is shunted under the second bench seat, their respective satchels carelessly deposited on the benches themselves, and overhead, a shrill whistle blares a five minute departure warning.

They approach the window, where James has led the adults to wait, and both Lily and Alice are already crying.

Harry rolls his eyes, tries not to sigh to loudly, and shares a long-suffering glance with Neville.

"Mums."

"Mums," Neville agrees, and laughs.

Despite himself, Harry does, too.