Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part I

You aren't a newbie, but your frazzled appearance might portray you that way.

Autumn air nips at your cheeks as you rush around the corner and continue along the edge of the sidewalk. Your feet carry you around other students who aren't as pressed for time. They give you amused side-glances as you hustle into the entrance of the closest brick building.

This was supposed to be your semester, the one where you get to class early and rewrite your notes by hand and get straight As. But one-too-many snoozed alarms later and your first day of classes has become your worst nightmare.

You take the stairs two at a time, and are rushing through the doorway to the second floor when you slam full force into a particularly solid shoulder. You're knocked off balance and a flurry of papers careen through the air to scatter the floor around you.

"Shit, fuck," a deep voice mutters from above where you've landed in a heap. You rub tenderly at the bruise that is bound to form from your collision.

"Are yeh okay? Yeh hurt?"

The man leaning down in front of you addresses you with a thick accent. With an upward glance, you find tired green eyes framed by a large pair of glasses.

"I'm fine," you answer quietly, pushing yourself back to your feet. "I'm late, sorry."

You spin around to rush down the hall. A prick of guilt stabs your chest as you leave your victim to collect his belongings. You hear a sigh and shuffling papers from behind you as you open the door to your classroom. Heads turn to assess you in your flustered state. The clock on the wall informs you that you're forty-seven seconds late—a feat, if you consider how late you woke up.

It's a small class with about twenty students. Seats are arranged in a large circle that you're forced to cross. The gaze from the professor—who must be Dr. Glasser—at the head of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves as you find an empty chair and slip into it as quietly as possible.

"As I was saying, on time is late in my book."

Your head lifts from the backpack you've set at your feet to find a pair of narrowed eyes. Dr. Glasser has his arms crossed over his chest, brows raised as he quirks his lips at a joke you're not yet in on. Getting on his bad side was everything you wanted to avoid today.

"Hey, 'm sorry."

The door closes behind a man who's entered the room unnoticed until now. His voice draws the professor's gaze from you and your eyes follow suit.

"Woke up not feelin' well and then some girl bowled m'over in the hall."

You cringe, sinking back into your seat in hopes you'll melt away. If your day could get any worse, you'd rather it happen now than later when it might take you off guard. But at least there's another student who can share the guilt.

"It never changes," Dr. Glasser replies with a curt nod and a knowing chuckle. "That's all right. This is Harry. He'll be your TA for the semester."

You sink even lower in your seat, stomach churning in discomfort. How could you fuck up your first day so terribly?

Harry sets a mess of papers down on a desk beside the professor's and turns to look at the class with a half-hearted smile. His white t-shirt is clean but wrinkled. You notice the red glint of his eyes and the way his fingers pause to rub at his temple as his hand passes through his tousled hair. He's sporting a nasty hangover, by the looks of it.

Your thoughts cease completely as his eyes stop scanning the students to pause on your regretful face. He gives a soft shake of his head and a quiet chuckle before he sits down. You're screwed.