Trust the Ink

The blank sheet of paper seemed to stare back at me. This was without doubt the worst homework I'd ever gotten.

“Watch the sheet until the words arrive, and if you get frustrated, don’t be afraid to trust the ink.”

That’s all the professor said.

So, I was doing as I was told.

I was a straight A student, not just because of my intense work ethic or my natural talent, but because I was pretty good at reading people. After only a class or two, I was really good at figuring out precisely what type of work the professors would be looking to receive. When they gave instructions, I followed them to the letter. I made sure that no matter how much they wanted to nit-pick, they wouldn’t be able to find any flaws in any of my work.

But this?

This was a blank canvas, waiting to subjectively-score my grades down the commode if I wasn’t able to figure out precisely what the professor was looking for.

I’d spent the evening staring at my book. I had a piece of scratch paper next to me, and a few times, I’d started a few halting sentences, just sort of...letting the pen write. Everything that came out was gibberish.

Trusting the ink didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere..

Wizarding school wasn’t nearly as hard as those popular novels led me to believe it would be.

It was just past midnight that it came to me.

Words were the foundation, the basis, of magic. Words were life, much like blood is life. I stared skeptically at my inkwell, the pen sitting next to it, pondering the lesson I was supposed to be learning.

The nib of my pen was sharp, easily sharp enough to draw blood, but…

I was ready to explore any avenue for this assignment, but something about this felt wrong. So wrong.

I couldn’t imagine they’d be asking first-year students to delve into blood magic. Everything we’d learned about it so far pointed to forbidden rites, sacrifices, and things generally frowned upon. Even knowledge of it would probably occur only in higher-level classes, right?

Right?

I pressed the pointed tip into my wrist, holding it above the page, but I balked.

I couldn’t do it.

Let the ink flow.

I stared at my veins, the blue crisscrossing my forearm, and I tried to listen to the life within. In perfect stillness, I heard my heart beating, every thud pushing the life--the words--through my veins. But was it begging to be let out? Was it begging to touch the parchment of my enchanted notebook?

I couldn’t do it.

It was with denial and self-doubt that I must have drifted off to sleep at my desk. My dreams became nightmares, plaguing me with visions of my professor, pens and inkwells, and my own war with myself.

I awoke to the bright glare of sunlight shining through my window onto my eyes. Raising my head and looking down at my homework, my eyes grew wide in terror. What had I done?

In the grip of my nightmares, I must have thrashed about and knocked my inkwell over. A large puddle of black had pooled on the page of my notebook, pressing up against the sleeve of my robe. In a panic, I jumped to my feet, scattering ink across the facing page as well. Cursing, I looked around the room wildly for something--anything--to blot the ink with.

When I glanced at the page again, I noted with astonishment that the ink was no longer pooled, but instead it was twisting its way across the page, shaping letters and words in an ancient tongue. I watched with fascination as my nightmares were spelled out on the page before me.

It was certainly...something. Magic was at work, but would it be enough?

I resigned myself to trust the ink and hope that it would be enough.