Article, check. Photographs, check. Sources, check. Rolf brushed his hair back out of his eyes for the fourth time that morning and let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding. A quick glance out of the window told him it was still raining and he felt his heart sink. Logically, he knew it was irrational to consider this a bad omen, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that today would go better if there was bring sunshine outside. It was late February though, and sunshine was unlikely.
He took one last check through the documents and closed his briefcase. It was an ancient thing, discarded by his grandfather some years earlier. The right clasp tended to flip open at inopportune moments, but he loved the worn leather, even if the monogram didn't match his own initials, and he'd claimed it as his own six years earlier shortly after his thirteenth birthday. He brushed kneazle hair off his best tweed trousers and reached for the cloak hanging on the peg by the door, automatically searching through the pockets for unexpected inhabitants. He extracted his hand with an exclamation of surprise, shaking it and automatically sucking the bitten finger before cautiously extracting a hibernating fairy. Holding it carefully by the scruff of the neck so it couldn't bite again, he tucked it into a torn cushion cover where it settled back down with a series of approving squeaks.
Finally he was ready to leave, still an hour earlier than he really needed to, but this was an important meeting and he wanted to be sure everything went according to plan. Rolf was well aware that some people thought he was riding on the coattails of his grandfather's success and thus he felt the need to prove himself just as capable, just as competent - though as he had been told numerous times, he already had a head start, having never been threatened with expulsion from school. Naturally Rolf had countered by pointing out that due to a series of unavoidable circumstances he had never attended school at all. It was a familiar argument that was hardly an argument at all, just a comfortable exchange that left him feeling reassured of his own worth.
“No, you stay here†he told a pair of miniature dachshunds who bounded enthusiastically up to the door. These ones weren't his; he was caring for them for a muggle villager who was on holiday. Rolf produced a couple of biscuits from another pocket and gave them one each, distracting them long enough that he could leave the house, taking a quick glance to be sure nobody was around before he ducked behind the high hedge and disapparated.
He reappeared in a small lane off Diagon Alley, close to the Daily Prophet offices, and felt his heartrate increase. Up until this moment, his interview to join the Prophet's Consulting Magizoologist team had been an abstract event, important but not something that he actually felt nervous about. Now that he was here, he suddenly felt that his articles - “New mooncalf reserve in Puddledown woods†“The humane relocation of garden gnomes†“Why ghouls should be welcomed†- were somehow inadequate. Suddenly he felt very young, and very small indeed.
His stomach made a growling noise, reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast (he'd made some toast, but absent-mindedly left the plate on a low table and the lodging dachshunds had enjoyed it). Well, it was still almost an hour until his appointment, and there was a cafe just across the street. It was nearly empty, which was never a good sign, but maybe something to eat would settle his nerves. Rolf gripped his briefcase more tightly and headed into the cafe, smiling vaguely at a young woman already seated at one of the window tables.
@Luna Lovegood