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.

Chapter Two

The Hogwarts Express pulls away from King's Cross Station at precisely 11 o'clock, and moments afterwards, Harry and Neville's respective parents disappear from view.

It's a strange feeling, knowing that he'll not see them again until the Winter Holidays. They've always been there for him, day and night, rain and shine, and Harry's never spent more than a weekend away from them. It'll be an adjustment, not seeing them every day, but he's 11 years old now, and it's time for him to start growing up. He's not quite sure how, admittedly, but it can't be too hard.

At least, he hopes it isn't.

"How were your holidays?" Neville asks him, "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, "It was loads of fun."

His parents take him on a holiday every August, two weeks in a country they've never been to, and two weeks in Saint Raphaël, along the French Riviera. There, the House of Potter owns a private villa on an equally private beach, and Harry spends his days outdoors, swimming or snorkelling or kayaking and what have you, and it's perhaps his favourite time of year. Neither of his parents are distracted by work, or politics, or everything else that concerns them back home, and it's just the three of them, the summer sunshine, and sea soaked days full of possibility.

"We went to Canada this year," Harry says conversationally, "We spent a week visiting all the big cities, and then we spent another week hiking the West Coast Trail."

Neville has no idea what the West Coast Trail is, unsurprisingly, but he listens as Harry describes it, and asks a lot of questions about the flora Harry had encountered while there. He doesn't understand Harry and his parents' tendency towards such active holidays, has no qualms about expressing as much, but his interest in foreign (and domestic) wildlife knows no bounds, and Harry knows Neville well enough to have prepared himself to answer most of his questions.`

It's such that Neville's quizzing Harry on the magical and medicinal properties of Canada's infamous maple leaf when they're conversation is interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at their compartment door. It opens a moment later, and another boy stands in the doorway, dressed in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt. He's tall and gangly, with a shock of red hair on his head and a smudge of dirt on his nose, and he looks rather uncomfortable.

"Hi. Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry glances at Neville, who shrugs, and nods with a vague gesture at the empty spaces in their compartment, "Sure. Take a seat. I'm Harry, this is Neville. Are you a first year, too?"

"I'm Ron." He drops into the seat beside Neville, and awkwardly deposits his bag next to him, "And yeah, first year."

"What house are you hoping for?" Neville queries.

"Gryffindor," Ron answers, "It's where my parents went, and all my brothers. I think I'd be disowned if I went anywhere else."

"We're hoping for Gryffindor too," Neville gestures between himself and Harry, "But it's not a big deal, I guess. Not to our parents, anyway."

Harry nods his agreement. His parents had informed him as much, as well as the fact that one's house in Hogwarts completely loses relevance outside of the castle's walls. It's comforting, in a way, but it also makes Harry wonder why, as students, such a heavy emphasis is placed on the sorting and everything that goes with it. It seems a waste, to pour so much time and effort into house rivalries when at the end of the day, it's entirely likely one (or more) of those supposed rivals will wind up as one's colleagues.

"It'd be a big deal if you wound up in Slytherin though," Ron counters, "They're all evil. Everyone says so."

Harry disagrees. Disregarding the fact they'd have gotten rid of Slytherin House if it only ever produced people who would go on to cause pain and suffering to others, he and his father's (distant) cousin, Andromeda Tonks, was a Slytherin in school, and she's one of the kindest people Harry knows. SHe's a healer, working for a private clinic in Manchester, and she wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it.

"Everyone you know, maybe," Neville answers. As he does so, he pulls a book from his messenger bag, props himself against the corner of their compartment, and continues, "My parents have never said anything like that. They would probably not have let me attend Hogwarts if it was true."

Ron's face has turned red with indignation, or maybe embarrassment, and Harry braces himself for an argument. As he does so, however, there's a duel series of knocks at the door, and when it opens this time, the compartment's inhabitants are greeted by two older boys, redheaded and identical. They both wear smiles, jovial and good-natured, and their focus falls intently on Ron. They're clearly two of his afore-mentioned brothers, and Ron doesn't look at all pleased to see them.

"What do you want?" Ron sullenly greets them.

"We can't check on our only little brother?"

"You wound us, Ronny."

"Shove off," Ron scowls, "I'm fine."

Rather then shove off, though, Ron's twin brothers settle in beside Harry. They cheerfully introduce themselves as Fred and George Weasley, ignore Ron's glares, and lightheartedly quiz Harry and Neville about what classes they're looking forward to, what house they expect they'll be sorted into, and about the quidditch teams they follow.

"Pride of Portree," Neville answers.

"Caerphilly Catapults," Harry contributes.

Fred and George are Kestrels fans, as it happens, and Ron turns out to be a diehard Canons enthusiast, and they then proceed to lament the thrashing their respective teams had received from the Tornadoes in that year's Cup. It's a good time, and Harry finds he enjoys Fred and George's good humour, but the twins eventually leave to seek out their own peers, and once more, Harry, Neville, and Ron are left to their own devices.

Neville picks up his book, discarded beside him earlier, and begins to read from where he'd last left off.

"What are you reading?" Ron asks. He eyes Neville's book skeptically.

"It's called 'Lord of the Rings'," Neville answers, "Harry's mum gave it to me for my birthday."

Harry has a copy of his own in his trunk. His mother had read him the series when he was seven or eight, including it's prequel, 'The Hobbit', and the set is one of Harry's favourites. He rereads it whenever he's got nothing else to read, but between himself, his mother, and his tutor and sort-of uncle, Remus, such occasions (only ever on his family holidays) are rare. Their combined efforts have filled up entire shelves of his family's library with children's fiction after all, and as such, there's always a new book to keep him busy.

"Why'd she get you books?" Ron looks as though a novel as a gift is the worst thing imaginable, and Harry feels insulted on his mother's behalf.

"Maybe because Neville likes them?"

Ron scrunches up his nose. "But reading's boring."

"Maybe to you," Neville answers, "But I like it."

"You're barmy."