As an eleven year old, he wasn't particularly ambitious nor had he developed enough to be considered cunning but he was loyal to a fault, or at least he would be once he found people worthy enough.
"Better be…. GRYFFINDOR!"
He didn't consider himself brave, he was just capable of working under pressure and did what needed to be done.
Apparently a sentient hat and a table full of children he had never met found this most applicable.
But he would rather be with them than the group in yellow smiling indifferently.
"Look what I have here! Looks like Longbottom forgot something!" The blond kid was a spoiled prat.
He sighed, no one else was doing anything and Neville would be devastated if he lost his gift.
"Give it back, Malfoy." Trash.
The entire situation was ridiculous, he had been 50 feet in the air and was diving head first towards the ground just to catch a toy.
He landed to the cheers of his housemates and he honestly could not find it within himself to care. That is, until he was carted away by a professor.
Then, he feared for his life.
He was still so young and still so naïve.
His first kill was accidental, honest.
And probably could have been prevented if he hadn't gone along with his friends' ideas and suspicions.
As he sat on the stairs staring at the hands that had just dissolved a professor, he realized two things.
He wasn't the person everyone wanted – expected – him to be and there was no reason he should have to bend himself backwards to meet their ideals.
He was 11 the first time he killed a man and he couldn't care less.
Who in their right minds send a possibly traumatized child to live with abusive relatives?
He wasn't – traumatized that is – but that didn't mean that he wouldn't work that angle for all it was worth.
After a day of unnecessary physical labor, he sat in the smallest bedroom at Number 4 Private Drive in Surrey, he realized.
"Muggles are trash."
He was being harassed by a freakish creature with large ears and even larger eyes.
It took his mail and caused him to be locked in his room.
Then, it had the gall to block the barrier.
Ronald may not have realized but he knew it was that thing's fault.
Standing awkwardly outside of the barrier, Ronald was quick to suggest – and suggest and suggest – that they take the spelled car to school and whilethey briefly entertained the idea he had a better one. Scrawling a quick note on scrap paper, he set Hedwig off to locate. Professor McGonagall.
Ever since the idiot manhandled him in the bookstore, he really wanted something terribly to happen to the new Defense professor and he would have no qualms being that terrible something.
The man was a moron and most exciting thing that had ever happened to him had to do with someone forgetting his favorite color.
Regardless of that, the man could spin elaborate tales that were only problematic when introduced as fact. Then, then, it was unacceptable.
When people were scared they whisper about but never approach. He thought that sounded wonderful.
But now he was pissed, positively irate.
If people were to be scared of him he would rather it be because of something he did, like basically murdering Quirrel – something that everyone seemed to conveniently forget.
But, no. Of course not.
He just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and now everyone thought he was an evil muggle-hating foe.
It didn't help that he could speak with snakes – God forbid he tried to help someone again. And that mess had just begun to pass when the incident occurred.
Ronald's sister and the giant snake were dead and before him stood a man that should not exist.
It was a mess of a situation.
Apparently a diary – of all things – had possessed Ginerva Weasley forcing her to locate and open the supposedly lost Chamber of Secrets.
Guess it wasn't so lost anymore.
I am Lord Voldemort .
By all rights he should have been terrified, but he just wondered how long it took to come up with an identity that was an anagram of his name.
Dumbledore's phoenix had swooped in with the Sorting Hat – he wondered if the situation could possibly get more surreal – which held an ostentatiously golden sword.
In a last ditch effort to save his hide, he held the sword above his head as the snake's jaws closed down. The sword was driven up through the roof of the snake's mouth and it stilled. But, as the universe continued to remind him, no good deed goes unpunished and he soon found himself writhing on the ground the snakes vemon coursing through his veins.
In his agony, the diary and Ginerva Weasley slipped from his mind.
The phoenix began to sing drowning out his screams and it's tears soothed away the pain. As he reoriented himself, the diary man smirked walked towards him a wand in his hand.
He was 12 the first time he intentionally killed.
The sword weighed more than someone his size could realistically fight with. So, with his entire 95 pounds behind it, he hefted up the sword and swung.
The man was dead, Ginerva Weasley was dead, and so was the giant snake.
He wondered when his luck would finally run out.
Molly's daughter was dead and she was still coddling him. He supposed it could be worse, she could be cursing his name.
He could only assume she was putting off dealing with the tragedy until she was in private.
Ronald, however, was switching between depressed and furious.
"You're Harry Potter!"
"That doesn't mean I can bring back the dead."
He was still a child. A child who but his hopes in a person incapable of making them reality.
He was still a child who had his first taste of death.
"I didn't plan on having the conversation until you were much older. However, with circumstances being what they are I believe it needs to be had now.
"The diary and the young Tom Riddle that you faced were created through one of the darkest rituals of the soul and are known as Horcruxes. A soul for a soul.
"By taking life, the Dark Lord was able to split his soul into several pieces and distribute them amongst objects of great personal significance."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"It is possible that the scar you bear was caused by the accidental creation of a Horcrux."
The school knew he wasn't to blame for the attack and yet there were still whispers.
"He's Harry Potter, he should have saved her."
He wanted nothing more than to cast away Harry Potter
He stepped off the Hogwarts Express and it occurred to him with such clarity that he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before:
"Muggles are trash, and so are wizards."
His strength gleaned from hours of manual labor was the only thing he coul even entertain thanking the Dursely's for.
Marge insulted his family. His mother, his father, his birthright.
He didn't need magic to show he was more. He didn't need magic to show dominance.
He moved before he could formulate a better plan. With all his strength he grabbed her by the neck and forced her chair backwards.
She screamed bloody murder and Vernon grabbed him and slammed him against the dinning room wall.
"OUT BOY! GET OUT!"
He spat on his uncle and slipped upstairs portraying a calm he didn't feel.
He commandeered one of Dudley's old backpacks filling it with extra clothing and let Hedwig out the open window.
His textbooks and his wand he left behind without a second thought.
Magic had never done anything for him anyway.
He had only been on the streets for two weeks when a couple of punks with bb guns killed his only family.
They had been stalking him all day and when he had stopped and let her land on his arm, they shot six times only hitting twice. But, once was enough.
He watched in horror as her talons released their grip on his arm and she fell lifeless to the asphalt.
In her honor, he braided several of her feathers into his hair and he buried her in a park within a hole deep enough no one would try to dig her out.
He's killed a man and the soul fragment of the most powerful wizard of the age. He felt no remorse when beat the punks within an inch of their lives. He left them bleeding in an ally way and next thing he knew, rumors spread once more.
The called him Kid Ruthless.
He thought it was utterly lame and uncreative but even the adults on the streets let him be.
A nice woman had taken him in for the winter months but she was ill and he probably did more for her then she could ever do for him.
For once, he didn't mind.
Only days before her death, he accidentally called her Mom.
The woman was in bed the day she introduced him to an old friend introduced only as Timeoto.
She had pushed for him to meet the man with the hope that he would leave with him when the man returned to where ever it was he was from.
When she died, he put several coins in a payphone, and his life truly began.
The mafia was something new. Of course he had heard of the Families of Italy but they were there and he was in England where his biggest problem was whether or not he would get to eat that day.
He certainly had not expected the nice old man Timoteo to be the Don of the most powerful Family in Italy.
The man had taken him in, dressed him nicely, and set him up with tutors to teach him Italian and the years of school that he had missed.
He accepted him as his own and even gave him a name.
When Timoteo first explained them Xanxus' first thoughts were of magic.
Muggles had their own form of magic but only a select few knew how.
A secret society within the secrecy of the criminal underground.
He thought it was funny.
Wizards thought they knew everything.
Timoteo had said he was a corrupted sky.
That he could still obtain a set of guardians but Xanxus would never have the harmonization factor that pure skies radiated.
The horcrux was probably the source of corruption.
He couldn't say he minded.
He didn't think he could handle being crowded 24/7.
He had his fill of that in England.
Flame training did wonders in getting his accidental magic under control.
He had learned how to combine his magic with his flames.
Xanxus was stronger for it, possibly even stronger than Timoteo.
He had always known that he would have to do something about his haywire magic eventually but he always operated under the idea that he would cross that bridge when he had to.
And low-and-behold the answer fell right into his lap.
He was fourteen when he was enrolled at Academia Colombo – the Mafia academy – half way through the school year.
He decides he probably the only person in the world to have attended schools in two separate secret societies.
For the first few months, he was quiet.
He would never admit it, but it was mostly due to his shaky Italian.
He spend the time observing though very few of his peers were worth noticing.
Those with money affiliated with the Mafia sent their children to Colombo to make allies to strengthen the Family.
Lower level Famiglias trying to move up in the world through by sending their children to a place made for making connections.
The lot of them.
There was a kid that had been watching him intently since his first day.
He had short messy hair – that was very nearly white – and sharp grey eyes.
He was often seen in the company of the Cavallone heir – someone he knew would grow to be formidable.
Xanxus hated the feeling of eyes on his back. Watching him, categorizing him, bating him.
But the eyes watching him weren't the eyes of a curious child, or the eyes of scared brats. They were cold, calculating as if he were constantly trying to determine if he could best him in a fight.
Then, one day, when he felt those eyes on him, he turned and smirked.
Superbi Squalo, his name was.
The boy took to tailing him about the school and through him he became acquainted with the Cavallone heir and their flamboyant upperclassman Lussuria Abano.
Lussuria who took it upon himself to proclaim them both as his younger siblings.
Xanxus decided that it was nice to have people that weren't scared of him.
People were scum, trash, but his people were alright.
"One day you'll be glad to have me at your side!"
Xanxus was still fourteen the first time they fought back to back.
Back to back with no sign of rescue and without a clear win in sight.
He felt alive.
The group attacked them once they were off the neutral grounds of the academy.
Their attackers had guns but they were unarmed per academy policy.
They won, overwhelmingly.
Afterwards, he took Squalo home with him.
They were fresh into their fifteenth year when Squalo surpassed the Sword Emperor and they made Varia theirs.
Lussuria joined them and a follower of Tyr swore his allegiance to Xanxus.
That night they celebrated with wine and whiskey.
A week later, Timoteo officially announced his ascension.
It was the beginning of the decline of their relationship.
Unfortunately, becoming the head of an independent assassination squad was not an adequate excuse for skipping school.
As he and Squalo walked the halls, he categorized three types of people.
Those who feared them.
Those who tried to suck up to them.
And those who couldn't care less.
The Cavallone brat remained the only one in the third category.
Xanxus was being stalked.
By a kid. By a literal child.
Lussuria noticed him first when the kid followed them from school to headquarters. Lussuria had graduated at this point and spent his time cleaning house and establishing a new security protocol.
He knew everything from what an underling had for breakfast to some kid slipping past the surveillance.
It was freaky but convenient.
Squalo was upset that he got bested by a kid.
Xanxus was begrudgingly impressed.
The kid's name was Belphegor.
They called him Bel.
He slaughtered his family, had a pennant for knife fights, and frequently spoke in the third person.
He fit in well.
Lussuria thought he was adorable and Squalo thought something.
Xanxus was just glad that the kid wasn't really a kid.
He wasn't even good with children when he was a child.
And he certainly didn't have the patience for a whiney brat.
A murderous prince he could handle.
At 16 he and Squalo left school and put all their effort towards rebuilding Varia.
It was much easier to focus on what was important when someone wasn't hounding you about the Pythagorean Theorem.
Neither of them were much for school anyways.
Besides, photosynthesis wouldn't help with an assassination.
They still made Bel endure Lussuria's tutoring.
Massimo was an idiot, a dangerous idiot, and Timoteo was blind.
A stupid, blind, old man.
Fredrico, the favored candidate was killed and Massimo was next in line.
If Massimo became Vongola Decimo the world would burn.
They couldn't let that happen.
They loved the Family too much.
"He could have you killed for this!"
"If I do this, then he'll wonder what else is going on under his nose. He would never expect me of all people to betray him."
"Why is that?"
"He took me off the streets. I owe my life to him."
"So, he isn't your father. I thought so."
"He was an old friend of a lady who took me in while I was still in England. She died, and I called him."
He paused for a moment.
And he told him the truth.
Squalo listened while he told him everything from the Dursleys to magic.
And when he voiced his concern about Squalo's belief in his story he simply shrugged and said:
"You hate liars."
The supposed coup went as planned.
Varia stormed Vongola headquarters and Xanxus stole the Sky ring.
He was burned by the purity of the ring against his Wrath flames.
And for all that they were an assassination squad, no lives were lost.
Vongola Primo's technique.
He hadn't thought Timoteo was strong enough.
He really wasn't, it took all he had.
The ice should have killed him.
It was only his magic that kept him alive through those years.
He was kept in complete and utter solitude.
He could only hope that Squalo was taking care of his men.
He knew he was.