One shot about Kalluto in response to Frenchlillie's idea. I hope you enjoy it! Please R & R. Constructive criticism is accepted ^.^

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Now updated to be more accurate compared with canon and a little longer.

Counting Years: Kalluto 1-11

1…

A flash of bright green light was what took Mama and Papa away. It was like a huge tear in his life; on one side the bright calmness and tranquillity, on the other: chaos.

2…

He prided himself in remembering everything and yet there was still one thing that eluded him. He supposed he had parents, he must have had, and yet, however hard he tried, not a single image of them could be brought up in his mind. It was though they had never existed. He liked to imagine they had black hair like his, green eyes like his, the same knobbly knees. In the quietness of his mind where he was free to dream, his mother had a kind face with soft hands, and his father was tall and firm. It wasn't true though. In reality, where he was supposed to live, they were drunks. Cruel and useless and irrelevant.

The second conundrum was his name.

It was a long while before he knew what his name was (his real name, not the names that they called him – Freak and Boy and That One). That day was the day Aunt Marge had come round for dinner, all her chins wobbling and her bulldogs barking by her feet.

"What's his name?" she had asked.

"Harry. Horrid name, isn't it?" was the answer. He hated how they said that, like his name was some sort of taboo: a blot, a mistake, horrid. In his mind he thought they loved the name (his parents); that they thought about it carefully, and bestowed it to him with gentleness. But he… Harry… lived in reality.

He really did wish his name wasn't Harry. He really did wish that his parents weren't unemployed alcoholics. He really wished Dudley would stop stealing his food. He wished for a lot of things, really.

3…

It was cold. He had no idea how he had ended up here; one day, hiding from Dudley and his gang at the nursery, there was a great big flash of light and suddenly he was spinning away from his own world, lost in a catastrophe of thoughts and a whirlwind of colours, feeling as though his head was going to explode. He couldn't breathe. Something was constricting his chest and squeezing him through a tight tube. His lungs burnt. However, in a moment it was over, and the small grassy area was gone, replaced by dark, looming shapes that seemed to stretch out and come for him.

He was scared, so scared. He was always scared, inside. He cried out to the night and the stars that didn't answer, never answered, wept for his imaginary Mama and imaginary Papa, wanting to fade away from the world and wishing it would all just end. He didn't understand, never could understand. He didn't know what was going on and, oh, he was very, very scared.

It was the sort of raw terror that left you ground to the spot, that signalled imminent danger and close by Dudley and cut you up inside.

They came for him.

They must have heard his crying from far away. Peering at him with cold curiosity in their piercing eyes, they talked over him; he didn't understand what they said, but he could guess - they argued, contemplating if they should simply get rid of him. They should. He was a freak and a waste of space. He was useless and the child of alcoholics. He was a Harry.

There was two; one with brown hair that stuck up all funny, dressed in an immaculate suit that was so clean it shined, with a beard on his long face to match it and another with hair like star light and eyes like sapphires (not that he knew what sapphires looked like) – cold and blue and beautiful.

But he didn't want them to get rid of him. He looked at one, the closest one, little like him, and with the hair as white as snow, and kept his stare. The white haired child turned to the other and spoke one phrase. They did not get rid of him. Although he had no idea what had been said that cold, harsh night, he considered the white haired boy to be his saviour.

4…

Dreams are dangerous, they say, but not everyone. In his imaginary world, he was a star; a star who had fallen from the sky and into the estate. In reality, he was just another kid with a very unusual skill that the family had adopted and raised as their own. Both were equally nice in his eyes. For the first time, he didn't mind which was 'the real' and which was 'the imaginary'.

They called him Kalluto. It was great to get rid of his old name – full of worthlessness and commonness – and now, he had family. The Zoldycks. Contract killers certainly made a more… unusual family but they were far better than the Dursleys.

His brothers taught him, moulded him into a new person who was built to kill. They were surprised at his resilience to pain but Kalluto didn't know why. This was better than the pain he was used to. It had purpose and meaning, and if he endured it, it would come with its host of merits. He was taught to defend, to infiltrate, to kill. He felt his muscles become stronger, his eyes become sharper. He changed and matured until he was new person. Kalluto was not like Harry. Kalluto was not useless. Kalluto was not a freak (although he was unsure what sort of impact an assassin would make outside the tall walls of his home).

Kalluto's family was an odd one – they were assassins after all.

They didn't have messy black hair or green eyes.

They were cold and cruel.

But they loved, or so he liked to think.

It was enough.

5…

They said he was a prodigy, not a prodigy like Killua or even like Alluka as they later learnt, not in fighting or attacking or wish granting, but good enough. Father said his nen had been awakened at a young age, that it was terribly powerful and he must learn to control it, direct it, use it to kill. Illumi was the one who taught him and they found their powers to be surprisingly similar – the ability to twist and change – Manipulator.

Since he could remember, he had always known he was special. He could do things that other people couldn't; he could move things without touching them and Dudley's fat fists could never hurt him, even though other people yowled when they came into contact with their face. Now he learnt to use the specialness to make a weapon of his choice.

Paper. It's funny what paper can do. So soft and innocent and yet even welded by normal people it could draw blood. By streaming his nen in to that fragile thing, Kalluto could make it as sharp as a knife, as deadly as poison and as accurate as a bullet. It suited him, Kalluto thought.

It was not too special, just a little different. Kalluto liked it like that. Good but not freaky.

After a while, there came a time when he wanted to wash away everything from his past life. Wash away Harry. He stopped wearing trousers near to when Alluka stopped wearing them too. He wore a kimono, wrestling with his hair every morning to keep it straight and reasonably long with a fringe to his eyes, hiding under a look that wasn't his. Green eyes still haunted him in the mirror, but that too was quickly rectified with coloured contacts that toned down the bright emerald to a dull violet. Like Milluki, Illumi and mother. He almost felt like he belonged.

Mother and Father favoured Killua, Illumi favoured Killua, Milluki favoured nobody, Killua favoured Alluka. Nobody cared too much about Kalluto and his odd specialness, the one that sank it to the background. If Killua came back from a successful kill, Mother would weep with pride but Kalluto, who had never left the estate hardly go any praise from his clingy mother at all. He didn't mind though, he loved Killua. He would do anything for his older brother.

So why did Killua always prefer Alluka? Kalluto had done every he knew to get his older brother's attention and yet he barely spared him a glance. It was always Alluka – Alluka this and Alluka that. Kalluto loved Killua. If there was anyone in the family that Kalluto wanted affection from, it was Killua. He didn't know why. He had forgotten the cause long ago.

Dreams assaulted Kalluto often – ones full of cold laughter and flashing green light. He had asked Mother once and got no reply, so he brushed them away as figments of the imagination. Besides, he had worse nightmares to dwell on.

6…

Killua was back, after two long years. What was it called? The Heavens Arena. It was weird, seeing his older brother, the one that looked so much like Father and different from everybody else, come home after all those years (practically a life time) of being away.

It wasn't the only reason Kalluto was happy. As Killua returned home, Kalluto was let out.

When they finally let them out for his first single job, Kalluto thought his heart would break in two from joy. Finally… finally, after all this time he could go out and explore, enjoy and most importantly, to prove himself. Of course he had been out before on his own, to prepare him for the bewildering colours and experiences away from the sanctuary of their mountain where they had little chance of being attacked by anyone who was unwelcome (they could be attacked by almost everybody else as training, but that was alright). Illumi was taking him, not Mother. This was unexpected, he guessed, but who cared. He was going outside!

It was cloudy. Thick, grey clouds hung low overhead, threatening rain but not quite doing it. It was dark and the air was thick with oppressive silence. High pressure, Kalluto mused silently.

"Come on," a rough but emotionless voice said and Kalluto nodded, ready. Soon, he was following Illumi through the network of streets, as silent as a shadow, unseen by all. Not a single footstep broke through and even though Kalluto would never admit it, pride filled him. He could do it so much better than everybody else – a combination of rigorous practice and natural talent. He may not be strong, but who needed to be strong when your enemy did not even know you were there?

They stopped a few metres away from the large, iron gate through which a road ran that lead to the manor house where Kalluto's target lay. Guards surrounded it, holding guns in their muscular hands.

Idiots, Kalluto thought.

"There. You know what to do." A single, small nod sufficed as an answer.

It was an easy mission in comparison to the normal – lack of trained guards, no precautions against nen. He guessed it was to prepare him, get him warmed up before the real thing. In other words: he was dead if he messed up here. The Zoldycks were not known for their tolerance. Not that they would harm family. Of course not. That would be barbaric. Although as long as it wasn't permanent or disruptive to training, mild injuries were brushed off as punishment.

It was just that the whole family had a different view of mild compared to the rest of the world.

Kalluto shook his head. It was time to focus. Brushing off the last reminisces of wondering thoughts, Kalluto went into assassination mode. It was like flicking a switch in his head; an on/off button to pure concentration, blocking off every and all trivial distractions around him. There was no thinking involved. He moved as training had taught him: silent, precise, deadly.

Not wanting to confront the guards in case his target were to be alerted of his presence and escape, Kalluto scaled the wall a few metres away, letting his nen surround him like a cocoon and feeling carefully for all the sensors that surrounded him. They were cheap, shoddy, easy to deceive. Illumi's eyes were far more observant than this. He avoided most of them neatly with superhuman speed and any more that stayed in his way he disabled with one swoop of a paper fan, cutting the connection before it even registered him. It would take a minute before they realised it was not a malfunction. Anybody else might go for the brute force approach of kill every guard in sight, but Kalluto enjoyed the dancing movements of this technical approach.

The grounds here were lovely. They were different to the one back at home; natured and carefully tended, instead of being left wild. At the back of his mind, through the misty haze of bloodlust, Kalluto appreciated the scenery that whipped passed him.

Soon the mansion, a tall and imposing building with many windows peeking out from the impressive stone front, came to full view. Yet more cameras perched like never sleeping hawks on parapets but Kalluto paid them no heed. It did not matter now. It was too late for escape. He charged in, footsteps still silent, looking up for a window.

Typical. The thin window that separated Kalluto and his target was locked from the inside. Again, not that it mattered. Time to use a little trick, Kalluto thought. He pressed his hand against the window and willed it open. This was his specialness – the one that no other Zoldyck had: the ability to do things beyond his own nen speciality. He could not explain it. It was as natural as breathing. The window opened with a click.

Inside was a man with a gun. A fat man, full of greed. He deserved to die, really. Kalluto felt no guilt as a single paper arrow sliced his heart in two.

In fact, it was his lips that made any reaction at all; a twitch in the corner, which made itself into a smile.

7…

Memories of before seemed so vague, almost non-existent. Illumi had almost left his life entirely now, wanting to devote himself to the training of the next heir, and Kalluto spent increasing amounts of time with Mother. Training. Killing.

His nen developed daily. It was funny, watching it grow – it was different to Mother or Father or even Illumi, as though it was alive and shifting underneath his skin. It longed to be let free. Kalluto knew he could do more than manipulate; so much more. Yet every time he tried to push it out, it clung to him, almost afraid. He had once prided himself on being not-too-special, not a freak (where did that word even come from, anyway) but now Kalluto knew better.

I'm not normal, he would remind himself. Not even as a Zoldyck. Every night green eyes flashed back from the mirror, the same emerald as the flash of his nightmares. However, try as he might, those memories of why would never come back to him.

Maybe they were lost. Lost in the recess of his mind where he would never reach again. Who cared? He had outgrown his imaginary world long ago. He was a Zoldyck now, however different.

8…

Kalluto was eight. Alluka (if anyone still remembered him) was nine. Killua was ten. Milluki was seventeen. Illumi was twenty two. It's strange how time flies. Kalluto thinks time must be moving faster now; the years wiz past like nothing before. The ticking clock of his lifetime moves ever onwards.

It is quiet. Too quiet. As though a storm is approaching.

9…

He was nine when Killua left. He never saw him go, but Kalluto was quick enough to observe what damage the rebel instinct of his older brother had done.

Mother was crying.

Milluki was angry, as always. With blood pouring out of him and on to the stone floor.

Kalluto just wondered – would he ever come back? Of course he would, he was just a bit upset; that was all. Everybody went through teenage years, right? Those thoughts did nothing to stop the niggling doubt at the back of his mind.

He trained, he studied. Politics, technology… new subject entered his curriculum almost every day.

"It is good to know everything. Then, you can't be surprised," Mother said, once she had recovered. Kalluto supposed so. It was the art of an assassin to always have the upper hand.

Killua did not come back. Mother was worried sick, so much so that she sent Illumi out to find him. No word was heard for weeks later, until one day, without warning the platinum haired boy came back. Kalluto had never been so gladder in his life to see him return. For a while he had been scared that the older brother would never return, that he had left Kalluto… no, everyone… all alone with nothing but betrayal and misery. But there was something in his eye, a glimmer of hope and fiery determination that filled Kalluto's heart with leaping joy and at the same time, sticky worry.

The worry came into a defined shape when the whole news was brought to him – Killua tried to make a friend. A friend who had stolen his heart and corrupted his thoughts.

Come back, Kalluto begged in his mind. But Killua had seen the light and he would no longer be tempted away.

When the friend, who Kalluto now knew was called Gon, came to the estate with his friends (a blond man and a tall man) to find and take Killua away, the first thing that Kalluto felt was unbridled fury. How dare he? How dare he even attempt to split them apart? Mother said go, leave them alone, so Kalluto went. But not before he sent them one last, vicious stare, full of as much hate as he could muster.

By the time they returned home, Killua was already leaving. Kalluto watched his quarrel with Mother, watched his cold stare root her to the spot with silent tolerance. He had grown so much. It pained Kalluto to see him leave, but already he knew there was nothing he could do.

It was the last time Kalluto saw his older brother in a long while.

Kalluto had forgotten when he stopped seeing the blood on his hands. The lucid warmth of the crimson liquid had long since lost their uniqueness, lost their disgusting quality. The feeling that developed was in fact the opposite of repulsion and soon Kalluto was looking for new jobs, new challenges, more blood. He accepted his own sadistic qualities and nurtured them deep in his heart.

It did not stop the doubt. As the bloodlust grew, so did the doubt that called from the pit of his heart – that maybe he wasn't on the right track. He wanted to be more, and yet whatever he did, he was never completely satisfied. Dreams of laughter and green eyes left his deep with longing and jealousy for a normal life that could never be his. These days, Kalluto thought he understood why Killua had left.

And the nightmares. Green flashing lights embedded in his eyelids. Where did they come from? They were different to the other memories of blood, with tangible fear that left Kalluto shivering with deep humiliation at the prospect of facing such terror.

10…

Job after job after job went past, each as insignificant as the next.

Half a year later he was in Yorknew city, doing a job with Illumi as well as a favour for his oldest sibling.

He needed to do something, branch out. He had never once doubted being an assassin before but now he knew with certainty it was not something Kalluto wanted to do. He felt trapped inside his own family, like a bird in cage; the dissatisfaction that comes from looking out and knowing he can fly, yet he cannot, consuming him.

He joined the Phantom Troupe soon after. Number 4. A lucky number, if he remembered correctly.

So why did it feel so wrong?

(Number 4, Private Drive) Kalluto shook away the thought.

The Phantom Troupe was new experience all together; he was freer than he had ever been yet at the same time unprotected from the dangers around him. The tranquillity (if you could call it that) of his younger years were gone, replaced by the turmoil and instability of the real world. Kalluto had spent so long hiding from the real world.

They travelled to Greed Island in search for a nen exorcist. There he met the lunatic, Hisoka. Later, piecing together the truth from snatches of information, he learnt that this particular troupe had had a lot of dealings with the Zoldyck family in general. Hisoka (although he was technically not part of the troupe) was friends with Illumi and Killua had tailed them for a while. Father and Grandfather had been sent to kill them, Illumi had been employed by them. It was a funny feeling. Like being in a pack of wolves, not quite sure whether you belonged there.

They didn't mind though. The troupe had a different definition of family that didn't come from blood.

He would get Killua back no matter what. Kalluto was used to pain, to enduring. He was used to waiting. He would bring him home.

Home…

From the dusty mirror with dirt clinging to the edges like a thick blanket, green eyes stared at him. He had been wearing contacts for as long as he could remember but… why? Why did those green eyes haunt him with doubt and hate and longing? The memories was so close yet too far to reach. He searched in mind, looking for the answer. One word came up.

Harry.

It was a name, probably. An unusual name. One that he probably hadn't uttered in a long while, hadn't told anybody about in his life; a name that came with a mixture of heart wrenching emotions – humiliation, powerlessness, hatred. Kalluto hissed. Snarled at those green eyes and with one swoop of his arm, cracked the mirror in two. It had split clean down the middle. He didn't care.

Pain shot down his arm, dull but persistent. He looked down. He had been gripping his metal comb so tightly that it had cracked down the middle, the sharp shards digging in to his palms and drawing tiny bead of blood. Kalluto sighed.

Picking up the biggest piece of comb that was still intact, Kalluto started tackling his hair. It was always a mess every morning. It was so tedious, keeping it straight. Illumi had effortlessly beautiful hair, ebony like night that swirled around him and danced, just like his dark, ominous aura. Mother had beautiful hair too, apparently.

Belonging; it was a funny word. Kalluto thought he had belong with the Zoldycks. Now he wasn't sure. Was belonging such an impermanent thing that could disappear in an instant? Would he stop belonging with the Phantom Troupe one day?

A large proportion of the Troupe were going to go to Meteor City tomorrow to get rid of a Chimera Ant. The former, an infamous dumping ground for all sorts of things, was a name that Kalluto knew well. Chimera Ants, however, was something Kalluto was completely unfamiliar with. They were dangerous apparently.

It would be an interesting job. Kalluto was looking forward to it.

11…

It turned out Killua had returned home whilst Kalluto was away – how the boy hated fate, keeping the two apart. Killua had taken Allkua. Mother must be so upset! Four of her beloved children have already turned their back to assassination and the last was useless chunk of fat. Who would carry on the family trade? Kalluto had always thought it would be Killua, because everyone expected it to be Killua, the perfect one, the strong one, the rebellious one.

Now he knew better. All these years of chasing his older brother had only taught him one thing: Killua would never return.

Maybe Illumi. If Brother wasn't quite so intent of controlling his younger siblings and manipulating Killua to be the heir, then he would be a great head of house.

Gon, Killua's friend, the funny one – if he hadn't appeared in their life then maybe this wouldn't have happened, maybe the family wouldn't be falling apart. But then again, Kalluto thought, maybe it wasn't falling apart, just… changing.

So many maybes. Kalluto didn't want to think about them all. Besides, it was all a long way off.

Kalluto stared at the thick parchment in his hand. He could not help but feel dread curl in his stomach as he studied the crinkled paper filled with neat lines of ink.

Mr Potter. Why was the name so familiar? Why did the green come to haunt him, the green of his eyes unconcealed by contacts, the green flash of his nightmares?

Scrunching it in a tight ball, Kalluto threw it into the bin.

It didn't matter. This was where he belonged.