Harry Potter and the Gift of Tongues
A HP fanfiction by Manrann
Disclaimer: Harry potter belongs to JK Rowling. I do not own Harry potter. I'm just playing in her playground.
Prologue
In a small, cramped cupboard, under the stairs of one Number 4, Privet Drive in Surrey, a young boy lay, writhing in pain.
His breath came in short gasps as he tentatively clutched at his most-likely-broken ribs, sweat damping his messy black hair and running in rivulets down his face, pooling in the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, before continuing down to join his tears.
It hurt.
The boy whimpered on his musty, worn mattress in the cupboard, desperately trying not to make much noise, for if he woke his uncle there was no telling what would happen to him.
This was one of the most severe beatings he could remember, and he remembered too many. Scarcely a day had gone by in his seven years of life with his relatives, where he had not been given a verbal or physical beating, oftentimes both. Why they hated him he couldn't comprehend, but hate him they did.
This one had happened due to his carelessness. He'd been caught by his uncle while speaking to the neighbour's cat. In cat. His uncle was livid, to put it mildly. The man promptly shooed the cat away, and then proceeded to roughly drag the boy into the house, screamed at him about some freakishness, and then beat the boy to the ground, adding a few kicks to the boy's ribs as he lay prone on the ground, just for good measure. In retrospect, that was probably when his ribs had broken.
The boy had known that he was no normal child. Normal people had loving families. Normal people didn't get starved or beaten. Normal people didn't grasp languages as fast as he did, and normal people certainly couldn't talk to snakes or dogs (He wasn't even sure how he could speak dog).
And his relatives hated anything that was not normal.
He tried to roll over onto his side, and gasped as the pain in his ribs began anew.
It bloody hurt.
He didn't want it to hurt. He wanted it gone. He needed it gone. He squeezed his eyes shut, as tears leaked from them. He wanted it to end.
He felt something stir, deep inside him. He didn't know what it was, and couldn't bring himself to care. It felt right. It was like a song, a beautiful symphony that had no lyrics but was understood all the same. It felt like the strength he never had, the love he'd never felt, the courage he always needed. It felt right.
He grabbed onto the feeling, the power, like he would never let go. And he pulled.
A rush of warmth swelled through him, and his eyes widened in shock. He twisted over onto his back. His ribs didn't hurt anymore. He prodded them, felt them and did a couple of stretches, the ones that his cramped cupboard would allow.
It was gone. He was healed.
That wasn't possible. Broken bones didn't heal that fast.
It was a dream. It had to be. It was too good to be anything else.
But if it was a dream, he could leave. Right? He looked at the lock on his cupboard door. He pictured it open. He needed it open. A soft click sounded out. The boys hand came up, and at his touch, the door opened.
The raven-haired child, trembling in disbelief, tentatively stepped out into the hallway.
He walked over to the front door, and, with a click, it fell open as well.
Shivering slightly, Harry James Potter, brother to the girl who lived, the abandoned child, stepped out onto the lawn. He raised his head, and his bright green eyes met the full moon. A smile split his emaciated face.
Free. He was free.
The world wouldn't know what hit it.