Thomas sighed, and laid his quill back in the pot. He groaned and put his head on the table-- he hated when this happened. Why must a writer struggle so?

He would do anything for some inspiration to strike! He looked out of the window, hoping for something to flash, for something to connect in his brain and bestow him with an idea so wonderful it had to be written down. He wanted to write-- he needed to write if he were to support his family.

It was sunset, and the sun was on the horizon, a blazing sphere of vibrant oranges and reds, so close you could almost touch it, so bright you could barely see it and so like an apple you wished to sink your teeth into it. Off the shore of the Germanic Sea, in a little, insignificant village named Oakdene, a boy wizard coming back sweaty and hot from a Queerditch match decided to capture it for himself. There! He could describe things, he could think of plots, but when he brought quill to parchment, and tried to flesh out the story, the words just refused to obey. What he forced himself to write was worse than Farmer Will's cow's dung, and it ended up in the fire.

He banged his hands on the table, out of exasperation and irritation. Hearing the noise, his wife hurried into the room. Anne was exactly thirty years old, and a perfect wife and mother. Her face was slightly creased, the result of hours of toiling in the house, her hair was no longer the bright blonde that it once was, and she wore a common woman's clothes, but she was still every bit as beautiful as she had been fifteen years ago, when they'd married.

She looked at the Thomas' forlorn figure, and smiled. 'Can't think of anything to write again?' she asked, chuckling. She walked up to him, and pecked him on his cheek. 'Leave that aside, and come for dinner-- Ellen's waiting!'

'Well, I suppose I really cannot do anything else right now...' Thomas sighed and stood up. Stacking the parchment inside, and placing the quill back in the pot, he left the room. His six-year-old daughter, Ellen, was already sitting at the head of the table, a steaming dish before her. Thomas bent down to give her a quick, tight hug before sitting down at the table. 'Smells wonderful!' he announced, and started to eat.

The candles were burning low by the time they were done with their dinner. Thomas stood up, and stretched.

'I'll be in my room, writing, if you want anything,' he said, and started to walk into his room.

However, he stopped half-way there, when Ellen called out, 'Daddy!'

'Yes, darling?' he asked. Ellen was like a miniature Anne, with the same blonde hair and the same sharp features.

'Daddy, do you think you could tell me a story in bed?' she asked, looking at Thomas beseechingly, hopefully.

Thomas looked half-heartedly at his room, where he could barely make out the ink-pot and the quill. It could wait. 'All right, come on then,' he said, and plucked Elle off the ground. She squealed in delight, and Thomas saw Anne standing in the corner of the room, shaking her head in amusement.

He ran into the bedroom carrying Elle, and kept her on her bed. It was a straw mattress, and not very comfortable, but it was enough. 'Daddy, tell me a story!' she said.

'Only if you close your eyes...' said Thomas and Elle grudgingly obeyed. 'Good girl. Now, a story...' It was easy to ask for a story, but to make one up? He thought of all the parchment that had landed in the fire that day, all the hours spent bent over the table with a quill in his hand, and an idea started to develop in his mind.

'Now this is not a story you've heard before,' he began. 'It's the story of a writer, just like me. He was a wizard, young and happy. He knew that he wanted to be a writer; he knew that it was his destiny. But try as he could, he just wasn't able to write a story.

'All day, and all night he tried to write, but anything that he wrote he didn't like. He didn't know what to do-- he had a few Galleons in his house, but if he could not write stories, he would not have any money to pay his rent or buy food or marry his sweetheart.'

Ellen's eyes opened. 'Daddy, that man was so stupid! He should have kept writing something, even if he didn't like it, and it would have come out nice! Like the snow castle that I tried to make!' Thomas smiled and ruffled his daughter's hair.

'Yes, darling, he should have. But unfortunately, he didn't have a clever little daughter to tell him that...' Ellen giggled. 'Close your eyes, and moving on, he just could not write anything he liked. After so many months, with very little money with him, he found out that a story-writing competition was to be held in the nearby village.

'So taking a few of his belongings, he started to make towards the next village. It was just over the hills, but as he was climbing to the top, he met a man on the way. The man was shivering with cold, wore only a loincloth, and was thinner than your little finger. Feeling very bad for the man, our writer gave him part of his food. The man, incredibly grateful to the writer, gave him a small vial of a sparkly, golden potion.'

'Daddy, what's a vial?' asked Ellen suddenly.

'Is someone's eyes open?' asked Thomas, and when Ellen screwed her eyes shut immediately, he smiled and continued. 'A vial is like a very small bottle, in which you can store very little bits of potions, or milk, or water, or something else. Understand? Anyway, the man told the writer that the potion in the vial would give him good luck, but he should be very, very careful while using it, and not to use it for cheating in competitions or contests.

'The writer thanked the man, and continued on his way, keeping the vial safe inside his robes. Finally, he reached the next city, where he stayed above the house of a blacksmith he knew. Pulling out his parchment and ink, he started to write immediately, but his problem continued. He tried all sorts of things like hanging upside down by magic, or gazing into the sunset, or thinking of his sweetheart, Ellen.'

'No!' protested Ellen. 'Not Ellen!'

'All right then,' said Thomas with a chuckle. 'Her name was... Anne. But that's not important. He couldn't think of any story to write, and the last day was inching closer and closer. He was very desperate, he needed the prize money.

'Finally, with just two days left to go, the writer gave up all hope. He was packing his things to leave, frustrated, when something slipped out of his bag. The writer picked it up and looked at it. It was that vial of golden potion! He could recall the man's words-- that the potion would get him luck. He also remembered the man saying that he was not to use the potion for competitions or challenges, but he had nothing to lose, so he opened the cork of the vial and poured the contents partly into his mouth.

'As the potion slid into his tummy, he suddenly felt uplifted and happy. Something flashed in his mind, a spark of genius, and he hurriedly pulled out his ink, quill and parchment. He held the quill in his hand and fervently started to write. Words poured out onto the parchment, and as the quill slid around, words seemed to magically dance on to the parchment. He had no problem now, he knew exactly what words to use, what to say, what to do. He knew what the hero was going to do, when the bad man was going to attack the hero, when what happened. The story seemed to write itself, he hardly did anything.

'He wrote feverishly, the entire night. The stories unfolded before his very eyes, like they had a life of their own. Any time he felt the words clog up or stop inside of him, he took another little bit of potion, and the words tumbled out onto the parchment again. At the end of two days of almost continuous writing, his story was ready. The effects of the potion had worn off, but the writer was feeling happy-- he had a story for the competition. He held the parchment to the sun, gazing at the words that he had written in stunned silence-- he could barely believe that he had written them. With great glee he rushed to the Town Centre, handed in his story, and waited nervously for the results to be announced.

'After two days, filled with nervousness and excitement, the winners were announced. The writer rushed to the Town Centre to read the notice. Third place went to someone named Shakespeare. Second place went to a woman called Elliot. First place... first place went to him! The writer could nearly scream with joy, but instead he jumped up and down happily and went in to collect his prize money.

'There, the woman in-charge looked at him, and said, 'Ah, you are the writer of The Sleeping Phoenix?' The writer said yes, and the woman gave him fifty Galleons. Fifty entire Galleons! 'Your story is very good, very, good! It deserves the first prize,' she said. The writer was overjoyed, took the money, and returned to his village.

'The Sleeping Phoenix became very popular. Hundreds of people read it--'

'Not thousands?' asked Ellen, somewhat sleepily.

'Yes, darling, thousands too,' said Thomas. 'Little kids like you asked their fathers and mothers to read them stories from The Sleeping Phoenix. Adults loved The Sleeping Phoenix. Bards were asked to sing and say the stories from The Sleeping Phoenix again and again.

'All of the people who knew our writer, asked-- and begged-- him to write another book. Because so many people kept asking him, our writer decided to write something else, that so many people would like. But even as he placed the tip of the quill on his parchment, he knew that something was wrong. He felt the familiar feeling of not being able to write, not able to think of anything suitable to write about. 'Let it be!' said the writer. He would try the next day; he didn't find any necessity to rush things.

'But he could not write the next day, or the day after. He decided that he needed a break from writing, and stopped for a few months. But his money slowly trickled to nothingness. He could hardly afford his rent or his food-- he was back where he started, at square one. Try as he might, he could not write at all. Words did not flow out as they had those two days when he'd used the potion, and he could not write anything.

'Actually, he could have written if he had really tried. But because he had been able to weave a story together so easily under the influence of the potion, he refused to-- or maybe he couldn't-- strain himself to write now.

'He started feeling desolate and stayed locked up in his room. He tried to write something every now and then, but it was even worse than before-- try as he might, he couldn't write any more, it didn't come out as well as when he had had the potion. It was a terrible feeling, after having written so joyously and easily.

'He hardly ate anything, he hardly moved. He sat in a corner, rocking himself slowly, muttering to himself. His stomach churned, his head ached, his entire body felt clammy. After an entire week of doing this, he could not bear it any more. He let out a bloodcurdling shriek, and ran out of the doors.

'People looked at him in distaste, wondering who the madman was. He was utterly unrecognizable, with his skin seemingly stretched tight and taut over his bones. He was paler than the moon, and he his hair and clothes were in absolute disarray.

'He ran on towards the hills, to find that accursed man who had given him the potion. He searched and searched, for days and nights without stopping, but he could never find the man. People,' added Thomas as an extra touch, 'say that he is still roaming the hills.' He regretted saying the last sentence as soon as it had escaped his lips-- scaring the poor girl was probably not a good idea at this time in the night.

He waited nervously for the verdict on his story. He felt rather proud of himself, and somewhat amazed. How had he come up with it?

'Daddy,' muttered Ellen sleepily, her eyes barely open. 'Did you make that story up?'

'Yes,' said Thomas, smiling.

'It was very nice! You write it and tell it to Lily and Edna and all my friends-- they... they'll like it too!' she said groggily.

Thomas sat at the edge of the bed, staring into space, his mind working furiously. 'I love you, darling,' he said, and kissed his daughter on his cheek, who was now fast asleep. He looked up to see Anne standing at the door, smiling.

'Coming to bed now?' she asked. Thomas' sleepiness was stripped away, replaced by a furious energy.

'Not now, darling, not now,' he said absently and rushed into his room. He hastily lit a candle, picked up a quill, and pulled out a bit of parchment. “The Sleeping Phoenix” he wrote on the top in large letters. Below, he wrote “Tales for children and adults.”, and “By Thomas Beedle.”

Scratching his chin with the quill, he scratched it out, and wrote something else instead. It now read “By Thomas Beedle Beedle the Bard.” Yes, that had a much more romantic touch, it added a certain flair. Beedle the Bard, he would be.