Disclaimer: I do not own the copyrights for Ouran High School Host Club, from which this short fiction this adapted. All names of characters, places and events are fictitious. Resemblance of characters, places or events to any real life element is purely coincidence and not intentionally done.

Foreword: Since I anticipate my plot to be a little bit advanced in maturity as was originally intended by the creator of the wonderful manga, the setting and characters in this fiction are also accordingly redrawn. I hope you enjoy this adaptation.

Haruhi Fujioka had been looking desperately for a piece of insignificant magazine that her friends had ordered her to search. She didn't mind that the verb exactly suited the manner or kind of her delegation; she didn't mind being ordered about. She didn't mind whether the fault truly belonged to her or to some fortunate soul who might be rejoicing in his escape by now while she stayed to endure a hard punishment. She didn't mind if there was nothing to gain from the recovery of that old publication that had nothing to do with her or her grades. The only thing she's convinced as the most important thing at the moment was to stay out of trouble. And to do that, she had to accomplish two tasks within an hour: find that blasted ghost of a paper; and clean the traces of the search.

She glanced up at the time, a lovely grandfather's clock gallantly standing guard by the arch of the door to the parlor. Thirty-minutes left. She searched the cabinets, the corners, and all the tables with drawers in them. That paper just didn't want to be discovered. But everybody said it was sure to be in the Host Club office. Everybody was sure. And everybody said she should be the one to find it. The last of the possible locations, the desk, despite the superior feel and blush of cherry wood and the gloss and clarity of the varnish, looked like an entire litter. She pulled the unlocked drawers out of the desk, splayed the ornamented boxes around her on the carpeted floor, and went through every one of them at least twice. Still, there was nothing, not even a clue.

As she surveyed the mess and mentally balanced the world before her against the shapeless prospects of her future, her hands left the last drawer and landed instead on her bent knees. She was not one to give up in life. But her forehead and neck just broke into a sweat. Those six cursed guys who were supposedly her friends will be here in half an hour, or worse, earlier, she thought.

Who are they? Yes, who are they! Haruhi felt her spirit soar, her inner voice bellowing those questions like thunder. She hardly cared about the fact that single creature in that college came from wealthy families. Familiar faces and random everyday scenes replayed in her mind. She saw her colleagues, some of the faculty she had met so far; the Department Chairs, the Deans; the staff and utility who snubbed her. Then she saw the members of the Toastmasters Club, the United Stockholders' Coalition (or the student council), Regalia (undergraduate publication), The Gavel (postgraduate publication), Revalida (a universal academics review group), the Darkwood Circle and The Dandelion Company (cultural groups), Die Übertragung (a symphony group), the Gingerbread House (some sort of female club whose purpose she hadn't completely grasped), and then her own peculiar kind of club, the Lions Society. Every single one of them. They are the persistent minority who held the lion's share of the country's GDP. She would not have dared the halls of this college were it not for the caliber of the faculty and facilities she needed to pursue her dream job. There was also the geographical convenience factor to consider. So who are these people to deny Haruhi her ambition?

The Lions Society was by far the most powerful student group in the college. The group had the smallest population, consisting only of six male students and Haruhi, The Honorary Neophyte. The extent of influence (and affluence) of those alpha males could possibly be gauged but still somehow defied logic. And then, the Lions was the only club without a recruitment system. It was supposedly that exclusive—until its doors opened for her. (How she came to be part of this première circle was another story to tell.)

Meanwhile, she had been sitting on her heels for some time now, kneeling on the floor, and her knees began to ache. She rose clumsily but quickly regained her balance. I am done here. She returned the drawers to their pockets, gathered the papers on the desktop into a neat pile on the left corner, and replaced the high-back chair by the desk. Her eyes swept around the office one last time. Seeing that everything looked quite like it did before she came in, she took off and left the office, the parlor, the receiving room, then the whole of the Music Room, closing its grand double doors behind her.

She lingered at the doorway for a moment. Above her was a sconce that indicated what room it was behind her. To the right of the door hung seven pieces of neatly cut brass each engraved with the name and titles of a Lions. At the bottom of the queue she found hers. She, too, carried titles.

M. Haruhi Fujioka, S.S.E.C.C. Special Scholarship Exemplary Commoner Cub (The Honorary Neophyte)

(How she came to be addressed as monsieur was another story that she decided was not important to remember at the moment.)

She had gone past that period of feeling insulted by nicknames and constant reminders—subtle or not—about her station in society in general, but this was just the worst. That brass on the wall served as an everyday public reminder of a painful accident that instantly took away her freedom and earned her golden (mandatory) ticket to the most powerful of the A-class society. It was no secret that she broke an eighteen-million dollar antique article owned by the Lions. The secret was that she had not been able to pay—something that would have been easily dismissed as a trivial sum to an average student of that college. And to pay off her debt, she had to work for the Lions on minimum wage, which to her calculation, would take more or less twenty-five years to finish. That's a quarter of a century! But frankly, she ceased to care.

She had been called various names by other students before, with or without the intention of mockery, some even with the innocent intention of sympathizing. When she got into the Lions, she thought that was going to end. But her membership only lengthened her list of titles and unanimously increased her fame. Her other names included The Commoner, The Scholarship Student, The Special Cub, The Underdog, The Charity Kid, The Tragic Gifted—the order of which was of decreasing frequency of use. In spite of the demeaning practice of labeling and stereotyping, the kind of attention she was actually getting was quite positive. And she couldn't be grateful enough to her high-strung employers for keeping it that way, and her other secrets safe.

Now, she remembered her employers. Those six clever but devious men, whose names were hung above hers, insisted she should treat them as her old friends instead of employers or creditors or tyrants—or worse, criminals. She could not leave. Her heart raced and she could not stop it. She quit the Hall empty-handed. Some people wouldn't like it. One particular person she could scarcely evade flashed at the back of her mind.

His name was Kyoya Ootori. Even without the prospects of inheriting his family's business in medicine and pharmaceuticals, being a third son with two outstanding brothers ahead in the line, he still easily was the richest but arguably the most powerful student in the college. For three years now, he had been Vice-President of the Lions Society, which itself was a huge legitimate enterprise. But his wealth, rank or his excellent manipulative abilities hardly intimidated Haruhi. What did instead were three things: the towering stature, the piercing glare of his glasses, and that unrelenting cold and calculating look in his face all the time. When he smiles, oh when he did, her knees would betray her. Not that she was attracted to him. He was the one person who held her strings for his amusement: he had the power to cancel or fold her debts multiple times over. He was not just VP; he was everyone, everything—public relations, administration, police, judge, comptroller and controller (Shadow Dictator). Without any effort, his memory could rapidly send shocks up her spine, as it could instantly turn her sweat into ice. Kyoya Ootori was actually the 'people' who would not probably like her bold move to dismiss her errands without permission. Waves of chill embraced her as she stared listlessly into open space, her recollections and her recent defiance now seemingly projecting before her.

There are some people who warn about attracting the wrong kind of energy. The universe has this poorly understood way of unlocking the deepest secrets of our hearts. Even when one is alone, the eye of the cosmos is totally inescapable. Nobody is safe. No heart is safeguarded enough. No sleeve is ever too long. Over time, when left unchecked, the heart eventually slips out of its socket and finds its way out through one's sleeves, mouth, hands and feet, and even through his eyes. To one who has been most adept at dissecting and deciphering the complex patterns of people's ambitions and motives, even the most guarded houses of thought can easily be entered or vacated, like a simple dollhouse when it can be in fact an incarcerating institution. The defective lock to pick, the cue, the entrance—that glitch in security many times can be found in the way the eyes project whatever is causing the heightened cognitive activity behind them.

And right now, Haruhi's little secret tree house had been broken in.

"Have you found it yet?"

Haruhi almost leapt in fright. Her knees trembled terribly, refusing to be controlled until some moments later. Her pupils grew to the size of saucers, locking in on the target, and then shrank almost as quickly to small dots. Those onyx eyes scarcely blinked, if they blinked at all. She felt her guts loosening, her viscera melting like bad ice cream.

Her memory materialized before her, in flesh and blood. Kyoya was approaching, his voice echoing in the foyer of the East Wing. He repeated the question. But she continued to stare. "Pupils constricted, cheeks and lips a little bit blanched, facial muscles tense," he said it as a matter of fact, but omitted an interrogation of her welfare. There was nothing to be gained from that. He came to collect the article he had asked her to look for.

She was still fixated on his stone-colored eyes and made no attempt to talk. Pushing his glasses up his nose bridge, he unabashedly returned the persistent gaze. That was when he actually made the break in through Haruhi's thoughts, boldly rummaging through the dissociated forms and patterns to find his answers. "You do not have it."

Beads of grease peppered her neck and temples. She swallowed hard. The painful look on her face began to surface. She wanted to loosen her tie, or unbutton her shirt. With one swift hand, Kyoya almost ripped the tie off her neck. It was not his most gentlemanly effort at relieving her of discomfort, but it did certainly and almost instantly returned the rouge in her cheeks and lips. Then he looked away, as if by relieving her, he had drank all her pain in one swig. And she could see that painful look that was once hers, as if he was desperately trying tear his eyes away from something. The transference was almost complete. She began to warm up, feeling the tips of her fingers, the silky throbbing in her wrists. She moistened her lips, preparing to speak, but he would not look at her directly again.

"I," she was keeping her voice from trailing off, "I'm sorry I couldn't find that magazine you wanted."

The sides of his lips slightly curled upwards. He turned to her. "That's because it was never lost."

Haruhi's knees almost gave way, and she would have fallen to the cold marble. She mentally cursed him.

"I just wanted to keep you here. Tamaki and the others are in the President's office, having a little chat. I left them just when things were getting very interesting," he said. She was still recovering from the blow, so he took her arm in his, pushed the door to the Music Room open and dragged her in. He led her to the grand piano and made her take the stool beside him. Then she let go of her arm, but kept her hand in his.

"As I've just mentioned, things were getting very interesting between Tamaki and the Lady Suoh. They were talking about you."

"Me."

"Yes, you."

"What now? Am I finally going to be expelled?" Haruhi fixed her eyes on her lap, spent and exasperated. She slowly reclaimed her hand.

"Highly likely."

Kyoya lifted the cover and revealed a stunning set of white keys that shone like pearls interspersed with ebony. His fingers hovered over the octaves, as he was running through pieces to play in his head. He landed on the higher scales, positioning for an F Major Key. Then he decided to let his soul sing its own song. If his playing reflected the flight of his spirit, he was spreading his wings, taking off from the ground. The sharpened notes produced beautifully melancholic harmonies emanating a deep, longing and remorseful pain during the ascent. He tried to look back and down at what had been and what could have been, taking half-steps back, but he could never return completely without changing keys lest the entire song would crumble. He knew he had to keep going until he reached the clouds. When he did, the melody progressively became more cheerful. It spoke of success, of security. Kyoya's fingers ran across all the octaves many times, hitting predominantly the black keys—with the pedals, augmenting some harmonies, cutting short others, and silencing some others. He jumped from octave to octave like a leprechaun. And he took a pouch of arpeggio one at a time, sprinkling its notes all over like glitter, and collecting them like jackstones in a long, lovely brandish of his limbs. Another time, then the sweeping finish came.

Kyoya was almost smiling now. But his satisfaction had yet to be completed. He beamed at Haruhi. "Did you like it?"

"Outstanding, you always are," was her only response, as mechanical and structured as his playing. There had almost been no spontaneity; everything was premeditated.

Kyoya's face darkened, his eyes fixed on the piano. He knew she was telling the truth. "I could never compete with Tamaki, could I?"

Tamaki and Kyoya are equally virtuoso with the instrument. But he could never compete in the skill of relaying emotions with Tamaki. Tamaki had the most open and engaging character among them. He was extremely sensitive to pathos—of humans, animals, anything; he always wore a mantle of positivity about him everywhere. He was bubbly; he was bright, sometimes bratty, but never brute. His energetic and pure nature seemed to infect the people around him. And it projected in anything he did, especially in music and speech. Kyoya, until he would adopt a similar cheerful disposition, could never be as happy or his arts ever be as brilliant as Tamaki's. She recognized the direction the conversation could be steering to. "Compete on?"

He laughed icily. "Of course, of course! I'm supposed to stick to my role being the only rational being in this group. I'm supposed to forget you are only pulling out an act to dim your abilities, to earn your degree smoothly. Oh my. I've been forgetting a lot of things nowadays." Then, he turned to her, smiling, "I'm so sorry, Haruhi. Please accept my apology."

"What? I don't get it, Kyoya-sempai," she said. But of course, she knew. Of course, she knew all about the little domestic troubles and trifles going on about the Lions: the subtle rivalry between Tamaki the President and Kyoya the VP; the competition between Tamaki and the Infernal Hitachiin Twins; the brotherly squabbles between the Twins; the paternalistic relationship between Mori and Hani; and the list could go on. But Haruhi and Kyoya shared a common level of awareness of the world, something that's only just between the two of them.

When she came to school looking like an extremely haggard impoverished boy, Kyoya was the first who understood her true gender. He was the first who noticed her bright eyes, her sensible mind, and apparently sweet and soft nature. He put the suggestion in Tamaki's mind to take her in. Kyoya saved her, kept her, and nurtured her. She would pretend to be largely ignorant of the culture in the academe. A lost lamb, that role would make her appear not less than adorable to the other students and clients of the Lions. He helped her stage an act, helped her own that little comfortable nook, where she could be relatively safe for the next number of years. Of all people in the planet, Kyoya would be the first and probably the only one who would know when she would be lying.

She tried not to wring her fingers. What could I have done now? What sort of punishment is in store for me? She didn't like the idea of him brewing up another frothy, convoluted scheme that involved her. After almost three terms of working with the Lions, she knew better now.

He wrapped his hands around hers, warming them. "Relax, there is no plan. We are just going to have a little chat, just as they are now."

As if his words were magic, the spell was cast and she instantly calmed. Then he gave her a damask bow, the color of wine. It seemed strangely familiar though she couldn't recall anything by it. "What's this, sempai?"

"Didn't your late mother use to attend there?"

A bell was struck. A cold lance pierced through her chest. This was part of the uniform of Lobelia Women's University, a female-exclusive private institution for higher education two cities away. It was where her mother earned her degrees in Liberal Arts and the Law. Her eyes welled up with tears. Haruhi fought to contain her sobs. It had been fourteen years since her mother passed away.

"Why are you giving me this?" She asked.

Kyoya smiled. "So the Lady President Suoh has found out you were hiding your gender from the whole school."

Haruhi raised her eyes to meet his. So he's giving me an option to withdraw than be expelled. It must be. He's always a step ahead of everyone. But why? What can he gain from saving my dignity? She had a thousand more questions.

"Tamaki and the others are with her now, trying to convince the Lady with heaven-knows-what kind of stories about you to spare you and your privileges till graduation," Kyoya said. "The Headmaster, Mr. Suoh, is in attendance."

"That's very embarrassing."

"Depends how you look at it. The Headmaster actually found it thrilling. Almost a full year of being undercover," Kyoya paused to chuckle, "he thought that was very brilliant of you."

Haruhi tried to laugh. "Don't you think I should be there myself? Why exactly are you keeping me here?"

"I'd like to discuss a deal."

She was horrified, even more than at the idea of her expulsion. After three terms with the Lions, she had learned to fear when the wheels in his head were turning. "No…"

But his determination could not be suppressed. "Haruhi, we know how the Lady thinks and acts. If she had expelled overnight an heiress of an insurance company just because she lied about the exact number of her personal entourage, undoubtedly she can do that to you, too. Let's face it. If you want to call it quits now however, I can arrange for your transfer to Lobelia immediately."

She gave him an incredulous look.

He brought out a yellowing piece of literature, some old magazine named Liberty. The fine print below the title revealed that it was the official university publication of Lobelia dated November-December 1987. On the front cover was a picture of a very beautiful young woman poised in frilled blouse and blazer, her lovely black curls held up in a high pony tail. Her smile was the most entrancing thing Haruhi had ever seen. The caption named her the Most Illustrious Lady and congratulates her for winning triple gold in an international debate.

"That was what I wanted you to find."

"You demon." Haruhi laughed in spite of the tears that had finally escaped her eyes.

Kyoya could no longer suppress a smile. He was glad she was quite fixed on the magazine and did not have to look up at him. He did not want her to see the deepening rouge of his cheeks, the softening of his looks, his trembling lower lip trying to subdue the muscles at the angles of his mouth, and so forth.

She was feeling the picture with her fingers, imagining she was actually touching the woman. He pointed at the face and told Haruhi how striking the resemblance was. "You have her brow, her eyes, and her mouth. I daresay you got your nose from Ranka. Bless that good man. I hope he goes on beating Tamaki up."

Silence filled the room. She looked so peacefully content, sitting there, holding just the picture of her mother. He emulated that peace, a newfound plug to bar the noise of business calls, transactions, the clink of coins, and the brush of the bills as they emerge from the money counter, etc. He could not help but feel the loss of his own mother, too, but the feelings weren't equivalent. His mother died giving birth to him, the youngest of the Ootori children. He never remembered grieving for her, or his father permitting grief to permeate the family. And so he had not many fancy memories of domestic life, even of his childhood. But there was nothing to be gained by trying to resurrect what had long been dead. It was like purchasing an estate that had been completely buried underwater for the price of a developed one.

The first time he ever yearned for a taste of family was when his sister Fuyumi, thirteen years his senior, married a man called Shido who was twice her age. It was an arrangement made principally by Mr. Ootori. The selling point was the groom's air freight business. Fuyumi could have backed out but she didn't. Some years after Shido celebrated at least seven decades of his life, Fuyumi took over the company. Since she was an exquisite and intelligent woman, there had been a constant influx of suitors. Kyoya's older brothers urged her to divorce Shido, who later became a very sickly, frail man, and accept a more suitable companion (and more lucrative match) for her own good. But Fuyumi had learned to truly love Shido, without the glamour and pomp of the cosmopolitan life. Despite their affluence, they lived frugally, a simple lifestyle that completely changed and strengthened her as a person. Kyoya desired for that kind of peace his sister had endured to achieve. Nearly a year ago, he realized he didn't have to take a matriarch for a wife. Life had presented him an option.

"But if you want to stay here with us, there's an option."

Seeing Haruhi make no attempt to interrupt, Kyoya instructed her to undo the bow. She complied very carefully. The price of that rich fabric alone was enough to buy her a set of uniform or pay 6% of her debt to the Lions. But the price of the article buried underneath the enfolding of the fabric was the price of a life. It was a diamond ring.

Haruhi was at a loss for words.

"I love that reaction," Kyoya laughed. "But I do have better plans for it."

Haruhi tried to laugh, bemused. Either way, she was convinced was no better.

"If you wanted to stay at Ouran, take the ring and pretend to be my fiancée. I'll take care of the rest of the fairytale; I'll take care of the Lady President." He was beaming now, his glasses catching the fire of the descending sun.

"At what price?"

He laughed even louder. "You really do know me well. Let's just say it's an investment."

It was hard to believe him. She eyed him suspiciously: the glare of his glasses, his warm smiles and his still calculating look. If he was to be sent to inferno at this moment, Loki would not stand a chance against the youngest Ootori. She insisted to know.

"Fine. I've done a little background research of your family a little while after you were accepted by the school. Your mother, even with a better academic record than yours—

Haruhi frowned. Kyoya looked amused.

"—she couldn't have just got into Lobelia without family and connections. Your father and I kept in touch since and it seemed to me he had just a vague idea of who your mother really is. I'm surprised he didn't know. He attended Ouran for a total of only two months (the time your parents began dating) but even that was long enough to research an entire clan! But apparently he didn't. Bottom line, I must say your mother's family is an impressive line, although it is widely dispersed now—in other words, disappeared."

It was Haruhi's turn. "So let me see if I got your demonic schemes right, Kyoya-sempai. You want to loan me this ring, offer your legal services to defend me against the Lady and her jury, court, whatever. In return, you want me to rebuild my mother's family, get them back to business, and most importantly, get them to partner with you. Did I get that right?"

"I'm stunned. You are indeed a very smart hamster," Kyoya said, folding his fingers on his lap.

"But if I lose this ring?"

"You name your punishment. I trust your values have not been twisted yet by the unfortunate influence of the Twins."

She thought hard. After a long difficult moment, she lifted her face from the gravity of her circumstances, raised her eyes to close to level with Kyoya's, and then she asked, "If I transfer to Lobelia, what is the price?"

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