The sun was bright in early May, and the campus of the Welsh National University buzzed with students rushing from coffee-shop cram sessions to midterms. Howell Jenkins expertly dodged concerned-looking undergrads with heavy backpacks, mentally reviewing spell rules as he went. Traditionally, they used mandrake root, but a poultice of chicory and hemlock can be substituted. No, that wasn't right. What was it again?

He turned a corner sharply and swerved around a young woman with glasses and a briefcase. Chicory and mayberry, perhaps? The woman gasped, startled, and Howell waved apologetically.

He was nearing the end of his final semester, and his dissertation was catching up to him, as hard as he was trying to avoid it. Howell enjoyed making, doing, spreading out books and powders and mixing until magic worked. He did not enjoy falling asleep at his desk because he'd wasted so much time dabbling that he'd forgotten to study. He loved magic, but he also loved wandering and rugby and chatting up pretty girls in coffee shops. "It will be a miracle if you graduate," his sister Megan had informed him over dinner two Christmases ago. It was partly because of her that Howell was intent on walking away with a diploma this semester.

He swung around another corner a little too quickly, his mind filled with Megan's harsh words, and so failed to notice the young woman in the blue skirt until it was too late. She shrieked and leaped towards the wall, throwing herself against the building in an effort to avoid Howell's bicycle.

Howell, despite his best efforts, careened into a planter that sat obstinately in the middle of the walkway.

The girl he had almost knocked over was huffing now, clutching her knapsack against her chest. She was a pretty girl, with buttery auburn hair and big, dark rimmed glasses, and she was yelling at him. "Really!" she began, "You can't just go careening around corners like that! You'll kill someone!" She pointed to her skirt, rubbing at a black streak across the hem. "Look, you've got grease on it." The girl glared at Howell, who sat ruefully on the pavement with one leg draped over the bike and one pinned awkwardly under it. "If you can't steer that thing, you shouldn't ride it."

I'm going to be late to my oral exam is what Howell thought. What he said (in what he hoped was a smooth voice) was "I am so sorry, miss."

"Miss?" She raised her eyebrows. "Don't play that with me."

Howell clambered to his feet, trying to elegantly unthread himself and his Welsh Rugby scarf from the spokes of his tires. He didn't feel he succeeded. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I just meant...well. It doesn't matter." He extended a hand. "I don't think we've met," he said.

"I'm Sophie."

"It's a pleasure," said Howell.

"Same," said Sophie, though she did not sound like she meant it.

"Are you hurt?"

"Fortunately not." Sophie swung her knapsack onto her back and shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her skirt. She scrunched her nose (endearing, thought Howell, feeling dangerously smitten), and began walking.

Howell untangled his bike from the planter and examined it. The front wheel was bent into a very uncircular formation and refused to rotate as a bicycle wheel should. He rolled it along as best he could, trying to ignore the rhythmic thumpings and squeakings it emited.

Sophie walked quickly, and Howell had to push the protesting bicycle along at quite a clip just to stay next to her. It squeaked endlessly, as if it didn't want Howell to forget what he'd done to it.

Howell cleared his throat. "So, Sophie, what are you studying?"

"English," said Sophie cooly. "And yourself?"

"Magic," said Howell, then quickly added, "Well, the history of magic."

Sophie's eyes lit up. "You can study magic in Wales?" She hitched her sliding knapsack back onto her shoulders. "I wish I had known that."

"The history of magic," Howell repeated. He was quietly pleased he had impressed her.

"Well. Anyway," said Sophie, and then paused. "I wish that squeaking would stop. It's hard to carry a conversation over the racket."

Howell cleared his throat dramatically, then said a little too loudly, "WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MISS SOPHIE?"

"You shouldn't ask young single ladies where they're going," said Sophie, but she giggled, which had been his intent. "Anyway, I'm going for coffee, to finish reading for class." She paused for a long time, not looking at him. In the quiet, Howell realized that the bike had stopped squeaking. This would have been wonderful, had he not realized it just as he reached the history building where the exam awaited him.

"Sophie, it was a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances. But unfortunately, magic calls."

"Are you off to work spells?" she asked, smiling.

"Unfortunately not," said Howell, and he sighed. "Exams are some of the least magical things in the universe, take it from a magician. And I'm afraid that I'm already late. But I'll see you around, won't I?"

She peered at him through her thick rimmed glasses, as if she were trying to read him. "I'll be in the coffee shop all afternoon," she said, and walked away.

Howell Jenkins never finished an exam so quickly in his life.

Note to those who've mentioned wanting more: I'm planning on writing more (although not necessarily in this AU) over winter break. Thank you for your reviews and interest. :)