Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. This story belongs to me.

Sticks, Stones and Broken Bones

Chapter 7: The Boy Who Lived

Harry was quiet as he followed Ron up to his room, realising, as Ron gave Harry a brief tour of the house, that the room he had woken up in this morning was in fact the redhead's bedroom.

Had it only been this morning? Harry thought to himself disbelievingly, as he pushed down the guilt he felt at forcing, albeit not on purpose, Ron to sleep on the couch, instead of in his own bed. Briefly, Harry wondered where he would be staying tonight. The house was cosy but cramped, and there was obviously a reason that Ron had slept on the couch last night; did the Weasleys even have enough room for him?

His doubts and questions were answered when Ron gestured Harry to enter the room, his entire attitude nervous. Vaguely, Harry wondered what Ron was so nervous about, but that too was answered when Harry noticed the camp bed that had been squeezed into the tight room, a bed that had not been there when he had left the room this morning.

"Is that alright?" Ron asked unsurely, clearly trying not to assume anything about how his new friend was feeling.

Harry could only nod in reply, his throat partly choked up as he tried to contain the emotions that the appearance of the bed had stirred up.

His bed. A bed made up especially for him. Even when he had lived at the Dursleys, he had never had a real bed, and it had obviously been something he had missed out on once he had run away to live on the streets. To be offered one now, meant more to Harry than Ron and his family probably realised.

Oblivious to Harry's inner emotional battle, Ron seemed to visibly relax at acceptance, and they walked in silence into the brightly coloured room. Harry had to blink rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the orange light that hit him, and he forced himself to take a deep breath.

Harry's head swam dangerously as he tried desperately to contain the knowledge that had been unloaded onto him in the last hour. To steady himself he took a seat on the edge of the camp bed, closing his eyes as he did so. So much had happened in the last few hours, it was as if his whole life had changed.

There was a different whole world. An entire magical world.

When he had been first told of magic, nothing he had ever imagined came even close to the reality. A hidden world, full of wonder, magic, excitement, existed separate to the one that Harry had grown up in. It was amazing, but completely overwhelming at the same time. In fact, really, it hadn't quite sunk in yet, and Harry doubted that his current state would change any time soon.

Ron sent his new friend a concerned look, not unnoticed by Harry, but thankfully he seemed to refrain from saying anything. The tension grew uncomfortable, though, and Ron cleared his throat before speaking, trying desperately to inject some cheerfulness in his voice.

"So," began uncertainly as Harry looked around his room with undisguised curiosity, desperate to find a distraction from his whirring mind. "What do you like to do for fun?"

Harry, who had been lost in his thoughts and his explorations of the room, turned to face the red head, confusion clear on his face. Fun was a strange thing for Harry, and in all honesty, he wasn't exactly sure what it was.

"What do you mean?" he asked Ron, his voice quiet as if it were barely a whisper. Distractively, he turned to look at a poster on the wall that depicted a man dress in a strange orange dress, riding around in the air on a broom. And it was moving. When once this might have frightened Harry enough to make him want to leave, now he found himself moving closer, his eyes wide in curiosity.

"Fun," Ron emphasised, pulling Harry's attention away from the obvious display of magic. "You know, what do you like to do? What do you enjoy?"

"Erm, dunno really," Harry replied with a frown. "I've never really have much room in my head for fun. I guess I like to read..."

"Bloody hell," Ron moaned, as he sat on his own bed. "You're a bookworm!"

"Well...I'm not really...sorry," Harry said, backtracking quickly and with panic as if he had said something completely wrong, misreading Ron's reaction completely. "Never mind."

His face reddened and his eyes lowered to his feet. Flashbacks flew through his mind, memories of teasing, bullying and humiliation; staples of his childhood.

He hated this.

He was constantly on alert, even now, worried that he would say the wrong thing and ruin everything. The worst thing was, Harry didn't know what the wrong thing was, and that scared him really. He had literally no experience of friends, of people his own age- or any age for that matter – being kind to him. Because of that, though, he felt constantly worried that he would do the wrong thing and end up back on the streets, alone once again.

He wasn't sure he could handle it anymore. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, Harry felt like a different person. He didn't know if he could even be the old Harry again. His instincts would stay with him forever, but if he ended back on the streets now, he didn't know if he had it in him to care if he survived or not after experiencing life as if should be.

"No...I mean, it's not a bad thing," Ron assured quickly, having realised that he had upset his friend with his reaction. "It's just...my best friend Hermione...she always has her head in a book. She ends up dragging me to the library too, and it gets a little boring, I suppose."

"I...I like it," Harry admitted quietly, relaxing slightly and pushing his doubts away for the moment. "It's hard though...I lost my glasses...I need to squint to see the words."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, and neither boy knew what to say to the other.

"You have a pet rat?" Harry observed nervously, trying desperately to relax with his new friend. He couldn't live like this, constantly on alert; it would be too hard. If he was going to stay here, he would have to try to let his insecurities go, at least partially.

As he looked towards the old, grey rat that looked to be asleep in a rickety cage on an old desk, Harry tried to imagine how Ron had even ended up with the pathetic creature.

Harry had slept in many dark and dismal places; abandoned houses falling apart at the seams, the cold floor of a wet street pavement, dark alleyways, and in most of them he had had to share the shelter with some form of creature, often insects and rodents. Harry had never understood why some people chose to have them as pets.

"Yeah," Ron answered and for some reason he looked glum. "He's not really mine though. Well...he is now, but he used to belong to my brother, Percy. Pathetic isn't he?"

"A little bit," Harry answered quietly. "How many brothers do you have?"

He remembered back to that morning, when he had been creeping along the cramped corridor; he had seen photographs of a large group of redheads, including Ron and his mother, and he assumed they were all related. He hadn't seen anyone else at the house yet, though, so he wondered where they all were.

"Five," Ron replied glumly. "And one sister. I'm the youngest boy. I hate it."

Taken aback by the downward spiral of Ron's mood, Harry shot his new friend a concerned look, but Ron didn't seem to notice, too lost was he in his own thoughts.

"I never get anything new," Ron began, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. "Everything I have is a hand-me-down. Even Scabbers."

Ron gestured towards the rat and sighed miserably. Ron looked so miserable in fact, that Harry felt the inexplicable desire to try to make him feel better.

"I never had anything new either," Harry said quietly, his expression sympathetic. "When I lived with...well, before I ran away, I always had to wear hand -me-downs. I never got presents for Christmas or Birthdays either..."

Instead of making Ron feel better though, as Harry had intended, his new friend's frown simply grew, this time for a different reason.

"Harry, mate," Ron said, as it dawned on him just how his complaints would sound to the boy they had saved, momentarily at least, from the streets, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything..."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said with a shrug. "It's just...you're lucky, you know. To have all those people who care about you."

"I know," Ron said, ashamed, but he felt the urge to defend himself, even if he wasn't quite sure he deserved it. "It's just...it's hard not to have a lot to your name. I see people at school, like Draco Malfoy, who have everything they ever want, and...well, I get jealous I suppose."

The name of the mysterious Malfoy was spat out with no small amount of disgust, so much so that Harry couldn't help but be curious.

"Draco Malfoy?" he asked, and the scowl on Ron's face said it all really.

"Yeah, he's a right git," Ron said moodily with a scowl. "Bullies everyone. He thinks he owns the school, just because his dad's a governor. I hate him."

"Hates a strong word," Harry said bluntly, and Ron stilled at the words, turning to face the black haired boy with a frown upon his face. Harry's expression, though, gave nothing away.

Behind his mask, Harry's thoughts were whirring.

He knew the true meaning of hate.

Ron was innocent and naive, much more so that Harry was himself. Ron didn't know the true meaning of hate because he had never experienced it. He had had people in his life to protect him against that. Harry was happy for Ron, glad that he had so far missed out on that particular life lesson, but he couldn't prevent the slightest bit of jealously from rising within his chest.

Because Harry had never had that protection. He had been on his own from the moment his parents had died. And hate...

Well, hate had been a big part of his life.

"Mate," Ron began, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry about what I said. You know...about being poor. I mean, you've had it much worse than I have – "

"It's fine -" interrupted Harry, but he too was cut off.

"It isn't fine!" Ron exclaimed angrily, although it was clear that his ire was meant solely for himself. "You're not fine! I forget how lucky I am sometimes. I love my family, I really do. That's what's really important. I just wanted to say...I mean...I know it's tough, and we don't have a lot of money, but then...you've reminded me...well, we don't need money when we've got each other. And you've got us, I promise."

The declaration was awkward but the emotion in Ron's voice was so sincere, so clear to Harry that he really didn't know how to reply. His throat tightened uncomfortably and tears prickled at his eyes, but he refused to let the emotion out. He didn't want Ron to think he was weak; a cry-baby who can't even handle a few nice words without bursting into tears.

Ron, however, was not as unobservant as Harry had hoped he would be.

"Harry, mate?" Ron began quietly, concern etched across his face as he looked towards his new friend. "Are you okay? You know, this magic thing...I reckon it's a lot to take in?"

"Dunno, really," muttered Harry as he sat down on the edge of Ron's bed, running a shaky hand through his messy hair. "I mean...I'm happy, I guess. I always thought...well, I always thought the strange things that happened to me...were...made me a freak."

He blushed slightly and kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor, his hand absently pulling at a loose thread on the homemade blanket on Ron's bed.

"And now," Harry continued, as if in a daze, interrupting any protests that Ron had been preparing to make, "now you tell me that there are others out there – others like me. That those strange things were normal..."

Harry trailed off, his gaze rising to meet that of his new friend.

"I've never been normal before," Harry admitted. "I mean...even before the streets I was always a fr-"

"You're not a freak," Ron interrupted gently, correctly guessing that Harry was going to call himself that.

Harry kept his gaze firmly down, but he gasped at the intense emotion that he could hear escaping from his redhead's voice.

"Was...was that why you ran away?" Ron asked tentatively, hoping desperately that Harry wouldn't get upset at the questions. He was curious, in a morbid sort of way, about Harry, and the life he had led. He had obviously not been treated kindly, and although he was certain he didn't want to know about the details, Ron couldn't help but be curious as to the horrors that his new friend had faced, whilst he himself had been tucked up safely at home with his loving family.

Harry, though, found that he didn't want to answer. He had come far in the last few hours, but he wasn't quite there yet.

Harry felt exposed here. He had spent the last few years running away from any human contact, good or bad, so why had this family undone him so easily in such a short space of time. Harry was lost, more so than he had ever been on the streets. There, his life had been simple, if not easy. Survive, find food, beg, avoid the gangs, live through a beating, go to sleep, start again. Now, here, there were so many more things to consider. It was almost like being back at the Dursleys – he wasn't invisible anymore, not like he had been on the streets, and that scared him. Terrified him really.

"What...What do you like doing for fun?" Harry choked out, blatantly changing the subject as he squashed down the memories that Ron's question had brought up.

"Oh," Ron replied, his face dropping as he fought the urge to offer comfort that he knew would not be accepted by the black haired boy. "Erm...well, I like to play chess. I'm pretty good as well."

"Chess," Harry nodded, gratefully latching onto the new conversation. "I've never played chess. Is it hard?"

"I can teach you, if you like?" Ron offered tentatively, relieved that Harry wasn't about to run again in order to avoid uncomfortable questions.

"Erm, okay," Harry agreed unsurely, and after setting up the board on the edge of Harry's new bed, letting difficult conversations go for the moment, teach him Ron did.

Even a complete amateur like Harry could tell that Ron was much better than 'pretty good'. In fact, Harry suspected that in their first game, Ron could've beaten him in ten seconds had he wanted to.

The rules to the game seemed fairly simple, but the various strategies that could be employed made chess a lot more complicated. Harry found, to his surprise, that he wasn't completely rubbish at the game, and that it was quite enjoyable, even despite the fact that he was clearly no match for the redhead.

"You're not bad," Ron said, after his fifth straight victory in barely an hour. "You were quite Slytherin in some places actually."

This was said in a teasing manner, with Ron grinning towards his new friend as he put the pieces away, but Harry didn't quite understand the reference.

"Slytherin?" he asked, once he had realised that Ron wasn't to make him feel bad.

"Yeah," Ron explained. "It's a house at Hogwarts."

At Harry's confused expression, Ron realised with a start that there was so much that his friend still didn't know. Looking apologetically towards the black haired boy, Ron moved quickly to explain a bit more.

"There are four Houses at Hogwarts," Ron began. "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. I'm a Gryffindor."

Ron puffed his chest out slightly at this announcement, clearly proud, but Harry, who obviously didn't know much about the Houses, couldn't work out why that would be the case. Ron, having noticed Harry's further confusion, felt another strike of realisation.

"It's a family tradition you see," Ron explained, and Harry nodded in understanding. "Although Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff wouldn't be too bad."

"And Slytherin?" asked Harry, nervous for some reason he couldn't quite understand.

"There wasn't a Witch or Wizard who went bad, who wasn't in Slytherin," Ron said ominously. "I heard He Who Must Not Be Named was one."

Harry felt a thrill of fear rise up in him from some inexplicable place. The intensely serious look on Ron's face did nothing to relax him.

"He Who Must Not Be Named?" Harry asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"He was a Dark Wizard," Ron explained, his voice dropping. "They say he was the most evil Wizard who had ever lived. There was a war a few years ago, and he was at the centre of it."

"A war?" Harry commented quietly. He didn't ask why Ron had yet to say the name of said Dark Wizard. The look of fear on his face was explanation enough for now. "What happened?"

"He was defeated," Ron said with a shrug. "He tried to track down this family, you see. He'd been building his army for years, and dad told me that he reckons that You-Know-Who was trying to recruit the two parents. Potter, their name was, if I remember right."

Harry started violently at the mention of the name, his chest feeling tighter and tighter as anticipation grew within him.

"What happened to them?" Harry prompted, his voice a mere whisper as he felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, so much so that he was surprised Ron couldn't hear it.

"They refused to join him so he killed them," Ron said sadly, oblivious to the look of intense pain that flitted across Harry's face. "The thing is, there was a kid there too. A little boy. No one knows why he did it. Maybe he just liked killing by that point, but You-know-Who tried to kill the child."

"He tried to kill the boy," Harry repeated, his face the picture of shock.

"Yeah, I know, horrible isn't it?" Ron said, misinterpreting Harry's horror at the story. "He couldn't do it though. When he tried to kill that little boy, something in his powers broke. Something about that little boy stumped him that night. One little boy did what hundreds of fully trained Wizards couldn't do. He defeated the most Evil Wizard of all time, and only came out of the fight with a scar. A small lightening bolt scar on his head, can you believe that?"

"Ron," Harry said, talking as if on autopilot. "What was the boy's name?"

"The boy's name?" Ron said with a frown. "His name was Harry. Harry Potter; the Boy Who Lived. Why?"

With painstaking slowness, Harry lifted a shaking hand to his head and slowly pulled back his messy black fringe to reveal a scar that he had had for as long as he could remember.

Ron blinked, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' shape as he slowly moved his gaze to the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead.

"Bloody hell."

A/N- Well, hello dear readers. First I must apologise, because this is perhaps an unforgivably late update. In my defence though, this was a ridiculously difficult chapter to write. There was an awful lot of dialogue that I wanted to include, and it didn't help that I knew exactly how I wanted to end it. It made it really difficult for me to work out how to get there, if I'm honest.

I should probably apologise for this cliff-hanger too. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be too far away, so I won't be keeping you in suspense too long...

Oh, and I wonder if anyone can guess the significance of Scabbers in this scene, with regards what may or may not be coming up later in the story.

Anyway, I hope you like it, and that you'll grace me with a review, letting me know your thoughts and/or suggestions for future chapters. You have no idea how much your feedback means to me, and how much it motivates me to write better quality chapters. Thanks for reading!