A/N- A RECAP: a snarky teenaged Harry does Haruhi-equivalent things and ends up as a Host Club member. He is stepbrother to Haruhi. Tom and Kyoya, stepbrothers here, fancy his pants. Renge and Myrtle happened. Shenanigans ensue. And they're making a movie about the Hosts.

-tilts head- …Returning to this plotbunny after such a long time puts things under a brand new perspective. Also I'm more invested in plot and somewhat realistic character development nowadays, so I need some time to actually write out an outline for this story as I've done for my latest project. TA wasn't planned out to the minutiae when I'd temporarily left, so I'm essentially basing this off of what I remember to be the direction my high school self was going with this (since the fansite was taken down). The writing's certainly more carefree and not taken as seriously here. Hmm.

Looking back at this now from a college mindset, I'm slightly bemused that this story was as well-received as it was. Anyway it's decided that it's OFFICIALLY a threesome. :) I would encourage you to still give this story a try even if this wasn't your pairing of choice, but I understand if you decide to back out. I just ask that you be mature about it, please. I'd greatly appreciate it, thank you.

Much appreciation to moonlitcat, Smartass-No.1,xXxOtAkU-444xXx, Guest, naru894, Lady Arcano, Sevvus, Alice, DarkRavie, lovelydrarrylover, Guest (2), Cheliz, nostalgiaghoul, tamashiyuki, Seere Klein and to any other reviewers for your sincere feedback! And to answer one question, yes, Sirius and Remus are going to show up eventually.

"In France, do you know how I can tell a tourist from an authentic...well, you know."

"Their clothes?"

"Right. Americans wear sandals and are a lot more casual in what they wear. Us, not so much."

~A discussion between me and my friend

Trivial Affections

Chapter 10

Harry tapped Renge's shoulder, making her spine straighten up in surprise. When she whirled around, he inclined his head to the vacant canopy the film crew had set up in case of rain. He asked quietly, "May I talk to you about something? In private, if that's alright with you."

It was the first time he had actually interacted with the fair-haired student by his prerogative, outside of the lavatories and the whole debacle in the Host Club when she came in like a whirlwind. He'd heard about this seemingly fanatic otaku from his stepsister's frequent, halfhearted complaints about this overfriendly girl who had no concept of personal space and of how to keep quiet.

And he'd heard her name mentioned once or twice because of her position in the student council.

He aimed a friendly smile in her direction, hiding his fidgeting hands behind him.

She sounded like the girl he'd befriended when he was initially enrolled in Ouran. The type that got excited over a show—or in Renge's case, over dating simulation otome games—and had gushed to him about the plot and the handsome cast. He still remembered the drama that occurred months earlier and their subsequent fallout that put him off of befriending anyone else in the school in order to have a peaceful high school life before his college exams, which would hopefully catch the attention of a prestigious university and offer him a full-tuition scholarship.

Renge stared at him for a moment, as if she were trying to put a name to his face, before she gave her consent. Albeit unsurely. She clutched the clipboard she'd been holding to her chest closer as they left the director's tent and the actors assembled for the set.

Before they ducked underneath, they loitered around the entrance, making sure there was no one there. When she snuck a suspicious sidelong peek at his expression, upon noticing he was under scrutiny his grin grew broader, making her eyes widen. Her eyes darted from his face, as if she were embarrassed.

Harry gestured for her to go ahead first. He then followed after her.

"What did you want to tell me?" she demanded, both fists brought to her hips. Her cheeks were still flushed and she wasn't making direct eye contact, but her expression was defiant and fierce. "Well, spit it out! I don't have much time to waste. I like boys who are direct with their feelings."

His smile froze. "…I'm sorry?"

He had a suspicion he knew what she was implying, but he'd be embarrassed if he was wrong. He dialed his sunny expression down a touch and changed his posture, so that he looked like the bloke that was your friendly next-door-neighbor instead of his usual air of pretty-boy womanizing.

The sort of bloke that looked helpless and had ended up at your doorstep because he ran out of milk or something similarly trivial.

The color in her cheeks deepened and she now crossed her arms under her chest, her clipboard hanging loosely in her hand. She was looking anywhere but at him. She started apologetically, "You're cute and you seem to be a very well-behaved boy, but my heart belongs to another. I understand you can't help being attracted to me—"

"You've got the wrong impression, Houshakuji-senpai!" Harry resisted the urge to turn tail and run. Of course her gut reaction would be to assume the worst. "I didn't ask—it's not a rom-com!"

Mustering up the last of his courage—and making sure the exit was blocked by his body so that she wouldn't equally take the opportunity to flee from this embarrassing situation—he said quickly, "I didn't bring you here to confess. I understand this is out of the blue, but I wanted to ask if it was possible to change the script? At least for me."

Her eyes snapped up, meeting his. She hissed, "Your storyline had been pre-approved, planned, and scripted. Your 'angel' already had her lines recorded! And we've just finished filming your 'day scenes.' I can't just change everything on a whim!"

"That's why I was asking if it was possible only for me, not everyone else. So that none of you have to go back and retake the other Hosts' scenes." Before she opened her mouth, Harry hastily held up his hands in a motion for her to stop. "I know we're on a time crunch. And you're the one that's funding this whole project. But I'd like to use this opportunity to come clear on a few things, about my past. It still has the tragedy you want. And it's realistic."

Her brows furrowed. Shifting her weight on one leg, she brought her clipboard and hands down to her side as she leveled an intense stare at him. "What could be more tragic than coming from a destitute, impoverished background?"

Harry maintained the small forced smile on his face, although he was tempted to chew her out for thinking his adopted family was poor, like the rest of the student population assumed for him and for his stepsister, since they were enrolled here on full scholarship. "Middle-class, actually, but I can see where you'd get the idea."

Chewing on his lower lip, he lowered his voice to whisper, "If I tell you this, can you promise not to spread this around like gossip? I'd like to think you're a good person, Houshakuji-senpai. A girl with integrity and self-restraint. A trustworthy person."

An uncomfortable expression descended upon her usually cheerful and spirited face. Renge shifted on her feet. "Should I even hear about this?" she joked. "You're making this sound serious."

"The idea that you and Myrtle had…it's not bad," he said grudgingly. "Normally I'd be fine adjusting to whatever crazy shenanigans you lot throw at me. But I kind of…I want to…this is really difficult to say actually."

"Were you molested at a young age?" she said, horrified. Her hands were brought to her mouth.

"What? No. No! Why would you think—?" Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaling loudly, he said, "No, I was not molested as a kid. That's just….that's just terrible. If I was. No, mine's a bit more—"

"Were you switched at birth, and you want to come clean so that we can find your twin?"

"—No, I was not switched at birth!" His expression was bared into a vainly-disguised grimace of impatience and longsuffering. "Just, just listen. For a moment, please. When I was a year old, my parents died in a car accident."

It was like he had taken a needle to a balloon. "Oh," she whispered, visibly deflating, "Mon dieu, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"You don't have to be. But thank you." Scrubbing his face, he looked aside, his hand brought to his mouth. He mumbled, "The car that they crashed into was a family friend's. My dad's old high school mate—Pettigrew Peter."

A small hand reached up to touch his shoulder.

Harry looked down at Renge's hand and he followed the arm to her sympathetic brown eyes. Swallowing thickly, he continued, "I was in the backseat when this happened. The man, he ran away before the authorities arrived. He was driving under the influence. Vehicular manslaughter, y'know."

He reached up to bring her hand down from his shoulder. Yet his expression was sincere. "I want to pay tribute to my parents, if that's alright with you."

"Of course, Harry-san," Renge said softly. "This man…was he caught? Did your parents get their justice?"

Harry shook his head. "Pettigrew's still wanted, to this day."

Her expression grew taut. "That's horrible! What a horrible man! I hope the police find the man responsible for your parents' deaths!"

"I do so too. I'm still hopeful." He shifted on his feet. "So, it's really alright? I understand it's an inconvenience but—"

"You're a good son, Harry-san." She bit her lower lip. "This was intended to be an independent student film. Maybe something that could help the school's and the Host Club's reputations, and possibly to be submitted to compete in the International Student Film Festival. I need to talk to the director and the other film crew…I feel bad if this isn't publicized. Do you want the student body to know?"

"I know I'm taking the fun out of it," he started apologetically.

"No, no!" She shook her head. She clasped his hands in between hers. She peered up into his gaze earnestly. "Do you wish to retake your day scenes? Or did you want this to be an extra special feature in the title screen?"

"Haruhi and I've talked about it, and we think it'd be better as something like a bonus scene only some student body would be able to see if they've purchased the special DVD set." He tilted his head. "I haven't discussed this with Tom, but we thought if there was a monetary benefit to this, to help the Host Club, it'd go over better with everyone."

"Wait, then you don't want everyone to know?" Her brows were scrunched together. "Your private, tragic past is going to be recorded and distributed amongst us. People are going to talk. Do you understand what you're asking? It seems counterproductive…."

"Like you said, you're on a time crunch. And a budget. Can you honestly tell me everyone would be happy hearing the production is going to be held back because some self-entitled snob wanted to retake his scenes merely for raising awareness?" He frowned suddenly. "I was being rhetorical. I actually don't want the attention. At least, not that way."

"You said this was a tribute for your parents…," she trailed off, pinning him with an intense stare. "Do you also intend to use this to make your story known? Because some of us…our families have connections in law enforcement and the media. Connections you cannot afford and can only dream of. It would help you."

"Not that I'd be ungrateful, but I have my reservations being in the debt of someone else and having my life story dug up and publicized on Japanese airs." His hands slid out of her grasp, hanging loosely by his sides. "I know you volunteered your family to fund this movie, but should I talk to you or should I talk to Kyouya in terms of marketing?"

Renge hesitated, wringing her hands. Harry waited patiently for her to make up her mind. When at last she did, she mumbled, "It's just me and Papa."

"Oh." Harry reared back. He repeated, "Oh."

She gesticulated wildly. "It's not bad! It's fine! It's been a long time, so it's….fine. I'm used to it."

"Still, I'm sorry if I stepped on any toes," Harry apologized, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"It doesn't bother me." Renge shrugged awkwardly—for a moment her expression was uncharacteristically shy and insecure—before her previous bravado returned to her. Shifting her weight onto one leg, she lightly rapped the side of her head with her knuckles as she winked at him and she stuck out her tongue playfully, characteristic of the moe anime schoolgirl archetype he expected her to be familiar with. Under Harry's approving gaze she laughed, "Enough of our depressing pasts. Let's talk logistics."

Harry frowned minutely but he decided to follow with the flow. Inclining his head, he allowed gruffly, "I've heard around the grapevine that you intend on pursuing a film or entertainment design major. I'm still debating whether or not this should be an extra in the film you're making with Myrtle, or if this could be a different project, if it's possible to be directed by you?"

He held up his hand instantly when he saw her perk up with excitement. "This is about my parents and a real, traumatic event in my life. I want a short, but serious and tasteful depiction. Not this fanciful nonsense. No airs or plot twists or CGI. I don't want people to think I'm calling attention to myself or that I'm fabricating parts of my story for dramatic effect. If you can honestly promise me you can stick to the truth as close as possible, I'll be honored if you direct a brief documentary about this part of my life. It doesn't even have to be produced right away. When you have the time."

She clasped his hands within her own again. Her cheeks were flushed. Without stopping to take a breath, she babbled, "Of course I'd love to! I can branch out! Be serious for once! Your backstory will sell and this'll catch the attention of professional filmmakers and—!"

When she took deep breaths to replenish her oxygen, Harry interjected, "Your grades are more important than this. It's a side job. I don't want your dad on my case—or Haruhi's—if your GPA drops." His frown deepened. "I'm sorry. It just occurred to me: how much are you expecting me to pay for your services?"

Renge's enthusiasm dimmed. Exhaling loudly, she brought her knuckles to her lips as she contemplated. After a while, she muttered, "Service."

"…I'm sorry?"

"I won't take your money," she clarified, "but I don't expect to do this for free."

"I'm willing to pay—."

"—I'm sensitive to your financial crisis though—oh, sorry," she apologized in the same time as he did for interrupting her.

He waved a hand. "No, go ahead. You were saying?"

"So, escort service. You're perfect. I heard you beat up a pervert for hitting on Onee-chan. You can be my bodyguard. In between your schoolwork and club activities, you can pick me up after 5th Period and escort me to ASB."

He stared at her blankly. Remembering what Hunny claimed about hearing rumors of Harry being a reformed delinquent, he echoed disbelievingly, "The Student Council Room?"

"I have a free 6th," she said, beaming. "And you don't have a normal schedule. Look at it this way. I'm giving you a viable excuse to take a break from your Host Club duties. We can have Lunch together! And from afternoon to the time school ends, you get to see what Kyouya and I do. It'll be fun!"

He'd opened his mouth to refuse her conditions for their inconvenience, but then he remembered he'd hardly ever seen her with a clique. She was new, and quirky. Although pretty, her personality was sometimes too much. She always seemed to be mooning over the Student Council President and following Haruhi around like an admirer.

Outside of Student Government, she kept mostly to herself. Pity and understanding flooded his expression.

With a softer look, he enlightened her, "I'm generally booked for appointments."

"If you're booked for the afternoon, it's fine. But if you tell your girls that you're meeting with me for Student Council stuff, they'll understand." She winked saucily, either unaware or not minding the much different tone he'd adopted. "It's convenient. You can pick me up in the north corridor. You know the teacher that teaches Japanese history? His classroom is in the same floor and wing as the Music Room you're always in."

He tried again, "Suoh will pitch a fit."

A dismissive sound escaped through her lips. "That faker won't mind after I talk to him." She placed her fists against her hips. "You can't expect me to waltz into your club room and book an exclusive slot with you just so I can work with you on the script and get your approval for each decision."

"Why not?"

"Have you seen how the girls react when it's just that one Host with that one girl?" she asked flatly. "It's like walking into a den of wolves. No thank you."

"We have an anti-bullying policy," he said, recalling the initial drama he'd experienced when Tamaki's regular targeted him, envious and irrationally blaming him for hogging the attention of the half French, half-Japanese student. He winced at the memory. He amended, "At least now we do. All members caught bullying another member or potential clients are banned from the club and have their membership and privileges revoked."

"Oh! I've heard about that incident. With Princess Ayanokoji?" She sent him a shrewd stare. "You're very brave. Ayanokoji-sama is very popular. You probably don't know it—I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't, knowing you—but she's of legitimate royal descent."

As if someone had thrown him into an icy tundra, Harry's expression froze. He'd actually made himself an enemy of royalty? A country? Japan? Cold sweat ran down his back. He stammered, "She's a pri-pri-princess? But her surname's Japanese!"

"Mon dieu, you really didn't know." She gave him a sympathetic look. "It's okay. I don't think she holds it against you. But you and her crush did humiliate her in front of a crowd."

He was too horrified to respond.

With a big sigh, she slapped her hand against her clipboard loudly to snap him out of his dark thoughts. "Would you stop looking at me as if I'd lined you up in front of a firing squad? I said she doesn't hold it against you boys. You probably didn't know, but she actually was in love with the doofus. You just got her to wake up faster."

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Renge said, "She can't marry Suoh-san. She's betrothed to another prince. She was running away from her responsibilities and living in a dream world. In fact, just think of it this way." She clapped him several times over the shoulder. She grinned. "You've stopped her stubborn infatuation from developing into something worthy of scandal and embarrassment. You actually got through to her! You did the royal family a great service!"

He smiled feebly, his knees still feeling weak. He joked, "To think all it took to get through her thick skull was me—a rookie Host and transfer student." He would still avoid the redheaded princess in the halls. Now he just had a greater incentive to do so.

"So? You agree?" She thrust her hand under his nose, making Harry rear back. She smiled broadly. "Pick me up after 5th period? You're getting the better end of the bargain, y'know."

He stared down at her manicured fingernails. His gaze traveled slowly up her arm to her face to the red bow tying her long hair back. "Fine." He gripped her hand firmly and shook it. She lit up like a light bulb. He warned, "I can't promise you anything. Tom and Suoh-senpai are in charge of my timetable. How long do you think it'll take to film this?"

"Again, I was planning on finishing the film we're currently making before the International Film Festival. Entries are due in a couple of months. After we finish filming, we have productions, music, special effects…." Renge trailed off, noticing the start of bored apathy glazing over his expression. Releasing his hand, she revised, "I can start interviewing you, getting your side of the story first. Then, when I have time, I'll email you a rough draft of the script and we can go over it together."

Renge tapped her lips in thought. Muttering to herself, she murmured, "That's most likely all we have time for this term. We'll both be busy during Finals Week. My junior year, if our script is in a good place, I can start hosting auditions and looking for a professional film crew. Then I have to acquire props, research appropriate settings or hire a set designer. Then we have the costumes, the makeup artists, the lighting, sound quality…and we'd have to look for music or tracks that won't get us sued for copyright….."

She raised her eyes to his. Noticing his climbing alarm, she quickly assured, "It's okay, I've got it handled. I'm making this my chef d'oeuvre before I graduate, hopefully, so that I'll have this in my portfolio. So you'll be in your junior year when it gets produced. If not, then I promise you you'll see it come into fruition in your senior year at Ouran or in your freshman year at whatever university you're accepted to!"

"It's going to take that long?" He looked out the canopy, peering over to where the Hosts were gathered outside the set watching Tom—in full costume, looming over a miniature model of Ouran Elite Private Academy—putting on a convincing show as a malevolent but sensual mastermind seeing his plans come into fruition. They were far away that Harry couldn't hear him, but it brought a small smile to his face imagining the ridiculous gloating Tom's script required him to perform in front of an audience.

Harry brought his attention back, aiming a skeptical look in her direction. "I understand a year or two, because of our busy schedules. But beyond high school—?"

"—It's the treasurer's job, but Kyouya likes to handle the finances so he'll probably be involved," she interrupted hurriedly, brushing against his shoulder when she rushed by him out the sanctuary of the canopy as if she'd spotted a celebrity at a comic-convention. Her perfume and long hair teased the bottom of his nose as she escaped from his outstretched hand like a champion sprinter.

Just when he'd thought he'd lost her for good, almost as if it were an afterthought she spun on her heels and waved at him. Her clipboard was clutched over her chest with the other arm, casting a shadow over her yellow dress. She cried, "I'll talk to the Office Ladies to get you excused from class later this week! I'll see you later, Harry-kun! Look forward to it! Tell Onee-chan she's welcome to come along!"

Harry chuckled helplessly, shaking his head at her persistence. Lifting his hand, he hollered back, "I'll let her know!"

It'd be worth it to see the look on Haruhi's face.

"Hatter! Hatter!" Hunny excitedly bounced on one foot onto the next. He was looking up at Harry with his wide, soulful eyes. Tugging on Harry's arm insistently, he whined, "Hurry up. You're being very slow!"

"Alright, alright, just one more minute," Harry placated, aiming a contrite look at Kanako and her friends. "I'm sorry. Thank you for coming all this way to see me. I'm appreciative that you've designated me as your Host this time."

"No need," Kanako beamed, setting down her teacup delicately against the fine china dish with a muted clink. (Harry repressed the urge to cringe, remembering Tamaki's initial lessons about a gentleman or gentlewoman's etiquette and getting slapped on the hand with a makeshift fan when Harry had messed up.) She set the fine china back on the low coffee table. "It should be me who should be grateful. Toru told me all about it, what you said. You did a great service for us. I'm happy to be considered one of your regulars."

Harry's smile spasmed.

She giggled into a closed hand brought to her lips, "Although, I didn't imagine you'd resort to dressing in drag."

"I don't know how I did it but apparently makeup is amazing," he said lightly, remembering how girly and emasculated he'd felt back in December. "I'm surprised I made a convincing girl that it fooled both you and Suzushima-san. I would think I'd look butch."

"I think it was more to do with the lights being out and it being the night, when I came across you two." She was still tittering behind her hand when she stood up, trying in vain to curb her mirth. "I'm sorry, I just think you crossdressing to be very funny. You're not very feminine at all."

"I know someone close who does that. For a career choice. If a future in law enforcement or a MBA isn't cut out for me, I guess I know what else I'm good at," he joked.

"You want to go into law enforcement?" one of Kanako's friends inquired. She blushed upon being the focus of his transferred attention. "I mean, joining the force is not something I would immediately associate when your face comes into mind."

"It's more of a childhood dream I had," he said, getting up on his feet to match them. "I thought being a detective or a police captain would be cool and interesting. But an MBA is fine."

"You would be able to make money if you major in business," she said admiringly. "It suits you. You wouldn't be poor any longer—"

She paled immediately when Kanako hissed her name in rebuke. The girl colored immediately, hiding her red face in her hands. "I'm sorry, Harry! I meant no offense by bringing up—!"

"It's fine. I know you'd meant no offense." Hunny was still hanging off his arm as Harry organized their teacups onto a silver tray and lifted it up with one hand. He tilted his head. "Should I expect to see you three anytime soon, if your schedules are available?"

"Do you like having us around?" a shy girl with glasses asked him.

Harry smiled affectionately at them. "I appreciate that you're all polite ladies with a good head on your shoulders. I'd be absolutely delighted to talk with you lot again."

Embarrassed smiles were lit atop their faces, but all three girls were pleased by the genuineness being perceived behind his statement. After they bade each other goodbye, Harry allowed himself to be dragged to the back, where the twins and Mori had set up a private darkroom using makeshift cloths and two upholstered settees the upperclassmen had moved into the back for this one occasion.

Lifting the finery from his face, he cocked an eyebrow when he noticed the flatscreen TV had been paused. "I thought I'd told you blokes to go ahead and start without me."

Hikaru and Kaoru were playing a game with the bowl of popcorn between them, alternating turns so that one twin would tilt his head back and see if he could launch a popped kernel into his mouth. Mori was reading a rather intimidatingly sized hardcover book on Jurisprudence. Wiping his fingers on a napkin, Kaoru said, "We were waiting. It doesn't feel right if we went on without you."

Hikaru shrugged, dropping his chin onto a palm. "You said you wanted to watch it with us. So there you go."

Harry was touched. "Thank you for waiting for me. It couldn't have been easy waiting this long." Approaching them, Harry noticed one absence. "I know Suoh is entertaining guests and the Lobelia girls are at school, but Tom isn't here? It's his demo reel we're seeing after all."

Kaoru snatched the tray off of Harry's hand and set it atop a cushion, ignoring the freshman's reproving glare. He explained, "It's Friday. You know what that means."

Comprehension dawned on him. "Riddle's MUN I.S. day," Harry said, recalling what the sophomore had told him sometime early into their acquaintance. His brows furrowed. "Or was it Mock Trial?"

"Isn't that what your sister's taking for her club activity?" Hikaru asked, raising his head from his palm and sounding unusually interested in Harry's answer.

Kaoru smacked the back of his twin's head lightly. He gestured to the tall upperclassman to the side of them. "Fool, it's Mori-senpai that's a part of that club. He's the one reading a book on the Theory and Philosophy of Law. MUN I.S. is an afterschool class!"

"Oh, sorry Mori-senpai," Hikaru said, even though the upperclassman merely nodded.

"What is MUN I.S. anyway?" Harry inquired, sitting on the only empty seat. Like a bloodhound Hunny had immediately honed in on his cousin, which made the twins inevitably stand up from their seats to make room for him.

One of the twins had been ready to answer him—they were sitting next to him now, after being deposed from their original seats—but Hunny chimed in, "Riddler's been a part of Model United Nations since freshman year. After 9th grade, students who take the class are able to enroll in the Independent Study class. It's like Debate. They prepare students to represent nations' policies about any global concern in each conference hosted by a school. After talking a lot, they eventually form their own teams in their respective committees to collaborate and draft a pretend resolution which they'll present to the floor. It's very competitive."

He mimed cutting his throat with a finger.

Hikaru snorted, "It basically teaches you how to bullshit convincingly and win people to your side. All for a shiny certificate or gavel." He glanced over at the fair-haired student. "Riddler? Really?"

"A gavel is given only to the most convincing portrayal in each committee," Hunny said, swinging his legs. He ignored Hikaru's incredulous tone. "Riddler's won several by now. He's very good. I think he has aspirations for politics."

"He's smart and well-spoken," Harry said grudgingly, although a small smile was on his face. "I can see it. I imagine he'd be very intimidating to argue against."

"You have to be thick-skinned and stubborn, more like," Hikaru muttered.

Kaoru nudged him in the ribs. "Actually, diplomacy is very important. You just have to have very good public speaking skills and charisma. The Chairs deduct points if they see any delegate bullying other delegates into their side or if they're being uncooperative or undiplomatic."

"…Chairs?"

"The judges. There's three for each committee."

"Movie," Mori's deep voice broke in, his gaze not leaving the pages he was perusing. His voice of reason made them remember why they were here in the first place before they got sidetracked.

"Right!" Hikaru yelped, launching for the remote. He pressed the play button. "Tom's part! Everyone, be quiet! Remember, this is a rough draft. They're still working on it."

"It would explain the blurriness and the graininess," Harry said dryly. When the title screen disappeared, Harry's brows shot upward into his fringe upon seeing an unfamiliar kid in a realistic but dreary set of the UK. "That's not Tom."

Kaoru spoke over the female voice actor narrating the Host's story, "Renge added a last minute change of plans. She wanted to dive deeper into our childhoods and reinterpret it more tragically. That maid of Delacour-san also influenced it some way. Apparently the forced humor is all Myrtle's directing."

Harry squinted at the slightly pixelated image of a fair-skinned boy with dark, neatly combed hair. "Is that a grade-schooler from the Ouran Elementary Division? Or did the girls actually—?"

"Yeah, that's Michael Corner. He's an aspiring child actor. He looks like a baby Tom." He raised an eyebrow. "The girls found baby versions of all of us."

"…Balls."

Wool's Orphanage had the government funding and the age to bolster its appeal, but its steady decline over the years in appearance and caretaking after WWII had subjected the English establishment to small sneers and frowns whenever it came up in polite conversations.

Directly facing the traffic, it was a large, grim, square building in wealthy, industrial London that, oddly enough, was of passable traveling distance to its bright and populated opposite—a seaside. Adjacent to the building were identically bricked flats and offices that lined the streets like assembly lines. Aside from the typical comers and goers, Wool's Orphanage was avoided by most businessmen and families with children on any normal day. Perhaps what was so eerie about the heart of the orphanage was that it resembled a church or a courthouse that looked somber and out of touch with the rest of society.

It was steadily approaching the festive holidays, and stores were already preparing for the inevitable Christmas rush despite Harvest Day being the one first up. The children in Wool's Orphanage considered November one of the top list of months they looked forward to the most. With Harvest Day approaching, there had been several generous families that donated a few cans of food to the local church and orphanage and homeless shelter. And with food came the adults, and with adults came the rare scattering of prospective parents or temporary guardians inspired by the giving mood of the holidays.

This year's celebrations were joyful and bittersweet. For the first time, the orphanage was introduced to the American equivalent of the holiday—which had been slowly gaining momentum in the UK with so many Americans living in the country—and the kitchen staff didn't quite know what to do with the trays of fresh, roasted turkey and other assortment of foodstuff such as freshly-baked pumpkin pies and steaming sweet potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil. The orphans had been delighted and scarfed down the dinners with ravenous hunger, and the orphanage staff—however few on hand—couldn't help but feel their buzzing excitement. There were whispers around town that there were wealthy foreigners—American, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Canadian, Middle Eastern, and other Europeans—this time of the year, like flies drawn to the honey that was this year's highly-anticipated international medical conference.

The foreigners were easy to identify in the crowd. Most chose to keep their formal attire on, but they stood out like tourists without the proper attire in the London weather and they lacked the confidence one might have navigating the streets that, by now, the city's citizens would have committed into memory. Some seemed to blend seamlessly in, but their accents and syntax gave them away once they opened their mouths.

Unfortunately, wealthy as they were, they paraded around the city without casting a second glance at the dingy orphanage of expectant faces eager for just one of the rich persons to walk through the twin gates. Instead they walked to their destinations with their eyes pointed determinedly forward or guiltily avoiding the children's whenever they walked past the orphanage.

"Don't be a stick in the mud, children. Just think! Your next mummy or daddy could be a doctor!" some of the matrons would exclaim, raising the orphans' hopes up. The more naïve, optimistic children listened with wide eyes, listening to the fanciful tales and imagining starting a new life with the wonderful pictures the matrons painted in their minds. The more cynical children would hang in the back—sometimes interjecting their sneering disbeliefs—or would disappear into different rooms, or even outside.

In the frigid, grey air one dark-haired child sat buried among the fallen orange and browned, brittle leaves—apart from the children brooding in their special plot of land—declared their individual territory—and apart from the gaggle of curious children peering through the tall, closed gates, their tiny fingers clutching the iron bars as the adults passed back and fro beyond their grasp. This child was quiet and strange, oddly mature for his age and standoffish to folks he looked down upon. He was known among the orphanage as "special," a genius—a prodigy. It made him bullied and ostracized among his peers, and adored but dreaded by the jaded orphanage staff.

To the matrons' dismay, the boy was antisocial and considered himself above the immaturity of the other children, as he called even the boys and girls his age with patronizing derision. He treated strangers with suspicion and reserved politeness, only extraordinarily behaving like his age among the obviously richer of the potential adoptees.

Yet the boy was notorious and written in the Head Matron's private list of the orphanage's top undesireables. Potential parents were looking for the more cheerful, naïve orphans that had not lost the light in their eyes, the more pitiable but heart-meltingly adorable choices, or the quiet, shy children that kept to themselves and would conveniently fit into the lifestyle of the parents. Although his intelligence and mannerisms were decent reasons to adopt him, beside his sharp tongue there was something beneath his snide cleverness and polite façade that made everyone unsettled to be around Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr.

Or maybe it was the color of his eyes. They were dark but when light caught them or photos were being taken, they shined with an eerie red coloration.

The children thought they were cool. Little Tom bit their heads off whenever they jokingly called him a vampire or a Hannibal Cannibal.

Twisting the hem of his starched grey shorts, Tom watched stoically as the tall Asian man was once again talking on his phone on the other side of the gates, but he remained ignorant to the pickpocket who had set his sights on him. For once, the stern-looking man with the whiskers and a goatee was without company. Dipping his thin, pointy chin on his knobby knees, Tom wrapped his arms around his long woolen knee-socks as he settled for the show. He'd been observing this one foreigner for quite some time. Around Tom's feet was a large piece of construction paper and crayons that had been worn into little nubs.

The Asian foreigner—Japanese, Tom assumed, based on the unique-sounding phonetics he'd sometimes overhear the man speaking into his phone instead of the heavily-accented, funnily robotic-sounding English—was rarely seen without his three guards, which was a unique sight in itself.

The children, with their imaginative creativity and once-a-month exposure to cinema, created all sorts of stories about this one man in particular. He was a politician or an undercover Yakuza. He had to be someone important—maybe a doctor under witness protection—if the trio of men distinctly dressed like American bodyguards shadowed the bespectacled man everywhere and talked into their earpieces once in a while like they were undercover cops or secret agents. The children—and several nosy adults—were divided among their theories of the lack of a female companion hanging onto his arm.

A mistress? Childless? Gay? Single? Or happily married with a wife and child at home?

Nonetheless what they all agreed upon was that he was rich—as seen with his electronics, healthy physique, and what had to be expensive clothing—and even though he was Asian, they'd love to be adopted by someone like him. Their lives would be set.

Toys. Delicious, exotic food. (Strange as some of them were.) Candies. Warm clothing. New shoes that actually fit. A house. A bathroom of their own. A butler with a ridiculously-long sword. Maids with guns underneath their aproned skirts. A caring mummy who could stab her hair sticks into a man's throat. And maybe a dog.

It didn't matter that he was probably one of those rich daddies that travelled overseas a lot and was rarely at home except to deliver bribery presents and for special occasions.

They'd be blissfully spoiled.

They'd take what they could.

Maybe it was because of this small flame of hope in Tom's chest which never really went away that inspired the orphan to get on his feet and walk to the gates, making sure to step on every leaf so that they crunched loudly underneath his feet like the sound Billy Stubb's mouth makes whenever he refuses to chew with his mouth closed. It made Tom want to stab his own eardrums with his fork sometimes.

The man's grey eyes snapped down when the serious-looking child approached him, stopping short of curling his spidery fingers—no dirt was noted underneath those fingernails, thank goodness—around the railings and making contact with his tailored suit which would more than likely exceed anyone of the orphanage's staff's salary. He looked down his pointy nose at the youngster, whispering a goodbye into his phone.

He studied the boy's clean but grim face, the neatly combed and parted hair, and the perfectly erect posture he rarely saw the poor or the commoners practice. The child was carrying a piece of paper and crayons. With a sigh, he slipped his cell phone into his pocket and readied himself to speak to another poor brat that wanted something from him.

"I have no money to give you," the Japanese man said bluntly in his robotic-sounding English. "Sorry."

Tom sneered and, still holding onto his precious, colored wax sticks, he pointed his finger at the pickpocket pretending to be busy observing his surroundings, having retreated back into the distance when he'd seen Tom making his approach. Grey eyes followed the skinny arm and focused on the raggedy-looking man. "He's stalking you. He picks the pockets of every rich man that comes here. Be careful."

Before the man could make a retort, Tom shoved the construction paper through the bars and held up the longest, most respectable piece of crayon he had. He looked up expectedly at the Japanese man. "I'd love it if you'd please sign your name, Sir. So that the matron has something to believe when I tell her I did a good deed today. You'd be providing me with a larger sized dinner portion for tonight."

The Japanese man had shoved his hand down his trouser pocket—no doubt where he had kept his wallet—and upon Tom's words, he was looking down at the offerings with an odd expression Tom couldn't place. He looked back and forth between his hands and Tom's face, before finally levelling an intense stare atop of the boy's dark head. "What did you say your name was?" he said slowly, gingerly taking the black crayon and setting the tip against the cheap construction paper Tom was holding onto with both hands now against the bars so that the man would have a relatively easier surface to write on than something floating in the air.

"If you'd make it out to Tom M. Riddle Jr, thanking me for saving you from a stolen wallet, that'd be swell," he replied truthfully, adding a blinding smile that more often than not worked on the wives. He spelled out his name helpfully for the foreigner. He added, "And a fancy signature or autograph would be appreciated. She'd believe me more if it didn't look like something I would scribble."

"What do you think about money?"

Tom blinked. "I like money as much as anyone else," he said confusedly.

Seeing the man's eyes narrow—having decided he had blundered up and the man had already done what Tom had wanted out of him anyway—Tom continued, "I like it a lot. Once I grow up and get a job, I'd spend it on what I'd need to survive and save everything else in a bank so that it'd collect interest. Maybe invest in stocks. You can get a lot of money from stocks, if you're smart."

That earned a smirk out of the man. "You know much of the way revenue functions, for someone of your age."

"I read," Tom said defensively, frowning. "And I listen. I'm not a complete dunderhead. Everyone knows you put money inside the bank. And every rich man earns his money from the stock exchange. It's all you adults talk about."

"What about medicine and hospitals?"

"I hear some people talking about medicine. Not much really for hospitals, Sir."

"No, what do you think about them, Riddle-kun?" the man clarified, seemingly amused by the scrunched look that'd appeared between the boy's brows with the unfamiliar address. He handed the crayon back.

"Medicines taste foul, but they're important and good for you," Tom said grudgingly. "Hospitals smell bad, but they're alright. Doctors earn a lot, Mr….." He looked down at the signed paper, past the neatly written note of what Tom had instructed him to write out, and he stared down at the unfamiliar Asian characters. His head snapped back up. He said sharply, "This is not in English."

The man's grey eyes twinkled with dark humor. It made Tom want to ball up the paper and throw it into that smug face. "You may be mature for your age, little boy, but you have little experience in the business world. If you want someone to do something, you have to make it clear from the beginning. Or trap them into agreeing to the fine print." He pulled his phone back out and began sliding his finger across the screen. "Thank you for alerting me, Riddle-kun, before I was robbed. I am in your debt."

"If you were truly grateful, you'd sign it properly so that you wouldn't get my hopes up instead of trying to teach me a lesson," Tom muttered underneath his breath. "It's not like your English is that terrible." Still, he knew when he was unwanted.

As the man was speaking into the phone in his native language—sounding severely powerful and authoritative—Tom tucked the crayons and folded paper into his shorts.

He didn't want to be involved in whatever scheme he'd unleashed on the poor, unsuspecting pickpocket when he'd warned the Yakuza-looking man before the crime was committed. Tom was already walking away from the gates, and in spite of the wanker's lecture he felt light and cheery for having done his good deed for the holidays.

All he'd have to do is brag to a staff worker. Maybe to the tender-hearted Martha, the girl that looked after the children with the flu or chicken-pox. She had a fondness for cute children that pretended to be sweet and well-behaved. It helped that she smuggled them confectioneries inside of her apron pockets.

Before he stepped through the door to seek out an adult, he thought he heard his own name being called and what sounded like "Wa-ta-shi no na-mae wa Oh-to-ri Yo-shi-o." Whatever that blather of Japanese meant. He hoped it was their version of a thank-you, included with much groveling and fawning appreciation for his service. Or maybe the foreigner was telling the person on the other side of the phone of the boy that'd helped him from certain doom.

When he turned to look back, the man was gone from his sight.

A month later, when it was nearing the end of Tom's favorite holiday, Martha called him to Mrs Cole's Office with the most ominous-sounding pronunciation of his name, bar none.

Tom was sprawled on his threadbare, squeaky mattress—by this time he likened it to the sound of music, in order to stay sane—plotting how to get Bellatrix to leave him alone. The girl obviously had a crush on him. Normally he'd take advantage of it—especially since she came from a rich family—but she was trying too hard at play pretending she was poor so that she wouldn't offend his delicate sensibilities and drive him away with shame.

She thought he could be easily fooled. That had offended him more than anything. She was a terrible actress. She thought smearing dirt on her face and dress would make him believe she was one of them. It probably never occurred to her that Tom would be familiar with the orphanage residents by now, knowing their names and faces by heart. There was also the fact that she smuggled herself into the orphanage through a little cavity in the bricked wall, hidden behind the rosebushes. For a girl of her size, it was the perfect method of escape. For Tom, that route to freedom was like a carrot being dangled in front of his nose.

Like the rest of the orphans, he was too big to fit through that hole.

It annoyed him.

And she wanted to play Happy Family most of the time.

Terrible playmate, she was. She wasn't fit to be his right-hand in his plans to find a rich family, charm them into adopting him, and then use them as a stepping stone for his plot for world domination.

Through money, of course. Because, as he found out early on, money made the world spin. That and charisma and reputation.

He shimmied off of the mattress. Giving one last look at the black-and-peach colored blob that was a sketched-Bellatrix, Tom quickly tidied up after himself—putting things away where no grubby fingers would be able to go through his stuff when he was gone—and he walked up to his escort, who was looking down at him with warm eyes. He automatically reached up for her to lace her warm fingers against his.

She ran her fingers through his hair, making sure that he was presentable. Tom's stomach dropped. He knew what that meant.

He ignored the curious eyes that trailed after them, popping behind their opened bedrooms, to see what the hubbub was about.

By the time he arrived at the Matron's office, he was surprised to see an unfamiliar Asian man dressed in black, with slicked back light-brown hair and wearing black sunglasses despite being indoors. He was sitting across from the elderly Mrs Cole. The pair turned around when the door had creaked open. With a quiet "hello," Martha dismissed herself and closed the door behind her, leaving Tom in the room with the two adults.

Tom murmured his greetings to his company, fighting the urge to look down on the tiled floor. The silence was unbearably suffocating.

The Matron's Office was a small, dingy 144-square feet white space mostly consisting of one claw-footed mahogany desk and three upholstered chairs. Filing cabinets were behind Mrs Cole, which contained the records of all the orphans—adopted or not. Nailed onto the walls were framed pictures of smiling children with their newly-acquired foster parents.

"Tom," Mrs Cole addressed shortly, looking at him with her pale eyes, "take a seat. This…nice man here has an interesting offer for you. Isn't that right, Mr Tachibo?"

"Tachibana, actually," the man corrected. He took off his sunglasses and pocketed it in his suit. He had warm brown eyes. Lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes as he watched the boy take the only other available seat. When Tom was seated, in fluent English, Tachibana said, "Hello, Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. I'm Seizaburo Tachibana. I work for the Ohtori family. You've done a great service for my boss. Do you remember the man you saved from being mugged?"

Tom stared at him silently, cautiously. He nodded, feeling the weight of being under the Matron's approving and proud stare. He sat up straighter in his seat.

"The man that you'd warned…do you know who he is?"

Tucking his hands into his lap, wordlessly Tom shook his head.

The man's eyes softened. Twisting around so that he was facing Tom, he leaned forward, clasping his large hands together so that they were dangling over his knees. Tom's gaze slid down to the simple wedding band on the man's ring finger as Tachibana said solemnly, "Mr Yoshio Ohtori is a very important man in the business world. He's very busy. His influence extends into Nippon's social and business worlds and overseas." Gauging Tom's reaction, he said lowly, "He's also of noble descent."

When Tom's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, Tachibana chuckled. He reached over to pat Tom's knee. "But that's a long time ago. They're mostly known nowadays for what they've done for the health care sector, particularly because of the international medical equipment supply company they own."

"So that's what he meant," Tom murmured, unfaltering under the curious stares pinned on him. He clarified, "Mr Ohtori asked me what I'd thought about medicine and hospitals. I didn't know that was his job."

Tachibana smiled down at him reassuringly. "That's what my boss thought so too. So you can imagine the danger he would be if he was kidnapped or robbed." He sat back, putting distance between them. He interrogated, "Did you personally know the man that'd targeted my boss as his next mark?"

Tom frowned. "He's a pickpocket. Sometimes I see him roaming around the grounds outside. He looks for easy people to steal from."

"That's it?" He seemed surprised. "That's all you knew?"

Fighting down the flash of annoyance he'd felt from the man's underlying accusation, Tom retorted, "He's a criminal. He's a deadbeat loser who couldn't find a respectable job. He was a stranger. What else do I have to know about him?"

"Here in Wool's Orphanage," Mrs Cole chimed in, "we teach the children not to talk to strangers. We take their safety seriously and above all else. Little Tom here knows better than to involve himself."

"You knew he was a criminal?" Tachibana asked sharply, ignoring Mrs Cole's interjection. His voice was heavy with something Tom couldn't identify, but it didn't stop the thrill of fear to run down Tom's spine.

"He steals people's wallets for a living," Tom hissed, crossing his arms. "Wouldn't that make him a criminal?"

The man's posture relaxed. Breathing a sigh through his nose, he sent Mrs Cole a silent exchange with his eyes.

"Tom," Mrs Cole said tersely, "did you know Mr Tachiban here is also one of Mr Ohto's personal bodyguards?"

Tom's brows creased in puzzlement.

"The Ohtori Group has a hundred private police officers employed under them." Tachibana had a small smile over his face, as if recalling a private joke. "Their name translates a bit funny in English."

"Mr Tachiban was a part of that service, until he was promoted to the position he has now," Mrs Cole explained patiently, drawing Tom's attention back to her. He remained docile and meek under her stern gaze, which lessened the intensity of her stare. "He dug up the man's criminal records. Tom, the man was charged with the kidnapping and ransom of someone long ago. It was in the papers—"

"—He was a very bad man," Tachibana cut in swiftly, giving the woman a slightly reproachful look. Turning back around, he pinned Tom with another intimidating expression. "That's why I'm here, Tom-kun. The Ohtori family is indebted to you. And they wish to fulfill that debt."

The chair slid back with a muted screech. Tachibana kneeled before him so that he was looking at Tom at eye-level. He said softly, "We have connections. Although Mr Ohtori cannot be here to discuss this matter to you in person, he gives his thanks. The Ohtori family can grant you the one wish you've always wanted."

Tom inhaled sharply.

Tachibana looked hesitant by the lukewarm reaction. Peering at the orphan quizzically, his mouth flattened into a thin line as he drew back a bit, considering Tom with his dark eyes. He said finally, "Did you know the Ohtoris—and anyone associated with them—are very good at conducting research? We did a background check on your family."

"My mother is dead," Tom asserted.

"And I'm sorry to hear that," Tachibana replied, "But did you know your name is rather…unusual?"

"…I'm told I'm named after my father," Tom conceded. His eyes narrowed. "What does this have to do with anything?" Like a lightning bolt had struck him, he straightened up in his seat. Old hopes leaked into his tone as he asked, "Did you find my dad?"

Was he even alive?

Tachibana was silent for a moment. "I can't promise you that he is." He squeezed Tom's knee. "Do you know what a DNA test is?" When Tom shook his head no, Tachibana explained, "We take a skin or hair sample from you, and we compare it to your father's DNA and see if there is a match. We don't think it's merely coincidental that we have a man who shares facial similarities with yours."

"You know him?"

"We found him on the Internet. He's well known. And respectable." He brought his hand to his mouth, appearing conflicted. Taking the time to sort his thought, he at last mumbled, "Do we have your permission to perform a DNA test on you? I can't tell you with a hundred percent certainty that the man is your father. I'm sorry if it turns out it isn't and that we've wasted your time and for getting your hopes up."

Tom's gaze refocused on the man's wedding ring, before slowly returning up. There was something being kept from him, judging by the tone of Tachibana's voice. "I don't like someone who tells me lies." Hunching his shoulders, he asked quietly, "Doesn't my father want me?"

Tachibana's eyes softened. He was remembering his children back home when he was looking over the dark bowed head of the orphan before him. Lifting his fingers from his mouth, he said, "That's why he wants a paternity test. But. If he still…doesn't, we promise you we can find you a new family. One that'll love you and cherish you like a real father and mother."

Tom's eyes were glued down to his shoes. His fingers gripped his trousers tightly until his knuckles bled white.

"Hey, is Potter Harry here? I have a slip for him to come to the ASB, ASAP."

Harry's head swiveled from the screen—he and the Hosts were holding their breaths in anticipation as the drama unfolded—when he heard Tamaki shout his name, after enthusiastically greeting the errand boy, before letting out a scream of terror.

Long, drawn-out groans were chorused by the four teenagers. The screen was frozen, showing a brooding Michael Corner peering down at a professional actor Renge had hired for this one scene.

Looking apologetically at the Hosts, he got up from his seat on the settee and strode to the opening in the makeshift tent they'd set up. Hunny was declaring that they'd wait up for him when Harry exited. Green eyes were squeezed shut reflexively as the recessed lights overhead burned his vision.

"I'm here," he hissed. He meandered blindly to where the front doors were. He said aloud, "I'm sorry, did they say why?"

"Ohtori-san wishes to discuss an important matter with you." The voice sounded miffed.

For a moment, Harry had thought the Ohtori patriarch was summoning him, before common sense kicked in and reminded him it was his son, Kyouya Ohtori, who was the Student Council president. Cracking his eyes open, he blurrily examined the unknown tall redhead who was holding an official-looking piece of paper to him and looking at Tamaki who was shaking like a leaf in his favorite corner. "Thank you," Harry said, taking the slip.

Silence. Then a grunt answered him. The blur that was ahead of him jerked his head before stuffing his hands into his pockets and leaving without a word.

Blinking rapidly, it took a while until his vision cleared and the world was no longer splotches of black and pink. He glanced at the cowering ball that was Tamaki—feeling a small sense of concern—before remembering the sophomore's over-the-top theatrics.

The blond could react to a lightly-made jibe like someone had taken a knife to his throat and demanded all of his money.

Patting Tamaki on his head like one would a kitten, Harry wished him a curt "feel better" before pulling the gilded door handle open and departing the Music Room. Because his back was turned he did not see the Eurasian lift his head and stare at him with wide, purple eyes, a hand lifted to his hair.

By the time he'd reached the ASB room, he felt incredibly skittish, like he was a beagle and the room ahead of him was a bear trap. Even more extravagant than the clubroom's, the tall double doors ahead were imposing and decorated with gilded fleur-de-lis swirls. The iron-and-marble pull handles themselves were freezing underneath his palms, and Harry could feel the invisible weight of the fortune that had to be spent for this alone when he pulled it open.

Stepping hesitantly into the room, he looked around for a familiar face when the people that were within immediately snapped their heads up. He gesticulated shyly at them. Perking up upon seeing Renge accommodated behind a desk and a laptop, he waved the slip in her direction.

The lip of the laptop was slammed shut with a loud bam! Unlike everyone else's curious stares, hers was penetrating and apprehensive. She looked like she was about to cry.

Alarmed, Harry automatically opened his arms when she ran over and launched herself at him. The smell of the melon-scented shampoo she used whacked him hard in the nose with her proximity.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he heard her whisper into his ear. She tightened her hold around him, squeezing the oxygen from his lungs.

Flabbergasted, he squeaked, "I'm sorry, what—?"

"—We know everything." She loosened her hold and drew back. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, which she rubbed out angrily with the back of a hand. She sniffled, "You're one of us."

Thoughts were running rampant through his mind. One of them? What exactly was she trying to say? Upon reaching one conjecture, his entire body stiffened. He began heatedly, "You looked up my background—!"

Renge shook her head violently, strands of her lightly colored brown hair streaming in the air, and she hauled him forward, bringing him away from her station. She was pulling him to the back, where another set of double doors were kept closed, separating the president's office from the rest. She said urgently, underneath her breath so that only he could hear, "Kyouya knows."

She flung the doors open and thrust him in with a forceful shove between his shoulder blades. Stumbling inside, he swiftly righted his balance. His gaze landed on the pair of brothers sharing what had to be a state-of-the-art computer. With both of his hands on the table, Kyouya was seated behind an ornate desk of exquisitely-carved cherry wood. Stacks of paperwork and pens were arranged neatly into trays, and an electronic tablet was by his arm.

What made Harry's mouth dry with sawdust wasn't the president's dark gaze pinned on him but Tom's scarlet glare seething over his stepbrother's shoulder. The Englishman removed his arm from Kyouya's shoulder leisurely, like a cobra snake uncoiling and ready to strike.

"I'm aware 'Harry' is a popular name overseas," Kyouya said collectively, albeit restrained with an emotion that Harry very well recognized. "And so is the surname 'Potter.' But 'Harry James Potter?' And your age and appearance? It can't be coincidental."

He spun the screen over, so that Harry was staring at a window which displayed a digital news article with a large Arial typeface spelling out a title. Kyouya's eyes behind his glasses were piercing and glaring daggers at him. He too stood up. "You're the survivor from this article. The 'Boy-Who-Lived.' You're the sole heir to a corporation. You're of Old Money."

"Potter." Coming around the desk, Tom stalked toward him. His spidery fingers were outstretched toward Harry's forehead, where his long fringe covered an ugly scar. Harry took several defensive steps back, but the doors smashed onto his spine. Perplexed, his eyes shot backward. He was seething inside that Renge had locked the doors behind him without him noticing and retreating from the argument.

A hand shot forward, slamming against the wood. Like a cornered small animal, Harry shrank into himself but unlike prey his gaze was defiant. He'd grabbed Tom's wrist but the damage was already done.

Tom's fingers were nearly pulling Harry's hair out by the roots. Looking down at the raised skin, he hissed, "Potter, I'm disappointed in you. I don't appreciate liars."

(A/N)- I'm still flying blind in terms of writing TA~! So, no romance here but it's basically setting things up for later. Also, better late than never, but I intend on making an outline of this story, for the sake of pacing and plot progression. I've found that actually having a physical plan of what generally has to happen in each chapter for me to refer back to makes scenes easier to write. However:

To what degree of realism would you prefer me to address the threesome matter? A polyamorous relationship—especially with Kyoya's and Tom's unique sibling case—is going to do more than raise a few eyebrows. One, I could avoid the controversy entirely by glossing over certain dialogues with certain family and legal individuals—thus maintaining the lightheartedness—or two, touch on it momentarily—like dedicating only a few paragraphs in the ending or possibly joking about it—or three, addressing this as a serious conflict. Realistically, tension and drama would arise, and I'm pretty sure one of them has to be disowned in order for this to work legally for a happily ever after. I had something else serious planned, before the hiatus, which would already make the humor take a backseat. Adding this to the pot…it's going to get emotional and very stressful for both me as the writer and you as the reader.

And which OHSHC arc or arcs would you still like TA to cover before I disband the members into college? Truthfully it's become a burden being restricted to OHSHC's episodic story arcs. I also would feel less squicky and less guilty progressing the romance into serious, NSFW territory once I move them into their respective colleges soon. I'm not saying I'm doing a complete personality rehaul of our main cast of characters—they're still going to be loud and ridiculous and out-of-touch-with-reality—but I'm eager to get the plot and action going when they're not essentially considered minors.

I'd love to hear your opinions! :)