Wellness

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29366145.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley,
Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood
Additional Tags: The Wilds, basically they’re stranded on a desert island, Obsessive
Behavior, Protective Tom Riddle, Stalking, very minor and treated as no
big deal but still, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Mental
Instability, I swear this is mostly cracky and fun, Minor Character Death,
Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle
Language: English
Collections: Top-tier Tomarry, Favorite Tomarry fics luvs
Stats: Published: 2021-02-12 Updated: 2021-04-01 Words: 26,034 Chapters:
5/9
 Wellness
by orphan_account

Summary

Harry doesn’t remember much about the crash.

*
After surviving a plane crash, Harry is stranded on a desert island with a group of other
teenagers. Despite the fear, panic and frantic need to stay alive, Harry somehow captures the
attention of Tom Riddle, which is another mess entirely.

But in amongst all of this, Harry can’t help feeling that there’s something not quite right
about this place they’ve ended up.

Notes

So!

I just watched The Wilds with bell and it was fantastic, great writing and brilliant actresses.
Definitely would recommend

A few major details have been changed. You don’t need to have watched the show for it to
make sense or anything

Anyway, hope you enjoy! <3

See the end of the work for more notes

 Day One

Harry doesn’t remember much about the crash. Not in those first few minutes straight
afterwards, because the world becomes a blur and suddenly it fades to black around him and
he’s transported to another place entirely, far away from here, a long time ago.

When he does wake up - coughing water out of his lungs, eyes burning with salt, floating
untethered on the open sea - he recalls the little things. The grinding of metal. Screaming. A
flash of blinding light before he closed his eyes. He remembers the way time seemed to stand
still, and he remembers the overwhelming, all encompassing fear and panic that clawed at his
throat. He remembers being afraid. But he can’t be sure if those feelings are from today, or
years ago.

He wakes up in the ocean. It’s still light out, and the sun beats down on his upturned face, so
he can’t have lost that much time. By some miracle, his glasses are still on his face, sliding
down his nose with every gentle wave he rides, and his head throbs when he lifts it up. He’s
splayed across some sort of debris. Maybe it’s the plane door. He can’t imagine how that
happened, but he’s alive and nothing seems to hurt terribly other than his head. It’s a familiar
pain - the type of pain that comes from staring at a screen for too long. He has a headache. He
just survived a plane crash and all he has to show for it is a fucking headache.

He always thought there would be a little more fanfare, in this sort of situation.

It hurts when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, but he does it anyway. Who knows how
long he’s been out here, or how far he’s floated? There’s no sign of a plane carcass. In fact, at
first only a few pieces of scrap metal bobbing about nearby show there even was a crash here.
Harry’s stomach shuts tight. He leans to the side just in time and vomits into the sea.

“Hello?” He calls out, but his voice is scratchy and raw. Maybe he did a lot of screaming as
the plane went down that he can’t remember. He tries again. “Hello? Hello? Can anybody
hear me?”

Harry has never been one to rationalise in times of crisis. He wishes he could be, but he’s just
not that type of person. When he gets scared, when terror grips his heart in a vice hold, he
shuts down. His mind goes blank. He screams until his voice gives out, and then he retches
again but there’s nothing left in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten before he left the house.

He regrets that now. He may have survived a plane crash, but he doubts starvation will be as
merciful.

Harry lifts his head again. His vision swims, like he has a particularly bad hangover. It’s an
effort, spinning in a slow circle; he has to use his hands like a paddle and he’s seconds away
from passing out. He’s never felt so tired in his fucking life. But the effort is worth it, because
suddenly he’s facing the opposite direction and something looms over him.

It’s an island, he realises belatedly. It’s a fucking island. He’s going to be okay.

Relief is a slap in the face. It shoots through his body like a zap of electricity, and he doesn’t
waste a second before he grabs his glasses in one hand, rolls off the plank and ducks headfirst
into the water. He’s not a great swimmer, but he kicks his legs and swings his arms wildly
and he’s going forwards instead of backwards, so his technique doesn’t really matter. Every
passing second, salvation gets closer and closer. Harry doesn’t even realise he’s crying until
his breath catches and he hiccups. Only then does he become aware of his shoulders shaking,
and the blurriness of his eyes.

Without his glasses it’s difficult to make much out, but when he gets closer he spots four of
five blurry figures on the shore. One of them is jumping up and down, waving their arms.
Another one is pacing the beach front. Most of them are sat, hugging their knees to their
chests. Harry slides his glasses back into place in time to see one of the figures - the pacing
one - catch sight of him and dive into the water straight away. His body is exhausted. He
wants so badly to relax all his muscles, even if that means sinking to the bottom of the
fucking sea. When a hand grabs his arm in a strong, firm grip, Harry shudders from the
contact.

“Are you okay?” The person is saying, speaking so close to his face that their warm breath
puffs over his ear. “Hey, look at me. Are you alright?”

Harry squints and wipes his glasses with his sleeve, even though all that does is smear water
everywhere.
“Fuck,” he gasps, still half out of it. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

The man pulls Harry onto land and as soon as he tries to stand up, his knees buckle. The man
catches him around the waist and eases him to the ground carefully, sitting down next to him.
He captures Harry’s face between his hands and stares at him so intently that Harry’s cheeks
burn.

“Look at me,” the man says. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Harry squints again. “Three,” he says. The man relaxes.

“Does anything hurt?”

“My head,” Harry tells him pitifully, rubbing at the back of his skull like he can make it
better that way. The man frowns and tilts Harry’s chin up, inspecting his the back of his head
first and then his face. He must be satisfied with whatever he finds there, because he pulls
away with a short nod.

“You look fine,” he says. “You might have a concussion, but there’s nothing we can do about
that. If you start to feel woozy, let me know.”

Harry blinks. There’s something vaguely familiar about the man in front of him. He has high
cheekbones and a sharp jaw. His wet hair is dark and clings to his forehead, but his eyes are
alert and piercing. Harry realises with a start that he saw this man only a few hours ago on the
plane. He can’t remember his name. He doesn’t think they even spoke.

It hits him again, that this is real, that it isn’t just a nightmare or an elaborate daydream that
Harry thought up. A flush creeps up his neck and his breath comes in quick and uneven.
“What the fuck is happening?” He whimpers, clinging to the man’s wrist to ground himself.

The man sighs. He’s awfully calm for somebody who just washed up on shore after a plane
crash that should have killed everybody on board, but his rationality makes everything easy
to deal with. If everybody is freaking out, it’s just an echo chamber of fear. If one person goes
ahead and takes the leadership role, it’s easier to pretend somebody at least knows what
they’re doing.

“Look at me,” the man says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder briefly. “What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Harry. Okay. I’m Tom.” He smiles, though it’s thin and doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a nice
effort. “Do you remember what happened?”

Harry shakes his head. He should remember. He’s not gushing blood from a head wound or
going blind at the edge of his vision. He should remember. But there’s a gap in his mind from
when the warnings first started going off to waking up adrift at sea, like somebody
highlighted that part of his memory and clicked delete.

“Okay,” Tom says soothingly. Harry hadn’t realised, but he’s crying again. “It’s alright. Don’t
worry. Nobody else can, either. The impact must have knocked us all out.”

Harry casts a curious glance the rest of their companions now that he’s able to see them
clearly. None of them are paying him any attention. They all seem too caught up in their own
person freak outs.

“Is this everyone?” Harry asks, looking to Tom like he has all the answers. It’s dangerous,
taking control. It gives people hope. “Is this everyone that was on the plane?”

Tom looks grimly at the rest of the survivors. “No,” he says softly, almost as though he’s
speaking to himself. “No, this isn’t everyone. There were eight people on the plane, not
including the pilot and co-pilot. There are only six of us here. Four people are still out there.”

Harry swallows hard. He tries desperately to keep the panic at bay. “Maybe they just haven’t
made it to shore yet?” He suggests. “Should we go looking for them?”

Tom turns to him sharply. His hand tightens around Harry’s wrist. Harry hadn’t realised they
were still touching. “No. No, it’s not worth putting more people in danger for an uncertainy.”

“But what if they’re hurt? What if they need help? We could–”

“No.” Tom’s raised voice has Harry falling silent. He feels bizarrely like he has just been
reprimanded by a teacher.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

There are four others dotted along the shore. Harry recognises some them very faintly from
the plane. There’s a tall man with a shock of red hair sitting with his toes curled into the wet
sand. Next to him is a shivering woman with the same wide eyes and ginger hair. They must
have come here together, but they aren’t speaking or hugging or crying in each others’ arms.
A little way down the beach is a slight figure, sillouetted against the sun. Harry can just make
out pale blonde hair and a bright pink sundress. And then, besides her, curled up into a tight,
protective ball–

“Draco?”

Harry lurches to his feet. Tom sits back, startled, as Harry takes his first few stumbling steps
on his own.

Draco looks up sharply at Harry’s shout. For a second, his features are wide open and
vulnerable, unbearably raw. His eyes brim with unshed tears and he pushes himself
unsteadily to his feet, swaying from side to side like the wind might knock him over. Then
he’s striding forward to meet Harry in the middle and, despite everything, it feels like the
most natural thing in the world to hug him close.

They have never been friends. Harry has never even liked Draco. He’s stuck up and snobby
and cruel, but Harry has known him since reception and seeing him here, scared and alone
but most importantly alive , he’s so relieved he could cry.

Draco pulls back first and he wipes his eyes angrily with his sleeve. “Potter,” he says, voice
wavering. “I didn’t see you on the plane.”

“Me neither,” Harry says. “It’s– I was– fuck. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Draco’s eyes soften for a second. Then he says, “Yeah. You too.”

“You two know each other?” Harry spins around at Tom’s voice, suddenly so close behind
him. He feels caught out, like he’s been spotted doing something he shouldn’t, which is
ridiculous.

“We went to school together,” he says lamely.

Tom’s eyebrows pull together. “In London?”

“Scotland,” Harry tells him. “It was a boarding school. It–”

“Does it fucking matter?” The woman from earlier stands up, eyes blazing, trembling from
head to toe. “Jesus. Does it fucking matter where they went to school? What the fuck? What
the fuck are we going to do?”

“Ginny–” Harry figures this must be her brother now, reaching out to her tentatively, but she
bats his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” she snaps, and he flinches back.

Tom holds his hands up in a weak attempt to calm everybody down. “Okay, can we all just
shut the fuck up for one second so I can think? The last thing we need is for people to start
panicking–”

“Oh, I’m sorry for panicking,” Ginny spits. “My bad. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to
fucking die or anything.”

“Ginny,” her brother tries again, louder this time. “You’ve got to relax.”

“I really need all of you to be quiet,” Tom cries.

Draco staggers backwards and sinks to the floor, curling himself up into a small, tight ball
again and rocking back and forward. He might be muttering things to himself, but Harry isn’t
close enough to tell and it’s too loud to hear. All he can do is stand back watch as the group
squabbles uselessly.

“Guys?”

Harry turns at the soft voice. The blonde woman is standing a few metres away, her dress-
skirt rippling in the wind, one arm outstretched to the sea. Harry’s gaze follows her finger.

“Guys?” She tries again, but they’re still arguing too loudly to pay her any attention.

There’s a dot in the ocean, something bobbing up and down with the waves. It’s moving, but
Harry can’t tell if it’s getting closer or further away. He also can’t tell if it’s moving itself, or
if the water is just carrying it around.
“Hello?” It’s useless. She’s too quiet.

Harry takes a few steps forward and blocks the sun with his hand. It’s getting closer, he can
see now, and it’s almost shaped like–

“Oh my god,” he whispers. It’s a person. A person, and not a body. If they were dead, they
would sink to the bottom. They’re still alive.

He doesn’t wait another second. The sea is surprisingly warm when he crashed into it, but the
force is so strong that it knocks his feet out from under him. He splashes around wildly, not
caring about the water that gets up his nose or the blood rushing in his ears. There’s a person
out there that he might still be able to save.

“Harry!” Someone yells behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. He ducks under the water to
ignore the indistinguishable shouting, and then something grabs his ankle and yanks him
backwards.

He comes back up, spluttering. Tom is behind him, trying to tug him back to shore. “What the
fuck?” Harry screams, trying to kick him off. “Get off me!”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” Tom yells back, but he’s already zeroed in on the person
in front of them and he releases Harry’s ankle. “Go back to shore. I’ve got this.”

Harry doesn’t bother replying. He’s not wasting energy having an argument with Tom. He
keeps kicking his feet, pushing himself forward, even though his body feels leaden. Tom
shoots him a dirty look, but he doesn’t complain any further.

Together, they swim further out to sea. The body, when they reach it, belongs to a woman
whose name Harry thinks is Hermione. He sat opposite her on the plane and listened to her
talk about uni applications for ten minutes straight. He’d been trying to avoid any and all
conversation, but she’d either missed that social cue or ignored it entirely.
“Grab her arm,” Tom tells him. “But don’t pull too hard. You could dislocate her shoulder.”

Harry loops her arm around his neck and watches as Tom does the same thing. She’s a
deadweight between them, but Tom must be stronger than he looks because it’s surprisingly
easy to swim to shore with her. The moment they reach land again, Ginny and her brother are
waiting to help them up. Harry’s legs crumple again, and Tom drops Hermione entirely in
order to catch Harry before he falls. The impact must startle her awake. She hits the sand and
groans.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tom hisses, lowly so that the others don’t hear. “I told you to stay
on the beach. I told you it wasn’t worth it. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

When Tom caught him, he wrapped one arm around Harry’s waist again and used the other to
cradle the back of his head. Their faces are so close together that Harry can count the freckles
on Tom’s nose. It’s such an intimate position that Harry is frozen for a fraction of a second.

“Hardly.” He blinks, not at all sure of what he’s saying. “I know how to swim. And she
needed help. What was I supposed to do, leave her there?”

The look on Tom’s face suggests that that is actually what he would do. He lays Harry down
carefully, and doesn’t say another word to him as he kneels down besides Hermione.

“Is she okay?”

“I think she’s waking up,” Ginny tells him, her voice thick with uncertainty. “But there’s– I
think there’s something wrong with her ankle.”

Tom’s jaw clenches and he shuffles further down the beach to get a better look. Her trousers
are already rolled up her leg, so he just tilts her foot from side to side to inspect the swelling.

“It doesn’t look broken,” he says eventually. “It’s probably just a sprain. But we’ll have to see
if she can walk on it when she wakes up.”
The seven of them sit in silence for a momen. Harry watches them watch each other. The sun
is still high in the sky and it doesn’t show signs of getting dark any time soon, but now
there’s a chilly breeze in the air that has Harry rubbing his arms. His clothes are still soaking
wet and heavy with absored water, which doesn’t help.

When Draco speaks, it shocks everybody back into reality. Harry wishes the silence could
have lasted just a little bit longer.

“What do we do now?”

Isn’t that the million dollar question?

It’s pretty telling, Harry thinks, that already everybody is looking at Tom for the answer. He’s
cemented himself as their leader just by taking charge in these first few instances. Harry
almost feels bad for him. He knows firsthand how much pressure premature responsibility is.
But Tom takes it all in his stride. He looks around at the group of them and narrows his eyes.

“Names,” he says. “Everybody tell me your names.”

Ginny speaks first. “I’m Ginny,” she says, and points at her brother. “This is Ron.”

“Draco.” Harry has never heard him sound so small.

Tom looks to the blonde woman with raised eyebrows, and she meets his gaze steadily. “I’m
Luna,” she says. “And you’re Tom. We spoke on the plane.”

Tom hesitates. It’s only for a moment, and only visible because Harry is looking so closely,
but he sees it. “Yes,” Tom agrees. “We did.”
Harry steps forward and gives an awkward little wave. “I’m Harry,” he says. “And I’m pretty
sure her name is Hermione. But– I don’t know. I might be wrong.”

“God forbid,” Draco mutters, and it’s kind of nice to see he’s back to his usual, snarky self,
albeit a little toned down. Or a lot toned down.

A laugh bubbles up in Harry’s chest and he has to slap a hand over his mouth to stop it
escaping. It’s all so fucked up. This whole situation is so fucked up, and now they’re standing
around in a circle introducing themselves, exactly like they would be if they’d ever made it to
this stupid fucking healing camp. Maybe they should all join hands and sing ‘Cumbaya’
together.

Tom frowns at him, but moves on quickly. “There should be somebody else,” he says. “There
was one other passenger, and the two pilots. Did any of you see anybody else in the water?”

He looks around expectantly, but everybody shakes their head. Harry curls his hands into
fists. It makes him want to throw up again, thinking that any day, a body or three could wash
up on shore. Somebody that they didn’t save, or that they didn’t even look for.

“Okay.” Tom’s voice is a beacon at this point. He’s pretty much speaking to himself, but it’s
comforting that someone is speaking at all. “Okay, that’s fine. We can deal with that later.
First, phones. Does anybody have a phone on them? Check all your pockets, even if you
don’t think so. You don’t know what you might have missed.”

Harry’s pretty sure that even if his phone was in his pocket, it would be totally useless by
now. The water would have killed it if the crash didn’t first. He checks all his pockets
anyway, but comes up blank. Around him, it appears that everybody it having the same
problem. Tom’s jaw gets tighter with every shrug and shaking head.

“Fuck,” he spits. “Alright. Well. I guess the next step is to look for things.”

“Things?” Ginny raises an eyebrow.

“Bags, clothes, food. Anything that might have washed up on shore. Check the shallows as
well. It might be stuck in the sand.”

“Oh, so we’re allowed in the water now then?” Harry doesn’t know what compels him to say
it. Maybe it was the way Tom’s hand had curled around his ankle earlier. Maybe it’s how
livid he had looked as he held Harry close and told him off. Maybe it’s just some stupid need
for comfort. But it makes Tom snort with laughter, and some tight knot of tension in Harry’s
chest loosens.

“Only the shallow end,” he says. “You can manage that, right?”

They split up. Tom and Luna go the furthest, heading away from each other to check the far
sides of the beach. Harry trails after Tom, feeling vaguely pathetic, like a puppy with
attachment issues. He wades into the sea again, wincing at the shells and pebbles underfoot.

“So,” he begins, clearing his throat. “You know a lot about this, huh?”

Tom looks round sharply. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugs. “Just– survival and stuff. Like, what to do next. You haven’t been in a plane
crash before, have you? Because if you have, your luck sucks.”

Tom’s lips curl upwards, and Harry counts it as a victory. “No other plane crashes,” he says,
matter-of-factly. “I just know a lot about survival.”

“You watch a lot of out-in-the-wild shows?” Harry asks. “Bear Grylls, that sort of thing? You
don’t look the type.”

Tom captures his gaze and raises one elegant eyebrow. Harry notices for the first time how
stupidly attractive he is, and it makes his face flush with warmth. He looks away quickly.
“What do I look like, then?” He asks.

Harry wishes he’d never said anything. “I don’t know. Bookish, I guess. Studious. You look
like you should be in a library.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Bookish is a compliment.”

Tom shrugs. “It is if you like books.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s backed himself into a corner and now, however
he relies, it’s going to sound like he means more than he’s actually saying. Or maybe Harry is
just overthinking this like usual and Tom couldn’t care less about Harry’s reading habits.
That’s equally possible.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to answer. Unluckily, it’s because he rams his toe into
something big and solid.

“Ow, fuck,” he spits, standing on one leg to check he isn’t bleeding. “That fucking hurt.”

He didn’t even notice Tom moving, but all of a sudden he’s at Harry’s side, his fingers like a
vice around Harry’s upper arm. “What happened?” He asks, voice steely.

“I just stubbed my toe.”

He frowns and leans into the water, hand waving under the surface for a moment before he
must find what he’s looking for. A satisfied smile spreads across his face and he hauls a
heavy suitcase out of the water. Harry helps him tug it to shore.
“Is it yours?” Tom asks, running his fingers over the glossy lid. Harry shakes his head.
There’s only one person who would be obnoxious enough to bring a suitcase worth a few
hundred on a weekend trip abroad.

“It’s Draco’s,” he says. “It must be. This is watertight.”

“That’s good news,” Tom says, not sounding particularly happy about it. “Think he’ll have
anything useful in here?”

“Oh, sure. If you think cashmere sweaters and dressing gowns are useful.”

Tom heaves a sigh. “Christ. I suppose we’re not in a position to turn anything away. Besides,
you look like you could use a dressing gown right about now. You’re shivering.”

Harry stubbornly clenches his jaw so his teeth can’t chatter. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Right.” Tom moves to unzip the suitcase, and guilt stirs in Harry’s stomach, hot and heavy.
He grazes Tom’s hand lightly with his fingertips.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Draco?” He asks hesitantly. “I mean, it is his suitcase, technically.”

“If he has a problem with it, he can take it up with me.”

And that’s that.

In his defence, Tom doesn’t turn it inside out like Harry was expecting. He takes out the first
coat he sees, shoves it in Harry’s direction and then zips the bag up again. Harry watches,
stomach turning somersaults.
“Thanks,” he says. It’s a nice coat. It’s Draco’s, so of course it is, and whilst it feels weird to
be wearing Malfoy’s clothes, it feels even nicer not to be freezing cold anymore. He slips his
arms through it and holds it closed at the collar.

“We should go back,” Tom tells him. “See what the others have found. It’ll be dark soon, and
we need to get some sort of fire going.”

Harry has to take quick, shuffling steps to keep up with Tom’s longer strides. “Do you know
how to start a fire?” He asks. “I mean, that must be the first thing you learn in, like, survival
camp or whatever.”

Tom tilts his head. Amusement plays at his lips but he keeps his face carefully blank when he
says, “I can already tell you’re going to be so helpful.”

That shuts Harry up.

The others have already reconvened on the beach by the time Harry and Tom reach them.
Ginny is holding a few cans of coke and Ron has wrapped a frayed length of rope around his
hands, holding it like a trophy.

Tom sighs. “Great haul.”

Draco stands up. “Is that my coat?” He asks. His gaze drifts to the suitcase Tom is carrying,
and it’s the first time Harry has seen him smile genuinely in years. “Fuck. Where’d you find
it?”

“Harry found it,” Tom says. “It was almost washed up. Think you’ve got anything good in
here?”

Draco moulds his features into something a little more casual and controlled. “It seems like
you’ve already had a look, haven’t you?” But then his eyes soften, and he says, “Thank you,”
so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear it.
It’s almost too good to be true when they find the food in Draco’s suitcase. He says he
doesn’t remember packing it, that his father’s assistant must have snuck it in there when no
one was looking, but nobody seems inclined to complain. Tom hands out the drinks and then
looks around at the lot of them, a frown pulling his mouth down at the corners.

“We’re going to need to ration these,” he says. “At least until we know what we’re dealing
with here.”

“What do you mean?” Harry is sitting so close to Tom that he’s almost tucked into his side.
He’d feel a little ridiculous, if everybody else weren’t doing the same thing. Ginny and Ron
are huddled together for warmth. Luna has one arm wrapped around Hermione and the other
looped casually over Draco’s neck, even though he doesn’t look happy at the arrangement.
Harry wonders if they all know each other. He wonders if he and Tom are the only ones that
came alone.

“Well.” Tom clears his throat. “There might be food here somewhere. Animals, or plants. But
there might not be. Until we find out, we have to be careful about how much we eat and how
much we save. We–”

He stops himself just in time with a quick glance Ginny’s way, but it’s obvious what he was
about to say. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here. We don’t know how long we can
survive.

“We’re going to die here.”

It’s so quiet, it almost goes unnoticed. The others don’t seem to register it. Draco has his face
pressed against his knees when he says it so the words come out muffled. But Tom’s head
jerks up like he’s been tased.

“We’re not going to die here,” he says sharply. “Someone will come for us.”
“Yeah,” Ron echoes, sounding less convinced. He wraps an arm around Ginny, and she leans
her head on his shoulder. Her face is stained with tear tracks. She must have left to cry alone,
because Harry never once saw it. “I bet they’re already looking for us. Right, Tom?”

Tom nods, mouth set in a grim straight line, eyes hard. “Right,” he says.

Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep at all that night, but he must drift off at some point.
It’s a restless night. They’re all packed so close together, because the day may have been
humid and bright but the night is dark and cold, and they want to conserve heat. His tossing
and turning must disturb everybody at some point, because Tom groans frustratedly and pulls
on Harry’s shoulder to roll him over.

“Lie still,” he grumbles, throwing an arm over Harry’s waist. “Or I’m going to have to knock
you out.”

Harry’s eyes widen, unseen in the dark, but Tom must hear the hitch in his breathing, must
feel it. Out of all the strange, unbelievable things to happen to Harry today, this has to be high
on the list.

He forces himself to relax. It’s cold, and Harry is restless, and Tom probably just wants to get
a better night’s sleep. He needs to calm down and stop thinking that every little thing that
happens is a threat, or suspicious.

He doesn’t reply. Tom’s chest is warm against his back and his arm is heavy where draped
across Harry’s body. After a while, Tom’s breath evens out and his breath tickles Harry’s
neck. He must fall asleep.

Harry thinks about Sirius. He thinks about how awful he must feel right now, how guilty, how
scared. His heart aches with how badly he wants to reach out and pull Sirius into a hug, wants
to have those arms around him, wants the comfort of unconditional love and support. Maybe
Tom has the right idea. Who knows how long they can survive here without the people they
love?
He doesn’t know how much time passes. The sun, when it rises, casts a red glow on the
insides of Harry’s eyelids and all of a sudden the air isn’t so cold anymore.

And then a phone rings.

Harry freezes. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it. Maybe this is a stress induced
hallucination. Maybe he’s actually asleep, and this is all a dream. If a helicopter suddenly
lands on the beach to take them home, Harry will know he’s losing his grip on reality.

But it just keeps ringing. Sand is gritty under Harry’s cheek. The warmth of the sun kisses his
skin. He’s awake. This is real.

He jerks up and grips Tom’s shoulder tight enough to leave bruises. “Tom,” he says, heart
thumping wildly in his chest. “Tom. Wake up, holy shit.”

He follows the noise through the huddle of bodies nearby, all the way over to Draco’s
suitcase. There’s a heavy, tight feeling in Harry’s stomach that he can’t quite shake. Behind
him, Tom begins to stir.

“What?” He asks, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Harry? What’s going on?”

“There’s a phone,” Harry gasps. “Fuck. A phone is ringing.”

He throws the lid open and rips through the clothes inside. He tosses them out and leaves
them abandoned in the sand until he sees it: there, at the very bottom, tucked away inside a
lone sock. It’s a brand new fucking iPhone. Not the sort of thing you forget about.

And it’s still ringing.

“Holy shit,” Tom says. “Give it to me.”

Harry doesn’t think twice. They don’t have time to argue, not when the battery is running so
low and this might be their one shot at survival. He shoves the phone into Tom’s hands.

Ginny shuffles at all the noise, and when she pokes her head up and squints at them, her
mouth drops open.

“Is that–”

“Hello?” Tom snaps. The others begin to wake up.

“Tom?” Harry’s pulse races. He bites his cheek so hard that he tastes blood at the back of his
throat.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Tom, what are they saying? Who is it?”

“If you can hear me, we’re–”

Tom stops mid sentence. His face goes very pale, his features slack. Harry’s heart sinks. He
already knows what Tom will say next, but it still feels like a punch to the gut when Tom
turns to him and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It died,” he says, quiet and deadly. “It fucking died.”

Harry sits back on his heels. Helplessness crashes over him again, even stronger now than
when he first woke up, stranded and alone. To have that sliver of hope, to have this one
chance, and then for it to be yanked away so brutally– it’s devastating.

“What is that? What’s going on?”

Tom looks up sharply at the new voice. Draco stands about a foot away, eyes darting between
the suitcase, the phone in Tom’s hand and Tom’s stony face. He shuffles from foot to foot.

“Everybody get up,” Tom says, hands curling into fists. “We need to talk.”
 Day Two

“It’s not mine,” is the first thing Draco says. “I don’t know where that came from but I swear,
it’s not mine.”

Ginny scoffs. “Oh, so it just randomly ended up in your suitcase then? Kind of funny, don’t
you think?”

“I didn’t say that! Jesus, my dad’s assistant probably put it in there along with the food. Why
are you acting like I did this on purpose?”

“Because you had a phone this whole time and you forgot about it! If we’d found that earlier,
we could have called for help. We could’ve been found by now!”

“I didn’t forget,” Draco seethes. “I didn’t know. It’s not mine, alright?”

Harry watches all of this unfold with apathy. He wants to curl up into a ball and go to sleep,
and wake up in his own bed, away from all of this. What does it matter if Draco is telling the
truth or not? They had a phone, and now they don’t. They had a chance, and now it’s gone.

Apparently Tom doesn’t feel the same. He clears his throat, and the others fall silent. Harry
wonders what it’s like, having that power for no real reason. He must be freaking out on the
inside, right? There’s no way he’s really this calm.

“Yelling about it won’t change anything,” Tom says, and Harry is relieved to find Tom agrees
with him. “What we need to do is make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”

“What, you think I’m hiding a fucking laptop in there as well?” Draco snaps, jerking his arm
out. “Go ahead. Turn it inside out. If there’s anything else in there that we can use, I don’t
know about it.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t pack your own suitcase,” Harry snorts. He means it as a
joke, mostly, but Draco’s eyes blaze and Harry can practically see the steam pouring from his
ears. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Jeez, sorry.”

Tom looks between them with narrowed eyes. He might be imagining it, but Tom seems to
inch closer to him. “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he tells Draco, and then addresses all
of them. “We need to keep an inventory. Everything we’ve got, everything we find, we need
to record it. That way, we can figure out how long we can last with what we’ve got.”

“Cheery,” Ron mutters. Ginny elbows him.

“It’s a good idea,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

But Tom is already shaking his head. “No. We need to check out the island. All of it. You
should come with me.”

Ginny blinks. For a moment Harry thinks she might try and argue with him - and he’s kind of
curious, actually, to see what Tom would look like angry, to see if he can get even more
intense than usual - but she just shrugs and nods.

“Good idea,” she says.

“I’ll come too,” Harry blurts out. He does want to see the island, even if he knows nothing
about survival and probably won’t be any help anyway, but mostly he doesn’t want to be left
on his own.

And that’s worrying, isn’t it? He’d be here with the others. He wouldn’t be alone. Hermione
definitely can’t walk anywhere, and he doesn’t think Draco will volunteer himself any time
soon, but already Harry feels safer with Tom around. It’s normal, he tells himself. Everyone
else here already picked their groups. It’s okay for Harry to want to stay with Tom.
But Tom says, “No. You stay here,” with so much finality that you’d think they had a whole
conversation about it beforehand.

Harry’s lips part in a silent protest. He looks around at the others like they might be in on the
joke, but nobody laughs.

“What?”

Tom levels him with a steady gaze. “You’re staying here,” he says. “You and Hermione can
do the inventory.”

“I want to come with you,” Harry says, and then winces at how needy and pathetic that
sounds. “I mean, I want to explore the island. I want to see what we’re working with here, for
fuck’s sake.”

But nothing seems to sway Tom. He’s resolute in his ridiculous decision.

“It’s like I said yesterday,” he says. “There’s no point all of us going and all of us getting
hurt. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Until we do, you should stay on the beach.”
Then he seems to remember that he isn’t just addressing Harry, and he turns to the rest of
them. “You should all stay on the beach. There's safety in numbers.”

“You– you don’t get to decide what I do,” Harry splutters. “I don’t have to do what you
fucking tell me.”

Tom frowns, puzzled, like he genuinely can’t see what the issue is here. “I’m just trying to
keep you safe.”

Ginny says, “Should I be offended?”

Tom’s jaw tics. He looks seconds away from dropping his head into his hands or running in
the opposite direction. “Ginny, Ron and I will look around the island. Harry, Hermione and
Draco, you do the inventory. Be thorough.”

“And Luna,” Hermione says.

“What?”

“You forgot Luna.”

It’s kind of easy to do, even though Harry feels guilty for thinking it. She’s hardly said a word
since they got here. Maybe she’s in shock.

“Okay, and Luna,” Tom says.

Silence stretches on for a beat too long, and after a moment’s discomfort, Ron starts up a
stream of mindless chatter. With the distraction, Tom turns to Harry and whispers low into his
ear.

“I mean it, okay? Stay on the beach. Don’t go running off into the sea again, trying to be a
hero.”

“So you’d rather I let someone else drown?” Harry snaps. He feels brittle and quick to anger,
but that hasn’t been a rare thing these past few years.

Then, without warning, Tom’s large hand cups the nape of Harry’s neck, fingers splayed out,
skin warm and calloused against Harry’s. “I’d much rather you stay safe, actually,” he says,
and Harry suppresses a shiver.

He shouldn't just agree to this. He should fight back, argue some more, show Tom that he
does, in fact, have a backbone. He may not want to be the leader, but that doesn’t mean that
Harry is okay with getting pushed around.

But he looks at Tom’s face, so close, and at the sincerity in his eyes, and all his resolve slips
away like sand through his fingers. He leans back into Tom’s touch and nods.

“Alright.”

“Thank you,” Tom murmurs. His gaze darts between Harry’s eyes and his lips and– Harry
can’t be imagining it, the tension between them. He almost thinks Tom is going to lean in and
kiss him, even if it’s only on the cheek, but he moves away and Harry mourns the pressure
against the back of his neck.

“We should leave soon. We want to make the most of the daylight.” Tom stands up and
brushes down his clothes, as though he can wipe away the sand and dirt. Harry is swarmed
with images, unbidden and shocking: Tom bathing in the sea, shirt off, dripping wet…

Fuck. The last thing he needs, on top of everything else, is a stupid crush.

They eat, and then they leave. Ron has the decency to smile apologetically before he
disappears after the others. Harry is left behind with his school nemesis and two total
strangers. Already, anxiety makes a nest in his stomach.

Hermione doesn’t appear to have the same problem. “I’ll make the list,” she says briskly.
“There was a notebook in your suitcase, right Draco?”

Draco shrugs, silent and moody. Hermione doesn’t let this stop her.

“If not I can just write it in the sand,” she chirps, shuffling towards the bag. Harry nudges it
closer to her with his foot and she smiles at him gratefully.
She finds a notebook and a pen that still works, which seems awfully lucky all things
considered. As she makes a list, she keeps one eye trained on all of them as though tracking
suspicious movements. She’s probably writing their names down too.

“We should get to know each other,” she says eventually. “We should do, like, an ice breaker
thing. This is way too awkward for me and we haven’t even made it a full day yet.”

Draco turns his face away pointedly, and Luna is in her own world, collecting shells and
burying them in the sand. Harry sighs, knowing that he’ll have to take one for the team and
be sociable.

“What did you have in mind?”

Hermione’s whole face lights up with her smile. She clearly hadn’t expected anyone to take
her up on the suggestion. “I don’t know, really,” she says. “Just tell me a bit about yourself.”

“I’m a really boring person.”

Hermione’s mouth pulls down at the corners. Harry can’t tell whether that frown is
disapproval or disappointment. “None of us are boring anymore,” she says.

Harry will concede to that.

“Okay.” He shrugs. “But there really isn’t much to tell. I’m eighteen. I’m graduating school
this year. I live in London with my godfather. That’s about it.”

Hermione tilts her head. “I’m eighteen, too. I’m supposed to be going to Oxford in
September. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to defer my place.”

That makes Harry bark with laughter, but he tries to recompose himself when he realises that
she isn’t joking. It’s a crazy thing to worry about, all things considered, but he kind of gets
where she’s coming from. It’s easier to worry about what life will be like when they get home
than to worry about whether they’ll get home at all.

Hermione says, “If your life is so boring, why were you here in the first place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re supposed to be at a wellness retreat right now, right? For people who want to
reconnect with their lives and find joy in the day-to-day.”

“Are you quoting the brochure?” Harry asks. Hermione flushes.

“I’m just saying, why would your parents send you to a place like that if your life is
completely normal and boring.”

Harry shifts on the spot. “My godfather,” he reminds her, uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to
talk about this with a stranger, but he especially doesn’t want to talk about it with Draco
sitting right there.

Just like that, anger bubbles up in his stomach again. He’s done a good job so far of keeping
it pushed down, but now it rears up and he digs his nails into his palm to calm down. This
stupid, pointless camp is the reason he’s in this mess in the first place. He told Sirius he
didn’t want to go. He said it would be a waste of time. He said it wouldn’t make anything
better.

But Sirius insisted. And look where that got them.

It’s not fair of him to blame Sirius and he knows it. When he gets out of here, he will never,
ever make Sirius feel guilty for what happened. But now, stranded and alone, in the privacy
of his own head, he can think these things. It doesn’t matter anyway.
“Fine.” Hermione shrugs when it becomes obvious he isn’t going to answer her question. “Be
mysterious, if you must. Personally, I don’t think it’s a big deal. Like, this is hardly real life,
you know? If we can’t be totally free and honest here, where can we?”

Harry leans back and watches her scribble into the notebook with heavy lidded eyes. He
didn’t get much rest last night, and the sun is making him sleepy. He wishes Tom were here
to press back against.

“Go on, then. Why are you here, if it’s no big deal?”

Hermione eyes him thoughtfully before she smiles. “I had a minor mental breakdown,” she
says.

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A minor mental breakdown.”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t know mental breakdowns could be minor.”

“Oh, they can be. This one was very minor. My parents thought I was studying too hard, and
I ended up taking some of my friend’s adderall. It was literally one time only, but when they
found out about it, that was the last straw. They found this retreat online and decided I was
going.”

“You didn’t say no?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you?”

“Fair enough. If it makes you feel any better, I think Oxford kind of have to take you now.
Like, even if you don’t get the grades. It would be a really bad look for them if they rejected
the traumatised plane crash survivor.”
“I know,” Hermione sighs. “But I was really looking forward to my A Levels.”

Harry decides he’s done with that particular conversation. He tips his head back against the
sun and his eyes slip closed. He could go back to sleep, but then he’d be up all night. Besides,
he’s not sure how comfortable he feels sleeping in front of these people. It’s one thing if
they’re all doing it, but if it’s just him then he’s too self conscious.

He’s bored. That’s the problem. He’s really fucking bored. Hermione has taken charge of the
inventory, Tom left to go scope out the island without him and made Harry swear to stay on
the beach. There’s probably an implication there to not do anything stupid or reckless either.
He’s just so bored, sitting there, waiting and waiting. That’s all they’re going to be doing
while they’re here. Waiting and surviving.

Across from him, Draco stretches out his legs and yawns. The opportunity for entertainment
smacks Harry in the forehead.

“I’m surprised you’re here, Malfoy,” he says, mildly curious. “Did you want to come? Or did
your parents make you too?”

Draco must think he’s being made fun of, because he scowls and crosses his arms tightly over
his chest. “None of your fucking business, Potter.”

“Jesus, calm down. I was just asking. I just wouldn’t have thought your family would buy
into this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Wellness retreats. Therapy. That sort of thing.”

Draco clenches his jaw. “Fuck off,” he says. “I’m sorry we can’t all be like your hippie
godfather.”

Irritation prickles Harry’s skin. It’s familiar, almost fun, having an outlet for all his pent up
fear and frustration. The fact that once again that outlet is Draco is a total coincidence.

“It must have been a punishment, then,” Harry pushes, well aware that he’s playing with fire.
“Your dad would have flown you on a private plane otherwise. You must have really pissed
him off this time, huh?”

“And I’m sure this is a holiday for you,” Draco snaps.

“Maybe not, but at least they were trying to help when they sent me away.”

“If I had to live with a murderer, I’d want to be sent away.”

Harry jerks back as though he’s been slapped. Surprise flashes across Draco’s face, like
maybe he didn’t even mean to say that, but the damage has already been done. Harry jumps
to his feet and shoves Draco’s chest when he stands too.

“Take that back,” he says, eyes blazing.

“Why?” Draco tilts his chin up. “It’s the truth.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Humiliatingly, tears well in Harry’s
eyes and he blinks them back furiously. It’s almost a relief when Hermione gets involved.

“You two,” she says, voice wavering with uncertainty. “Don’t start a fight. I won’t be able to
separate you with my ankle like this.”
Harry turns on his heel and stalks away down the beach. He doesn’t want anybody to see him
cry and, as angry as he is, he doesn’t want to hurt Draco. At least, he knows that he’d regret it
once he calmed down. Nobody follows him.

There’s a driftwood log pushed against the grassy hill behind them, near where he and Tom
found the suitcase yesterday, so he takes a seat on that and looks out to sea. He’s tense all
over: muscles tight and ready to spring into action, chest clenching. His eyes are tired as well.
There’s a dull throb building at his temples.

He shouldn't have said that to Draco. He shouldn't have pushed him so much, and definitely
not about his father. Everybody knows it’s a sore spot for him. But it had felt so good, in the
moment, to go back to normal. To release some of his pent up anger. He’s all screwed up
inside, and sometimes he thinks the only way to feel better again is to fight. Maybe there is
some darkness inside him, some cruelty that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

But Draco was wrong. What he said about Sirius– he couldn’t have been further from the
truth.

Harry is exhausted. He shuffles around a little so that he’s flat on his back, arms tucked under
his head. The sky is so blue above him, and completely cloudless. It would be beautiful if it
weren’t the very last thing he wants to see right now. He longs for the boring, chipped paint
of his bedroom ceiling.

He’s not sure how long it takes him to lose consciousness, but it happens at some point. In his
mind, he hears the grinding metal, the blare of a horn, a high pitched screaming. He wakes up
with his heart pounding, drenched head to toe in a cold sweat that he had though, in his
dream, to be water.

“Easy,” Tom says, stroking Harry’s shoulders slightly. His back is resting on the log next to
Harry’s head. One leg is bent at the knee and drawn up to his chest. The other stretches out,
sinfully long. Harry notices idly that his socks don’t have any holes in them.

“Uh,” Harry groans, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Oh, let me just check my phone.” Tom smirks at Harry’s unimpressed expression. “Sorry.
Too soon?”

“When did you get back?”

“Not long ago. What are you doing all the way out here? Hermione says you and Draco had a
fight.”

“Tattletale,” Harry mutters. “I didn’t leave the beach, if that’s what you’re worried about. I
just wanted to be alone for a bit. And it wasn’t a fight. It was a… disagreement.”

“What about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Harry isn’t about to bring up their whole complicated history, let
alone their home troubles. It would feel like a betrayal of whatever familiarity binds them
together, to tell Draco’s story without his permission. And he doesn’t want to explain Sirius if
he doesn’t have to. “How did the expedition go? Did you find anything?”

Tom winces. “Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?” Harry shakes himself awake enough to sit upright. This doesn’t feel
like a conversation to have horizontally.

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“Is the good news more good than the bad news is bad?”

Tom wrinkles his nose up. It’s ridiculously cute. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “And I really
can’t be bothered to figure it out. Good news or bad news?”
“I guess the good news, then.”

Tom grins - and Harry loves that, that grin, the warmth that spreads from his chest to the tips
of his fingers in his wake. It feels like he’s made the right decision, and that smile is his
reward. Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of berries. A few of them are
squashed and the juice dribbles, obscenely red, down Tom’s fingers.

“We found food,” he says.

“ Fuck yes.” Harry straightens up. Without thinking, his arm shoots out and he grabs hold of
Tom’s wrist, like he thought Tom might try to snatch the food away again. His cheeks colour.
“Sorry, sorry. That’s just– that’s great.”

Tom gives him a funny look. He captures Harry’s wrist before he can withdraw his arm
completely, and with gentle fingers, turns Harry’s cupped palm upwards. He tips the berries
into his waiting hand.

“I checked first,” he tells Harry. “They’re not poisonous, so don’t worry.”

“What if they had been?”

Tom shrugs. “It would have been a bad day for me.”

Harry shoves him. “That’s not funny. We’d be fucked without you.”

“Is this your way of saying you’d miss me?”

Harry swallows hard and pops a berry into his mouth. Sweetness bursts on his tongue and it’s
such a relief, not to have to worry about starving to death at least for the next few days, that
for the most part he can ignore his embarrassment.
“Who else would test for poison?”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Tom nods. His lips twitch. “My mistake. We’ll have to go back later
with something to carry them in. We might have to empty the suitcase out and take that.”

Harry snorts. “Good luck getting Draco to agree to that. It’d stain.”

Tom tilts his head. For a moment, Harry thinks he might say something. Then, shockingly,
his hand lands on Harry’s leg, just above his knee. Harry’s breath hitches.

“I take it you weren’t friends at school, then?” He asks.

Harry is finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. “Nope. What’s the bad news?”

Instantly, Tom’s face hardens. Harry wishes he could take the question back, let Tom forget
whatever it is for just a little bit longer. It was so much easier, so much nicer, when it was just
the two of them joking around. He doesn’t want real life to come in and ruin it. At the same
time, his palms get sweaty and his anxiety crests like a wave. Tom’s hand tightens on Harry’s
thigh. He looks over his shoulder.

“I expect Ginny has already told the others,” he says, and sighs. “We got up to the top. It took
a couple of hours but we managed to reach a peak on one of the hillsides. You could see the
whole island from up there.”

Harry’s mouth is dry. “And?” He prompts, not so sure he wants to hear the answer.

“And,” Tom answers grimly. “There’s nothing. There’s nothing anywhere. No land. No boats.
Not in any direction. We’re completely stranded here.”
Harry’s heart sinks through to his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop panic from
descending. As hard as he tries, he can’t remember the last thing he said to Sirius.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Tom grasps his
wrists gently and tugs them away.

“It’s okay,” he says, uncharacteristically soft.

“It’s not. They don’t know where to look for us. They don’t know where we are. We’re gonna
die out here.”

“You’re not. Harry, you’re not going to die here. I know it.”

Harry, whose hands are still clasped in Tom’s, can’t wipe away his tears. He sniffles
pathetically. “How do you know? How can you say that and sound so– so fucking sure of
yourself.”

Tom smiles sadly. His thumb strokes Harry’s knuckles lightly. “I just have a feeling,” he says.
“I just have this feeling. Trust me.”

And Harry does. It may be a mistake. But he already does.

“It’s just so… weird, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Harry takes his fingers through his hair. It’s warming up again, and he still
has that headache. He wants a drink desperately, but they have to be careful with their rations.
“I don’t even know what I’m saying, really. It just doesn’t feel real. And– I mean, don’t you
think it’s kind of weird how we don’t remember anything at all from the crash?”
A little furrow appears between Tom’s eyebrows that Harry wants to smooth away with his
thumb. “I suppose. We were unconscious, though.”

“Before the plane even hit the water?”

Tom’s frown deepens. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Personally, I’m glad you don’t
remember that horribly traumatic event. Aren’t you?”

Harry let’s a beat of silence go by before he says, “Yeah. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I’d rather you tell me what you’re thinking, always.” The hand
that was on Harry’s leg before lifts, and before Harry can miss the touch, Tom wraps his arm
around Harry’s waist. Tom is constantly touching him somewhere: his neck, his waist, his
leg, his hand. It’s so casual, but it must be deliberate. Harry just doesn’t know why. It flusters
him every time, but he’s determined not to mention it.

“Thanks,” he says. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe this place is just making me crazy already.”

Tom hums. “If you start talking to a coconut, let me know, okay?”

“That’s not the weird part. You only need to worry if the coconut starts talking back.”

Tom laughs, and that strange pride is back, warring with the ache at Harry’s temples. Though
he’d never admit it, he burrows further into Tom’s side.

“We should probably go back soon.”

“Okay,” Tom says in a measured tone.

Harry can’t help looking up at him, taking in the sharp jut of his jaw, his long, corded throat.
“Do you want to?” He asks.

“Harry,” Tom replies. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

 Day Five

They find a routine, of sorts. It’s pretty uneventful. There’s not much to do, cut off from the
rest of the world, and any form of exercise would only make them more dehydrated, so
there’s a lot of sitting around and talking. Harry gets to know the others, and even manages to
make Ginny laugh at one point, which he feels inordinately proud of.

Tom rarely gets involved, but Harry expected that. Despite how friendly he is when they’re
alone, it’s clear that he’s uncomfortable with the others. He doesn’t talk much, other than to
give instructions or announce new plans. Harry’s heart grows a little heavier every time Tom
is closed off and quiet.

The nights get a little warmer, but Tom still sleeps close enough for Harry to feel his body
heat, and Harry never tries to stop him. That’s a part of their routine now, as well.

Unfortunately, that means that waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss becomes a
lot more difficult. Tom’s arm is heavy where it’s draped over him, and at some point in the
night their legs had tangled together. He shifts minutely, and Tom stirs behind him.

They haven’t talked about it, this closeness between them, but that’s a relief too. Harry
doesn’t know what he’d even say. It’s probably just something born of loneliness and
desperation; this desire to be close to somebody when the rest of your life has been yanked
away. Still, he kind of wishes Tom would be a little clearer about what it all means when he
literally spoons Harry to sleep every night.

Harry shifts again, and this time he’s able to roll out from under Tom’s arm without waking
him up. These past few days, Harry has discovered that Tom is a light sleeper. The slightest
noise or movement can wake him up, as though he’s only ever half asleep. The others are still
huddled together, snoring lightly with their heads pillowed on some of Draco’s folded
clothes. Harry picks his way over them and heads towards the woods.

The trees here are so tall that they disappear into the dusky sky. He still hasn’t properly
looked around the island, but he doesn’t particularly want to go exploring on his own before
the sun is out. He only walks until he finds a clearing in the trees.
Afterwards, he picks his way back to the beach and makes a beeline to the sea. His soul
hasn’t been completely crushed yet. He’s not going to stop washing his hands as best he can
until he’s properly accepted death.

As he’s drying his hands on his t-shirt, Harry notices something further down the beach,
washed up to shore. It’s half in, half out of the water, too lumpy to be a rock, too big to be
another suitcase. Harry squints and wipes his glasses. Something sprouts at one end and
splays against the sand like seaweed–

Or, Harry realises, like hair.

He starts running. His lungs burn and he must bring his foot down hard onto a jagged shard
of wood because pain lances up his leg sharp and sudden, but he doesn’t stop moving. He
can’t. The shape is getting bigger and bigger and the closer Harry gets, the more he can make
out. The person is slumped over, legs submerged in the water. They have their back to Harry,
a tatty rucksack still slung across one shoulder, but one arm is stretched above their head, and
their hand lies limp against the ground.

No, Harry thinks. Please, please no.

He falls to his knees beside the person. His hands tremble as he grabs their shoulder and turns
them over. They don’t protest. They don’t stir.

Harry realises, with the slow motion sickness of a car crash, that this person is dead. His eyes
are open. His face is bloated. One side of his head is stained red with blood from a gash at his
temple. Harry lurches to the side and throws up. The world blurs around him.

What do you do? What can you do, in a situation like this?

He shuts his eyes tight. He can’t stand to look at it. At him.

How long has he been here like this, washed up on the beach while they slept? Was he dead
before Harry even reached the island? Or did he last longer than that– adrift at sea, too hurt to
move, frightened and alone and desperately hoping that someone would come looking for
him?

Harry throws up again. His shoulders shake with sobs, the kind that wrack your whole body
and leave you exhausted for hours afterwards.

He has no way of knowing how long he sits there for. There is no way of telling the time
here, or even knowing what the day is. It’s that slow disorientation that poisons your mind,
Harry thinks. He understands now, better than ever, how a person could go mad in a place
like this.

He needs to go tell the others, needs to tell Tom, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t
want to make this a reality. In the early morning darkness, it’s easier to pretend this is a
nightmare. Maybe, if he’s quiet and careful, he can sneak back to the camp and tuck himself
against Tom’s chest and let Tom’s warmth banish the chill from his blood.

But he can’t do that. He knows it. He won’t be sleeping for a long time after this.

“Help.” He finds his voice, but it’s weak and inaudible. The next time he tries, he’s louder.
“Help! Wake up!”

He’s distantly aware of shouts from the group, of footsteps getting nearer, but he doesn’t look
up. His face is buried in his knees. He can’t stand to see–

“Oh my god,” Ginny says in a choked voice. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“I found him here,” Harry says. “He was just… washed up. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Is that–”
“Cedric,” Hermione says. With one arm flung over Lima’s shoulder and her bad ankle
dragging behind her, she hangs behind the others. Tears well up in her eyes. Her hand flies to
cover her mouth.

“Was he–” Ron starts, and clears his throat. “Was he the other passenger?”

Hermione shudders. “We talked on the plane. He was– he was really nice.”

Tom is at Harry’s side, but he isn’t touching him, wrapping an arm around his waist or
holding his hand like he does all the time. He hasn’t said a word.

Harry pushes himself to his feet and grips tentatively at Tom’s hand. “Tom,” he says, the
words, ‘what do we do?’ on the tip of his tongue– and he stops, at the last moment.

Beside him, Tom has gone very still, and very pale. He looks, for the first time since they
arrived, like he has absolutely no idea what to do next. His eyes are wide, lips slightly parted,
frozen in horror. He’s taken charge of everything so far, taken the burden off their shoulders,
and Harry–

Harry can’t ask him to do this too. He can’t make Tom deal with this.

“We should bury him,” Harry says, voice only trembling a little. “We need to bury him.”

Tom stares at him. Tiny flecks of green speckle his eyes. His throat moves as he swallows,
and his chest heaves. He nods.

“Yes,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “We should bury him.”
They dig for an hour. Nobody says anything for a long time, and as they work, Tom pulls
himself back together. Harry sees it happening right in front of him, the way Tom’s careful
mask falls into place, the way his terror slips into indifference and finally determination. The
others are crying, silent tears that roll down their faces. Even Ron, who has done a good job
of keeping it together, looks shaken up by this. Who wouldn’t?

“We need to bring him here,” Tom says, and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Someone–
someone needs to help me carry him.”

“I will,” Harry says straight away. He doesn’t have any particular urge to go running back to
Cedric’s body, but he can’t let Tom go back there alone, and nobody else is going to
volunteer.

“No, you shouldn’t. You found him,” Tom says, but he isn’t as insistent as he’s been in the
past. That sliver of humanity, of vulnerability, is enough to harden Harry’s resolve.

“It’s alright, Tom,” he says, and takes Tom’s hand. “It’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay? Let’s just
get it done.”

Tom gives a short, sharp nod. When they reach the body, Tom takes his hands and Harry
takes his feet. They move slowly and silently, both too trapped in their own thoughts to
speak. The others clear a path to the grave, and Tom moves to lay him down.

“Wait!” Ginny steps forward. Her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I just– his backpack. Shouldn’t
we…”

“Jesus,” Draco snaps. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just being practical!”

“She’s right,” Tom says grimly. “Let’s– we should check, at least. There’s no point wasting it,
if there are supplies in there.”
Gingerly, Harry lays Cedric’s feet on the floor. Tom still has him under the armpits so Harry
takes one strap of his rucksack and slips it past his hand. As he does the same on the other
side, his fingers brush against Cedric’s hand. His skin is cold and Harry jerks back, chest
heaving.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Sorry. Sorry.”

The backpack falls to the floor and Ginny scrambles to pick it up. A clinking noise like glass
hitting glass makes them all pause. Ginny’s hand flies to the zip, but Ron stops her with a
gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Ginny,” he says softly. “Maybe we should…”

“Right. Of course, yeah.”

She puts it down carefully, and everybody watches as Tom lowers Cedric into the grave. It’s a
team effort, filling it in again. They’re on their hands and knees, pushing sand over his body
and trying to avoid touching him at the same time. Harry wants to be sick. Once again, a hot
flush of anger crawls over his skin. He should be on a fucking holiday right now. He should
be sipping virgin cocktails by a swimming pool, or taking part in a fucking guided meditation
session. He shouldn't be burying a body. None of them should.

Luna sits back on her heels when they’re finished. “Should we say something?” She asks.

“None of us knew him,” Draco says. “What would we say?”

They’re silent again, until Ginny pushes to her feet and says, “I’m sorry he died.”

It’s ridiculous, and in any other situation it would sound mocking or rude. But Harry finds
that it’s the perfect thing to say. It’s the only thing they can really say about him, and fully
mean.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too.”

The somber atmosphere lasts all evening. Harry won’t be surprised if it lasts all week, or all
year, or the rest of their lives.

Tom disappeared as soon as they got back. Harry had been tempted to follow him, but he’d
looked so sick and so determined to leave unhindered that he’d decided against it in the end.
It makes sense, that he wants to be alone right now. He just held a dead body to his chest and
buried him.

The others gather in a circle. Draco stuffs his fist against his mouth and digs his toes into the
sand. Hermione massages her ankle. She must have hurt it, moving around so much. Ginny
holds the bag to her chest like she’s afraid it’ll vanish if she doesn’t have eyes on it every
second. When they got back to camp, she’d sat down and pulled it onto her lap.

“I’m opening it now,” she says, tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s no point waiting
for Tom.”

She unzips it slowly, carefully. If there really is glass inside, the very last thing they want to
do is break it.

And that– that’s…

Harry doesn’t want to think about that. About what it means. Too much has happened today,
and if they’ve got something good, he doesn’t want to ruin it for himself.

Except Ginny peers into the bag and her face goes slack, and she says, “Holy shit. Holy
fucking shit.”
“What?” Ron crowds her, trying to look inside. “What is it?”

“This is–” she looks at each of them, eyes wide in disbelief, and actually laughs. “This is
incredible. This is everything we need.”

Harry watches with a gnawing feeling in his chest as she takes out painkillers, bandages, a
lighter. There are four miniature bottles of alcohol– the medicinal kind. Each new find seems
more bizarre than the last. Harry’s head feels stuffy.

“Hermione, here,” Ginny says, grinning, holding out a painkiller. “This should make you feel
better.”

“Thanks,” Hermione replies. She’s smiling, but the longer she looks the more it fades. She
holds the pill up like a toast. “To Cedric.”

Harry swallows. He wishes Tom were here. “To Cedric,” he whispers.

Ron finds him amongst the trees. There’s a clearing, not so far from the beach, where the
canopy overhead recedes at the edges and a perfect circle of sunlight can shine against the
ground. Harry sits cross-legged in the middle of it, trying to quieten his mind. Earlier, he had
fought against the urge to smash his fist into a tree until his knuckles were bloody.

“Hey,” Ron says, approaching slowly. “I thought I’d come check up on you. Are you doing
alright?”

Harry tucks his knees to his chest and shrugs. The parameters of ‘alright’ are very different
these days, and Harry isn’t sure he knows what they are yet. “Sure,” he says. “Just freaked
out. You?”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, taking a seat next to Harry. “Ginny’s happy. I mean, obviously
she’s not, like, happy. It’s fucked up. What happened to Cedric, I mean. But, like, that bag
was a godsend.”

Harry snorts. “You can say that again.”

Ron tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Sorry. You’re right, it was a lucky find.”

Ron picks at the grass around them idly. His stubble has grown out a bit, but he looks fairly
put together. Harry wonders what he looks like. He never had to shave much before, but he
must be grimy all over. Taking baths in the sea is not ideal.

It’s easy, sitting here with Ron. Harry is surprised by how comfortable he feels. With the
others, with the exception of Tom, he always feels like he has to fill the silence, or smile, or
do something. With Ron, he can sit and think, and stew in his own confused thoughts. There’s
some growing panic working it’s way up his throat, and he has to– he can’t just–

“Don’t you think it’s fucking weird,” he bursts out. Ron looks around, startled.

“What?”

“This! This whole thing!”

“Weird.” Ron nods. “Yeah. I’d call it pretty fucking weird, mate.”

“No, I–” Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean just in general. I mean, all these
things that keep happening. We don’t remember the crash. None of us remember it
happening, even though we must have been awake until we hit the water. And those glass
bottles– how the fuck did they survive a fucking plane crash? They should have been
smashed.”

“Okay,” Ron says slowly. He looks seconds away from scrambling to his feet and legging it.
“Harry…”

“No. No! I’m not fucking crazy here, okay? And what the fuck was up with that bag? Who
the fuck brings water purification tablets to a wellness retreat? Nobody brings a lighter or
bandages or fucking rubbing alcohol to a luxury holiday!”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Harry,” Ron says. “Okay, yeah. It’s weird. But–
what? You think Cedric deliberately killed himself? You think he’s some kind of evil
mastermind?”

Harry lurches to his feet. “Jesus. I wouldn’t have told you if I knew you’d fucking make fun
of me.”

Ron follows him up. He looks suitably apologetic, at least. “I’m sorry. Harry, I’m sorry,
okay? You’re right. I’m not making fun of you. I agree that it’s weird. I just… I don’t know
what you’re suggesting. If this isn’t all just a strange, fucked up coincidence then what is it?”

Harry deflates. All the energy and the adrenaline from before leaves him in one whooshing
sigh. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t even know. You’re right. I mean it’s a stupid theory.
Maybe I’m going crazy.”

Ron nudges their shoulders together. “I think we’re all going a little crazy. Even Tom. He
looked pretty messed up today.”

Harry’s heart sinks again. “He did. I hope he’s okay.”

“If he isn’t, you’ll be the first one he tells.”

Unexpectedly, Harry’s cheeks flame. He’d have thought being thrust into this life threatening
situation would have ruined his ability to get flustered like this, but apparently not. He rubs
the back of his neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron’s mouth quirks. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time together.”

Harry scowls. “Shut up, oh my god. You’ve been spending a bunch of time with Hermione,
haven’t you?”

Ron’s nose screws up, but Harry doesn’t miss the flush that colours the tips of his ears. “Not
to be dramatic or anything,” he says. “But if we were the only two people stranded on a
desert island together, I’d still never get with her.”

That startles a laugh out of Harry at least. “Good to know your sense of humour will last
longer than your sanity.”

Ron grins, and then jerks his head. “Come on,” he says. “We should get back.”

Harry bites his lip. “Ron,” he says, and then pauses, because he doesn’t know how to say this
without sounding ungrateful, or crazy. At least, crazier than Ron already thinks he is.

“Hmm?”

“We should be dead.”

Ron stops. He half turns, and the look on his face is so intense that it startles the breath from
Harry’s lungs.
“Maybe,” he says. “But we’re not.”

Tom is already there when Harry and Ron get back. He twists his head round to watch them
as they get nearer.

“There you are,” he says, standing up. “Where were you?”

Harry ignores the question. He has more important things to talk to Tom about, and he can’t
put them off any longer.

“I want to check out the island,” he says, and holds his hand up to silence Tom before he can
jump in. “Myself, this time. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

“What’s the point, Harry? If we take more people, we’re only putting them in danger.”

“So don’t.” Harry shrugs. “It can just be us. You and I can go alone.”

“Harry…”

Harry squares his shoulders and fixes his eyes on a random spot over Tom’s shoulder. “Or I
can just go on my own, if you don’t want to come.”

Tom grits his teeth. “After everything that’s happened, you still want to risk your life out
there?”
“We need water, Tom. We all know it. We can survive for maybe another two days with what
we’ve got, but when those supplies run out, we’ll die.”

“So we go in two days,” Tom says.

“Why wait?”

“At least wait until tomorrow morning. If we leave now, it could get dark soon.”

“Tom.” Harry throws his arms up in despair. He doesn’t understand why Tom is so paranoid
about this. “I’m going, okay? I don’t need your permission, but I’d like your support. So you
can– you can either come with me, or back off.”

Tom’s face goes tight and cold. His eyes shutter, and Harry has no idea what he’s thinking.

Finally, just when Harry is beginning to think Tom is going to turn his back on him, he says,
“Fine. Let’s get going.”

Harry lets Tom take the lead. He isn’t sure that he should at first - it doesn’t really convey the
message that Harry is in charge this time - but Tom has done this before, and Harry has
barely left the beach. He is at least rational enough to know that pride is not worth dying for.

It’s hot today. The weather flip flops between warm and cold like it just can’t make up its
mind, so it’s been impossible to even guess where they might be. Harry has no idea. He
doesn’t remember how long they’d been on the plane before it nosedived, and he doesn’t
understand why there is no land as far as anyone can see.

They push through a thick tangle bracken and thistles and when they come out the other side,
Harry realises the incline they’ve been working on for the past twenty minutes or so is
evening out. They mostly walk in silence. Harry doesn’t want to waste his breath on pointless
conversation and he gets the feeling Tom is still pissed at him.
It’s a relief when they finally get to the top. Harry sits down heavily and ducks in lungfuls of
air, but it’s hot and humid and it doesn’t make him feel any better. It feels like the world has
been thrust into a slow cooker and they’re all just waiting around to be burned alive.

Tom eyes him warily. “Need a break?” He asks.

Harry scowls. He isn’t going to give Tom any grounds for an ‘I-told-you-so’.

“No,” he snaps, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

“Harry, if you’re–”

“I said I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

So they go. At some point they must deviate from the path Tom took before, because he stops
leading so much as just walking. He falls into step beside Harry and they press on together,
shoulders brushing every so often.

The heat is already stifling enough, and when the silence becomes too much for Harry to
bear, he says, “Do you think we’ll actually find any?”

Tom doesn’t look over. He is instead concentrating on picking his way through a particularly
overgrown patch of land. “Find what?”

“Water. I mean, you’re the expert. Is there usually drinkable water on islands like these?”

Tom sighs. “Harry,” he says. “I’ve never been on an island like this before. I don’t even know
what kind of island an ‘island like this’ is.”
Harry rolls his eyes. Tom is being deliberately obtuse just to fuck with him, he’s sure. “You
know what I mean.”

“Any water but salt water is drinkable, now. With the water purification tablets.”

Harry goes quiet. His skin is flushed and sweaty, but he still feels a chill crawl over his skin
at the memory. “You saw the bag, then?”

“Yes,” Tom says slowly, not looking over. “Very useful.”

Harry can’t quite pinpoint the emotion with which Tom says it. It surfaces in him again: that
desperate, needling urge to be heard, understood, believed. But he doesn’t know how that
would work, when he doesn’t even understand himself. Besides, Tom likely doesn’t want to
hear Harry’s crazy theories right now.

They are making for maybe another twenty minutes in silence before they come to a fork in
the path. Two routes run adjacent to one another, with a triangle of grassy land in between.
Harry steels himself for a dramatic reaction.

“We should split up,” he says.

Tom whirls on him, already shaking his head. “You’re joking,” he says. “Absolutely not.”

“We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Harry. No.”

“There’s barely any space between the paths anyway!” Harry exclaims. “If something
happens, we can just shout and the other can cut across the middle. It’ll be fine.”
Tom still looks reluctant - and angry, Harry notices, eyes blazing with barely restrained
feeling - but Harry’s words are beginning to take effect. His shoulders sag.

“I don’t like this,” he says, which Harry knows has always been code for yes.

Harry covers the distance between them and, in an attempt to reassure Tom, places one hand
on his chest. Only, once it’s there, he realises he doesn’t actually want to move it.

“Tom,” he murmurs, craning his neck to look up at him. “I’ll be fine.”

Tom’s pupils are blown wide. His eyes are so dark they almost appear black, and his lips are
ever so slightly parted. “Promise me you’ll yell if something happens,” he says in a low
voice. “As loud as you can.”

“I promise.” They’re so close, Harry can feel Tom’s heat. It’s unbearable, and he shivers.

“Okay.” Tom nods, resolute, with all the enthusiasm of a soldier being sent off to war. “I’ll
take this one. You take the other. We meet back here in fifteen minutes. Understood?”

“We have no way of telling the time,” Harry points out, arbitrarily.

“Well, I hope you can count past a hundred.” Tom pats Harry’s back on his way past - his
lower back, and as he does it his pinky finger brushes the swell of Harry’s ass and after that
his brain just sort of whites out. He comes back to himself to see Tom already making his
way down one of the two routes.

In his head, he thinks, one, two, three…

But there’s nothing down his path; only fallen branches twisted into the mud and bushes that
seem to sprout up out of nowhere. Harry loses count somewhere around minute six, but
honestly he’s losing enthusiasm for his own expedition. Maybe Tom was right. Maybe he
should have let the others do this instead, because clearly he’s not cut out for hikes through
the woods in roasting hot weather, and he’s just exhausting Tom even more so he won’t be
able to do this again tomorrow, and should apologise to Tom because he was kind of an ass
earlier–

He stills, one foot in front of the other. The woods are silent. He can’t even hear Tom’s
thunderous footsteps anymore. His own breathing is too harsh in his ears.

Then he hears it again. A rustle, quick and sharp and coming from the bush closest to him,
like something - or someone, a smal, traitorous part of his brain supplies - moving around in
there. His heart jumps, and his hands curl into fists. He’s tired, dehydrated and to be honest,
he was never very strong anyway. There’s no way he can fight off an attacker if one jumps
out at him.

He considers calling Tom. His name is on the tip of Harry’s tongue, when suddenly there is
another, fiercer movement and the whole bush shakes. Harry shrieks, tastes blood in the back
of his mouth, and runs as fast as he can away from whatever the fuck is back there. Branches
whip against his face and leaves tangle in his hair.

“Tom!” He yells, but doesn’t wait for a reply.

He catches his foot suddenly under against a vine and the ground comes rushing up to meet
him. He throws his hands in front of his face to catch himself and winces at the impact; tiny
stones and splinters embed themselves into his palms and he has no idea if Tom is even close
enough to hear his strangled cry.

He picks himself up, but doesn’t have time to dust himself off. He keeps running madly,
wildly, pushing his way through the undergrowth like a spooked horse. He can still put
weight on his ankle so it probably isn’t sprained. He doesn’t need to waste time checking it,
and he doesn’t want to stop running in case–

Well. In case something is actually after him.

He casts a glance over his shoulder. He means to have a look and see if he’s actually being
pursued - and he does, he looks, he can’t see anything - but while he isn’t paying attention the
ground beneath him drops about two feet and he’s falling again only this time the impact will
break his wrist if he tries to catch himself–

He doesn’t have time to worry about it. Harry falls face first into the tiniest lake he’s ever
seen.

The impact is the worst bit. It reminds him of bellyflopping into the swimming pool as a kid,
and the sting that would spread across his skin. It’s cold as well, but that’s almost kind in
comparison, thanks to the ungodly heat. Harry gasps on instinct and ends up inhaling a
mouthful of water. He kicks his legs frantically and hacks up a lung trying to get it all out.

“Harry!” He hears the voice distantly, as though it’s been put through a sound modulator.
There must be water in his ears. The shout comes again, and it’s undeniably Tom.

“Over here!” He cries, throat burning. “Look down. Be careful!”

Tom appears suddenly, popping his head over the edge. His eyes are wide and despite the
heat, his face has gone very pale. He takes one look at Harry and figures out what happened.

“Jesus,” he calls down. “Harry, are you alright? Are you hurt? Watch out– I’m coming
down.”

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to reply before he’s gripping the edge of the ledge and easing
himself down, feet first into the water. He bobs under only once, and when he re-emerges,
blinking furiously with his hair stuck to his face, he swims over to Harry.

“Are you hurt?” He asks again. “Did you fall?” His hands probe gently at Harry’s face like he
did the first time they ever met. Harry gets the feeling he’d do the same thing for every single
body part if he thought Harry was hiding some injury, and he’s half tempted to let him.
“I’m fine,” he says, sheepish now that Tom is here to see him screw up. It’s ridiculous,
thinking that something was chasing him, that somebody wanted to hurt him. If there was
something in that bush, it was probably a squirrel. “I’m fine, see? I just– I thought I heard
something. I was running and I wasn’t looking where I was going. But I’m okay. Promise.”

Tom sighs, long and drawn out and full of relief. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s face; he still has
his forefinger and thumb tilting Harry’s chin up.

“I was worried,” he says, and his breath ghosts over Harry’s lips. “I heard you scream.”

Just like before when he was convincing Tom to split up, Harry moves closer. He slips one
leg in between Tom’s where they are both treading water and drapes his arms over his
shoulders. It would look to any outsider as though they were in the middle of a slow dance,
and the thought has Harry swallowing, mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m right here,” Harry breathes.

He is expecting it, when Tom’s lips brush his own. His eyes slip shut and he opens his mouth
out of shock more than anything else. Tom groans softly, jarring in the silence, and curls one
hand possessively around the nape of Harry’s neck to tug him closer, kiss him deeper and
more insistent. He kisses like he does everything else, Harry thinks absently: passionate,
demanding, so very in control.

They tilt suddenly when Harry forgets to kick his legs and they break apart, panting. Perhaps
Tom means to say something, because he’s watching Harry closely enough, like he has a
thousand things on his mind all at once. But he never gets the chance, because Harry is struck
with a wonderful realisation.

“Oh my god,” he says, clinging to Tom still. “Water. Tom. Water.”

Tom blinks. It’s almost certainly not the direction he thought the conversation would take, but
he looks around them and his face splits with a smile.
“Oh,” he says. “Water.”

“We can drink this, right? It’s safe?” Harry already knows the answer, but he wants to hear
Tom say it. He wants to hear the proof of his own accidental achievement, this thing that he
found that will save their lives.

“It’s safe.”

Tom tugs Harry towards the water’s edge with a hand firmly wrapped around his wrist, and
only when they’re both lying flat on their backs against the sun-warmed rock does Harry
allow himself to laugh.

“Holy shit,” he says, giggling breathlessly. “Holy shit. This is a fucking miracle.”

Tom props himself up on his elbow and rests his head in his hand. “You’re unbelievable,” he
says, but he’s grinning, so it must be a good thing. “I don’t know how you were ever allowed
out in the real world. One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“You mean you aren’t always going to be around to save me?” Harry teases.

Tom’s smile turns sweeter, softer at the edges, and Harry is compelled to cup Tom’s cheek in
his palm. Tom’s skin is warm under his hand and mostly smooth. There is only the lightest
graze of stubble growing in, and Harry brushes his thumb back and forth against it.

Tom covers Harry’s hand with his own and slowly brings it to his mouth, kissing Harry’s
palm. “I’ll always save you,” he says, quiet and sincere. “I always have. Ever since I first saw
you.”

There is something in the way he says it that gives Harry pause. Something in his eyes,
maybe, that suggests it means more to Tom than Harry could possibly know. He should
question it. He should push the issue further. But it’s so warm and he’s so tired, and so happy
that he’s actually done something productive for the group for once, that he doesn’t have it in
him to start an interrogation. He flops onto his back again and blinks up at the cloudless sky.

“Tell me about you,” he says instead.

“What do you mean?”

“Before you were here. Tell me about you. What were you like? Where did you live? Why
were you on that plane in the first place?” Next to him, Tom stiffens. His muscles jump and
his hand, still clasped around Harry’s, flexes suddenly. Harry frowns. “I’m just curious. You
don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I just… want to know you. Everything
about you.”

This calms Tom. Harry feels it happen, feels the tension drain out of him, replaced with
something light and buoyant. He springs up suddenly and rolls on top of Harry, so that his
forearms are braced against the ground on either side of Harry’s head and their hips are tilted
together. Harry’s breath hitches.

“I want to know you too,” he says, breathing heavily. “All of you. I want– everything.”

“So tell me,” Harry says, blinking up at him. He kisses Tom hard on the mouth. “Tell me, and
I’ll tell you.”

Tom’s head drops to Harry’s shoulder. His lips mouth against the bare skin there, but the
intimacy is more comforting than sexual. Harry winds his fingers through Tom’s wet hair and
scratches his scalp lazily.

“There’s not much to tell,” Tom murmurs, words muffled against Harry’s skin. “I was a sad
kid. And then I was a sad teenager. And then I got sent here.”

“You’ve got such a way with words.”

Tom’s laugh rumbles through both his chest and Harry’s. Warmth pools in the pit of Harry’s
stomach.

“I grew up with some– bad people. I didn’t like them. And then I went to boarding school, so
I didn’t have to see them very often and that was fine with me.”

“Did you enjoy school?”

“I did, actually. Not just because it was the only place I could get away from them, but
because I very much enjoyed learning. I still do.”

“You’re still in school?”

“No,” Tom says. “I left last year. But you don’t stop learning when you leave school. Your
whole life is an opportunity to learn. And there is always more to discover.”

It surprises Harry, that someone his own age can have so much fervour for education. Sure,
Harry didn’t mind school. He didn’t hate it. But he didn’t love it. It was just a stepping stone
to his next stage of life, and as much as Sirius hated it, he had no plans to go to university.
Some people flourish in an academic setting, but Harry is most certainly not one of them, and
he has no other discernible skills or talents. That is half of his problem. The only thing he’s
good at is getting angry and breaking things.

“So what did you do at school, then? What was so good about it?”

Silence stretches out a beat too long. Harry is wondering if he has said something terribly
wrong by the time Tom finally speaks.

“It was… beautiful. It was a prestigious school, and an expensive one, but the headmaster
knew me personally. I got in on a scholarship.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harry says, drawing shapes idly on Tom’s back with his
finger.

“He didn’t like me much. The headmaster, I mean. I didn’t like him much either, but it was
fine. We managed it. Until–”

Harry waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Too curious for his own good, Harry says,
“Until?”

Tom lifts his head suddenly and stares at Harry with such intensity that a flush crawls up his
neck.

“Until I was expelled.”

Harry goes still. “Why?”

But Tom has already rolled away and now stares up at the sky with a carefully distant
expression. “I think that’s enough story time for one day,” he says. “It’s your turn now. I want
to know about you.”

Harry should probably press this issue too. There is so much Harry should probably do.

“It’s kind of a sad story,” he says, shrugging loosely. “And so far there hasn’t been a happy
ending.”

Tom thumbs his bottom lip. “There’s still time.”

Harry gives another halfhearted shrug. “My parents died.”

Three simple words. That’s all it is, and yet somehow, over the past ten years of his life they
became the hardest words to say. He pushed the memories away - the grinding, squealing
metal, the fire, the screaming - and tried as best he could to forget it ever happened. But when
you go through something horrible like that, you can’t ever forget it. You can only ignore it,
and every day it digs its claws a little further under your skin.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says quietly, but Harry shakes his head. He isn’t done yet. Now that he’s
started talking, he’s not ready to stop.

“It was a car crash. They died, like, straight away. So, yeah. They didn’t suffer or anything.
That’s something.” Tom says nothing, but he nods sympathetically and Harry continues. “I
lived with my godfather after that. I mean, not at first. He was driving the car, and I guess he
has a history of, like, alcoholism. So they just assumed it was his fault. He had to go to court
and while all of that was going on he couldn’t adopt me. I went to live with my aunt and her
family. They were pretty terrible too.”

Tom takes Harry’s hand and lays it over his chest, so that Harry can feel the steady, rhythmic
thump of Tom’s heart. “You were there, weren’t you?” He says, and it isn’t really a question.
“In the car.”

Something sharp and heavy lodges itself in Harry’s throat. His eyes sting. “Yeah. I still have
nightmares about it.”

He has never told this story before, but he has grown up around people who already know it.
His teachers and the other kids at school, Sirius and Remus, his social workers. They all have
a carefully trained response to tragedy, with varying degrees of truth to it. Harry wonders
what Tom will say.

But he stays quiet. He doesn’t since or hum with faux understanding. He just keeps holding
Harry’s hand, stroking it with his thumb. It’s so warm and Harry is exhausted in so many
ways, and he’s comfortable here. For the first time since they landed on this island - perhaps
even a lot longer than that - Harry feels safe, with Tom.
He lets his eyes slip shut. They will have to go back soon, to tell the others what they found,
but right now Harry doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
 Day Seven
Chapter Notes

Sorry for the longer wait on this one! For some reason it was so hard to finish even
though it’s like ninety percent dialogue lol

Anyway, enjoy!

When Hermione’s ankle finally gets better, she makes sure they all know about it. She jumps
up and down in front of Tom like she’s trying to prove her physical fitness, she does yoga
with Luna and a reluctant Draco, and she doesn’t stop following Harry around until he agrees
to play noughts and crosses with her in the sand. Then, she sits cross legged on the ground
and doesn’t mention her ankle at all.

“So,” Hermoine says, drawing a grid in the sand with her finger. “What’s it like? The island, I
mean.”

Harry sighs. He and Tom told everyone the story of their expedition when they returned -
minus a few irrelevant details, of course - and he knows Ginny and Ron told stories about
their trip when they first made it. He’s pretty sure Hermione is just bored rather than actually
interested. If living vicariously through others is what’s going to keep her spirits up, Harry
can give her this one.

“It was… weird. Half of it was like a beach and the other half was like a jungle. It’s hard to
tell if we’re actually alone here or not.”

She looks up sharply, eyes narrowed when she says, “What does that mean?”

Harry frowns and draws an ‘X’ in the middle box. “Animals, you know? Predators. Or even
just smaller animals that we could eat. Goats, pigs, whatever.”
“I’m a vegetarian.” Hermione’s nose wrinkles and she puts an ‘O’ in the top left corner.

Harry shrugs. “Not anymore.”

“It’s good you found the water, though. We wouldn’t have made it to Tuesday without it.”

This time it’s Harry’s turn to look at her strangely. She blinks and her cheeks flush at the
close attention.

“What?”

“You’ve been keeping track of the days?”

The corner of her mouth ticks up into a smile. “Of course. We were flying out on a Sunday
and it’s been seven days. So we could have lasted tomorrow, but we’d probably have started
dying on Tuesday. So, yeah. Water, great.”

“Great,” Harry echoes. “Thanks. That’s… good to know.”

Seven days. They’ve been here a week and nobody has come for them. The thought has been
festering at the back of his mind for days now, stinging like an open wound whenever he
brushes against it, but until now he hadn’t let himself truly consider it.

No one is coming for them. They’re never getting off this island.

He feels like someone has just scooped his stomach out and left him hollow and rotting
inside. A tight coil of panic grips his heart and he lurches to his feet, bile riding steadily in his
throat too quickly for him to swallow back. His foot twists in the sand and he wipes out the
proof of their game completely by accident, but he can’t spare time worrying about that
because he only just reaches the sea in time to throw up. He ignores Hermione worriedly
calling his name behind him, just focuses on the pounding in his head and the way his body
seems to be twisting itself up inside.

Then there are arms around him, hands brushing his hair back and holding him steady at the
nape of his neck. Tom helps him to his feet and it takes a moment for Harry to tune in to the
soothing sounds he’s making.

“It’s okay,” he coos, wiping Harry’s mouth with his sleeve. “You’re okay. You’re alright, I’ve
got you.” He turns to Hermione and his whole posture changes. “What happened?” He snaps,
so harshly that Harry flinches. Tom goes back to running his hands up and down Harry’s
arms.

“I don’t know!” Hermione is pacing, but he gets the feeling she’s just trying to show Tom her
ankle is better. It’s a useless effort. Harry doubts Tom will sanction any more trips around the
island for a while. “We were just talking and then he kind of freaked out.”

“M’fine,” Harry mutters. Tom looks unconvinced. “Really. Those berries are just gross.”

Hermione titters nervously but Tom is still as stony faced as ever. He presses the back of his
hand against Harry’s forehead and frowns.

“Maybe you should lie down. When’s the last time you had a drink?”

Harry is about to reply - to object, he corrects himself, because Tom’s concern is sweet but he
doesn’t need to lie down - when thundering footsteps against the sand distract him. He looks
up in time for Ginny to come to a stop and fold her arms.

“You’re not getting away from the conversation that easily,” she says, sparing Harry a mildly
worried look before turning back to Tom. Harry can’t blame her. In this place where time is
all they have, worrying about someone is a vortex that pulls you in and never lets you go.
“Can we not do this right now?” Tom snaps, barely looking at her over his shoulder. His
attention is solely focused on Harry, and while usually that would be intoxicating, now it just
frustrates him.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Tom says, at the same time that Ginny says, “Tom doesn’t think it’s a good idea to
swim out to the wreck.”

Harry’s gaze snaps back to Tom, who sighs deeply. “I just think it’s a risk that we don’t have
to take at this stage.”

“It’s a great idea,” Harry tells him, and then looks to Ginny. “It’s a great idea. There could be
all sorts of things on there. We could find another suitcase.”

“Exactly. Thank you..” Ginny snaps her fingers and glares at Tom. “It’s good to know
someone has a brain around here, other than me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry notices Hermione turning a mottled shade of red and he
has to stifle a laugh. Now is not the time.

Tom still hasn’t spoken, but a muscle in his jaw is ticking and he’s grinding his teeth so hard
Harry can practically hear it. He wants to reach out and touch him, knows he can’t, not with
Ginny here, not without making it obvious that something is going on with them, but he also
wants to stand his ground and talk about this for real, without Tom smooth talking his way
out of an argument. Tom has an uncanny way of twisting words and truths to suit his
interests. Out in the real world, it would seem to Harry like a big red flag, but things work
differently here. He has no idea what Tom is like normally. Harry knows he’s probably not
the same as he was back at home.

It would be so easy though, to reach out and brush his fingers down Tom’s cheek, to take his
hand. To drain the tension out of him with one simple touch.
“Why don’t you want to? It’s no more risky than anything else we’ve done so far,” Harry
says.

Tom is quiet but firm when he says, “We already know how dangerous the water can be.”

Harry shudders at the memory. “You don’t have to go,” Harry says quietly, petulantly, even
though he knows that’s not the problem. “Ginny and I can go.”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry saw that coming a mile away. Surprisingly, he finds that his answer comes easier than
he expected.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry but I wasn’t asking your permission.”

Tom reels back as though he’s been slapped, and Harry’s skin flushes hot, guilt sitting heavy
on his shoulders for a moment before he remembers that he shouldn’t need Tom’s permission.
He’s not going to hold himself back or make himself into whatever pliant partner Tom wants
him to be.

Ginny looks between them with a furrow between her eyebrows and, for the first time, looks
like she has absolutely no idea what to say. She exchanges a quick glance with Hermione and
then both at once start to back away.

“I’m gonna talk to the others,” she says slowly. “You two talk it out. I’ll be… somewhere.”

And then they’re on their own again, and usually Harry would treat these stolen moments of
privacy as sacred, but now it just makes it harder for him to say what he has to say. Tom is
still watching him with hurt etched so clearly into his features that Harry wants nothing more
than to lean in and kiss it away. But he can’t, because then Tom will win, and Tom shouldn’t
win.
“Why are you doing this, Harry?” He asks quietly. If this wasn’t Tom, if Harry didn’t know
him, his voice right now might have sounded dangerous. But it’s a ridiculous thought and
Harry dismisses it at once. They’re having this argument because Tom wants to keep him safe
- it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

“Because I want to,” Harry says. “Because someone needs to, and it can be me. Because I– I
shouldn’t have to obey all your demands, alright?”

“What’s this really about?”

Tears of frustration well up behind Harry’s eyes and he turns his head so that Tom doesn’t see
them. It’s like talking to a brick wall, but with feelings and an iron will. Harry just doesn’t
know how Tom doesn’t get it.

“I just told you what it’s really about!” Harry cries. “This isn’t some secret code, okay? I’m
not trying to send a weird message here. This is about me making my own decisions.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tom spits. He jumps to his feet and, so that they aren’t on uneven
ground anymore than they usually are, Harry does the same. “I wish you’d stop trying to be
some sort of hero just to spite me.”

“This isn’t about you!” They’re yelling now, properly yelling, the kind of arguments Harry
never remembers his parents having. He knows that everyone on the other end of the beach
will be listening in but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Tom is being so obtuse. “I’m
not doing anything to spite you! And if I was, which I’m not, it doesn’t fucking matter
anyway. I should be allowed to. I don’t need your permission. It’s not about me being a hero,
it’s about you trying to make me a coward.”

“I’m not trying to make you a coward. Jesus, Harry, I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Well, I never asked you to.”

It’s like a switch has been flipped. His face settles into a carefully expressionless stare, the
kind he has seen Tom wear so often before. He wonders if it comes easy to Tom, because
Harry is doing everything he can fight back the emotion that threatens to surface.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you can’t stop me.”

Then he brushes past Tom and forces himself to keep his eyes forward as he walks. He
doesn’t need to look back to know that Tom is following him.

“Ginny,” he calls out when he’s close enough. “Are we going or what?”

He hates the way she looks to Tom before she replies, but it only strengthens his resolve. That
look, that hesitance from other people after he has made a decision for himself, is exactly
why he needs to go through with this.

Then she shrugs her jacket off and ties her hair in a knot. “We sure are,” she says, already
heading towards the water. “We should get a third, though. Just in case. Anyone want to
volunteer?”

Ron’s hand slowly appears towards the back of the group, but he promptly snatches it back
when Tom pops up at Harry’s side again.

“I’m going,” he announces. And then, into Harry’s ear, he says, “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry mutters back. “You’re welcome to stay on the beach.”

But they both know he won’t. When they dive into the sea, Ginny overtakes both of them and
Tom lags behind, matching Harry’s pace even though he could go twice that speed if he
wanted. For a moment Harry is consumed by guilt and worry; he’s a liability, he’s a burden,
he should have stayed on the beach like Tom asked. Then he remembers Ginny’s hesitance,
Ron’s teasing smile, Tom’s mouth moving against his own, and he kicks his legs harder and
pushes forward. If people think he’s a liability, he just has to prove them wrong.

Ginny gets there first, and treads water until Harry and Tom appear a few moments later.
They know this must be the spot because debris still bobs around in clusters of twisted metal.
Ginny ducks under the water quickly and then resurfaces, wiping the sting from her eyes and
jerking her head to the side.

“This way,” she says. “You’re gonna need to hold your breath.”

Tom grumbles something under his breath and if they were on dry land, Harry would step on
his toes. As it is, he barely has the energy to elbow his ribs. They count down from three, and
then they go under.

Harry has always hated opening his eyes underwater. He doesn’t understand how other
people can do it without becoming uncomfortable. It doesn’t hurt exactly, not at first, but it’s
just a blurry sense of wrongness that has him breathing out in a whoosh that bubbles out of
him. He kicks to the surface again.

“Sorry,” he says, spluttering. “Sorry. I just– wasn’t ready. Let’s go again.”

“If you need to go back–”

“No.” Harry cuts Tom off before he can even finish that thought. “I’m fine. Again.”

They go again. And again. And on the fourth time, they make it.

The wreck is even scarier underwater. Harry states at the jagged shards of metal and torn
leather seats still rooted to the floor with a horrified fascination. A little voice that he has
tried his best to banish these past few days tells him again that they should be dead. There’s
no way they could have survived this.
Ginny points towards a blurry shape lodged under one of the remaining seats and Tom glides
smoothly through the water, as though he belongs here. Harry turns on the spot. He doesn’t
have much time left - his chest is beginning to burn and ache and his lungs are screaming -
but he forces himself to stay calm. Tries to, anyway. He’s not going to be any help if he's
panicking.

Out of the corner of his eye, something catches his attention. It’s bright orange and,
ironically, very familiar. He cuts through the water towards it, reaches out to grab it, and
comes up short. His fingers brush the lifejacket, neatly folded and still in pristine condition,
and it snags against a spike of steel. Harry should try again, should keep trying until he’s got
it because this would be useful and he wants to be useful–

But he can’t. He can’t. It’s too much and he can’t–

He pushes away from the plane and kicks desperately towards the surface. His legs are leaden
and the pinprick of the sun that pierces the ocean’s surface is getting smaller and smaller.
He’s not sure he can make it after all. He’s going to run out of air and just sink down and
down, and he’ll lie on the floor of the sea amongst the wreckage of the plane forever.

He doesn’t even notice when a hand closes around his wrist and drags him upwards. The
world only comes back into focus for him when Tom slaps him on the back, hard, and he
coughs up a lungful of seawater.

“Jesus,” Tom says, voice tight and panicked. It makes something small and tender throb in
Harry’s chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” Harry says, in between gasps for air. “Sorry. I’m fine. Let’s–”

“No.” Tom is still gripping his wrist, but now he holds the other one as well and doesn’t let
him move. “We’re going back. I knew this was a bad idea.”
Ginny’s head bobs above the surface, strings of hair stuck to her face, eyes screwed up
angrily. She’s clutching the newly found suitcase to her chest, struggling to hold it and stay
afloat at the same time.

“What the fuck, Tom?” She says. “You wanna help me out with this?”

Tom doesn’t let go of Harry’s wrists.

“I’m fine.” Harry insists. “Let me go back. I saw something.”

“We’re going back to the island. I should never have let you come.”

Ginny laughs, shrill with disbelief. “Are you seriously doing this now? Can you wait until
we’re not about to drown to have this domestic, please?”

If Harry hadn’t just escaped death a second - third - time, he might blush at that. Instead, he
tries pulling his arms out of Tom’s grasp. He doesn’t have much success.

Tom leans down to hiss at Harry’s face, “You almost died.”

“But I didn’t.” Harry’s heart is thumping erratically in his chest and he focuses on that sound,
that feeling, reassures himself with the knowledge that it’s still there and working.

“But you could.” Tom cups his face and furrows his eyebrows just a little, pleading, and
Harry’s shoulders loosen. “Please. Just come back to the island?”

Harry breathes deeply, and exhales, and doesn’t look Tom in the eye when he nods.
“Alright,” he says. “Okay. You’re right.”
Tom visibly relaxes. His chest deflates. His hands loosen around Harry’s wrists and then fall
away. His face goes momentarily slack. He looks so sincerely relieved that Harry is pierced
by a sudden stab of guilt.

As Tom turns away to help Ginny with the suitcase, Harry takes a breath so deep his lungs
burn and ducks under the water. Instantly, everything is quiet again, calm. He knows Tom
will follow him down here and he’ll undoubtedly be faster, stronger. He doesn’t have much
time, but he has a few seconds advantage, and apparently that is enough to make it back to
the wreck unhindered.

The lifejacket is a beacon in the dark water, floating on the spot now that Harry has pulled it
loose. The string is caught on a splinter of metal where the plane tore open and it's easy to
pull it free. Elation surges through his whole body like electricity. He actually did something.

He turns to leave - he doesn’t have much choice when Tom grabs him around the waist and
pulls - but before he does, he notices something else. At first, confusion clouds his mind. It’s
such a small thing that he barely even recognises why it’s weird, why his brain has singled it
out as something to focus on.

The windows weren’t broken. Harry had seen that when he was diving towards the wreck.
It’s not surprising in itself - he’s heard they’re bulletproof. But now, half inside and half out,
Harry realises that the cockpit door is still firmly shut as well.

There isn’t much time to contemplate it. Tom has him above the surface in seconds, and
Harry doesn’t try speaking to him. He gets the feeling Tom doesn’t want to hear anything he
has to say. Instead, he grabs both of Harry’s hands in a crushing grip and guides one to wrap
around the handle of the suitcase so that Ginny doesn’t have to carry all of the weight. The
other he holds tight, dragging them both towards shore.

Harry can’t stop thinking about it. It could be nothing. It probably is. But it sticks in his mind
nonetheless, the way everything about this island does. When you’re already suspicious,
every little thing becomes a mystery to uncover.

But when he gets back to the shore, other matters push themselves to the surface. The
conspiracy theories can wait while they take a look inside the suitcase.
Ron is waiting in the shallows to help them in. When he sees Ginny’s head bobbing above the
gentle waves his eyes close briefly and his lips move in what Harry can only assume is a
silent ‘thank you’. They crawl onto land, all three of them exhausted, and collapse on their
backs. The lifejacket tumbles to the floor and Tom’s head lolls to the side to look at it.

“That?” He says incredulously. “That’s what you risked your life for? Are you fucking
serious?”

“Can you not do this right now?” Harry is too tired to argue. “Please.”

Tom sits up and grabs Harry’s face in his hand. It’s so unexpected that Harry flinches. Tom’s
forefinger and thumb dig into his cheeks.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says. “And you lied to me.”

Anger gives Harry another kick of energy. He slaps Tom’s hand away and says, “I wouldn’t
have had to if you’d just be normal for once. What makes you think you can make my
decisions for me?”

Ron looks between them all, raises an eyebrow at Ginny and, after she shakes her head
subtly, backs away.

“Clearly you can’t keep yourself safe, so I’m going to have to do it instead. You can make
your own decisions when you’re making good ones.”

Harry is so gobsmacked that, for a moment, he can only open and close his mouth without a
single word escaping. He’d known, he’d known, he hadn’t really needed proof at all, but to
hear Tom say so casually that he’s planning on controlling all of Harry’s decisions from now
on is infuriating. Fury is an old friend come to sit on his shoulder. It chases the chill from his
bones and replaces it with a flush that covers him from head to toe in seconds.
“You’re such an asshole, oh my god,” he says, shaking his head incredulously. “You’re
fucking crazy.”

“I’m crazy?” Tom scoffs. “I’m not the one that almost drowned myself to prove a point.
You’re acting like a child.”

“And you’re acting like a bitch.”

He doesn’t know where he’s going when he turns and leaves. Probably nowhere. There aren’t
many places he can run away to, here. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’ll mean he’s
forced to face his demons head on this time around. Right now, it just means that he can’t be
on his own unless he stomps across the sand like a child throwing a tantrum, just like Tom
said.

Fuck Tom. Fuck Tom. The need to punch something takes him by surprise. He hasn’t felt it in
a while. Probably not since the day he provoked Draco. It’s all encompassing and even more
powerful for having been ignored all this time. He curls his hands in and out of fists over and
over to quell the urge.

He has no idea how long he’s out there. In the end he finds the clearing he and Ron sat in
before and he lies flat, looking up at the sun as it filters through the trees. He’s drifting off.
Emotionally drained and helplessly lonely without Tom’s support around his shoulders, Harry
wants to curl up and lose himself for a while. Maybe he does. Maybe he falls asleep. He can’t
be sure. The next thing he knows is somebody shuffling towards him and scuffing dirt into
his face by accident.

“So,” Hermione says, apropos of nothing, plonking herself down next to Harry on the
ground. “Intense, huh?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“Everything. You and Tom. This place. That argument. Are you alright?”
“Oh.” Harry sighs. He wants to bury his face in his hands, but if Tom looks over and sees
Harry looking upset - or even remotely bothered by any of this - then Harry has lost. “Yeah. I
guess so. I mean, yes. Definitely. I’m fine, thank you.”

“What Tom did was messed up.”

“Let me guess.” Harry laughs humorlessly. “‘But he was just trying to protect me.’”

Hermione frowns. “No,” she says vehemently. “But nothing. What he did was messed up. If
he can’t see that, that’s his problem.”

“Well, not really. It’s my problem too, if he makes it my problem.” Harry’s shoulders sag and
he turns to Hermione. “But thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“That’s my speciality.” She elbows him teasingly. “If you ever need backup in another
screaming match, let me know. I’m usually very non confrontational, but I can punch well.”

Harry’s eyebrows lift. “You?” He grins. “Punched someone?”

She flexes her fingers as though reliving the event in question. “He totally deserved it.”

“I believe you.”

They sit in silence for a while. The sun is setting and it’s peaceful, despite everything, to
watch it dip beneath the horizon. For just a moment, the sky turns pink and orange and Harry
can pretend he is watching this same sunset from anywhere else in the world.

“Hermione,” he begins, voice quiet and tentative. He’s had something on his mind for a
while. “How much do you know about planes?”
She hums thoughtfully. “A little. Why?”

“Hypothetically, is it normal that the windows of a plane would survive a crash?”

Hermione tilts her head and regards him with a skeptical expression. “Are you asking me this
because you saw the plane wreckage and the windows weren’t broken?”

“I said hypothetically.”

“Well.” She considers it for a moment. “I mean, it’s possible. They’ve gotta be strong so that
people aren’t, like, sucked out of a tiny hole.”

“Okay. How about the captain’s door?”

“What?”

“The cockpit door. Would that survive a crash?”

“It depends on how bad the crash was.”

“Inconvenient how none of us actually remember any of it, isn’t it?”

“What are you getting at, Harry?” Hermione asks. She sounds exasperated, but when she
turns her face to him, there is something sharp and calculated in her eyes that gives Harry
pause. Something that suggests maybe, maybe, she knows what he’s getting at.

He ducks his head so that he can lower his voice and speak only to her. “When I was down
there, the windows were all still in one piece and the cockpit door was intact. Like, perfectly
intact. Don't you think that’s weird?”
“Not necessarily. If it survived the impact then the pressure underwater would even it out on
both sides. If it survived the impact, that is.”

“So the captain just… what? Never left the cockpit? Never opened the door? Just let himself
starve to death in there?”

“Did you see him in there? Through the windows?”

Harry hesitates, and he knows Hermione sees it. “I don’t– I didn’t see. There wasn’t really
time to look.”

He loses her. He watches it happen. “Harry, listen,” she says slowly. “I don’t know what’s
going on with you, or with you and Tom, but I just want to make sure you’re staying…
present.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you’re losing yourself in a bunch of crazy conspiracies then you aren’t here,
staying sane, with us.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut. She has a point - one that he doesn’t want to hear, but one that he
should probably acknowledge all the same. He hasn’t really been present. It’s only when he’s
with Tom, when he kissed him, when they’re side by side at night, sharing warmth, that he
properly feels at ease, like it’s safe to let his mind rest. Because–

Because he knows Tom will take care of him.

But at the same time, he saw what he saw, and he knows how he feels, and something is not
right here. If Hermione doesn’t believe him then he’ll just have to do a good job of
convincing her he isn’t losing his mind.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah. You’re right. I guess I just freaked out when I realised we’d been
here for a whole week.”

A dark look passes over her face. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“No. It’s good that you did. It’s good that someone is keeping track of the days.”

A shadow falls over Hermione’s face before she can reply. Harry shields his eyes and squints
up at Tom’s looming figure. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw is set tight.

“Hermione, will you give us a moment?” He says. He’s not looking at Harry.

She looks between them with her lip between her teeth before she holds up her hands in
surrender. “That’s my cue. But, Harry, remember what I said.”

She disappears, and Harry stares after her longingly. He really doesn't want to be alone with
Tom if they’re just going to shout at each other again, because he’s too tired to be at the top
of his game and, as much as he tries to ignore it, there’s a small sliver of hurt and guilt
unfurling in his stomach. He won’t say he’s sorry. Not out loud, anyway. But he’ll feel like
shit all the same.

“So,” Tom says, sitting down. “The suitcase had food in it. Just snacks. Crisps, chocolate
bars, stuff like that. Most of it is stale now but it’s a good find.”

“Cool,” Harry says. It is cool, actually, and a relief to know that they won’t starve for another
few days, but he doesn’t want to give Tom any of the satisfaction of bearing good news.

Tom sighs. “Harry. I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you want from me.”
He says it so sincerely, so plaintively, that Harry can’t ignore him anymore. He wants to be
on the same side as Tom again. Things were so much easier when they were aligned.

“If you don’t understand this then I just… I don’t know how to make you see. You can’t–”

“I can’t what?”

Harry lowers his voice to a hiss. “You can’t kiss me and then act like you can control me.
Okay? You can’t– you’re either one or the other. Either you’re the leader or you’re, y’know.
With me. You don’t get to be both.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“But that’s not your decision to make. I make my choices, okay?”

“You make bad choices.”

“ They’re my fucking bad choices and I’ll make them if I want.”

Tom sits back and glares, but his resolve is weakening. Maybe this is the way forward with
everyone: just making ultimatums until they finally pay attention.

“So I’m supposed to just sit on the sidelines and watch you make mistakes?” Tom says
darkly.

Harry leans over and takes his hand. His chest feels lighter for the first time all day.
“Exactly.”
Tom’s eyes slip shut and he rests his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. It’s nice, being the
one he leans on rather than the other way round yet again. Harry threads his fingers through
Tom’s hair and scratches lightly over his scalp.

“I can’t lose you.” Harry looks up to find Tom already watching him, eyes narrow and
determined. “I won’t. You’re too–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and while Harry is burning with curiosity to hear what he
would have said, he is more interested in feeling Tom’s mouth move against his again.

Tom kisses him right there in the open, and Harry doesn’t know whether this means their
argument is over, or if Tom agreed to back off, or whether Harry is making a terrible mistake,
but he clutches Tom’s shoulders and hauls him closer and kisses him back.

Harry wakes as though from a dream. He can’t pinpoint the moment he opened his eyes and
he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but one second he’s surrounded by darkness and the next
there are little pinprick stars above him. Something disturbed him, but he isn’t sure what.

He sits up. Tom is still curled around him, warm and heavy in his sleep, so it’s a struggle. His
muscles protest. He’s tired from today, not just the exercise but the screaming match that
came after it as well. Harry is used to this feeling. He used to love it, the rush that came with
anger, with yelling, with chipping away at something until he got a victory. Now it just feels
stale and rotting in the pit of his stomach, and he’s exhausted.

Something rustles over by the trees and Harry startles. He’d been about to go back to sleep -
he’d begun to think that there was no noise to begin with, no distraction, that his mind really
was playing tricks on him - but this is a definite, loud noise. He props himself up on his
elbows and squints in that direction.

It could have just been an animal. It probably was. But–

But there is a flash of pale blonde hair bobbing between the trees, getting fainter and fainter
as it gets further away. Harry’s breath catches. He wriggles into a sitting position and starts to
get up, to follow, to find out what is going on exactly, but a sleepy hand on his wrist stops
him.

“What’re you doing?” Tom mumbles, eyes slitted open. “You alright?”

He must be tired too. He never speaks so casually. He’s the only person Harry has ever met
that stays so stonily invulnerable throughout the day, and it’s a relief to know the facade
drops when he’s only half awake.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I just…”

He turns back to the woods, and the person has vanished. Maybe they were never there.
Harry could pick his way over the sleeping bodies around him to find out who’s here and
who isn’t, but it would wake everybody up and he’s just… he’s so tired.

There has been enough drama today. He doesn’t want to add to it.

“It’s nothing,” he tells Tom, and burrows back into his chest. “Go back to sleep.”
 Day Eight

Harry finds Draco huddled under the shaky awning they’d erected a few days earlier. The
weather has been vicious all day, the sky dark and angry with storm clouds. He has a jacket
wrapped around his shoulders but he’s still shivering, and his face is drawn with misery.
Harry had been meaning to confront him about the other night, but the words dry out at the
sight of his twisted frown.

“What’s wrong?” He says, settling down next to him. Draco barely moves.

“What do you want?”

“Jeez. Nice to see you too. I want to know what’s wrong with you. You’re moping.”

“Oh, because you’ve been so rational and emotionally stable lately,” Draco snaps. Harry
leans back, chest tight.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I deserve that. But I’m serious. No ulterior motive, I promise. Are
you alright?”

Draco sighs. It’s like all the fight just drains right out of him; his shoulders sag and he hangs
his head. Harry watches as he takes a hand through his messy hair. “It’s my birthday today,”
he says. “I’m eighteen.”

“Oh.” Harry blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Happy birthday?”

Draco shakes his head. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here. You know that? It was a last
minute decision. My fucking father decided that it would be fucking good for me.”

“Fucking hell.”
“I fucking know.”

Harry laughs, and after a moment Draco joins in, and it’s such a strange moment of solidarity
that Harry can’t help throwing an arm around Draco’s shoulders. He understands the
bitterness, the anger, going back and forth over what-ifs until you drive yourself insane.
Harry has done it all.

“So why are you here, then? Why the last minute decision?”

“We were supposed to be going to Paris. My father had a work thing and it was going to be,
like, a holiday for my mum and I. And then we had an argument. My father and me, I mean.
And the next thing I know, he’s packing me off to this shit show of a therapy camp.”

Harry chews the inside of his cheek. “It must have been one hell of an argument.”

Draco huffs out a humourless laugh. “He was nominated for some stupid lawyer award. I told
him I’d rather kill myself than sit through another one of his facist, circle jerk acceptance
speeches. And he sent me here.”

“Maybe he thought you were serious,” Harry says, and then hesitates. He eyes Draco
cautiously. “Were you serious?”

Draco blatantly ignores the question. “He wasn’t trying to help me, Potter. This was a
punishment.”

Harry digs his toes into the sand, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He’s never been good at
helping friends through tough times, mainly because he never had many, and this is Malfoy
of all people. He has no idea how he’s supposed to comfort his high school rival. In the end
he nudges their shoulders together and gives a hopeful half smile.
“If it’s any consolation, I bet he feels guilty as hell right now.”

Draco snorts. “I bet he doesn’t.” Then he turns to Harry with his eyebrows drawn together in
a frown. “What did you want, anyway? You must have come over here for something.”

Harry shrugs uneasily. It doesn’t feel right, confronting Draco after everything he just said.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Fuck that. Just tell me.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck. “It sounds stupid now. Like, really stupid and paranoid.
I’m going to sound stupid and crazy and paranoid.”

Draco turns to face him fully. “Oh, good. Maybe then you’ll cheer me up.”

“What were you doing last night?” He gets the words out all in a rush, as though it’ll make it
any less embarrassing.

“What?” Draco frowns.

“Where were you going last night? Like, if you were just getting up to go pee or something
then feel free to ignore me. I just– I saw you and I didn’t know–”

“Potter, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Harry sighs. “Last night. I saw you going into the woods.”

“No you didn’t. I didn’t go into the woods last night. I was sleeping.”
“Draco, I saw you. And honestly I’m more suspicious now you’re actually denying it.”

Draco pushes himself to his feet and starts to stalk down the beach. Harry scrambles after
him, kicking up sand as he goes, beginning to lose the sympathy he’d gained for Draco these
past few minutes.

“You said it yourself,” Draco calls back over his shoulder. “You’re paranoid. Maybe you’re
hallucinating.”

Harry bristles at the suggestion. It hits a little too close to home. “Actually, I said all that to
make you feel better. I’m not crazy or hallucinating, or stupid. I know what I saw. You should
really cover your hair if you’re going to be sneaking around at night. It’s like a fucking LED
lightbulb on top of your head. You look dumb.”

Draco whirls on him with his features frozen in a scowl. He jabs his finger into Harry’s chest
again and again as he speaks. “Stop acting like some fucking martyr, would you? Don’t cosy
up to me and act like you know shit about me if you’re going to turn around and accuse me
of something a second later. Just– just stay the fuck away from me, okay?” He starts to walk
away again, and Harry, stunned into silence, watches him go without following. Then, after a
brief pause turns back. “And just so you know, Potter, you are stupid if you can’t see what’s
literally right in front of you. I’m not the only one with blonde hair around here. And just so
we’re clear, my hair is my best feature.”

And, with that, he leaves.

Harry comprises everything he knows about Luna into two simple sentences.

Her name is Luna. She has blonde hair.

That’s it. That’s it. He doesn’t know how old she is, her last name, where she came from, why
she’s here in the first place. She barely speaks to anyone, and Harry doesn’t think he’s heard
more than five words out of her since they arrived.

He is stupid. He’s been a fucking idiot. How did he not see this all along? It’s one thing
keeping to yourself amongst a group of strangers, and it’s another thing entirely to stay so
removed from everybody else that nobody even misses you when you sneak away.

Luna is a mystery. Luna is suspicious, and Harry is not paranoid.

He watches her, after that. Tries to, at least, because Tom doesn’t leave his side for most of
the day. After their argument, he’s been more attentive than ever and Harry wonders whether
he should be concerned. It isn’t healthy to be this dependent on somebody, but what can he
do about it? If Tom disappeared on him now, Harry would be a mess.

And Harry has to admit, he’s a pretty good kisser.

“You’re so beautiful,” Tom murmurs, one hand at Harry’s waist, the other cupping the nape
of his neck. His fingertips are just brushing the curve of Harry’s hip and his mouth trails wet
and warm over Harry’s neck. All in all, it’s very distracting.

“You don’t even realise,” Tom continues. He nips at Harry’s collarbone. “You don’t even
know how fucking pretty you are.”

Harry’s pulse races. He’s been trying to focus on Luna over Tom’s shoulder -she’s been
sitting on the beach for the past half hour, doing absolutely nothing, just staring into space -
but it’s kind of hard when all he can think about is Tom’s hot breath against his skin, Tom’s
hair tickling his chin when he ducks to kiss a path down Harry’s throat.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, fisting Tom’s t-shirt at the back. “Tom…”

No one’s spoken to her all day. At least, not since Harry first started paying attention. He
feels like a creep, going about his day with one eye fixed on Luna at all times, but now he’s
thinking about it, it makes sense. You would be quiet and secretive if you were lying to
everyone, wouldn’t you? If you were hiding something? You wouldn’t want to get to know
the people you were betraying.

With a sigh, Tom pulls away. “Okay,” he says. “Where did you go?”

“What? Nowhere. I’m–”

“Not concentrating on me, that’s for sure.” He sneaks a hand up Harry’s thigh and squeezes.
“What’s going on? Are you alright?”

After a moment, Harry’s shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Stop that. Something’s wrong–tell me.”

Harry rolls his eyes at Tom’s demanding tone. “I didn’t want to have to say anything, but
you’re just such a bad kisser.”

Tom pinches Harry’s thigh and Harry jerks backwards, giggling. “I know that’s not true,”
Tom says, hooking a hand under Harry’s chin and getting close, so close that every time he
speaks their lips brush together. “You’ve certainly never had any complaints before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Harry says breathlessly.

Tom’s eyes go dark. It’s fascinating to watch it happen, to see the way he straightens up and
smirks slowly. He has always been alert and domineering and predatory, but in times like
these it’s as though those qualities have been dialed to eleven. Harry can’t take his eyes off
Tom.
“I’m sure there is,” he says quietly, leaning down once more to trace his tongue over Harry’s
lips.

Utterly distracted though he is, even with his mind clouded by a thick fog of arousal, Harry
can’t help noticing Luna’s spot is empty. At some point in the past minute, she disappeared.

“Fuck. I’ve gotta go.” Harry springs to his feet. Tom watches him with furrowed eyebrows.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s harsh.”

“Shit.” Because he can’t just leave him there looking all handsome and confused like a
kicked puppy, Harry plants a firm kiss on Tom’s mouth. “I’ll be right back, okay? Promise.
Then we can… continue with this.”

Tom watches him with a sharp gaze. “I’m holding you to that, darling,” he says. “If you’re
not back soon–”

“You’ll come looking for me.” Harry grins. “I know.”

He heads towards Ron and Hermione first. They’re sitting a little further down the beach, just
a little bit further than Luna was. They both startle when Harry interrupts them.

“Have either of you seen Luna? Where did she go?”

“Luna?” Ron’s forehead crinkles.

“She was here?” Hermione scratches the back of her neck.

Jesus. No one even notices her when she’s here, let alone when she’s gone. How did Harry
not notice this sooner?

He doesn’t bother replying. Ginny is nowhere to be seen and he doesn’t want to speak to
Draco again so he heads for the forest instead, where he saw Luna disappearing last night.
He’s not sure where he’s going and at various points the path diverges. He has to choose the
route that looks the most trodden down, even though he knows it’s a long shot.

What is he even expecting to find? What is he hoping to find? It’s not like Luna will just
confess to anything if he catches her in a weird situation. Still, he presses forward. There is a
desperate need growing in him, to prove that he isn’t crazy, even if it’s only to himself.

A hushed voice has him freezing where he stands. The speaker is hidden around a bend in the
path, obscured by trees, but it’s unmistakably familiar.

Harry’s skin goes cold and panic crawls over him in a rush.

Luna says, “No, don’t worry. No one saw me.”

Harry’s head goes empty. There’s only white noise and static behind his eyes as he blunders
through the bracken and the trees and bursts out the other side, chest heaving.

“What the fuck–” But he cuts himself off. Two pairs of eyes blink at him, shocked. Harry
sucks in a breath. “Ginny?”

“Harry?” She looks between Harry and Ginny, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. Her
face goes red and her jaw clenches suddenly. She storms towards him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m not the one following people into forests like a creep!”

Harry stops short. There’s a retort on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. She’s got a
point. What was his plan if Luna just came out here to pee? Or–

He takes in their stances, the way they stand so close that their shoulders and their hands
brush together, the way Ginny is positioned ever so slightly in front of Luna as though to
protect her. His face flames as a sudden wave of realisation crashes over him.

“Oh,” he says meekly. “You…”

Ginny’s eyes blaze. “I what?”

“Nothing! I didn’t mean anything by it. Just… you two? I mean, are you…”

Fuck. Harry has always been an awkward person, but this is a new low. He can’t even spit the
words out.

Before Ginny can punch him in the face or whatever else she’s planning, Luna steps forward
and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Gin,” she says softly. “It’s okay.”

Ginny’s jaw twitches. “But–”

“He’s not gonna tell anyone.” Luna looks to Harry. “Are you?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “No, I swear. I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
Ginny steps towards him. “If you do, not even your boyfriend will be able to save you.” Then
she hesitates, and punches his shoulder lightly. “Thanks, I guess.”

With that, she brushes past him and heads the way Harry had come, towards the beach again.
She pauses when nobody follows her and looks back over her shoulder.

“Luna?”

Luna bites her lip. “I’ll be right there,” she says, and gives her a reassuring smile. “You go
ahead.”

And then they’re alone, Harry and Luna. Neither of them seems to know what to say. Harry
feels awkward and out of his depth, the magnitude of his idiocy only just catching up with
him. Ginny probably should have punched him in the face.

Finally, Luna heaves a sigh and sinks to the ground. Harry joins her, sitting cross legged and
digging his fingers into the dirt. “I’m really sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I don’t really mind if people know. But Ginny wants to keep it
private.”

Harry nods. “It certainly seemed that way. How long have you guys been… together?”

Luna smiles. “We’re not really together yet. Not spiritually, anyway. She… lost someone. I
think it really fucked with her. Her aura’s a mess. I don’t think she’s ready for a relationship
yet. But it’s nice, you know? To have somebody you can be close to in this place. Kind of
like you and Tom.”

Harry flushes. Does everyone know about that already? They have been spectacular bad at
hiding it, to be fair. “That’s– I do like Tom. Spiritually. I guess our auras match up, or
whatever. ”
Luna tilts her head at him. “That’s… not really how that works,” she says. “But thanks for
trying.”

They lapse into silence. Harry is conscious of time ticking on and the promise he had made
Tom. But it doesn’t feel right to just leave Luna here alone after interrupting her… date. She’s
odd. Harry knows that. She’s odd and quiet and she looks at Harry like she knows all his
secrets, but it’s strangely comfortable to sit side by side without speaking.

After a moment, Luna turns to him again. “What were you doing, by the way? Following us?
What did you think you’d find?”

And here, Harry draws a blank. He can’t think of any excuse, any reasonable cause for being
so paranoid. Luna is watching him so attentively that it’s as though all the pent up emotion
just evaporates. He tells her the truth.

“I was suspicious.”

“Of me?”

“Yeah, I guess. Of everyone. But I guess no one really knew you, so I took it out on you
alone. Sorry about that.”

She shrugs. “People’ve done that all my life, Harry. What did you think I was up to?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. I really don’t. There’s just something not quite right about this place,
okay? I can feel it.”

“Spiritually?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Ha ha. I’m serious. Weird things have been happening. Suitcases showing up out of
nowhere, everyone surviving the wreck.” Bile rises in his throat at the memory. “Almost
everyone, anyway. I just thought maybe you knew something about it.”

Luna is quiet for a long time. Harry is waiting for her to laugh or tell him he’s crazy - though
he knows she won’t, not Luna, he can tell she’s really listening - but it never comes. Instead,
she says, “I do.”

His head whips around. “What?”

“There’s definitely something weird about this place. I hear people talking sometimes, you
know? It only ever happens at night. Sometimes there are people in the trees as well. Just
watching us sleep.”

Despite the heat, goosebumps pop up all over Harry’s arms. A tingling that starts up at the
top of his head works it’s way down his spine. He feels sweaty and breathless.

“What?” He says again, weakly.

Luna shakes her head. “It’s probably nothing,” she says, pushing herself to her feet and
starting back along the path. She throws one last smile over her shoulder. “I’ve been told I’m
not all that grounded in reality, so you never know. Maybe it only ever happened in my
head.”

And, once again, Harry is left alone.

Tom is pacing the beach by the time Harry gets back. When he catches sight of him, he
throws his arms up and starts to approach.
“I was just about to send out a search party,” he says. “Where have you been?”

“I just… got held up talking to Luna,” Harry replies. He has already decided he isn’t telling
Tom what they talked about, or the exact details of what he interrupted. Then, when Tom
comes closer and moves to kiss him, Harry remembers how Luna had mentioned them. He
shies away.

“Tom,” he murmurs, looking around conspicuously. “I think everybody knows about us.”

Tom stares at him blankly. “Okay?”

“I thought we were keeping it quiet?”

A funny expression flits over Tom’s face, gone before Harry can fully examine it. He stands
stiffly, doesn’t try to get into Harry’s space anymore, and straight away Harry misses the
closeness. “You don’t want people to know about us?” He asks carefully.

Harry squirms. “I don’t– I thought you didn’t. I don’t know. I just assumed.”

At this, he seems to relax. A slow smile spreads over his face and he steps closer again, curls
an arm around Harry’s waist. “Harry,” he says. “I want the entire world to know that you’re
mine.” Then his smile sharpens and his gaze darts between Harry’s eyes and his lips. “But I
get it. You’re so pretty, I’m not sure I want anyone looking at you either.”

“What–” Harry starts, but Tom already has him by the wrist and drags him towards the trees
again. When they reach the opening to the forest Tom pushes him back against a tree and
leans in for a very thorough, very brief kiss. Harry is panting, chest heaving and pupils blown
wide, by the time Tom pulls away.

“Come on,” he says.

They go deeper, until darkness swallows them up and the only light that streaks across their
faces comes through the tree branches overhead. Harry stills.

“Tom,” he says, still breathing heavy. “Just– just kiss me already.”

“No.” Harry is surprised by how sharply Tom replies. Then his face softens, and he says,
“Not here.”

He’s looking around, Harry realises, and the trees and the bushes all around them. Almost as
if he was looking for somebody. Almost as if he expected to find someone hiding.

Harry’s mind is too addled from having Tom’s tongue in his mouth to pay those thoughts
much attention. He pushes them to the back of his mind and lets Tom bring him just a little
further into a different clearing. Harry can’t see any difference in this one compared to the
last one, but he’s already waited too long. He’s not going to waste more time talking.

Tom’s hands are suddenly everywhere: cupping the back of his neck, sliding down his side,
holding him by the hips, cupping his ass. Every time he thinks he’s getting used to it, they
slip over his body to settle somewhere new. Tom’s mouth tastes sweet, like the berries
they’ve been eating.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps when Tom backs him against the trunk of another tree. His hands
squeeze the backs of Harry’s thighs and urge him forward ever so slightly, encouraging him
to jump. “Tom…”

“It’s okay,” Tom murmurs, breath warm and damp against Harry’s neck. “I’ve got you.”

Harry jumps, and Tom holds him steady. He wraps his legs around Tom’s waist and crosses
his ankles together, arms flung over Tom’s shoulders and trembling with the effort of keeping
himself up. The bark of the tree scratches at his back even through his t-shirt but he’s too
turned on to notice or even care. Tom’s thigh is pressed firmly between Harry’s legs, rocking
back and forth to grind against Harry’s dick. Harry throws his head back and squeezes his
eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation.
“Oh my god,” he says, and it comes out a high pitched whine.

“That’s is,” Tom breathes. “Just like that. You’re so beautiful, Harry. So gorgeous. And
you’re all mine, aren’t you? Everybody knows it now. Everybody’s going to know what you
let me do to you.”

Tom’s voice in his ear, silky-low and insistent, has Harry’s thighs trembling. It’s been so
long– he hasn’t been able to touch himself since they arrived on this godforsaken island, and
it’s the longest he’s gone without jerking off for years. He’s going to come in ten seconds flat
if he isn’t careful.

“Tom.” He bites his lip. His face burns. “Tom, wait. These are my only pair of trousers.
Please don’t make me come in them, oh my god. That would be so embarrassing.”

Tom freezes. He stops moving his leg and instead rests his forehead against Harry’s shoulder.
Then his shoulders hitch up and down quickly and Harry realises he’s laughing.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tom says. “You’re unbelievable.”

He eases Harry carefully to his feet, waiting long enough to make sure he’s okay and
balanced, before his hands are fumbling at the button of Harry’s jeans. He pulls the zipper
down and gets a hand inside. Harry stopped wearing underwear almost immediately - it was
definitely a better option than wearing the same pair over and over again - so Tom can just
curl a fist around Harry’s bare cock and stroke him firmly from base to tip. Harry cries out
and his knees buckle, but Tom catches him around the waist and holds him steady, never once
stilling his hand. Tears bead at the corners of Harry’s eyes. This is the first time somebody
else has ever touched him here.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, clutching Tom’s forearm.

“That’s the goal,” Tom replies, and kisses him. “It’s okay,” he says against Harry’s lips. “I’ve
got you, darling. Let go.”
Harry does. His body goes rigid and tense for a few seconds as his cock pulses in Tom’s fist,
and then all his limbs sag. He’s boneless and exhausted in Tom’s arms, head lolling against
his shoulder, eyes already slipping shut.

Tom hooks a finger under Harry’s chin and, wordlessly, reels him into another deep kiss.
Harry follows blindly.

All Harry can think, as Tom holds his face steady and gets him worked up all over again, is
how safe he feels, how secure, how he could stay here forever in Tom’s arms and he wouldn’t
even mind, and how terrifying that is.
End Notes

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