Preface
A glass ink bottle smashed against the wall and the ink cascaded from the star shaped splatter, a waterfall on the stone. Furious with himself and frustrated with the letter, Harry slumped into the lone, old wooden chair in the dimly lit bedroom. How could he feel this way? What an awful thing to wish for, Harry thought. Life postwar is was always better than life during war, surely. And it was in many ways, of course. But knowing this, why had he thought, however fleeting, that he wished to be still out in the world hunting Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione, making plans and facing danger?
Perhaps, Harry thought, it was because he had always been used to having structure and direction. He used to know that each year he would return to Hogwarts, problems would arise, he would solve them. Voldemort would make moves, he would attempt to thwart him. Adventure after adventure. But now it seemed that his life's purpose had solely been to defeat Voldemort. But that was over now. During the time that he had hunted for Horcruxes, he had not really had the capacity to think about what he would do with his life if he did somehow managed to actually defeat Lord Voldemort and make it to the other side of war. He really was at a loss for his options.
Harry sighed, and rubbed his red and stinging eyes, which had been made so by many consecutive sleepless nights. He stood up and retrieved his wand to clean up the ink and repair its shattered bottle.
He needed to pull himself together and figure out what to do with himself rather than just sitting around idle with nothing to do but wait for time to pass.
"Reparo," Harry muttered.