Carridwen

"Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?
I've seen those English dramas too,
They're cruel." - "Oxford Comma" Vampire Weekend

His hair flipped at the ends, twisting up and down and slant-ways. He rubbed the edges, wistfully recalling the absent straightening charm he'd applied only minutes ago. 

The class was draining him of his life force, he was sure of it. The overly large girl - young woman - no, girl - in front of him bounced in her chair, jiggling in the worst ways, lightly bumping his desk. She scratched her quill quickly against the scroll, drawing small hearts and dots on the parchment, occasionally batting her eyelashes back at him. 

The professor spoke excitedly with words from bland and ancient tomes. A young man for his profession, he bustled on, tracing chalk on the board and lecturing about the mechanics of wizarding government; who ran the Wizengamot, how it worked, how it played into the Ministry. 

University was generally an inconsequential gesture in wizarding society, only necessary for those citizens interested in gaining a degree for application to the high ranking departments of the Ministry of Magic, or a seat in the Wizengamot. 

Harry Potter, however, was not one of these people. 

Completely unaware of what to do next in his life after having slain the most powerful dark wizard in history, Harry had fallen into a fit of monotony. He had spent all of a year wondering what to do with himself. The life of Harry James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was no longer dictated by a prophecy. His previous delight at the prospect of being an Auror now made him feel as though his mouth was full of ash - the war had placed him at an unease in dealing with even the possibility of more casualties. 

With his self-examination and a bit of Hermione's help - though she had found her own path in accepting an apprenticeship at Hogwarts - he realized that he needed more options available before he could choose a profession. 

So he found himself at University. 

The rest of the wizarding world seemed to catch onto the idea that there was more to life than the jobs previously available. As the need for Auror positions decreased and the economy stabilized, more students had poured into the dusty universities still open, expanding the curriculums and encouraging a less ignorant generation of wizards in their society. 

His university was elegant and stern; grey and white marbled columns covered the entrance and the nearly thousand steps leading to the double doors provided a stately exterior that meshed elegantly, nestled in the metropolitan area of London. Carridwen University was one of many wizarding colleges that made use of disillusionment charms to make muggles less suspicious of their activity, but also conducted themselves publicly under the guise of a muggle university, even accepting applications from muggles who thought they offered normal degrees. Of course, they declined these applications, touting high qualifications to enter, and thus far no one was the wiser that this seemingly prestigious university settled in bustling london was, in fact, full of wizards practicing magic.

Harry sat in his desk determined not to fall asleep, and wondered for the thousandth time why he was attending this class. Introduction to Wizarding Government was boring as all hell, and mildly unnecessary. But after taking general studies courses last year, and deciding on a major and minor this year, the fall term of his sophomore year had him in a small room on the second floor and listening to this gibberish. 

But that's what you get for choosing a minor in Philosophy of Politics.

During his freshmen year at Carridwen, he had quickly discovered the ease he found in writing - now free of the burden of Potions essays - and he had applied it to his free time as well as his classes.

Over a hot cup of earl grey one morning, he realized with a fiery start exactly what his calling was.

Having picked up the Daily Prophet and grimacing at the soppy muck Rita Skeeter got away with writing, he cursed and exhaled, "I could do a better job than this load of bollocks!"

Then he blinked, "I could do a better job than this."

And he knew.

So he applied for a Mass Communications major and began taking Journalism courses - his passion for truth in news showing vividly in his work and impressing his Professors when drawn so bluntly from his talented quill.

The girl in front of Harry shifted suddenly, placing a scrap of parchment on his desk with a hastily flourished, Are you the same Harry Potter that writes for the Carridwen Oracle?

He silently groaned. Did he really have to deal with this today?

He wrote stiffly, Yes, thinking of his weekly submissions to their university newspaper, and tossed the scrap back over to her.

She attempted to stifle a giggle, and failed in doing so, gaining the looks of several classmates - though not deterring the Professor.

The parchment was once again placed on Harry's desk, with the scribbled Would you like to get a coffee sometime?

Ugh, Harry thought, pressing the quill down harshly with his response, Not likely. Very busy.

The girl sighed sharply, and the Professor signaled the end of class.

Attempting to make a hasty retreat, Harry shot her a wry grin as he stepped around her form and thought he saw tears in her eyes.

I really don't want to deal with that every Tuesday and Thursday morning, he thought, exhaling a breath it seemed he'd been holding throughout the hour.

Books in hand, Harry nearly ran from class. Figuring he'd make a stop at the cafe across the street for some hot tea and a scone, he headed for the staircases leading to the front entrance of the university. Readjusting and slowly descending the marble steps, he heard a low voice laughing at a muttered play on words, and spotted two figures standing out despite the busy corridor.

Blaise Zabini made a striking silhouette, wearing tight dark denim and what appeared to be an Armani oxford. His olive skin and dark curling hair were prominently displayed, causing Harry to pause a moment and regard this man he hadn't seen or thought of since his graduation from Hogwarts. Blaise was an unmistakable figure, smiling brightly at what his friend was saying, vibrant blue eyes alight from the inside. 

Harry was shocked. The man before him was stunning. And Slytherin. He jumped a bit at his own thought, realizing he'd paused in the middle of the stairs and was causing a mini back-up of student flow through the hallway. He looked down and continued his descent, collecting his thoughts and pushing them back into his mind. Many Slytherins had attended the university, he was sure of it. None of them wanted to speak with him. He was sure of it. 

School boy rivalries didn't die just because of a glance in a corridor.

As he dropped off the last step into the grand entrance hall, he peeked through his fringing bangs to look in the direction of Blaise once again, and caught eyes with the blue-eyed young man, finding him gaping at the sight of Harry. Eyebrows perked up and eyes widening - no longer hindered by sloppy glasses - Harry knew he looked like absolute embarrassment, having been caught ogling a fellow student. 

However, Blaise stared on, lips parted slightly as though having stopped mid-sentence. Harry ducked his head and ambled towards the imposing wooden doors, only catching the latest statement from Blaise's friend as he passed by in haste. 

"...and then I told Roger that there was no way you could mix Janis Joplin with Brittany Spears, cause that's just ridic -- Blaise? Are you even listening to me?" the man in front of Blaise saw him staring towards the door as though stupefied, and quickly followed his gaze in the direction of a young man with tightly fitted brown corduroys and a slim green cardigan.

And the man disappeared through the doors as if he'd never been there in the first place. 

"Blaise." His friend drawled impatiently, "Now that you're done drooling over nameless plebeians, would you mind rejoining our conversation?"

"Oh," Blaise recovered his tongue, "Right... You can't blame me for enjoying the eye candy, though, can you? These halls aren't usually full of aesthetically pleasing blokes, you know." He blinked, hoping his friend would brush off his behavior in lieu of their former conversation.

"Well. I suppose not. It's been a rather long time since I've seen an arse as nice as that," the man admitted noncommittally, running a hand through his blond hair. "Now come on, you still owe me the Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix album and that bottle of merlot."

Blaise shook his head at his best friend. After all, who couldn't love Draco Malfoy?


A/N: i'll be attempting to update once weekly at the very least :)
also, thanks to my fabulous beta cronikartist for her amazing help.

reviews are appreciated!