A/N: My second fanfiction. Even worse than the last I'm afraid to say. I might upload an improved version at some point because I really don't like this one very much. Ah well, c'est la vie. Let me know what you think, especially constructive flamers!

Shattered Soul

Guilt. Fear. Incapability. The dreadful mantra drummed its way into Harry's tired skull. The end was near, and what if he wasn't up to it? He was the only one that could save them now. And that meant he had to die. The only way. He had known it ever since he had found out he was the chalice in which the last piece of Voldemort's shattered soul rested.

Neither can live while the other survives.

Consumed with emotion, Harry bent over, his forehead pressed to the only relief the frost-ridden ground could offer him. And there he stayed, a single tear running slowly down his frozen cheek and his hands gripping his knees.

And it was there he was to be found when a small cough shattered the otherwise perfect silence of the wintery grounds. He looked up. A statue was standing alone in the grounds, an open white shirt fluttering over its marble-sculpted muscles in the still night. It stood there watching, observing the pitiful sight before it with no noticeable change in expression. It was silent.

And then, lithe as a cat, it moved, the balls of its bare feet moving gently over the cold ground. It stopped mere inches from Harry and pulled him to his feet. Then, still lightly gripping Harry's forearms, its breath ghosting over his skin, it spoke.

"I've been watching you Potter," whispered Draco, "Let tomorrow wait. You still have tonight."

And pulling Harry's frozen, unresisting body to his own, he let his lips close on those beneath. Even he was surprised at the desperation of the response, clinging onto any comfort, and reprieve the Chosen One could find. And there was blind passion there too. Draco felt it as well. Perhaps it was this that drove him to it. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was seven years of hatred giving way to a new emotion. Pity. Or more. They say there is little difference between love and hatred. And that was the first night Draco could believe it.

But he didn't care why. All he cared about was the contrast between the sharp teeth biting his lower lip and the soft body moulding to his. And he did the only thing that made sense. Fumbling slightly, he raised his hands to the fastenings of Harry's cloak as Harry's own fingertips slipped inside his shirt, resting briefly to feel Draco's quickened pulse.

And that was where they both lost their virginity. On the ground, the night before the end; their hearts beating hard as one under the moonlit sky.

The lovemaking was soft and gentle, yet with a subtle desperation felt by both. This night was all they had. They did not speak. There was nothing to be said; and even if there had been, neither of them would have known how to say it.

After it was over they lay together, shivering but calm, the moonlight splashed across their naked bodies. It was then that Draco knew that Voldemort's wasn't the only piece of shattered soul that was to be lost in the sacrifice the next day.

Morning came quicker than either of them could have imagined. They rose, unspeaking, and dressed silently. Harry reached for his wand and, not once looking at Draco lest his resolve waver, walked into the morning light, the sun playing across his skin.

Hours later, although it felt minutes to Draco's shocked body, Harry fell. And Draco completed the sacrifice unknowingly, the green light shining brightly as it hit Harry's killer. And as he had known it would, Draco's heart was torn apart, his own soul shattered and pulled from his body in grief.

He did not resist as he was pulled roughly to his feet. Did not resist as the wand was raised to his heart. Did not resist as the pain seared the broken edges of his heart. Did not resist as his shattered soul was pulled into oblivion after Harry's. He had discovered life last night, and now there was nothing left to live for.