A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic, so I'd really like to hear
what you think. No flames please; if you don't like it, don't read it. The
rating is for later content. There WILL be H/D slash in later chapters.
Disclaimer: If the stuff you recognized were mine, would I be writing on fanfiction.net?
Harry sat in thought, his quill poised above the parchment, ready to write whatever he bid it to. But Harry found himself unable to remember the plot which had just filled his mind. He had seen it all just a moment before, only to be replaced by the mental block that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his mind.
This was what Harry really hated about himself. It was being stuck in this perpetual state of mind somewhere between depression and relief. No matter how hard he tried to find something, anything, to distract himself from the confinement in his room at #4 Privet drive, he could never bring himself to actually accomplish it. Just a moment ago, he had felt the urge to write and write and write, but now nothing would come of it.
It was the summer after Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It also happened to be just a few short months after the climax and decline of the war against Voldemort. Harry had fulfilled the prophecy made at his birth, defeating the dark lord and meeting the expectations of the entire wizarding world. But somehow, that wasn't a satisfying thought. Harry had always hoped that defeating Voldemort would be a load off his back, but instead, it made his life seem pointless. Dumbledore had decided that he should spend just one more summer with the Dursleys, so he'd had plenty of time to think it over.
Now that Harry had completed the one thing that he had supposed was the reason he was around, what was he going to do? What direction would his life take? What attitude should he have towards the aftermath of the war? Should he help to rebuild the ministry, or had he done enough?
At times like these, Harry really wished he could talk things over with Ron and Hermione, but the war had changed them forever. Harry had known what to expect, he'd experienced the utter destruction and death that Voldemort left behind him. His two best friends, however, had not. Despite what they had been told, nothing could have prepared them for the last battle, and the utter ruthlessness of the Dark Lord. The way he didn't care how many of his followers died. His own wounded were left to die, what use were they to him?
No, all of this was too much for Ron and Hermione to deal with. Their lives, their spirits, their worlds, had come tumbling down around them with the sudden realization that nearly everything that childhood thrives on is non-existent in this world.
Harry glanced over at the makeshift calendar above his bed. Ten more days till the start of term. And what would he do for those ten days? He hadn't the slightest clue. Harry decided that the opportune moment to sleep was now, and he trudged across the small room to his bed, leaving his parchment out and his ink bottle open. He dropped onto his unmade bed and did the one thing he felt he was best at; he slept.
Disclaimer: If the stuff you recognized were mine, would I be writing on fanfiction.net?
Harry sat in thought, his quill poised above the parchment, ready to write whatever he bid it to. But Harry found himself unable to remember the plot which had just filled his mind. He had seen it all just a moment before, only to be replaced by the mental block that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his mind.
This was what Harry really hated about himself. It was being stuck in this perpetual state of mind somewhere between depression and relief. No matter how hard he tried to find something, anything, to distract himself from the confinement in his room at #4 Privet drive, he could never bring himself to actually accomplish it. Just a moment ago, he had felt the urge to write and write and write, but now nothing would come of it.
It was the summer after Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It also happened to be just a few short months after the climax and decline of the war against Voldemort. Harry had fulfilled the prophecy made at his birth, defeating the dark lord and meeting the expectations of the entire wizarding world. But somehow, that wasn't a satisfying thought. Harry had always hoped that defeating Voldemort would be a load off his back, but instead, it made his life seem pointless. Dumbledore had decided that he should spend just one more summer with the Dursleys, so he'd had plenty of time to think it over.
Now that Harry had completed the one thing that he had supposed was the reason he was around, what was he going to do? What direction would his life take? What attitude should he have towards the aftermath of the war? Should he help to rebuild the ministry, or had he done enough?
At times like these, Harry really wished he could talk things over with Ron and Hermione, but the war had changed them forever. Harry had known what to expect, he'd experienced the utter destruction and death that Voldemort left behind him. His two best friends, however, had not. Despite what they had been told, nothing could have prepared them for the last battle, and the utter ruthlessness of the Dark Lord. The way he didn't care how many of his followers died. His own wounded were left to die, what use were they to him?
No, all of this was too much for Ron and Hermione to deal with. Their lives, their spirits, their worlds, had come tumbling down around them with the sudden realization that nearly everything that childhood thrives on is non-existent in this world.
Harry glanced over at the makeshift calendar above his bed. Ten more days till the start of term. And what would he do for those ten days? He hadn't the slightest clue. Harry decided that the opportune moment to sleep was now, and he trudged across the small room to his bed, leaving his parchment out and his ink bottle open. He dropped onto his unmade bed and did the one thing he felt he was best at; he slept.