Hagrid had to keep reminding himself – Those who can't do teach, and those who can't teach become critics. It had become his mantra. He had repeated it to himself over and over, each day of the past week, as he sat down in front of his parchment and quill. Yet the parchment remained blank.
Ponderously, hesitantly, Hagrid reached for the quill and balanced it gently in his massive paw of a right hand.
It was a dark and stormy night, he wrote.
"No, that's a cliché," he said. Hagrid placed his quill back in the inkwell. Picking up his pink umbrella instead, he cast a spell to draw his ink back from the parchment.
Four score and seven years ago, he wrote.
"No, that's plagiarism," he said, and spelled his parchment plank again.
Life is a single dragon doing the locomotion, he wrote.
"No, no, that just doesn't make sense," he said, but this time, as he cast his spell onto the parchment, it burst into great green flames, which consumed most of the paper, and burned his quill to half its original length, as well.
"Oh well," Hagrid said in obvious relief. "I can always start tomorrow."
