My rapping knuckles emit a feeble tapping noise against the hardwood panels. I reach up and use the metal knocker. A clanking noise breaks the silence, and the window slowly slides up revealing a pair of gray eyes under bushy white eyebrows . . .
“Slide your manuscript in, please,” an old-yet-regal voice beckons.
Manuscript?, I think to myself. What manuscript? Was I supposed to . . . Ah, yes. Remembering that I had used my “Writing Prompt Tuesdays #1″ poem to plug a hole in my shoe, I quickly unlace and liberate it, smooth the page flat, and slide it under the bars toward the doorman’s squinted eyes.
“One moment, Sir,” the voice says as the window slides closed again.
Nearly an hour slips by and I toy with the idea of forraging for berries on the nearby bushes. I slip to the ground outside the door and lean upon it. The clanging awakens me, and I leap to my feet.
“Madam will see you now, sir.” More clanking and the door swings inwards. “I beg you to forgive the formalities, sir. Please enter. Ms. Rowling is very selective about her ghost-writing staff. She awaits you in the great hall.”
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