Hitsugaya's grandmother is a character that I never really thought about all that much, when I first got into Bleach. This being much to my chagrin, considering "background character with barely any screentime" is one of my favorite subjects when I write for a series.

I don't know if I really explored her all that much in this story, but I tried to make sure that her importance to Hitsugaya's upbringing, the level of influence she had over him, is more easily felt.

.

It was both nostalgic and deeply haunting to walk into the house where Toshiro Hitsugaya once lived with his grandmother. It was a simple shelter, barely more than boards and hope holding up the roof, but it had the feel of a place with many, many memories. Matsumoto remembered being here before; she knew these walls, and she knew at least some of the memories too.

As she followed her captain's dearest mentor—the woman who'd watched over him at his most vulnerable, and who was most responsible for the man he'd become—Matsumoto found her attention caught by a window with no glass or curtain.

She scowled, gesturing. "Did someone harass you, ma'am? Did they throw something through that window, there?"

"Hm?" Nana turned and looked over. "Oh, no. Not at all, dear. No, no."

Matsumoto quirked an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Oh, when dear Toshiro first called on his power, he let out a burst of energy that broke right through that wall." Nana giggled to herself. "A lovely young man helped me to fix things up so that it makes a lovely little window. It's nice. I can look right out from here and see the grand gate." She pointed.

". . . Captain Hitsugaya did that?"

Something about using Hitsugaya's given name didn't feel right in this house, even though Matsumoto liked it better. Certainly, she had his permission to use it, but it felt entirely too presumptuous to think she had his guardian's. Besides, it felt natural and correct to acknowledge his accomplishments right now.

"Yes, yes. He certainly did." Another giggle. "So . . . how is Captain Hitsugaya, then?"

Matsumoto smiled fondly. "He's doing well, ma'am. We've had a lot of restructuring recently. We're still in the middle of rebuilding the court, after . . . everything." She gesticulated randomly, and Nana didn't seem to need clarification; she certainly knew what Matsumoto meant. "He's talked about visiting you, but so far . . . he hasn't been able to get the time off to do it. There are so many demands on his time. He has so many soldiers to look after, and he's one of the leaders of the Gotei 13."

Nana nodded sagely. "Yes, yes. So much responsibility." She was practically glowing with pride. "I always knew Toshiro was meant for more than this house. I knew somebody would see his potential for what it was, and that he would walk his own path. I've always known it was in Toshiro's destiny to write Soul Society's future someday."

"I think you're definitely right about that," Matsumoto said. Then she frowned. "Do you have trouble, like at the market earlier, often?"

"Oh, sometimes." Nana waved a dismissive hand. "It's nothing to worry yourself over."

Matsumoto's face shifted, scrutinizing. "It's a real problem," she guessed, "but you aren't interested in having the Gotei 13 stick its noses where they don't belong. This is Rukongai business, and Rukongai will handle it."

Nana eyed Matsumoto carefully, with a fresh appreciation that she'd never had before. "A Seireitei lady wouldn't guess that. Which district?"

"Sixty-two," said Matsumoto. "A . . . friend and I joined together."

Nana nodded. "Yes, yes. I thought there was something about you." She smiled privately. "It's good that Toshiro has someone with a good head on her shoulders, standing at his right hand. You won't let him lose sight of what's important. You won't let him forget where he came from."

"Never, ma'am," Matsumoto said.

She wanted to say that Hitsugaya would never forget his roots, he wouldn't let himself do that, but Matsumoto knew better than to make a promise like that. Hitsugaya already struggled so hard to get his peers—and his subordinates—to take him seriously.

Reminding them that he was a gutter-rat would do him pitifully few favors.