Ghost Whisper: So…another fic from me. This was one where the idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I was oh so slightly obsessed with the idea, until I managed to finally get the fic written. I hope it turned out okay. :)

Note: Some knowledge of Hisoka's past regarding his family would be useful when reading this fic. It's okay without it, but itmakes a little more sense that way. I will freely confess however, that I haven't read this point in the manga, so the information I have is hearsay. Please forgive me, and let me know if you find a glaring error. That being said, this is also my own take on events so a lot of details are purely from my imagination.

Reviews would be greatly appreciated.

Now – on with the story! :D

His father hated it when he watched him. The boy liked to sneak into the dojo just before supper while the older man practiced his kendo. The man would ignore him for as long as possible, but it disturbed him to find bright green eyes intently watching him, and a small body trying to mimic his moves. It just wasn't right. There was always an underlying tension in him, whether the boy was observing from out in the open, or hiding behind one of the polished wooden sliding doors. No matter how hard the man worked, his face remained pale, the sweat gleaming brightly upon it. He was always holding back something. A kind of hatred.

Eventually, the man would tell him to 'stop staring at me with those damned eyes.' The boy never understood what it was about his eyes that was to be hated so much. The servants around the house were always commenting about how the boy had his mother's eyes, and he was under the impression that father's were supposed to like everything about the mothers they were married to.

When he received such an order from his father, the boy rarely stayed long to ponder these thoughts however. He would obey with all speed, and run off to some other activity, fearing the wrath of the man who was so much larger than him, and held such power in the household. Sometimes though – just sometimes – the boy would run just far enough away to hide in the shadows, and his stomach would tie itself in knots over the fear of being discovered.

It might have meant that he was a disobedient child, before he was even old enough to understand what the term meant, and the way in which it would affect his future. Certainly, the irony was terrible, that in a year or less he would be wishing with all his heart that he be able to obey his parents.

Of course, that wasn't possible.

At that time however, the boy's disobedience was a harmless game. Watch his father until he snapped at him. Learn the kendo moves his mother had protested his knowing until he was older. He didn't flaunt his disregard for such 'rules', but nothing escaped his childish curiosity.

One of the boy's favorites subjects to focus his attentions on was the maids. The only male servant in the house of 'Hirosue', an old balding man with a squint, and surely not interesting company for a child his age to pass the time with. His father refused to hire any other men. Because of this, and the fact that his parents were distant at the best of times, the maids practically raised him.

The boy enjoyed being fussed over. Shiori, the eldest of the maids, was also a nanny of sorts to him. With his small hand gripped in her larger work-roughened one, she would lead him to the dinning room at mealtimes – though he often ended up eating alone at the large table – and made sure he had something to eat. The old woman liked to drag the rest of the girls into helping take care of him, complaining that she had enough work of her own without the boy on her hands as well. It was only in fun though, and the boy knew it, so it wasn't a cause for upset.

The girls loved to dress him up like a doll. In the mornings they would pick out his clothes, and spend a great deal of time making sure everything was just right. On those rare and special occasions when he was to have dinner with his parents, they would pull out a small child's kimono, done up in three different shades of green. They would giggle about how well it went with his eyes, while fussing with the folds and small locks of golden hair that blew chaotically into his face.

The accentuation of his eyes was not, perhaps, the wisest choice they could have made. The boy's father hated them; once refusing to let his son enter the dining room until he had changed. The maids, with wide eyes, tittered nervously and pulled him back to his room, where he was change immediately into a plain white kimono instead.

The kimono was so rarely worn, that it seemed to the boy pointless to own such a thing. His mother had bought it for him while trying to impress a visiting acquaintance of similar 'high social standing'. As so few people of this sort passed through their small village, the woman took every opportunity to make sure that everyone knew how well off they were.

The tourists who came there to hear the legend of the demon that had attacked over a century ago had no such significance. There was know need to impress them.

The Father hated the tourists. He said they made a mockery of his lineage, and the sacrifice that came with it. The boy was uncertain what he meant about that, though he believed it had something to do with the legend about the head of his family being the one to defeat the demon.

His mother never argued with his Father's position on the tourists – but then, she rarely spoke to him at all. She drifted through the house, at times a pale and silent wraith with haunted eyes, and at others a figure of power whom none could cross. She would call out orders to a nearby maid 'Move that vase,' 'This dust is horrifying,' And she would point a slender graceful hand imperiously, long fingernails reaching out like claws to sink into her target.

The woman took great pride in her hands. Morning and night, all manner of creams would be smoothed over them, pressing down even the smallest of wrinkles and calluses. They were always cool to the touch, as the boy noticed when he was allowed to grasp her hands. Even more fascinating was her jewelry. Ring upon ring graced each finger, twinkling in amethyst, sapphire, and pearl. But never emerald.

Never until that one day.

'We must always remember our pride, son' she had told him, a stern look on her face as she gripped his chin tightly in one hand. She frightened him then, looking far different from the front she normally presented. There was a clenched wildness stirring in her eyes that belied that calm composure written in every other part of her face. Worse, was the jagged shards of menace that bubbled up in her heart. He'd never felt such a thing before. He was used to iciness both on the outside, and the inside. When he asked her about the difference, she slapped him. 'Don't say such things in this house' she told him furiously.

This, at least, was a face he was used to. He'd seen this fury once when watching a conversation between his Mother and Father. Hidden around the corner, his eyes had been wide with uncertainty at the raised voices between the two. 'You will do as I say wife!' his father had shouted, fists clenched. A main entering the hall had skittered away immediately. They were afraid of his father like that. 'I am your wife in nothing but name. Do not think I do not notice what you seek to do. With the maids the only ones in this house-' His mother had held the same face then. His father's had seemed even more terrifying. 'It is your own fault if I cannot trust you!' had been the return yell from his father.

But here and now, the boy did not know how to deal with his Mother's anger. That time, the corner of the wall, and the secrecy of his position had held him safely. That time, he could feel the emotions and remain untouched, scared though he might have been. Now, he could feel the stinging in his cheek from the slap, and his eyes watering in pain and uncertainty. He bowed his head, showing a contrite face to his Mother, though he didn't know what he had said wrong.

The emerald glittered on his Mother's finger, catching his attention repeatedly all through dinner. It was the rarest of occasions, when he could sit with both parents at a meal. The boy was especially quiet, trying his hardest not to spill his soup as may have been expected with a child his age. Every spare moment was spent listening to his parents politely strained conversation, while his eyes focused on the whorls made in the wooden table.

Pretending to not exist, as had been his place in most meeting where his father was concerned, the boy reached for his glace of water, being careful to wrap his tiny fingers around it as best he could so that it wouldn't be dropped and spilled.

'Are you going to the shrine today?' his Mother had asked flatly. And the boy felt the same surge of anger that had swarmed out of her earlier that day. He opened his mouth to ask once again, but remembered her warning. Was this what she had been talking about?

'It is the anniversary, so yes.' His Father had said. 'But you know nothing of her death, so do not speak to me of things outside your understanding.'

Carefully, the boy reached out with his chopsticks, picking up a small amount of rice up from the bowl in front of him. Nothing spilled as he brought it to his mouth, and he felt a small surge of triumph, quickly smothered. It was not seemly to show delight, and most especially not over such a minor thing. His eyes focused on his Mother's hands, and narrowed in curiosity. He was twisting the emerald ring that so fascinated him. Even more interesting was that the jewel came completely off the ring. Why did it do such a thing? Wouldn't it be lost that way?

'I know perfectly well your feelings for the woman and her child. The fact that I am a replacement…it is of no concern to me.' The boy could feel the lie in that. 'Go, visit her shrine, and the child's. Perhaps when you return, you'll have new appreciation for the ones that live.'

Unnoticed to all but the boy, a small trickle of white fell into his Father's glass. Again, the boy opened his mouth as though to speak, but closed it. Would he get in trouble for speaking, when he wasn't supposed to be heard? He stayed silent, wondering what the next turn of events would be.

The malice curled around his Mother's heart once more, and the boy shivered.

'And will you invite another of your men over while I'm out?' His father asked, glaring across the table at his wife.

'Are you the only one who may have replacements?' She asked.

Before the words exchanged grew more heated, one of the servant girls walked nervously into the room, bowing low before his father. A few words were exchanged, none of which the boy could hear clearly, before the girl took the dishes out of the room.

The table was silent for a moment, and the boy wondered if now would be a good time to speak. Perhaps, as his parents weren't speaking, the consequences would be less severe if he were to do so.

"Why do you hate him?" His childish voice had piped up hesitantly. Eyes wide and questioning, the boy observed his Mother. She had turned to face him, shocked and angry.

'You-'

'It hurts a lot. And you look at him, and hate him.' The words were pouring out of him, a days – years- worth of questions, as he sought to /know/. 'And why did you break your green ring? What was the powder? Why – do you hate him?' He repeated the last question pathetically, growing fearful at the look on his mothers face. It was the same foreign one from that afternoon. His Father had the same expression.

Finely manicured hands slamming on the table, his Mother had stood up. The shock had caused the tiny round emerald to roll forward, and the boy reached out to grab the stone. 'You - you're a Monster! That's what you are! How could you know?' Storming over to his place at the table she had grabbed his wrist – so tightly that her long fingernails dug into his skin – and dragged him up and away from the table, while his Father watched, not speaking a word.

Protesting in quiet whimpers, he was pulled along through the house until they came to the tiny cellar where wine had once been kept, before a larger space had been created. The boy was thrown down the short flight of stairs to land on the cement. He looked up at his Mother with wide eyes.

'Stay there! And do not infect the house with your presence!' And then the door was shut, and the boy was left alone in the dark.

The next time he'd seen his Mother, she'd seemed faded, though as full of anger as she'd ever been. Opening the door to the cellar, she had looked down at him with hateful eyes. 'You made me do it, she told him. 'It was you and whatever it is that possesses you! Well you can stay here! The world need never know about you – and I hope you never defile this household again!' And then she was gone.

And the boy cried, holding on to the single sakura petal that had blown through the door with his Mother's exit.