Disclaimer: Just a little something I put together. I only take credit for 17 sentences and the composition. I kind of imagined it as a written trailer (ala YouTube) for the fourth, fifth, and sixth books. Everything else in here belongs to the wonderful JKR, without whom I would probably have a life.
.x. One Simple Truth .x.
There are questions. Who has the answers?
.xx.
"I can't be involved with you anymore. We've got to stop seeing each other. We can't be together."
She said, with an oddly twisted smile, "It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?"
"It's been like…like something out of someone else's life, these last few weeks with you," said Harry. "But I can't…we can't…I've got to do things alone now."
She did not cry, she simply looked at him.
"Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He's already used you as bait once, and that was just because you're my best friend's sister. Think about how much danger you'll be in if we keep this up. He'll know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you."
"What if I don't care?" said Ginny fiercely.
.xx.
There are situations. Who knows the reasons?
.xx.
"So," said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt like a deep well of despair inside him, "so does that mean that…that one of us has got to kill the other one…in the end?"
"Yes," said Dumbledore.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
.xx.
There are problems. Who has the solutions?
.xx.
"Well, if you don't like it, you know what the solution is, don't you?" yelled Hermione; her hair was coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger.
"Oh yeah?" Ron yelled back. "What's that?"
"Next time there's a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!"
Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up to the girls' staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry.
"Well," he sputtered, looking thunderstruck, "well—that just proves—completely missed the point—"
.xx.
There are deep scars. Who can heal them?
.xx.
"Very nice, dear," said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville said quietly, "Thanks, Mum."
His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he'd ever found anything less funny in his life.
.xx.
There are choices. Who can make them?
.xx.
"There is little time, one way or the other. So let us discuss your options, Draco."
"My options!" said Malfoy loudly. "I'm standing here, with a wand—I'm about to kill you—"
"My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means."
"I haven't got any options!" said Malfoy, and he was suddenly as white as Dumbledore. "I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"
.xx.
Six teenagers, asked to do the impossible:
To kill or be killed.
To stay behind when all others set out.
To gamble away a friendship for the chance of getting something greater.
To live up to the parents he never knew.
To succeed at a task he is meant to fail.
In their tumultuous world of prophesies, beginnings, war, and death; there is but one simple truth—it's all too much to live up to.