I strode down the footpath, clutching my bag in tense fingers and feeling a strange fluttery feeling in my stomach which I presumed to indicate nervousness. It must, for such was my anxiety that I felt strongly tempted to turn back every minute. The Daily Prophet journalists would surely know what was going on in the Ministry of Magic, and refuse my article. It seemed very unlikely that I would be able to persuade them. But if it was only small...
I saw the swinging sign of the Leaky Cauldron up ahead and quickened my pace. Reaching it, I glanced briefly around at the Muggles passing casually by before pushing open the door and entering. Tom, the old barman, grinned toothily at me from his place behind the counter. I forced a smile onto my face and strode quickly through the inn out the back door and into the small courtyard. Pulling out my wand, I tapped the correct brick and the wall slid away to let me through.
I proceeded into Diagonally. How was the atmosphere so cheerful? I bit my lip and hurried down the street. Where was...
There! The Daily Prophet Publication & Printing Studio. My stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as I pushed open the door. The room within was neatly furnished and a polished mahogany desk stood opposite me. I walked slowly up to it, pinching the fabric of my bag in agitated fingers as I swallowed apprehensively. It seemed torture to ring the small bell upon the counter to alert a worker's attention.
Someone came hurrying through the staff door and sat down in the chair behind the desk. She had thick glasses, hair that just brushed her shoulders, a double chin and squinting eyes. She peered up at me, in quite an unfriendly manner.
"What do you want?" She said brusquely.
Though surprised by her lack of greeting I did not permit myself to let her know I wavered in confidence. Straightening, hooking my bag over my elbow and clasping my hands together primly, I faced her with as much courage as I could muster. "Good morning," I said curtly. A clock behind the desk on the wall informed me that it was seven minutes past eight am. You can do this, I told myself inwardly. Swallowing, I continued. "I'm here to ask if I could slip a small article into tomorrow's prophet."
The woman scrutinised me critically. Her eyebrows furrowed, creating a line between her eyes. "You do, eh?" She said. "Where is it, then?"
I rummaged in my bag. It's going fine, I told myself encouragingly. I found my scribbled article and handed it to her. Snatching it from my hand she squinted through her thick glasses to read my writing. Shuffling my feet I twisted my hands together nervously. Reaching the end the woman looked up at me, and I was disappointed to see it showed no sign of approval.
"This," she said, "Is utter repudiation of the minister's decision on that boring Thunderbird case."
I was taken aback and at first couldn't summon up any words. I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then spoke.