Harry Potter, Parselmouth I am not JKW and do not own anything other than the... wait I don't own jack... crap.

Authors Note: This is the end of the prologue. After this the real story begins and the chapters should be longer.

July 24th, 1991, 8 pm...

For the last eleven or so years Vernon's schedule had returned mostly to the pristine quiet that he so favored. Other than the infrequent noise of the cupboard under the stairs being opened for the removal of Dog's chamber pot or his daily food and water bowl and the addition of a few new books every few months to keep the beast quiet, his life had more or less returned to normal.
His regular boss had resumed work and his bonuses had started flowing again three years after that swamp of a year where they had obtained Dog. From there on out things had been smooth sailing at least once he had made that wonderful agreement with that doctor. Of course there were a few difficulties. The boy had taken up that habit of hissing to try to communicate and that had been quickly beaten out of him. Of course the punishment of removing his solitary light bulb for a week so that he had no entertainment what so ever also helped remove his desire to interact.
All told he had managed to keep the Dog's presence from interfering with his family's life at all. In fact Dog was so rarely out of his cupboard that the neighbors did not even know he existed. The only odd proof of his existence underneath the stairs was the overpowering smell of lilacs used to cover the smell along with the occasionally unexplainable occurrence.
This was why he was so utterly surprised this morning to find a small golden envelope on the floor just inside the mail drop addressed to one Harry James Potter. Outside of that one night 11 years ago the name had never been mentioned within his house. Indeed the Dog did not even know of it, he had forbidden Petunia to even mention it after that fateful night where he had been forced into accepting the Dog's presence in his life.

-
July 29th, 1991, 10 am.

The solution seemed easy at first, like many of his problems. Just toss the offending letter in the trash Petunia said, so he did thinking that would be the end of it. The next day however there was another. The day after that there were three and after that six, then twelve, twenty four. Boarding up the mail slit in frustration that night did nothing to resolve the issue. That very next morning forty eight (he actually took the time to count) letters were strewn about his living room having come in through the chimney. Things were quite clearly getting out of control. With no way to stop the letters there was only one logical solution. "Petunia, I do believe that we will be taking some of that unused vacation time I have. Pack a bag with clothes for a week or two. Get Dudley ready as well. I am going to feed and water the dog before we go."

July 30th, 1991

The next day 100 letters stormed down the chimney and deposited themselves just outside the cupboard. No one saw, no one noticed. Aside from the odd noise coming from the cupboard the house was quiet and still.

Inside the cupboard a scrawny naked and malnourished young eleven year old boy laid. His mattress was without sheets and smelly, only a small blanket for warmth. His chamber pot sat next to the hatch along with his rations of food and water. Around his neck latched a collar that was chained to the underside of the stairs, and on its tag the word DOG in all bold letters. A mere five and a half feet by four feet was his entire world having little to no memory of anything else beyond the few glimpses of exterior walls when his hatch was opened. Time, meaning days, nights, hours, minutes and seconds held no meaning to this child. For him there was merely the present which was never changing.
With his small fingers he routinely traced every inch of his tiny abode, counting the ridges and variations in the wood as well as the places where two boards joined. At the foot of his bed sat his small pile of treasures. Namely books, it had been quite difficult learning to read but his Master's wife had spent many hours reading to and teaching him while sitting outside of his alcove when the Master and Dudley were out of the house. Why she spent so much time with Dog when they were alone and so little when others were around was beyond his comprehension. But when he thought of her, which was frequently as there was not much else to do, he treasured their time.
It had taken him years to fully learn his place as the family's dog. He wasn't to make noises or draw any attention to his room and was most certainly not to make any noises toward someone as if trying to communicate if anyone other than the wife was around.
Not that the boy would have had any way of knowing but as he reached for one of his favorite books, namely The Hobbit, that a large man was dismounting a funny looking motorcycle outside. In the next few minutes his life, like that of his favorite character Bilbo Baggins would be irrevocably changed.