Summary: A formless individual had entered little Harry's life. As he grows up, a voice constantly guides him, with no one else to say otherwise, eventually shaping the saviour of the wizarding world into someone he wasn't supposed to be. Fate changes its course as the green-eyed wonder takes his destiny into his own hands. Dark!Harry. SLASH || LVHP

Note: Thank you so much for the reviews, alerts and favourites! ( ° ◡ ° ) They're really humbling, since I didn't anticipate much response for this. Still, I'm really thankful and more than a little appreciative for those who took their time to give me feedback. C:

Forgive the little slips to present tense in the Prologue; I had initially planned to write in present tense, after all. I found it a little hard, so I reverted to past tense. I'll be fixing those mistakes when I have the time. :3

Not feeling this chapter much. My muse turned on and off, so various parts were written in different times. This story comes out comfortably through my fingers, and so I feel I shouldn't force the words out. Anyways, enjoy!

On to the story!

Misguided Ghosts

Chapter I

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The sun rose, signalling the start of the day for many. For the small boy's case, however, it was the pounding of Dudley's feet on the stairs, rattling his whole cupboard upside down and causing dust to rain down on his black mess of hair. He coughed, scrambling forward to get out of the small place. With some horror, his grasping hands found the door locked.

He pushed and tugged, to no avail. Tears started prickling his green eyes, but they did not fall. Instead of paying attention to the claustrophobia creeping up on him, he covered his nose and mouth with his thin blanket, huddling his knobbly knees to his chest and leaning against the door, hoping his aunt would go down and open the cupboard. He grabbed his wonky glasses and wiped the lenses relatively clean, putting them on and trying to ignore the pounding above him.

The heavy footfalls stopped after a few minutes. The fat, pink cousin is tired already, the boy narrated in his mind with a touch of glee. Unusual silence reigned for seconds on end. What is he up to? The small boy frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. Suddenly, a childish cackle sounded at the top of his black head, where a small metal flap covered a much smaller opening.

"Wakey wakey, little 'Arry!" Dudley jeered in a high, irritating pitch; like a shrieking little piglet. The small boy didn't answer, opting instead to roll his damp eyes silently.

A click resounded, and before the boy could scuttle forward, his cousin wrenched the door open. He landed with a stunted 'Oomph!' on his back, hitting his head on the hard floor and seeing stars in his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden bright light, before realizing belatedly that a big foot suspended above his face. With a little squeak, he quickly crawled away from the stomp his face was scarily accustomed to, and stood up, running towards the kitchen, where he could start up the stove and pour oil onto the pan, the eventual sizzles and occasional hot droplets that flew up and out effectively frightening his cousin into avoiding coming near him.

A pudgy hand took hold of the loose shirt the boy was wearing, stopping him from his escape. With a thud, the green-eyed child found himself again lying sprawled on the floor, vision swimming and an ominous headache beating his poor head. His cousin laughed loudly above him, "Ahahahahaha!" really looking the part of the villain in a cartoon the boy was fortunate enough to catch in Mrs. Figg's old-fashioned telly.

Before the small child knew it, a foot had crushed his throat; cutting off his airflow and making him choke and scratch blindly at Dudley's snickers-covered foot. The pressure lifted, and another pain took his mind away from his gasping breaths.

Dudley gave another kick to his caving ribs, but not enough to break any. The small child knew stark—blue, black, purple! his mind chanted—bruises would splatter heavily on his pale torso, covering old ones easily enough.

Thankfully, Dudley seemed satisfied enough at the sight of his gasping, struggling scrawny cousin, for he walked towards the living room, presumably to watch his favourite show. The boy on the floor clambered up to the banister, small hands clutching tensely at the rail as he pulled himself up and stood on wobbly legs. A wince shook his body as he felt pain inflame his abused ribs. He reached a hand up to rub gently on his sore neck, and attempted to walk. He paused abruptly as pain stretched on his thin torso once again, before continuing and taking another cautious step forward, one arm leaning against the wall for support, while the other embracing his front.

His day continued on in much the same way: cooking, Dudley kicking his legs, washing the dishes, Dudley tripping him, cleaning, Dudley bonking him on the head with his new toy hammer, yawning, Dudley wailing loudly how Harry hid the remote!, followed predictably by his aunt shrieking at his ears and extending his already long list of chores, his uncle turning a very unbecoming shade of plum, before pushing him outside, where he'll, "—reflect on your bad attitude, boy, before we decide to stop our generosity and throw you out in the streets! NO DINNER FOR TONIGHT!"

The small boy sighed, exasperated at the usual, unchanging flow of his life. He turned on his heel, walking towards the garden, before the reminder of the place made him pause in his tracks. The locket!

His feet continued on walking as his hand grasped the trinket beneath his shirt. Plopping down behind a very tall bush, which he subconsciously noted to trim later, he pulled the locket out of his shirt and in front of his eyes.

It was still there, it was still as beautiful as he first saw it, and it was his. The child immediately brightened, turning the locket over and over in his small hands. It felt cool against his skin, yet it radiated a peculiarly familiar warmth that he simply could not place.

The boy stood up, abandoning his weeding and wandering towards the neighbourhood park. There were a few children and adults in there, but the swing set was fortunately vacant. He sat down, still absorbed in admiring the glimmering locket.

In his fascination, he didn't notice the set of eyes staring at the little bauble as well, but with a different kind of spark than his. The gruff-looking man walked quietly behind the boy, hands opening and closing as he prepared for the easy grab.

In an instant the precious trinket was snatched from the small child's hands, ensuing a startled gasp from the boy. He watched, rooted to his spot, as the trinket was swiftly taken away from him. He... The man... He took my locket! Then, as if a bubble popped, he jumped up to his feet, his short legs giving him unbelievable speed as he ran after the mugger. His glasses sat askew on his nose, blurred green eyes following the orange back of the man; his breaths turning into short huffs of air as his exertion strained him.

"Stop! Please! Give—give me—back my locket! Sir!"

Unfortunately, Lady Luck didn't seem to be on his side that day. The man didn't stop running, and eventually, the distance between them grew far too long for the child to even hope of reaching the thief.

He paused briefly to crouch over his knees and catch his absconding breath. But before he could start the chase once again, with some surprise, the child watched bewilderedly as the man skidded to a stop, looking very reluctant as he turned around and retracted his steps, the same emotions the child was feeling shown similarly on the man's scrunched up face. The thief looked like he really didn't want to go back; but his body did. It was as if... something was controlling him.

It was with no little amount of shock that the child received the locket the man dropped into his forcibly extended palm. Green eyes flickered to the man's hands, where angry-looking blisters and burn scalds ran on the callous skin. It was as if the locket itself had put those on the hands, judging from the shapes that the marks had taken form in.

The thief-turned-good (Did he, really?) walked backwards weirdly, and with a jolt—as if the man had just realized he had total control of his body—he threw one last look at the locket, turned away, and ran like hell was at his heels.

What just happened?

The boy looked back down at the locket, a confused wrinkle to his brow. Why had the thief returned the locket? It made no sense; at least, no sense at all in the mindset of absolute 'normalcy' that the Dursleys had so drilled into the young boy's mind.

It couldn't be magi—the M word, could it?

Tired of the crazy and puzzled jumble his thoughts made, the boy shrugged, resolving to think on it later as it was getting late. The sun started to set by the time he went back to the neat house that bore a golden four, locket secured comfortably under his big shirt.

When he closed the door behind him, entering silently into the house, he felt as if he never went out and he had spent the whole day inside the house instead. He shuffled to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and a slice of bread. He speedily finished the bread and gulped down the tap water, washing the glass swiftly and setting out to start cooking dinner.

There were times his aunt made dinner. But since she was nowhere to be seen, and it was nearing six, he went about cooking to avoid the sure reproach for not doing so.

The small child clumsily chopped his spices and a few vegetables, while boiling some eggs and ground meat. He placed a pan on the stove to warm, drizzling some oil, waiting a few moments, and sautéing the garlic and onion, then transferring the ground meat and its juices into the pan. After a few minutes of letting the water dry a little, he mixed the vegetables in and stir-fried a few moments. He immediately turned off the stove to keep the veggies fresh.

Fetching a big plate, he scooped the delicious-smelling meal unto the decorated ceramic. He peeled off the shells from the eggs then sliced them in half, placing them in no specific order on the sautéed beef and vegetables. He set up the table, including the pitcher of water and some sliced bread.

He ate a portion of dinner to settle his grumbling stomach, secretly. His uncle's, 'NO DINNER FOR TONIGHT!' still rang loudly in his ears. The small boy nicked a small Tupperware Aunt Petunia never liked, and put some slices of bread in it. He took a bottle of water he always made sure to hide at the back of the fridge, and then proceeded to his cupboard, where he can hide his supplies for the nights he was never given food to eat.

After securing the Tupperware and bottle of water, he returned to the kitchen to stand by the wall, as he does every time the Dursleys eat. The family of three trickled in, and ate. The boy watched them, standing obediently without a peep. Dudley didn't bother hitting him this time, since the fat boy immediately went to the living room to watch some reruns of some primetime series or another. His aunt and uncle, however, stayed behind, Aunt Petunia bringing the dishes to the sink to wash, and Uncle Vernon comfortably sitting on his chair.

"We will be out tomorrow, boy. We'll leave you at Mrs. Figg's. Don't give us reason to ground you again," Uncle Vernon gruffly said, scratching his thick, bushy moustache and threateningly squinting his eyes at his nephew.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," the boy replied, staring at the floor submissively. This kind of occurrence happened occasionally, wherein his relatives would leave him at the old lady down the street to make merry without him. Mrs. Figg was a nice old spinster, but often times she would bore the boy with her repetitive retells of her numerous cats' names and histories, showing him a gallery's worth of pictures of said felines. He hoped it wouldn't be as bad tomorrow, and he'd be able to eat some of her chocolate cake—even though he was quite sure it lasted some weeks at a random shelf—and watch a few shows in her rusty television box.

It was around nine when he was finally allowed to return to his cupboard. He changed his clothes into something cleaner and tucked under the thin blanket, not bothering to take off his round spectacles. He wasn't that tired, and there was still something in his mind that's just itching to be pondered over.

A pale hand pulled the locket out into the open. Its emeralds glinted in the darkness of the cupboard, giving off some rather eerie glow. The boy can still remember vividly what had happened that afternoon. With some curiosity and wariness, he brought the trinket up to his face and sniffed. It smelled nothing in particular. Next, he stuck his tongue out, bringing the locket down to his mouth and giving a hesitant lick. He scrunched up his face at the metallic taste of the trinket—a taste that is nothing unusual in itself. So what could it be?

What could have made the very peculiar incident in the park happen?

It was all very confusing; the thief-turned-good, the burn marks on the thief's hands, the strained look on the man's face as he went back and returned the locket, the man's frightened face as he threw one last look at the locket—without remorse or even longing, and not at the boy, which was confusing as well—before he ran away and never looked back. The small boy really didn't know what to think, so he did what he had always did—what the Dursleys had been careful to instill in him; he ignored the issue and tucked the locket back under his shirt, and just thought to ponder it over in another day, when his eyes weren't slowly drooping to neverland.

The event was a welcome albeit baffling interlude in his otherwise boring life. However terrifying the thought of losing the locket after just having it with him for a day, the trinket now lay safely with him, fortunately, and that was really what he cared about.

With that thought in mind, the little boy settled comfortably in his bed, and closed his eyes.

In the middle of the night, where only the owls lurked and the moon hung high in the inky black of the skies, a voice whispered,

Oh, foolish little boy...

—softly, gently, not much to have stirred the sleeping boy, but it did. The boy shifts, brows wrinkling, but still asleep.

You have just chosen your end.

The boy shifts again, chewing his lip unconsciously. He tugs his blanket closer to his chest, but still, he does not rouse from his slumber.

A soft, white glow seemed to be emanating from the boy's chest. It was from the locket, pulsing once again with warm bursts of power before dimming, returning to its former state.

It was enough to lightly wake the boy up. A hint of green radiated from the slits the boy's half-opened eyes made. He sleepily sat up, a loosely fisted hand reaching up to rub his eye.

The locket pulsed once again, glowing brightly inside the unlit interior of the cupboard. The little boy snapped his green eyes completely open, staring dazedly at the shining trinket underneath his shirt. His hands quickly unclasped the necklace from his neck. He let it dangle from his fingers in the air as he sat, taken aback by the beaming light from the golden piece.

He squinted as he thought he saw the carvings move, and the emeralds turn. His other hand reached up to rub his eyes furiously. I've turned bonkers, haven't I? the boy thought franticly to himself, remembering the same sentiments his relatives always threw scornfully at him; still staring at the mysteriously lit trinket. He snatched up his round glasses and placed them on his nose, blinking fast. This is just a dream, right? he thought, trying to convince himself, anxiety rising in his chest at the unnatural sight, which was always absent in the Dursleys' home.

No, a voice sneered in his mind.

The small boy dropped the locket with a start; green eyes widening with more than a little trepidation and fright as the locket lay harmlessly on the bed. He hesitantly reached his hand forward as a few moments passed with silence.

Boo.

He jumped and snapped his hand back. The boy scuttled away, huddling against the wall to his back as he stared at the glowing locket.

Is the little boy scared? the voice mocked.

"I'm not!" the boy indignantly shouted, although his voice shook a little. Remembering that his relatives were asleep, and did not like to be woken up, he repeated, with an annoyed whisper, "I'm not."

The voice seemed to be somewhat amused, although the mocking in its tone had not gone away. Then why are you backed into the wall, shaking pitifully? I daresay you are frightened.

As if to prove its point, the locket glowed brighter, resulting into the boy immediately pressing himself more against the wall. A chuckle from the voice seemed to snap the boy from his actions, for the locket found itself the recipient of a blazing green glare. "Stop that," the boy hissed.

Stop what? the voice gleefully answered, although from its tone the boy knew it knew what he was talking about.

"Stop glowing! You're blinding my eyes," the boy said, his glare turning into a squint as the light proved far too bright for his green orbs.

That's really sad, I'm sure, the voice answered, and I care, because?

The boy growled, before he shifted forward to grab the locket. "What are you?" he asked, as his annoyance gave way to genuine curiosity.

A locket, the locket spitefully replied. Then, as if an afterthought, added, stupid child.

The boy rolled his eyes. "You know that's not what I meant."

You asked what I was, and I believe I have answered you truthfully, the voice tisked.

The boy's annoyance rose up once more. In his irritation, he childishly flicked the locket's front. The voice sputtered.

How dare you! Do you know how important I am? the voice hissed; with some detectable panic, if the boy might say so himself.

The little boy grinned. With a laugh, he playfully threatened, "I'd answer my question seriously if I were you. Or, I might accidentally drop you in the toilet tomorrow morning when I take a bath. Or maybe conveniently place you in the neighbour's dog's kernel, where the little pug can slobber all over you. Or maybe, just maybe, I might forget you, and leave you here in this cupboard, all alone, and no one will be able to find you for centuries on end; because seriously, who looks into a dusty old cupboard? And you'll—"

Stop! Stop! Fine! I'll answer you, the voice grumbled, with not just a little horror and disgust in its tone. I'm a magical locket.

The boy snorted, visibly unbelieving and incredulous of the voice's statement. Magic? There's no such thing as magic.

Although... when he thought about it, he's hearing a voice in his mind which is clearly not his own, isn't he?

Shaking his head, the boy raised an eyebrow, expecting more to come. When silence only met him, he prompted, "And?"

I'm a magical locket who talks and glows, obviously, the voice answered, sounding wishy-washy.

"And?" the little boy prompted again, impatient.

With another grumble, the voice said hurriedly, I'm a piece of the soul of a man, and I'm in a locket. Satisfied? the voice jeered.

"So..." The child's brow wrinkled. "You were a man... and now you're a locket?" He scratched the back of his head, confused. Can magic really do that? His uncle had beaten it more than a handful of times into his head... There wasn't really magic, wasn't there?

Of course there is, you stupid little muggle! the voice hissed with irritation and venom. You are an example of why I hate muggles, it continued, although the child wasn't sure if the statement was completely directed at him. Another thought tugged on his mind.

"What's a mug-gle?" he asked.

The voice sighed, sounding angry and exasperated. It's a non-magical person.

Its attention seemed to be drifting away, although the boy didn't notice.

"So I'm a muggle?"

Yes.

Silence followed. Neither said anything after a couple of minutes. The little boy frowned, and shrugged his narrow shoulders. He had a lot of questions swirling in his mind, just waiting to be asked, but drowsiness had come up on him once again. He was ready to sleep, before the voice—man—locket spoke,

What year is it?

"1988," the boy sleepily replied, settling under the thin sheet. He took off his glasses and snuggled his head on the pillow. He grabbed the locket and put it near his head, where he can easily stare at it. It was after several moments before the voice spoke again.

What's your name? it—he, asked.

The boy blinked at the locket, before mumbling softly, "Harry." He waited for the usual offer of the other's name, as per courtesy, but it didn't come. So he asked, "What's yours?"

My name is—, the voice paused, as if in thought, before continuing, You may call me... Tom.

"Tom," Harry hummed, gazing at the slowly dimming locket. "Goodnight, Tom."

The small boy gave in to the call of sleep, not expecting any response from the snarky man. There wasn't any.

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Reviews are well appreciated, given that I don't really know where I'm taking this story. I've had fleeting possibilities for the plot, but they're not certain, ...stable, in the sense that they don't combine smoothly and tend to leave several plotholes behind. I want to complicate the fic somehow, but I don't have any solid thoughts. Any ideas? ( °╭╮° )

Well, that sounded promising. (─ ◡ ─) Rest assured, I do know where I'm going with this fic, and I have a rough outline for the events that'll happen for the next several chapters. I'm just having a challenging time in making it not as cliché as the rest. You know what I mean.

I love emoticons. ≧◔◡◔≦

Feedback, please?