Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related Harry Potter content which rightfully belongs to J.K. Rowling. And this story was inspired by the movie, The Dark Knight.

Author's Note: This was an idea that was floating around in my mind ever since I watched The Dark Knight last summer. I realize that certain aspects of the story are rather vague. They are purposefully left vague (only because I couldn't work in an explanation without side-tracking too far).

And, with that, I want to mention that this story has not undergone any edits outside of my own personal perusal. So any and all mistakes committed are solely my own.

Reviews and constructive criticisms are greatly appreciated.

(Posted: 05/06/2009)

The Nature of Truths

Screams filled the air as people scrambled towards the exits – frantically seizing every chance for safety offered. It was chaos, undiluted and pure. And as the battle continued – every minute made longer, every second exponentially expanded – the disorder became greater, growing into a crescendo of fear until people were firing off spells at random, not caring who or what they hit so long as – by the end of this madness – they survived. There was – after all – nothing more valuable than personal survival, no such thing as utilitarianism in the heat of war, the midst of death.

And it was this need to avoid an untimely demise that Pansy Parkinson found herself creeping towards a more secluded area of the castle, discreetly slipping away from the bloodshed and raging pandemonium. She had, originally, intended to leave through a more conventional means such as "vacationing" in the States or, like some, attempt to hide in the Room of Requirements. But the battle which had started, seemingly out of nowhere, rendered those options impossible. She could only hope that her parents had managed to leave – moved to the Continent as they've been saying for over a year now.

Avoiding a stray spell – which caused a nearby statue to explode – Pansy slipped into an unused classroom, its space still unaffected by the fighting that had, with frightening strength, marred everywhere else. Stopping to catch her breath, the brunette slid to the floor, hands trembling with a still unacknowledged fear as she worked, frantically, to conceive some plan or another. She really didn't want to die.

"Parkinson?"

Startled, Pansy instinctively reached for her wand, only to be stopped by the speaker whose grip – impossibly warm – around her wrist threatened to break the fragile joint.

"Just who do…Potter–?" She blinked, surprised by the hero's unexpected presence. "What are you doing here?!"

It wasn't until her eyes had adjusted to the lighting of his Lumos that she noticed his haggard appearances, the tears in his robes and the blood trailing down the side of his face (although they didn't look to be his). And, as he fumbled with something in his pocket, she couldn't help, but notice how his hands shook, how his face seemed to be contorted with pain and how pale he had become. It was as if a strong gust of wind would break him to pieces, send him over the last hurdle to death in a matchbox. "You don't–"

"Here," and, as if she hadn't spoken, he gave her a letter, its nondescript envelope slightly wrinkled at the corners. "Give this to Draco when you see him."

With her eyebrow raised, Pansy took the folded parchment from his shaking hands, examining the folded container with mild interest. Despite the war being waged just outside the door, she couldn't help, but feel a little curious. After all, what could Harry Potter – the Harry Potter – have written his arch-nemesis turned lover?

"And I'm supposed to give this to him when…?" She gestured vaguely with her free hand, indicating the phrase she had tactfully declined in giving voice to. It wasn't that the girl wanted to see Potter dead, quite the contrary, in fact. She wanted – like Draco and so many others wanted – for Harry to be victorious, to win and to, ultimately, free her – and her kind – from their social shackles. Nobody deserved to be chained to a madman's will.

But still she wasn't as hopeful or as blinded by this optimism to throw away her natural instincts in favor of fickle dreams and damning hope. Voldemort is – and probably always will be – considered as one of the most formidable wizards in all of history. And Harry – Golden Boy or not – was hardly what she had envisioned as the fairytale hero who rode through the thicket of war on a shinning white horse, Excalibur in hand and face set with grim determination. In fact, as of right now, he looked a little worse for wear – a little ragged and somewhat defeated.

"Give it to him when the time's right."

"And exactly when is the right time?"

Smiling – an enigmatic grin that had no right being on Potter's battle-weary face – at her and with uncharacteristic assurance, he answered, rather easily, "You'll know."

"Is it private?" She hedged another question, flipping the envelope over and noticing that the flap was only folded down. Maybe he didn't have time to seal it. She wouldn't be surprised, what with the battle happening on every inch of the school.

"It's not sealed," he answered, wincing as he adjusted his weight. Something was wrong. Something was not quite right about this whole thing…

"Potter, you—"

But as suddenly as he had arrived, he left, disappearing through the door to rejoin the battle he had taken a moment's pause from, most likely to do what he had been told he would do since he was born: kill Voldemort or die trying.

Streams of sunlight – pale and ethereal in coloration – filtered into the room, casting long, estranged shadows against the light blue walls, their oblong shapes reaching for something not quite real. And these shadows, unlike the ones formed from a flickering fire, did not dance but, rather, stood still and motionless, like painted images that stretched from the floor to the ceiling in eternal stillness.

In fact, everything inside this particular room seemed to be frozen, as if it was a moment captured in oils, a second masterfully depicted by artistic hands and not charmed into movement, much less life. And this vacuum of perfected silence, of surreal tranquility, would have remained undisturbed had the house elves, worried for their Master's health, not informed a semi-permanent guest of the estate that Master was "in the blue room…again."

So, through the finely crafted French doors – which had been specially made – a woman with flowing black hair and darker eyes came bearing a tray, the dishes carefully arranged. There was a plate of toasted, lightly buttered, a bowl of fruits, precisely sliced, and a cup of tea, kept warm by the fastidious charms cast over it. And while the food – with its enticing aroma – undoubtedly drew attention of every kind, it was a wrinkled looking envelope, sitting on the remote corner of the tray, propped up at an angle that caught the eyes, stealing away the spotlight.

And as she set down the tray, she stole a glance at her friend, at the man who had been sitting – unmoving like a statue – in the chair, face devoid of emotion and eyes staring into a distant horizon. It was as if he was lost to a dream, left to wander the surreal planes of what could never be.

"You know, all this darkness will only make you look pasty when summer rolls around!" She admonished, forcing a smile to her face as she moved through the room, pulling back the curtains and opening the windows. Her attitude – so bright and colorful – contrasted with the somberness of the room. It ripped through the air of solemnity with unusual cheer and happiness; it was like adding artificial sweetener to coffee. "You know, Blaise called for you the other day. He really wants to meet up again. It's been – nearly four months – since you've seen anyone—"

"We could have been together."

Startled by the sudden declaration, Pansy straightened a little, lips pursed and eyes quickly becoming shuttered and narrowed. This was not a conversation she wanted to have. This was not a conversation they should ever have and yet she's heard it more often than she would care to. "Maybe, but—"

"He said that if things had been different – if that was not in the way – we could have been together." He hadn't drawn his attention away from the scene outside the window, but the way his eyes started unseeingly into the distance suggested he wasn't watching the rising of the sun anymore than he was watching the morning dew on flowers.

After a moment's contemplation, he added, quietly, "He said that he loved me."

Biting her lip, Pansy reached for the folded letter, quickly slipping it back into her pocket. "What was that?" As if drawn by the flicker of worry – the flash of movement – Draco turned to face her, mercury eyes focused on her expression as if trying to discern some meaning from the event. He appeared, for the first time since the announcement of the Order's victory and, subsequently, Harry's death, genuinely interested, a shadow of his old self protruding through the hollow shell of despair and sorrow.

With well practiced mannerisms – something she had honed to perfection back at school – she gave a dismissive wave of her hand and a delicate shrug. "It's nothing – just something of mine I forgot to pick up earlier. But you know, Blaise is waiting for an answer about the meeting. What do you say to next Tuesday?"

His shoulders slumped forward as he fell back into his seat, having already drowned in his usual sea of apathy. She was almost tempted to give him the letter, to shove it in his face if she could only draw out the glimmer from before. It's been months – months! – since the savior had died and even now, when the world was slowly righting itself, Draco insisted on living in the past, fixated with the unchangeable. "Do whatever you want," he muttered, eyes already staring blankly into the distance.

Excusing herself, the brunette left the room. She really couldn't be there – not now, not when he needed her most and she had the one thing to destroy all of his hopes and dreams, to vanish away his last hold on life.

No, not now. But later – definitely later.

"I don't know what to do!"

Frustration had set in sometime between morning and now, leaving Pansy an irritable mess who, having finally been worn thin from worry, looked ready to cry, to break into another sobbing fit. Nobody had claimed the war was an easy thing, a light matter easily ignored. And nobody who had, experienced it firsthand, seen the horrific events could ever truly forget them. Not when you were on the frontline fighting for your very life. "I mean, this letter – I can't give this to him. Not now, not when he's so – so vulnerable."

She collapsed a little further into her seat, sinking into the cushioned warm as she downed another glass of brandy, hoping the alcohol would wash away the conflict as it was so prone to do with memories and common sensibilities. "This isn't how it was supposed to be. This isn't how they were supposed to be."

Her companion, who had been silent for much of her rant, merely nodded in agreement, pouring his friend another glass. He hadn't read the letter yet and, as far as he was concerned, he wouldn't be any time in the near or distant future. It wasn't that he didn't care because he did. He worried everyday about Draco's condition, even visited the young man several time since the end of the war, but… Well, there wasn't much to visit. The blonde – mentally, anyways – was barely even in the same room as him half the time.

Taking another delicate sip from his drink, the young man set aside his glass, drawing a deep breath as if trying to understand something more than what was being said.

It seemed that while the death of the Dark Lord warranted heavy celebration, partying till the early hours and embracing the simple wonders of life; the death of Harry James Potter asked for the exact opposite. The streets had been quiet and families stayed inside their homes, mourning for a child they had never met, but only heard of. Nobody was left unaffected by the boy's death and, loath as he was to admit, even he had felt the prickle of remorse in his heart. No one should have to surrender their life in such a fashion and no one, but a bloody Gryffindor would have done so without second-guessing themselves.

"I just don't know what to do!" She started up again, having drained her glass several minutes earlier. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her hair, which had been elegantly swept to side when she arrived, was now a frazzled mess, flyaway and in no condition to be greeting the public world. In fact, overall, she looked terrible. Her face was gaunt and the tell-tale signs of sleep-deprivation had settled in just below her eyes, highlighting exactly how distraught she was. "I mean what am I supposed to do? I can't just give this to him! It'd kill him…"

As he watched her, he could feel a certain wave of pity wash over him, an overwhelming sense of sadness drenching his person. She didn't deserve to be cooped up with their friend, with a person who couldn't even be bothered to come out of the past. And after a moment's silence, he reached for the folded piece of paper, feeling the rough quality against his fingers. "What are you doing?" She asked, sharply, not drunk enough to have let such a move go unnoticed.

"What you should've done from the very start."

And, like that, the paper found itself in the heart of the fireplace, the flames eating away the only proof of a different reality, of a different, but truer world. With a yelp, Pansy made a clumsy attempt to salvage what was left of the quickly browning parchment, but Blaise, who had known she would react in such a manner, stopped her, his grip far stronger than her own will to rebel. "Don't."

Slumping back into her seat, Pansy began to cry, tears finally having breached the wall of her exterior façade. "But…but Draco…He has to know, he deserved—"

"Draco doesn't need it," Blaise interrupted firmly, eyes still watching the envelope and letter curl into itself, its corners black and quickly vanishing into the heat of fire. "Sometimes the truth isn't enough. Sometimes people deserve better. "

And like that, the two watched as the flames ate away at the only evidence to ever suggest that Draco's reality was a fabricated desire, a desperate wish for something that simply never was.

And never will be.

End Note: I was contemplating writing a companion piece which would explain the letter, but I haven't had time to draft anything yet (I blame this all on school). So for now, this is a stand alone. Although it feels incredibly incomplete. (Laughs)