The day was coming quickly when Figaro would leave Hogwarts to make his place in the world. He was fortunate among his peers, some would argue, that a lack of action or indecision would default to secure room, board, and advancement prospects. Some might be pleased with the safe fallback option, but to Figaro it was an option no more desirable than falling backwards into a volcano.

In his hand was clutched a newspaper clipping for a job at the Daily Prophet. Entry-level grunt work, but far preferable to sorting out the spoiled beetle eyes at the apothecary.

'See your future at the Daily Prophet. Now hiring press apprentices, dogsbodies, hawkers, and gofers. Inquire with Barnabas Cuffe.

His friend Zelig Trumble had been clever enough to suggest that he had a leg up since he had been the editor of the Hogwarts Howler, and that Fig should get a letter of recommendation from the Headmistress.

In all of Fig's years at Hogwarts, he'd had little occasion to meet personally with any of the Headmasters or Mistresses. He was neither troublesome enough or exceptional enough to be sent or bidden. He would have liked to have not been nervous to ask a favor of Professor McGonagall, but he kind of was.

The stone griffon statue stood immovable and stoic. It was the kind of silence that required a magical password.

"Um. Swizzle sweets?" he tried.

Swizzle sweets was not the password, as the young Hufflepuff waiting to gain entry would soon learn for himself as the statue remained motionless and inanimate. It was a good guess, and had the Headmistress been within earshot of the attempt, she might have been tempted to use it for her next secret code. As it was, the password would simply remain as it had been for most of the term – Wronski Feint.

Thankfully the young Mr. Sellaphix wouldn’t have very long to wait – as only a few moments later, Minerva McGonagall herself came tramping down the hallway, tartan carpetbag in one hand and a sturdy walking stick in the other. A frown crossed her face when she first laid eyes on Figaro – she’d been overnight in London dealing with severe Wizengamot issues and had been looking forward to a strong cup of tea when returning to her office before tackling the mountain of paperwork surely waiting for her.

The frown was quickly masked, however, and a perfectly neutral (and common) demeanor schooled her face. “Here, Mr. Sellaphix, carry this,” She said, shoving her bag into his arms and speaking the password clearly to the gargoyle – who jumped to life and stepped aside for the Headmistress.

She stepped on the moving staircase without waiting to see if Figaro was following – normally when Minerva asked for something to be done, it simply was, without the need for her to double-check. She chose to not speak as the step rose higher, bringing her closer to her office. If Figaro was too impatient to wait, he could speak up of his own accord.

Figaro obeyed automatically, taking the bag. It was surprisingly heavy even though Professor McGonagall had been carrying it lightly. "Yes, ma'am."  He hurried after her into the staircase; he wasn't sure how long it would stay open for him if he hesitated. The staircase moved on its own, grinding round in a tight circle until the portal to the office proper appeared and they stepped out.

It was a round tower room that instantly caused visitors to look up.  Portraits of old witches and wizards covered the walls above glass cabinets and book shelves. Every little table and nook held some forbidden interest.  Figaro suddenly regretted not being more of a delinquint (as excellence in his studies would have been far out of reach).

"I didn't now you liked Quidditch," he said. "Your password - that's a Seeker trick." As if she didn't know??? "Brilliant. Have you ever seen it? Victor Krum did it in '94. Bulgaria." As if she didn't know?  Figaro wasn't trying to be a know-it-all - he just liked talking about Quidditch.  "I tried it once in my back garden. That was my first trip to St. Mungo's. Blood everywhere."

He was still holding the bag, standing on the rug by the door, looking around as he prattled on.

Minerva stepped off the revolving platform and moved stiffly yet swiftly into the office proper. She'd sent Tipper the house-elf along ahead and her pint-sized savior had outshone himself once again. What the young elf lacked in maturity and social elegance he more than made up for with his efficiency and skill. The large oak door leading into the circular room had been propped open, a comforting fire cackled merrily in the grate, the parchment atop the desk was neatly arranged, and it appeared as if he'd even procured a tartan cushion from somewhere to add some extra padding to her seat.

A small smile danced across her face as she took it all in - there was truly no place like home. Even after all this time, the elegance and beauty of her school was enough to take the witch's breath away. Minerva leaned the staff against the side of the desk and finally turned to Figaro as she made her way to the other side. "You can leave that by the door, Mr. Sellaphix - Tipper will be along shortly to take care of it and take five points for Hufflepuff for your assistance," She said before sinking into her seat and motioning toward the chairs seated opposite for Figaro to take one.

"I was quite a fair Chaser in my school days," Minerva said lightly - it wasn't often the Heamistress spoke of her own time at Hogwarts to students. Most of them didn't realize that she had been youthful at one time, even if that time was long passed. "Sadly I was unable to attend the World Cup in '94, but I've seen it done spectacularly a few times," While she was speaking, the witch pulled her wand from within her voluminous robes and pointed it toward the fireplace, where a kettle lifted from the mantle and soared into the flames, warming water for tea.

"It's no surprise you landed yourself in St. Mungo's, that move is dangerous for even the most exceptional fliers," and indeed, it was never a surprise that Figaro Sellaphix was injured. He just looked like the type of person that was always suffering from some self-sustained injury. "I would have never attempted something like that - brooms have come a long way since the old Shooting Star I was on. The darned thing would vibrate if you were going too fast and it tended to lilt to the left," Normally Minerva would have already gotten to the point - she wasn't exactly one to talk pleasantries but she was tired from the long trip, she could do with a bit of pointless conversation.

Figaro nodded in awe and acknowledgement trying to imagine a young Professor McGonagall astride some ancient broomstick wearing Gryffindor's team colors. He was only halfway successful - she was miniature, but still wizened.  "Yea. Wow. That's excellent, Professor."

Now that he'd been invited, he set down her heavy bag. Then he trotted across from the door to have a seat opposite her at the desk. The Sellaphix boys, despite their misplaced energies, had been taught their manners well.   As such, Figaro realized he'd probably be better off not taking up too much of Professor McGonagall's time.

"Right so, I need a favor." He leaned forward and placed the folded Daily Prophet for hire clippoing on the desk between them. "I'd rather not spend the rest of my blissful youth scouring cauldrons and schlepping deliveries, so I want to try for this job at the Prophet."

Depending on how closely Professor McGonagall was able to keep tabs on her seventh years, she might or might not be aware of his myriad abandoned career plans, including most recently, training to be an Obliviator.  Figaro was a lad of whimsy when it came to careers, it seemed, his ambitions flighty as a half-hearted Patronus attempt. But when he did latch interest, it was keen.

Before she could say anything to dissuade him, he started in on his pitch.  "I've done the Howler all year and I know the professors think it's rubbish, but at everyone reads it. I've been a leader, good role model for the younger kids, did a bunch of investigating, writing. Even figured out that the best place to distribute the Howler was in the bathrooms."

He felt rather clever about that. The Professors never went in the bathrooms, and all the students did.

"It'd go a long way if you'd write me a letter saying so."  He nodded. "Ma'am."

When young Master Sellaphix was properly ensconced in his seat, Tipper the house-elf crept carefully from Mistress Minerva’s private chambers. He’d been sent ahead to prepare the busy witch’s return – he’d managed to arrange her paperwork, ignite fires in both her office and room, and turned down her bed before she had arrived. The young elf had started to bound happily out of the room when he realized his Mistress’ voice was not alone. A badgerly lad had joined her so Tipper waited patiently until his presence was needed.

Thankfully, by the time Tipper had tip-toed around the room, the kettle started screaming in the fire. SCREEEEEEEEEEEE it went, a loud, viscous noise that cut through the quiet of the evening like the cry of a fwooper. A quick moment later, Tipper was on the case – grabbing the hook by the fire and pulling the boiling kettle from within. He quickly poured two cups of water into two cups upon the tea tray placed conveniently on an spindly-legged table near the fire.

One snap of his fingers and crumpets, biscuits, and other snacks filled the tray – taken from the Hogwarts kitchens. Another snap and the tray lifted from the table and sailed toward Mistress Minerva’s desk where it floated gently upon the center. Duty finished, Tipper smiled a beam of joy and skipped merrily over to where the Head of Chiefliness’s bag was, holding her travelling needs, and snapped his fingers for a third time.

Now the bag raised itself into the air and sped off into the Head’s private chambers where it was out of sight. Tipper began to bow, a low and respectful bow for having such a wonderful Mistress that treated him so well, but then remembered that Mistress said that free elves didn’t have to bow to anybody. Instead, he curled his tiny fingers into a fist and raised his thumb into the air – making eye contact with the most wonderful and awe-inspiring Mistress ever. She had called it a thumbs up and he liked it very much indeed.

He then skipped off back out of the room to empty the contents of the tartan bag.

The small talk couldn’t last, Minerva knew. Knowing it, however, didn’t change the fact that it was unsatisfying to turn the conversation to matters of importance. Importance was all Minerva knew as of late – everyone had something to speak with her about, and it was always something of great import. To whom it was important Minerva still didn’t know at times. Though she didn’t allow those sour thoughts to impact the way she dealt with her students, and never would. That’s why when Figaro started speaking about his accomplishments with the school newspaper, Minerva listened intently and gave the young Hufflepuff her undivided attention.

By the time he had finished speaking, Minerva’s right index finger tapped her lower lip in thought as the Headmistress sat comfortably in her seat. A moment of silence fell between professor and pupil as Minerva collected her thoughts on what Figaro was asking. It was true that in most cases a letter from the Headmistress of Hogwarts as recommendation could go a long way, Minerva just wasn’t completely convinced that this was one of those cases.

Minerva McGonagall had never been one to mix well with the media. She’d always been a witch of action, not words – and felt the praise she was given was unnecessary. Since taking on the added duties of Chief Warlock she’d been more involved with media outlets, sure, but she hadn’t gone out of her way to make an impression on any reporters, good or bad. Most of them knew her, or at least of her, so there was some pull, Minerva supposed.

“The Howler has indeed seen some improvement under your leadership,” Minerva began, bringing her hand back to rest atop the desk. “Though – Mr. Sellaphix, and don’t think me rude here,” She said, trying to think of a delicate way of broaching the topic, “wouldn’t you be more satisfied working for Witch Weekly? Or The Daily Snitch? Healer Sage’s sibling is the editor of the Snitch, I believe. I’m sure she’d be happy to put in a good word, as would I,” The headmistress took in a deep breath and continued.

“You have what it takes to be a fine editor, but The Hogwarts Howler has been a bit of a gossip piece lately, has it not? Distributing the publication in the loo was quite ingenious, I will admit – but are you up for hard-hitting journalism? It can be a difficult and dangerous career path,” She said – now pausing as a tea tray landed softly on the desk between them, “Have a cup of tea,” She finished, lifting one of the steaming cups and curling her fingers around the surface to feel the warmth.

“Do you have anything prepared? Any articles of headline worthy news?” Minerva asked kindly. She truly was not trying to upset Figaro or make him give up on his dreams, but being equipped for the struggles was one of the things Hogwarts was supposed to instill in their illustrious students.

Figaro was stunned and his slightly open mouth showed it. He narrowed his eyes. What was... going ... on? Was the Headmistress... going to make him ... work for this?

"Erm." He looked down at the want advert in his hands.

'See your future at the Daily Prophet. Now hiring press apprentices, dogsbodies, hawkers, and gofers. Inquire with Barnabas Cuffe.

And nodded slowly.

"No...." he said.

The professor wasn't wrong. There was little of substance in the Howler. (Although Figaro was of the opinion that nothing interesting ever happened at Hogwarts now that the Infirmary had stopped burning down annually). But the thought of trying to work at Witch Weekly or The Snitch or whatever seemed... gross. He was wary to say it out loud, but he was a bit weary of not being taken seriously.

"I mean, that's why I want to be at the Prophet." He handed her the clipping. "It'll be exciting," he said with emphasis. "Look, I don't know what I'm supposed to do, but I know I can't just be at my parents' Apothecary til I rot. Being in the same stinky room all day, serving all the same stinky old customers? I don't have the marks for anything at the Ministry. The Prophet's respectable and that ad doesn't say anything about N.E.W.T.s."

He shrugged. "You and me - no offense, ma'am, - we both know that I was shit in school. I was warned, I blew it off, and here I am. But I think this is my up."

It was as Minerva anticipated, Figaro was not prepared. A slim hand reached across the desk to accept the scrap of newspaper from Figaro and her eyes raked the clipping quickly. The advertisement hadn't changed in years, and though the position Mr. Sellaphix would be filling wouldn't be a difficult one, it would be a demanding one. Fetching and running for a group of people whose minds were in a thousand different directions at any given time was a challenge. It would be quite some time before Figaro would even put ink to parchment, and longer still before his name would be seen in print.

It was a long and grueling process, no less difficult than learning any skill or trade - and though Figaro had a leg up with his handling of the school's paper, would he have any clue what to do when several people were barking orders to him at once, instead of it being the other way around? Could he learn to take orders and direction without letting the Hufflepuff stubbornness out to play?

Minerva was worried, but the passion and excitement in Figaro's voice as he spoke about it brought a truthful smile to Minerva's features - and her fears were lessened. Figaro was not one that dealt well with direction and that could make him the best journalist the magical community had seen in a good long while.

"Language," Minerva admonished as Figaro finished his truthful response. "Manners are everything, Mr. Sellaphix,"

"There is honor and joy to be found in any honest labor. Your family's apothecary would not be a damning career, Figaro - you would be part of a legacy," She said, "Though I understand the desire to create your own destiny - to strike out in the world and make a name for yourself. It's a worthy dream, Figaro, and I would be unfit to be your headmistress if I didn't support you in your decisions,"

"I'll pen a letter to the Prophet's headquarters and I'll owl Mr. Cuffe personally. I daresay he'll at least give you a shot - my contributions over the years have been small but plentiful," She finished, shifting to a more comfortable position in her chair.