In Ink and Inheritance (Book 1)

Chapter 13 - Quill to Paper, Heart in Hand

Oliver Wood's POV

The questionnaire sat unopened on the table next to my bed, untouched since the owl dropped it off three days ago.

I'd looked at it.

I'd thought about it.

But I hadn't put quill to parchment.

It wasn't the questions that scared me - I'd faced Slytherin beaters with bats twice the size of my arm and walked into strategy meetings with McGonagall herself. No, it was what the questions meant.

Because they weren't asking about magical skill or bloodlines or even romantic intent.

They were asking about her.

Do you feel drawn to your intended in the presence of others?
Do you believe they trust you?
Have you witnessed signs of magical resonance (i.e., warmth, shared magic, or emotional clarity)?
Do you believe your bond will grow stronger with time?

Optional: In your own words, describe how your intended makes you feel.

That last one sat like a stone in my chest.

How did she make me feel?

Seen.

Challenged.

Calm.

Terrified.

Like I was already a little bit hers - and trying very hard not to be obvious about it.

I dropped the quill, leaned back in the chair, and ran a hand over my face.

I didn't know how to say that without sounding like a lovestruck idiot. Or worse - like someone taking advantage of a thirteen-year-old girl whose life had already been shaped by everyone but her.

"Stuck again, are we?"

I turned toward the voice.

Archibald Wood's portrait stared down from the far wall, perched above the fireplace. My gran had hung it years ago "for luck," though I wasn't sure what kind of luck came from a man who once tried to duel his own son over wedding colors.

"Just thinking," I muttered.

"That's your first mistake," he grunted. "You're overcomplicating it."

"It's a magical contract involving a minor and a war-scarred heir to a bloodline on the brink of extinction," I snapped. "How exactly do I not overthink that?"

"By remembering that the contract didn't pick at random," Archibald said, leaning forward in his frame. "That girl - Potter - she's more than just history. She's magic incarnate. Power restrained by heart. And you..."

He squinted. "Well, you're not as dim as you look."

"Thanks."

"Look, Oliver." His voice dropped, surprisingly serious. "This isn't about obeying. It's about earning. The contract only lasts if it's strengthened by something real."

I sat with that for a moment. "So what if I'm already starting to care for her - properly - and I don't know what to do with that?"

"Then you keep caring," he said simply. "And you give her space to grow into someone who chooses you back."

I didn't say anything for a long time.

Then I turned back to the form.

And I started writing.

*She makes me feel like the quiet parts of life matter again. Like this isn't just about duty or magic or names. It's about her smile when she forgets I'm watching. The way she listens when no one else does. The fire that's always there - even when she doesn't notice it herself.

I want to protect her. But more than that... I want to see who she becomes.

And I want to earn the right to be there when she does.*

I sealed the page.

Not with a spell. Not with wax.

Just with truth.

And for now, that was enough.