Chapter Text
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.”