Chapter 1: Faithful to Monsters

A/N: This fic is going to have a non binary character, do not read only to hate.

"Since childhood, I've been faithful to monsters, I've been saved and absolved by them, because monsters, I believe, are patron saints of our blissful imperfection, and they allow and embody the possibility of failing."

- Guillermo Del Toro

31st October, 1984

It had been exactly three years since that fateful Halloween night, and Voldemort remembered how, while seven was quite a powerful number, three could be just so.

Exactly three years of being helpless, being angry, residing in terror and confusion, coming to terms with his situation, only for those terms to crumble under the weight of the next wave of despair.

One could stay angry only for so long.

Seven was a powerful number, and there were seven pieces of his soul. One of which resided in the small boy sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs. For the longest time, he'd been too weak to even see what went around him, only that he had to stay with his horcrux.

A living horcrux. The only one he could access, now. The only one within his reach and his only hope for salvation.

He had been disconnected, unable to see, or hear, or smell or taste. And for all that he despised emotions, he cherished every moment when he could feel one of them from his horcrux. Confusion, hurt, fear, hope, disappointment, jealousy, loneliness.

Distasteful as they were, they were proof that he still existed, and not in limbo. That he still lived, and could still feel. Maybe alive wouldn't be the best word for this meagre existence, but he wasn't dead. Not yet, not yet.

Not ever, if he could help it.

It had been a slow process, gaining enough awareness that he could feel more than just the boy's bursts of emotions. He'd get snatches of other feelings, more physical. Hunger, and bruises, most often. Illness and the delirium that comes from it.

Sometimes, very few times, he could see. Through the boy's eyes.

Most often, his sight met darkness. But he knew it wasn't the darkness of oblivion or blindness. It was the dark that comes from the lack of light, not one that comes from the lack of anything, abundance of nothing. Sometimes a light bulb would flicker, or he would see a man, with a hulking figure and purple face and feel overwhelming fear. Sometimes there will be a flash of green. The sound of screams. Or glass shattering, or the strange whirring of a machine.

It reminded him awfully of Wool's Orphanage. A twisted parody, his life. Reliving his hellish childhood again.

Today, three years. And the last embers of his anger had tapered out, a weary exhaustion taking its place, weighing down on him, something that transcended bones and flesh, and seeped through his very soul, tattered as it was.

He wondered if every single piece of his soul felt this way. Empty and tired, missing something vital.

He felt more than usual, which was quite usual for Halloween nights, he'd observed. Of course, that first halloween after his 'death', he hadn't known what day it was, except he could feel Harry acutely, like he could sometimes feel his diary, before he'd made the third horcrux.

It had been a jarring experience, to not feel anger but awe, not his own. The boy had been awed by something. He still didn't know what.

By the second one, he'd settled into this new shadow of a life. Bitterly, angrily. Unaccepting.

He still didn't accept it, but the anger had left. He still felt bitter, but not enough to sabotage himself.

And so, after three years, today, he spoke for the first time. With intent and with purpose. Just two words, and the world shifted on its axis, but he didn't know that yet.

Harry Potter.

Harry Potter.

Harry bolted upright, arms flailing as he struggled to get his bearings and squinted in the dark of his cupboard.

The lights in the hallway had been turned off, and the cupboard remained dark as ever. His lightbulb had been busted about two months ago, and he wondered if he could ask the Dursleys for a new one on Christmas.

Maybe if he behaved very, very well.

Feeling along walls, careful not to dislodge his drawings and toys, he tried to see if he was alone.

"Hello?" he whispered, carefully. He couldn't be sure, but he'd heard someone call his name. It couldn't be the Durseys. They were all asleep, and they rarely ever called him by his name anyway, especially not his full name.

But he'd heard something.

Disappointed when his hands didn't meet anything unexpected, he flopped down on his mattress, snuggling into his blanket. He'd washed it just a day ago, and it still smelled faintly of the lemon scented detergent he'd used.

He yelped loudly when the voice came again, 'Harry.'

A grin splitting his face, he eagerly asked, "Hello! Who are you? How do you know my name?"

He loved it when people said his name. Mrs. Williams sometimes called him Harry instead of Mister Potter, and he loved it. Although he loved his last name too.

The Dursleys almost always used 'freak' or 'boy'. So hearing his name made him feel special.

Harry frowned when the voice didn't reply, and said again, this time quieter and more tentative, "Hello?"

'Hello, Harry. Where are you right now?'

Harry blinked at the absurd question, and said without thinking, "In my cupboard. Why? Can't you see me? Are you speaking through a mico- mic-phone?" He rushed out. That'd be so cool. He'd seen Dudley with his walkie talkies, talking to his friends through them. It always felt like they were spies on a super secret mission and had to talk without being seen together.

Maybe Harry was a spy, on a mission, and he hadn't even known about it. He hadn't known! He didn't know if he would have enough information for the man. Or at least, Harry thought it was a man.

'Why are you in a cupboard?'

The voice asked instead of answering him, but Harry didn't care. He was used to people not answering his questions. He'd be happy with someone to talk to, even if they were strange.

Harry shrugged, although he knew they probably didn't see it, if they couldn't even see that they were in a cupboard. Or Harry was, at any rate. "It's my room," he said.

'So you sleep here?'

"Yes. Who are you? What do I call you?"

The voice went silent, and Harry panicked. Had he said something wrong? Maybe asked too many questions. Aunt Petunia always got angry when he asked questions, but Mrs. Williams said asking questions was a good thing. He didn't know what the voice preferred.

'You can call me-' there was a small pause, before they continued, 'Lord–' There was another pause, like he'd been cut off mid sentence. When he didn't continue, Harry shrugged.

"Hello, Mr. Lord!" Harry chirped, happy that he hadn't left.

There was yet another long pause, in which none of them spoke.

'Hello,' the voice– Mr. Lord– said then, sounding a little bemused.

"Are you my guardian angel?"

He'd heard about guardian angels, and how they were supposed to look after you. The thought of every person having a guardian angel felt amazing and slightly incomprehensible to Harry. Dudley had probably gotten a very very nice angel, because he always got whatever he wanted.

Harry wanted to be angry at his angel for coming so late, but his happiness at finally talking to him overshadowed other thoughts and emotions.

'No,' came the word almost immediately. And Harry's smile fell. No? Then what?

'I'm a…' Harry thought that Mr. Lord must be concentrating really hard, because his words were coming very slowly, 'Friend.'

Oh.

He'd never had a friend before either, he thought that a friend might be just as good as a guardian angel.

"You're a friend? Really? My friend?"

'Who else's friend would I be?'

"I don't know! Dudley always gets all the friends. You're my first friend!" Harry babbled excitedly, he finally had a friend! And he didn't even call Harry a freak. Although the fact that Harry couldn't see him still felt weird. Harry blinked, and then opened his mouth again, "Why can't I see you?"

'Because I'm in your head.'

"Uh…" Harry said, frowning. That didn't… sound good. Did that mean he couldn't play with Mr. Lord?

'We can still talk,' Mr. Lord offered, and Harry felt his lips tugging into a smile before he jolted.

"You can read my thoughts?!"

'I'm in your head,' Mr. Lord said, and Harry scowled when he realised that Mr. Lord seemed to be laughing at him.

"If you're in my head you'd just be able to read everything, and then we wouldn't really be talking cause you'd already know everything!"

This was super cool, but it meant that Mr. Lord probably didn't actually exist. And that Harry had just made him up, like Dudley had made up Mister Turtles and talked about him endlessly until Vernon put a stop to that 'nonsense'.

It had been a bad few days in the Dursley household, until Dudley found some 'real' friends to play with. And hunt Harry with.

Maybe Harry made up Mr. Lord because he had no other friends? That'd be sad, but he knew not to tell Uncle Vernon about him. Because if even Dudley couldn't have one, Harry didn't stand a chance.

And while having a made up friend didn't compare to having a real one, it was still loads better than having none at all.

'Don't think so hard. I am definitely real.'

"But you would say that even if you weren't real." Harry complained, and then immediately winced. He shouldn't be whining about a good thing. The best thing, really. Now Harry would have a companion with him in the cupboard, and maybe Mr. Lord would even be there when Harry had nightmares.

'I suppose I would.'

Harry pouted at the non answer, "You're supposed to do something so you can prove you're real. Not agree with me."

'Does it matter, Harry? Whether I'm real or not? I'm here now, aren't I?'

Harry slumped slightly at that, shrugging, "S'pose not.'

'Now, Harry. I can read your thoughts, but I'd rather you tell me about them yourself.'

"But you would already know them, so what's the point?" Harry asked, although talking to someone still sounded fun. After all, even if Mr. Lord could read his thoughts, Harry couldn't read his. Harry couldn't even see him, actually.

Harry furrowed his brows and twisted his fingers in the blanket, fiddling and thinking about what to say. Dudley had been able to see Mister Turtles. Before Mr. Lord could answer his previous question, he blurted out, "Can I see you?"

There was a pause, and then- 'I don't know. Can you?'

"What's that mean?"

Harry knew he had a good imagination, Mrs. Williams had said so. So he knew that if he had made up Mr. Lord, he'd have been able to make up how he looks too. So maybe this proved how Mr. Lord was real? But being unable to see him only made him feel more unreal.

'I do not know if you can see me or not. I'm very new to this too.'

"Oh," Harry said, and then grinned, deciding not to ask too many questions, which always pleased Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. He didn't think Mr. Lord was like them, but he didn't think too many questions were a good idea either. "Well, we can learn together then."