Bloody hell what a long week it had been! Friday afternoon meant Roger Davies was currently in Transfiguration -- the last class of the week for him -- and getting to this point felt like a lifetime. Normally his favorite subject, Roger was instead staring out the window as spring sun dipped toward the horizon, chin propped on his palm and an elbow on the desk. Tomorrow the match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw would take place. A match that he almost lost the chance to participate in. Flexing his right hand, feeling the uncomfortable tugging of skin where the words 'I will not deny magic's legitimacy', he grimaced slightly, and then frowned. Hopefully Umbridge wouldn't find a way to interfere be it with him or the Gryffindor team; Roger needed a good match as a vent for his frustrations.

The line of his lips became rigid as he glared at the horizon, not taking in the beauty of the afternoon, nor the branches tipped in green and red buds. Normally, Roger wouldn't have looked out the window, but rather raptly paying attention to profession McGonagall's lecture and taking many notes. Instead the professor's words fell on deaf ears. He only noticed the end of class when the scraping of chairs and muddled shuffling of books, quills and papers filled the classroom. Scooping up his things, Roger unceremoniously shoved pieces of parchment into his bag and began his walk to the door, hanging behind some of his fellow classmates; he didn't feel like much for conversing at the moment.

It had been a grueling two hours of non-verbal human transfigurations lecturing, and even those with the highest aptitude for transfiguration had a glassy film over their eyes after the first thirty minutes. Not every lesson could be flashy with bursts of magic and quacking animals – and advanced transfiguration even less so. When the bell finally rang to signal the end of the lesson, the Scottish witch teaching the lesson pursed her lips as the chairs slid, almost unanimously, from the desks and the students shuffled as a herd from the room. It always amazed the Deputy Headmistress how those in the farthest reaches of the room still managed to be among the first to exit.

Thankfully it was Friday, and even the ‘Hogwarts High Inquisitor’ wouldn’t have reason to bother her until the week began anew. The Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match was quickly approaching and as Head of Gryffindor House, Minerva was obligated (and honored) to support her house team. “Two scrolls on the dangers of improper human transfigurations due next lesson,” She called as the group piled toward the door, “And a bit more practice on nonverbal magic might be a help too. Some of you still look like a chicken laying a dragon egg,”

With a quick wave of her wand, the writing upon the board vanished in a puff of chalk dust and as it dissipated, Professor McGonagall turned back toward the class. Over half had already squeezed through the door, and as she watched the crowd leave, her gaze caught the back of a high-flying eagle trailing the rest of the group. “Davies, a word,” She called above the din. Not only was Roger the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team but he was also a talented transfigurationist. She offered the boy the barest of nods before heading to the teacher’s desk upon the raised dais and sitting herself rigidly in the seat behind it. Another wave of her wand and a chair from the many desks in the room slid across the floor to sit itself before the desk in anticipation for Roger’s arrival.

“I do hope you have a moment for a quick word?” She asked, offering the chair with a wave of her hand.

A soft groan emitted from a handful of students with the announcement of weekend homework over the shuffling feet and chairs scrapping the floor. While difficult, Roger didn't find the additional homework too much of an obstacle for his weekend; if anything he had developed a sort of talent for procrastinating and working under pressure in a single day. He often joked he produced his best essays an hour before the class.

Walking a few feet behind the rest of his classmates he was lost in his own thoughts and feeling uncharacteristically pensive. Usually fairly flippant on the outside, a jumbled knot of memories, ideas, scraps of information and anticipated projections clouded his mind caused Roger to not feel as social as he usually would. Luckily the usual group of Ravenclaws that seemed to follow him around were tucked away in other classes, not having the honor to learn advanced transfiguration. It was just as well, given his mood.

“Davies, a word," Professor McGonagall called, pulled Roger out of his sea of thoughts. Pausing, he looked to the Professor with a slight furrow of his brow. Did he made a mistake on his last report? Changing course, he walked to the raised dais and up to the chair, coming along side as it gently came to rest in front of the formidable desk. “I do hope you have a moment for a quick word?”

"Yes, Professor." Roger placed his bag, a faded  tan messenger bag he'd found last summer while shopping in muggle London with his mom ("Standard issue of the British army!" the squat man behind the table littered with faded trinkets of war winked heartily. "You see those letters there? That was a pilot's bag, that was!"), stuffed full with parchment, books, and a quill with the ends defeathered from frustration. He settled in front of the witch and worried his bottom lip; hopefully he wasn't in trouble for a botched assignment.

“I hope you’re ready for the quidditch match, Davies,” She said with a slight smile, trying her best to ease the Ravenclaw’s tension. He looked for all the world like he was headed for the chopping block; then again, Minerva didn’t know of many that didn’t look that way when called out by the Deputy Headmistress. “Johnson’s been working our team day and night, I don’t think you stand a chance,” Quidditch was one of the only things Minerva felt her house was superior at than the others. True, the Hufflepuffs were jolly fun, the Ravenclaws were intelligent, and the Slytherins were cunning… but Quidditch.

“Have a biscuit,” She said as the boy sat before her. Obviously she hadn’t kept the boy aside just to chat about sports, though she was sure the Ravenclaw Captain wouldn’t mind sitting and talking about the game for hours. “Professor Flitwick says your charmwork is promising. Actually, out of all your professors the only negative comments I’ve heard are from Professor Umbridge. I know I’m not your Head of House, but I was wondering if you minded having a quick conversation about your future? You won’t be at Hogwarts forever, you know,”

Minerva reached into the desk and pulled out a few pamphlets and a quill and ink and parchment. She offered the papers to the boy opposite her and uncorked the ink for her own use. “Have you given any thought to what you might want to do?” The flyers were a myriad of topics: from healing to dragon training to working with muggles. Somewhere mixed in near the bottom was an outdated pamphlet for recruitment to the Holyhead Harpies, an all-female quidditch team. Professional quidditch simply wasn’t a viable option for permanent employment. 

“I hope you’re ready for the quidditch match, Davies,”

Roger visibly relaxed at the mention of Quidditch, a smile brightened his features and made him look more like his normal self. “Absolutely ready! I think this will be the best match of the season!” Matches against Gryffindor were always the most difficult; not only did the house trademark of bravery shine through their plays, but they were all very talented, having little use for sneaky tactics or poor sportsmanship.

“Johnson’s been working our team day and night, I don’t think you stand a chance,”

“Angie is a good captain, but our Keeper has progressed leaps and bounds. She’s going to have a difficult time getting past Grant. I hope her throwing arm is in top shape.” A Cheshire grin crept across his features. McGonagall might have been head of his opponent’s house, but it never stopped Roger from chatting Quidditch with her when the opportunity presented itself. McGonagall had always been one of his favorite professors and he respected her magical abilities as well as her keen insight to Quidditch. He sought her out for advice more often than he did Professor Flitwick. Of course Ravenclaw’s head of house was easy to talk to, and his dancing cupcakes were a real treat, but Roger found solace in the Head of Gryffindor’s no nonsense attitude and forward thinking actions.

Helping himself to a biscuit, Professor McGonagall turned very business like in a flash. The Professor commented on his high marks and promising abilities, all except for Professor Umbridge. Roger’s expression darkened at her name. That… woman… The marks on the back of his hand, fading into scars a shade off from his skin tone seemed to sting at the mention of her name. He squeezed the uneaten half of his biscuit so firmly that it began to crumble. She had not only punished him for his opinion that their magical abilities have a logical, scientific and mathematical explanation, but threatened to bar him from Quidditch because his views made him unfit to play a sport that appealed only to the wizarding world.

“…I know I’m not your Head of House, but I was wondering if you minded having a quick conversation about your future? You won’t be at Hogwarts forever, you know,”

Roger brushed the crumbs off his robes into his free hand and deposited them into the nearby bin.

“I… I know.” He said heavily, avoiding her gaze. Graduation was only a few months away. “If Professor Umbridge has her way I won’t have a career in anything I’ll do. I guess rationalizing magical ability with math is something only traitors do.” His said, voice edged with sharp disdain. Surely Professor McGonagall, a master at Transfiguration, a magical branch that walked hand in hand with math would understand how ridiculous this notion was. Roger leaned forward and looked over the pamphlets.

“Have you given any thought to what you might want to do?”

“I have.” He admitted, glancing down to his backpack. “I’ve, I mean, there are some really great fields, but nothing that, er, I think would fit me.” The idea of sitting behind a desk at the Ministry did not seem very appealing, nor did roaming foreign lands chasing after dragons or werewolves. “I kind of thought of applying to a muggle university and studying physics. I mean, it would be good idea, right? I'm really good with numbers, and science, especially physics just makes sense to me. Not to mention if You-Know-Who really is back, maybe I can do something with proper training in that field… I don’t know.” It was rare for Roger to not know and he never felt so lost when it happened. His eyes searched over the pamphlets and paused on the Harpies. A sudden pang went off in his stomach like a canon. “Because, well, I do have a job offer, but in these times I am not sure if I want to take it.” Hesitating for a moment, Roger reached down into his crammed backpack. pulled out a heavy parchment barring the seal of Kenmare Kestrels and handed it over to Professor McGonagall wordlessly.

The Deputy Headmistress had learned early in her career how to read body language, and poor Roger Davies seemed to be going through several emotions at once. The mention of Umbridge stiffened even Minerva’s spine, though she tried desperately not to let the students know how disappointed she was with the Ministry’s choices of late. The elder witch had always lived by the philosophy that one should never speak ill of their co-workers – whether they looked like a fluffy pink gnome or not.

As Roger spoke about his thoughts on attending a muggle university, Minerva took notes. She lifted her spectacles to her face and scribbled furiously upon a leaf of parchment. Roger wasn’t the first, and likely wouldn’t be the last, to express interest in furthering their education in the muggle world. Especially for muggleborns, the desire to connect with a world most wizards know little about held a great pull. She made note to speak with their Muggle Studies professor, just to double check on the requirements – what they’d need to do to proceed and such.

She started to speak as Roger finished, not bothering to even look up from her parchment. His dislike for the ministry, or rather the ‘common’ professions for Hogwarts graduates was understandable. She reached for the envelope, speaking as she did, “Davies, a muggle university could be a viable option – though I should impress upon you, there are opportunities you’ve not mentioned. Yo –“ Her voice broke off as she recognized the standard on the letter. A quidditch offer.

Minerva had seen her fair share of offers from various professional teams in her term in office. She chose to keep her thoughts on the matter private for the most part, but there were times that even the tight-lipped Minerva McGonagall needed to speak her mind. This was one of those times. “Roger,” she said, using his familiar name to impress upon him the severity of the situation, “I urge you to throw this letter in the fire next chance you have. The life of a professional quidditch player isn’t all fame and glamour. The risk of permanent injury is extremely high, and what about when you retire? Such a career lasts for ten, fifteen years. What will you do after?”

Obviously the situation was weighing heavily on the Ravenclaw, else he would have kept the information to himself. Minerva simply hoped he’d take her advice seriously.

A frown appeared on Roger’s face as the Deputy Headmistress’ lecture on viable options came to a screeching halt. He saw the pressing and downturn at the corner of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes. Part of him had hoped Professor McGonagall would smile and say what a wonderful opportunity this would be and congratulate him, but deep down he’d known her reaction would have been this. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Roger laced and unlaced his fingers.

“I-I know,” Biting down on his lip, he looked back up to his professor. She is such a fan of the sport, always stopping to chat with him about the latest scores and matches. He had to make her understand. “My mum, well, she said the same thing.” Eily reminded him of his professor in many ways: a no-nonsense woman who preferred hard facts and logic to silly what-ifs and possibilities. Most of the time his mother’s dark hair was kept pulled back in a tight braid. “It’s just,” He pressed on. “I have talent, Professor. Everyone has always told me so… and I understand what it’s like, the pressure and what not.”

At least, he felt he did. Despite his popularity among the students Roger often felt very alone, not to mention captaining his team meant buckling down, planning and practice, than reaping the fruits of his labor. He found himself explaining the last bit to Professor McGonagall in earnest… he couldn’t tell her about feeling alone. How could anyone understand how it felt to be surrounded by friends and admirers and feel so isolated. How could Minerva McGonagall, a woman who had an answer for everything and had everything so together, know what it felt like to be cusping on adulthood not knowing what you wanted to be or even if you wanted to be?

At the mention of money and a short career, Roger’s eyes lit up. He had her pinned now!

“Well, I mean, a quidditch player’s salary is pretty substantial… even if I have ten or fifteen years I would have made more than enough to keep me going, especially if I am careful and manage my money during those years. I’ll set aside enough so I am good when the time comes to retire, and make sure my mum is set as well. Then I can go into… something.” He finished rather lamely, running out of gusto as his speech came to an end.