Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter or Lost.

Warnings: Some language, some violence.

Revised 2.13.24: Major plot-holes fixed in the first two chapters, along with some minor grammatical concerns.

Enjoy the chapter.

Day One:

A screaming rush of noise flooded his senses as consciousness returned in a sickening lurch. Harry forced his eyes open, blearily trying to recall what had happened. He blinked slowly as he caught sight of the clear blue sky above him through lopsided glasses.

He blinked again.

The sky was still there. He was lying down, on sand from the gritty feeling. An uncomfortable weight pressed against his chest and lower limbs, and the sky was definitely still there. Two uncomfortable truths that blatantly disregarded the fact that he'd been on a muggle aeroplane just moments ago.

Shit.

His hearing adjusted slowly, the deafening warbled tones he'd woken up to becoming distinguishable around him. Screeching metal, stuttering and popping engines, and a chorus of screams and shouts.

Shit. The sinking feeling only got worse.

"Help! Someone please help me!"

Instinct more than anything made him jolt upright, willing his wand to his had from the holster attached to his ankle. Sharp pain shot through his skull at the sudden movement and the nausea that followed was sickening. And most importantly, his hand remained empty,

The reason why was easy enough to spot once his vision cleared, and Harry groaned at his luck. The weight and pain on his legs that he'd rationalized as coming from being thrown out of a flying plane at Merlin knows how fast or how high was more accurately caused by a heaping twist of metal debris resting atop his two limbs, pinning them together in the sand, along with his wand.

He pushed against the wreckage with little result. The debris hardly moved.

Double shit.

"Please! Someone help me!'

Momentarily abandoning his struggle with his legs, Harry took a moment to quickly scan the area around him. He was on a beach, further up near the tree line than most of the wreckage. Pieces of the plane he'd been flying in ten minutes ago were littered across his line of vision. Panicked muggles were strewn about the sand haphazardly, obviously in varying states of shock. His eyes flit across each one of them briefly, searching for possible signs of immediate trouble and the cry he'd locked in on earlier.

A man was screaming, pinned down underneath a larger piece of the plane, with three others already surrounding him to help. A man in a dark suit directed the rest to lift the debris while he pulled the man out. Further along, a young man was shakily attempting to resuscitate an unmoving woman. A blond woman screaming hysterically, sitting underneath a wing of the plane. A man in a Hawaiian shirt wandering around clutching his head. A dark haired man calling out frantically, in Korean if Harry wasn't mistaken. Another shouting "Walt!" repeatedly, both obviously searching for the loved ones they'd been sitting next to just moments before.

Finally, his eyes past a woman crouched near the water, and he caught sight of wavy blonde hair. "Someone, please help me!" she cried out hopelessly in what sounded like an Australian accent, clutching her stomach with both hands. His heart jumped when he realized she must be pregnant, and no doubt shaken up by the crash.

A sit rep formulating in his mind, he quickly returned to trying to get his legs free, mind whirling with how the situation should be handled.

There goes your hero-complex, a snide voice commented in his head, again. You really should just leave it to the authorities.

"Shut it," he mumbled, still struggling with the seemingly unmovable debris in front of him and trying to ignore the growing pain in his skull.

"Come on," he muttered to the rooted metal, "Move, damn it!"

Every second stuck here was another second someone else in this wreckage could be in serious trouble. A knot formed in his gut, another snide little voice reminding him that he didn't want to be here. This was the last place he needed to be.

From the position he was stuck in, he simply didn't have the leverage to lift the metal on his own which put a damper on any hero-saving reflex he had. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve with a shaky breath, wincing as pain jolted through his head. When he saw the glistening red on his hand, he realized that the warm liquid wasn't just sweat. He bit in another curse, and wiped his brow again, tracing it for the source.

Sweat and more blood took the previous' place in seconds. He winced as his fingers crossed over an area of mangled flesh. Head wounds always did bleed entirely too much to know whether or not something was seriously wrong.

His feet still stuck where he'd found them, and the throbbing pain of his head growing as he became more aware, Harry looked back up at the pregnant woman and saw that another passenger with dark hair shaved closely to his skull had already run forward to help. A dull recognition sparked as he noticed it was the same man who'd pulled the old man out from under the plane debris.

He was on one knee, hand pressed against the woman's stomach as he talked to her urgently. From the professional manner he inspected her belly and then took here pulse, Harry had an inkling that he might be a doctor of some sort.

Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't panicking as most of the surviving passengers were. In fact, he seemed pretty unflappable, even as he stood up and called out to a larger man with a head of curly black hair. Harry could faintly hear his shouts over the stuttering turbine that was still struggling to run a plane in pieces.

"You need to stay with her! She can't move with the baby, so you need to stay right here. Stay with her!" he shouted before running in the direction of the young man crouched over the woman Harry had caught sight of earlier.

As the wizard watched the suited man push the boy away and tilt the woman's head at a better angle before attempting his own resuscitation, Harry had the numb and largely foreign feeling that his help wasn't needed.

This guy was good.

He supposed muggles had been getting on without errant wizards whisking in to save the day for lifetimes, but seeing the competence in person was fairly refreshing. And an unspeakable relief.

Harry let his body fall back into the sand, giving up on un-trapping his feet and taking a moment to breathe and rest his aching head.

Holy shit. He had somehow just survived being flung out of a freaking plane! An incredulous laugh escaped him as the moment really sunk in.

Not really having the motivation to move, Harry settled in to piece together what the hell had happened.

Aside from the obvious plane crash onto the island, it was difficult to connect the dots on just how the astronomically unlikely crash had even happened.

One moment he had been dozing in his cramped seat, then a cacophony of sounds, colors, seismic shakes, wind and one painful smack to the head later he was blinking up at the sky from a beach.

How?

He had plenty of enemies, obviously. He was the Harry Potter, and that didn't come lightly. And sure, many of those enemies went to incredible lengths to make his life, and inevitable death, absolute hell.

But wizards had a flair for the dramatic. He didn't know why, but they always insisted on melodrama. Given a choice between quick and easy and long and difficult, they always chose the latter. When someone was out to get him, they made sure he knew. Kidnappings. Wizarding duels, and diabolical monologues included.

Pulling an aeroplane in half mid-flight and hoping Harry just bashed his brains in was a little anti-climatic compared to what he normally went through. And didn't that show how sad his life had become?

He couldn't think of anyone recent that he'd pissed off enough to have them track him down on a muggle flight and pull the plane down around all their ears anyway. Not to mention he was still alive, along with a multitude of others, and no one else was moving in to finish him off. So, for now, he could mark that one off the list.

He hadn't sensed any magical interference either. But then again, he hadn't really been looking for it. Believe it or not, when not on the job or chasing down some insane lunatic, he did like to maintain at least some semblance that his life was normal. It was one of the reasons travelling muggle-style was so refreshing. Usually.

Most in the Wizarding World would hardly guess the Boy-Who-Lived flew, let alone know how to track him down. In the time that he wandered through terminals or sat in a plane, Harry could breathe freely and in complete anonymity, something he rarely got to feel these days.

The only precaution he'd ever bothered with was keeping his wand on his person, and even that was in a holster safely strapped to his leg. He'd be reconsidering that in the future thanks to his current problem.

Incredibly enough, unless there was some hidden plot he didn't have the foresight to see, it seemed that he had somehow managed to get caught up in a disaster that wasn't magical in nature, or somehow caused by him. The thought made him giddy. Or maybe that was the lightheadedness from his bashed in head.

It honestly didn't matter if he had a madman chasing after him, or a prophecy predicting his doom, or no magic at all. Things were always guaranteed to go to hell. Even the bloody muggle turbulence was out to get him.

Ron was going to have a field day when he got back.

Still, the fact that the plane had been ripped in half didn't escape him. He might not pay that much attention to the happenings of the muggle world, but even he knew that didn't just happen. A freak wind, or some sort of existing structural damage maybe? He freely admitted that his technical understanding of the mechanics and physics behind muggle life was limited to pure guesswork. Either way, he wanted a refund.

"Hey! Watch out! You have to get out from under there!"

He opened his eyes again, leaning forward just in time to see the hero of the hour running back towards the pregnant woman. He watched in morbid fascination as the two men and woman then raced to get away from the falling plane wing above them. They jumped out of the way just as it cracked and fell to ground in a small explosion that sent several people stumbling.

The moment gave him the unsettled feeling of what others must have felt like when watching him jump through hoops in some of his less than savory moments.

He gazed out at the fiery debris and struggling passengers for a moment more before turning his head away. Closing his eyes tightly, he breathed in and out in a practiced motion. The little snide voice was right; this was honestly the last thing he needed to deal with right now.

Earlier concerns and panic aside, this was no way in hell his problem and no one demanded he do anything. It was his good fortune that with how well the muggles seemed to be handling it – namely the man in the suit – he didn't have to. As far as he was concerned, sitting here playing another lost muggle until a search party came would be just fine. Relieved at the mental decision, he opened his eyes again and returned to his calculations.

From the look of the sandy beach he was resting on and the fact that they'd been on a trans-Pacific flight, they were guaranteed to be in a place not easily reached and equally hard to just apparate from and wash his hands of this mess completely. That kind of distance, mixed in with the probable concussion meant a likely splinching, and landing in the middle of the ocean if he got his mark wrong.

His thin knowledge of aeroplanes told him there'd be a tracking device on the plane that would tell their location. And the pilots had to have radioed in the situation before they'd crashed. Muggle authorities had to be coming. And with his status, potentially some wizarding ones. The only question was when.

With wizards, he could expect authorities to be popping in within a few minutes. With muggles it could be anywhere in between hours to days for all he knew.

"Are you okay?" an accented voice asked, jolting Harry out of his thoughts. Turning his head, he was relieved to see a Middle Eastern man with black, curly hair that nearly reached his shoulders and wearing a black tank top and dark cargo pants moving closer to him on his hands and knees.

He nodded briefly, wincing as he jerked his head towards his feet, "Yeah. A little stuck, but alive for the moment."

"So I see," the man said quickly as he reached him, turning to examine both the twisted metal and his feet below.

"Do you feel any pain in your legs?" he asked urgently as he better positioned himself to move the debris.

"Only some pressure. I think the sand is keeping the metal from completely crushing them."

Hopefully. Adding crushed legs to the list of his current problems was not an exciting thought.

"Good," the man replied, pausing briefly to look back at him. "We need to get this off of you before it causes any damage. I'm going to count to three, and then I want you to pull your legs out while I lift this."

"Got it."

He position himself in a bracing crouch, hands testing the debris until he found suitable points to lift from. "1. . . 2. . . 3!"

Harry jerked himself back with both hands as the man strained to lift the crumpled metal. The shift in pressure on his feet was painful as they slid free, but his gritted his teeth and kept the pain to himself. Leaning forward, he rolled up his pant legs to check for injuries. Aside from a few scratches and bruises his legs were fine, his wand holster strapped carefully to the right.

Wand seemingly intact, he rolled his pants back down as the man before him dropped the debris back to the ground.

"Are you injured?" the man asked as he dropped to the ground next to him, breathing heavily.

"No, thankfully," Harry said, before sighing. "Just a little upset."

"Understandably so," the man commented, sliding over in the sand to rest his back against the palm tree next to Harry. He stuck out his hand, "My name is Sayid."

Harry barely hesitated, though a hand reached up and brushed his hair down over his forehead in that childhood habit he still hadn't grown out over. Leaning over, he shook the other's hand slightly, "Harry."

It's nice to meet you, Harry, excluding the circumstances."

He managed a weak chuckle, "Yeah, you too. Thanks for the help."

"Not a problem."

The screaming had finally died down completely he noticed as he leaned back. Outright panic was reverting back to familiar forms of shock. Thankfully so, his headache was bad enough as it was.

He winced, raising a hand to gingerly search for the epicenter of the pain with his fingers. He felt the beginnings of a rather sizable gash a few inches above his right ear. Sand had made it gritty and helped slow the bleeding, but it'd be hell to clean later.

He winced in anticipation, taking a moment to tear off a sleeve of his shirt, wad it up, and press it to the gash. Ignoring the large spick of pain the pressure caused, he sighed and settled back against his own palm tree.

"So, what do you suppose happens now?" he asked, hoping Sayid was more informed on the holy-shit-we-just-crashed-onto-a-fucking-island protocol.

"We wait. The plane will have had a transceiver. They'll know we've crashed and they'll know exactly where to look for us," Sayid said with a sigh.

Harry nodded, "How long you think that'll take?"

"Half a day, 24 hours at most."

The estimate was better than his own suspicions, so he'd take it.

He might even be able to get to the States and report back to Kingsley – and more importantly, Ginny – before there was any widespread panic that the Savior of the Wizarding World was MIA. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. Until then, maybe he'd even catch up on his sleep. Merlin knows he needed it.

A blast of familiar green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him. Terrified, some part of him already knowing what was waiting for him, he opened his eyes.

Cedric Diggory was lying spread-eagle on the ground beside him, stiller than he'd ever been in life. Harry released a sobbing breath, feet dragging until he collapsed next to the boy. Harry's eyes searched for Cedric's own, dragging over the unmoving face over details he had memorized a thousand times over. The indent of his chin, mouth half-open, the faint expression of surprise etched permanently into his skin. A batch of freckles, nearly unnoticeable on his cheekbone, open grey eyes staring sightlessly before him.

It was amazing how young Cedric looked, the passing years only reminding Harry of how much the other boy had since missed since that fateful night.

He reached over, brushing a hand over his classmates face and reverently closing his eyes. Bowing his head, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Cedric," the words were achingly familiar in his head, all of this was achingly familiar, another reminder of just how often he'd spent time here in his dreams. A breeze swept through the foggy air. Except this time it was different.

"Harry."

His head snapped up to see Cedric standing by Tom Riddle's marble tombstone, Hogwart's uniform blowing lightly in the growing wind. He glanced back down, but something told him Cedric's dead body would be gone.

His hand closed over empty air.

"Harry, you need to leave this place."

His head tilted in confusion and he frowned, feeling uneasy. This wasn't how the dream went. The wind around them was pick up even more, the dead grass stirring around them.

He licked his lips, uncertain of the change, "This is just a dream, Cedric," he replied.

Cedric took a step forward, shaking his head urgently. "No, no it's not a dream. Harry, the magic here. . . This island, the barrier here is faded, disappearing. I don't have time to explain it. Just, please listen to me, Harry. You have to leave. You have to get off the –"

Harry was pulled awake to someone shaking him. His eyes jerked open and his hand automatically reached towards his ankle before he caught himself and forced it back into the sand. He blinked twice to ease the blurriness out of his vision.

Sayid was crouched down beside him and, from the slight narrowing of his eyes, had not missed Harry's hand movement. His expression cleared shortly, and he smiled. "Sorry to wake you, my friend. Earlier I noticed your head wound and thought it not wise for you to sleep for too long in case you have a concussion."

In reminder, a sharp jolt of pain shot through his skull and he winced. He nodded gratefully anyway, even as he lifted a hand to brace his throbbing head, "Probably wise, thanks."

"In any case, you were not resting easy," Sayid continued, "Not dreaming of the flight I hope."

"No," Harry said, dropping his hand with a frown and looking out to the beach before them, "Something else."

Sayid stood up, looking out to the beach himself, "I think I'll have a look out there, see if my luggage survived the crash."

Harry nodded, thinking of his own carry-on. It was charmed against muggle interest, but it was always better safe than sorry. Last thing he wanted was someone poking around in one of the bag's compartments and stumbling across his Cloak of Invisibility.

"I'd better do the same," he said, shifting to stand up and taking the offered hand that helped heft him up out of the sand.

Nausea struck in protest at his upright position, and he caught himself swaying until Sayid caught him.

"Careful. A head injury like that could be very serious."

He bit out a grin, "After surviving being flung out of a crashing aeroplane? I'll take the bump on my head and keep most of the complaining to myself."

Sayid chuckled, "For such a situation, fortune has been very kind."

An understatement, definitely. It was amazing they'd even hit an island in the middle of an ocean, let alone survived impact.

Sand poured in his sneakers, the gritty particles creeping into his socks as they made their way down to beach. Sandals were one of the first things he was grabbing, when he found his rucksack. That, and a good dose of Star Grass for his head.

"What does your luggage look like? I'll keep an eye out for it," Sayid called over as he drifted to a part of the wreckage with dozens of cases.

"Erm," Harry said somewhat sheepishly, pushing up his glasses, "It's a Minnie Mouse rucksack. Medium sized. Pink, white polkadots, with uh, black ears on top," he mimed the ears on his own head.

With the Wizarding World's complete lack of understanding to the wardrobe and accessory styles of the outside world, he considered it a minor miracle that they'd picked up on such a well-known character, even if they'd confused the children's themed items for the standard of luggage of all age groups. That, and his wife's infatuation with everything adorable – or, as Harry suspected, her sick sense of humor – had led to the bag being a present last Christmas.

And he was a sucker for keeping his wife happy, what could he say. That and his childhood had engrained in him a sense not to toss a perfectly functional bag just because it was a little. . . childish.

He'd already marked the date on a calendar for the day when Lily got old enough that he could legitimately hand it off to him. As for now, he doubted the newborn had much need for it.

He couldn't complain too much, aside from the poor design choice the rucksack was a lifesaver on the road. Designed for wizards who spent a lot of time with muggles, the modern carry-on had multiple magical compartments that were warded from muggle eyes. Even when opened, charms guaranteed that muggles would see only what they expected to see.

And if his enemies drastically underestimated an opponent carrying a Minnie Mouse rucksack, well, that didn't hurt either.

While Sayid was polite enough not to say anything outright, his look spoke volumes. Harry cleared his throat. "My wife has a weird sense of humor."

Sayid floundered on what to say, choosing wisely to just "Ahh," in attempted understanding.

"Yours?" Harry asked, kindly moving past the moment. It happened a lot.

"An ordinary black carry-on suitcase, I'm afraid."

"Well, we can't all live on the edge," Harry quipped.

Sayid laughed, surveying the luggage around him and crouching down to check one, "Yes, I suppose not. At least yours will be easy to spot."

"Right," Harry agreed, beginning to look in earnest himself.

He caught sight of it half an hour later, halfway across the beach near the gently lapping tide. He reached down to pull it up and the shift in altitude came with a sudden wave of dizziness. Equilibrium momentarily lost, Harry stumbled to a knee, barely catching himself with a hand in the sand. He waited for the spike of pain that jolted forward with the harsh landing, breathing through gritted teeth.

"Hey," a low voice called out, coming closer until a hand touched his shoulder, "Are you alright?"

He waved his free hand blindly, "Fine, fine. Just a little dizzy."

The figure shifted, his hand remaining on his shoulder as he moved to Harry's side. "That head wound doesn't look too good," he commented, obviously getting a closer look.

Harry squinted, opening his eyes to get a good look at the man. He was older, Harry estimated him to be in his mid-fifties, and bald. A cut crossed vertically over one of his blue eyes, which were peering at Harry's head in serious concern, his brow wrinkled in thought.

Seeing Harry looking he smiled, gesturing to the sand, "Maybe you should sit down."

Harry shook his head carefully, "Nah, I'm fine. Just moved too quickly for a second."

The man studied him for a moment's more, before smiling again, "I heard there's a doctor that survived the crash," he nodded to the left near the tree line, "over there. You might want to have him look at you."

Curiosity peaked, Harry looked over. Several of the injured were laid out, the man in the suit, the hero from earlier, crouched among them. Looked like his gut feeling was right, he had been a doctor.

"He looks like he has his hands full," Harry observed seriously, not mentioning the fact that his head would be just fine after he got into his rucksack.

"You can never be too careful."

Pasting a smile on at the consideration, Harry told the man what he wanted to hear, "I'll stop by later. Thanks, Mr. . . "

"Locke," the man informed him, offering his free hand, "John Locke."

"Like the philosopher," he said in amusement, shaking the hand, "I'm Harry, Thanks again, Mr. Locke."

He sat down on the plane wing heavily, holding back the sudden spike of nausea that was becoming a common occurrence as he dragged the hefty Minnie Mouse rucksack onto the space next to him. Unzipping the compartment in front, Harry opened the flap to reveal a much deeper, compartment that held a number of folded muggle-styled clothes.

Reaching a hand to the switch resting on the side of the compartment wall, he flicked it down three times. Gears clicked forward and the container holding the shirts creaked ominously before sliding downwards and out of view, robes followed, followed by battle gear, and resting on a container that held his dragon hide boots and a comfortable pair of sandals.

He had his priorities after all. And he hated sand.

Pulling off his sneakers and socks, he replaced the footwear quickly with a sigh of relief. Tucking the sneakers away, he zipped up the compartment and turned the rucksack to the left side pocket that held a few potions that was the wizard's equivalent to a first aid kid.

The vials were positioned on a small rotating wheel, which held up to 20 potions at any given time. With Harry's tendency to attract trouble it was no surprise that he had a few outside of the norm for extreme emergencies. Hermione wouldn't let him leave home without them. However, spinning the wheel with flick of his wrist, he did keep a few common pain relievers in the back that worked wonders on common ailments with just a sip.

Certainly an easy Episkey would take care of his head, but being surrounded by several muggles that had already noted the wound and who would probably question the sudden disappearance removed that option. A sip of Star Grass Solution would sooth all of the annoying symptoms without causing that problem.

Passing a bottle of Pepper-Up, Harry hit his mark, sliding the vial of Star Grass out of its slot. With a quick glance to make sure no one was avidly staring, he unstoppered the glass and took a quick swig the creamy orange liquid.

The effects worked blessedly fast, and Harry placed the bottle back in its slot, estimating he had four more doses of it left. With a far clearer head, he zipped up his bag fully, placing it at his feet. Some of the passengers had begun building piles of driftwood, lighting fires at Sayid's encouragement for any possible search crews that could travel by after dark. People were settling down around them, some preparing make shift beds just in case rescuers didn't make it until tomorrow.

Harry was glad to see that the man who'd been searching for "Walt" after the crash had found him alive in the form of his son. Both chose to settle a few feet down from the wizard for the moment as they searched through some luggage of their own. Another man, with longer dirty blond hair had settled down near them as well, finding a book to read from somewhere – a harlequin romance from the look of the cover – and Sayid soon arrived with some driftwood of his own to start another fire in the center of the gathering.

The larger man with curly hair, the one who'd helped the doctor and pregnant woman soon joined them, sitting down on the wing right next to Harry.

Nervously he stared at the wood that Sayid was expertly lighting on fire, wringing his hands. "Dude," he finally asked, glancing at 'Walt' uncomfortably as he leaned forward to catch everyone's attention, "What are we going to do with the B-O-D-Y-S?"

It was a good question. Up to this point everyone had been struggling to ignore the dead that lay across the beach, but it seemed callous to just leave them.

"What does that mean, flapjack?" the man with the book asked rudely in a Southern, American acent.

"He means bodies," Walt said in an unimpressed tone.

"That'd be B-O-D-I-E-S, genius," the man continued.

"Well, yeah, whatever," Curly-hair shifted next to him, "What are we going to do with them? They're everywhere."

Sayid took charge, "We'll need to move them. We should clean up anyway, sort out the luggage, find anything that may be useful, such as food and water."

"I'll see if there's any food left in the gallery," Curly-hair offered, causing Arsehole (as Harry had dubbed the Southern-accented book reader) to snort, "Sure you will."

"I'll help you," Harry volunteered shortly. The gallery was still attached to the main cabin of the plane where a lot of their fellow passengers hadn't escaped the crash. The dead bodies would be gruesome enough without having to deal with them alone.

"Thanks man, I'm Hurly."

"Harry."

They'd managed to find plenty of food in the gallery, Hurly losing the contents of his stomach halfway up. To distract himself he'd kept up a steady stream of conversation with Harry. And Harry, well, he'd never been the best conversationalist.

"So where you from, man?"

"The UK."

"Yeah? Going on vacation or something?"

Harry shuffled around one of the rows, "Just finished."

"So, uh, what's in LA?"

He crouched down to move one of the bags blocking the cart from sliding down easily."Work, I suppose."

"Oh?" Hurly said breathily, eyes darting around uneasily as he tried to keep talking, "What do you do?"

Harry sighed, ". . . I'm a detective. International affairs."

"That's awesome man!"

"Yeah."

. . .

"So. . . you married?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. You got kids?"

Harry paused for a moment, clearing his throat, "Yes, three."

"Three kids! Seriously? But you're like, younger than I am."

"I'm older than I look."

"So how old are you?"

Harry sighed again, but let the uncomfortable man continue the game of twenty questions. If it let him handle the situation a little better, Harry was fine with the personal digging.

When they finally finished gathering the food, both left quickly with no arguments.

With no rescue team in sight, people were starting to settle down in groups for the night. Resigned to the impromptu camping, Harry chose to settle down near the end of the camp, away from the others. Surviving a plane crash together had left people feeling open to being far nosier than they would otherwise, Hurly being a prime example, and Harry didn't like talking about himself on a good day, let alone with a bunch a curious muggles just waiting to stumble their way past the Statute of Secrecy.

A few of the others had collected plane blankets, and paused to give him one on their route through camp. He'd slept with worse.

Once somewhat organized, he hesitantly made his way over to the tree line where the doctor had built a makeshift medical tent. Even with the pain taken care of, it didn't help him to traipse around with an open gash on the side of his face although he certainly wasn't eager to face the muggle doctor. Years of healers and magic had gotten him used to a less hands on medical practice.

He thought about the doctor as he walked up the sandy slope. The man, Jack, as everyone whispered in a disturbing case of hero-worship, was a certified champion amongst the passengers by now. Word of his exploits on the beach had spread quickly amongst survivors in desperate need of positive news. He had the eyes of everyone on him, thanks to quick thinking and his ability to stay calm under pressure.

As long as it wasn't him, Harry was selfishly fine with that. He was mostly just relived that it was someone else in the public's very encompassing limelight for once.

And it was fitting. From what little Harry had seen, the man had a hero-complex that competed closely with his own. Watching the man run up and down the beach saving passengers reminded him too much of his Hogwarts years when he ran nonstop to every new problem. Needing to fix everything. Needing to save everyone.

But that was back when he could save everyone. Things weren't nearly as simple as they used to be.

Reaching the small shelter before him, he ducked underneath a tarp. The doctor was in the middle of the tent, already tending to an unconscious man with an unfortunately large piece of shrapnel sticking out of his abdomen. A woman with long, dark wavy hair stood a few feet away from him, watching the doctor work.

They both looked up when he walked in and he attempted a smile.

"Er, hello doc. I was wondering if maybe you had something to clean this out," he asked, point at his gash.

The doctor stood up immediately and gestured for him to sit on a cooler, "Take a seat. I'll take a look at it."

"I don't want to put you on," Harry said quickly, "You're busy, I'm sure I can fix it up myself, if you have any alcohol, or . . . something."

The man exhaled through his nose with a tight smile, heading over to a few standing suitcases and washing his hands with a small bar of soap and a bottle of water.

"Trust me," he said over his shoulder, eyeing Harry, "taking care of your own injuries isn't that easy. And there's not much more I can do for them right now."

"Thanks," he said quietly, perching on the edge of the cooler with the hope that Jack wouldn't be as intense as his other healers usually were.

Jack walked over, tilting Harry's head to get a better look at the injury. He felt a few precursory jabs around the area. "This is pretty deep. How's your vision?"

"As bad as it usually is."

The doctor moved around, using a small flashlight to peer into both of Harry's eyes.

"Any nausea or lightheadedness?"

"Yeah, a bit of both, and my head's pounding."

"Hmm," Jack said, resting on his haunches and clicking the flashlight off, "Any trouble walking or speaking?"

"I'm a little wobbly on my feet, but I figure that most of its nerves from the crash," Harry admitted.

"Can you tell me what day it is?"

"Wednesday, uh. . . September 22."

"What's nine times nine?"

"Nine times nine?" Harry asked confused, "uh, 81."

Jack stood up, turning to dig through one of his bags. "Looks like you have a concussion. . . "

"Harry," he offered.

"A concussion, Harry," Jack said. "Your eyes aren't reacting as well to light as I'd like, but your cognitive responses are fine, and you can walk so I'd say we don't have too much to worry about. I'll clean up the wound. Hopefully we can avoid any serious infection."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. This'll be needing stitches, and we're all out of anesthesia."

The man turned to dig through another bag, and Harry caught the woman staring at him curiously from her corner. She smiled quickly, "Hi, I'm Kate. That's Jack."

"Er, hello."

Damn, he sucked at conversation.

There was a moment of silence before Jack returned back to his side and began the tedious task of cleaning it up. While the Star Grass was doing a good job curbing most of the pain, it definitely didn't work as a local anesthetic. Harry refrained from wincing every time there was a small jab to a sensitive spot.

"This is going to hurt," the doc kindly warned before beginning the actual stitching.

Harry cracked a smile, "It's fine."

After all, he'd certainly been through worse.

Still, when it was through, Harry definitely thanked Merlin that the Wizarding World hardly needed to use stitches.

"Alright," Jack said, patting him on the shoulder, "All done. You handled it like a pro."

Little did the man know just how much of a pro Harry was. He stood up quickly, anxious to get out of their quickly before the man pulled out any more archaic muggle medical practices to torture him with, "Thanks again, doc."

Jack gave a tired smile, "No problem. You'll probably have that headache for a few more days, and I want to check on you again tomorrow, but you should be fine. Just take it easy until the search party gets here."

"If you need anything, doc, don't hesitate to ask," Harry offered in reply, before slipping back out onto the beach.

With a nod to Sayid, who was crouched by a steadily growing fire, he made his way back to his bed niche, and settled down quickly. If there was one thing he was good at, it was sleeping in the rough. Despite his general unease, sleep overcame him easily.

He dreamed of the dead again.

He was standing in a ruined hall of Hogwarts. Debris from a recent explosion showered everywhere, dust hovering in the air, and a familiar red head partially buried, his final smile still spread across his face.

He exhaled, and the wind swept around him causing the dust to churn chaotically.

The scene was off. It was too quiet. Percy, Ron, Hermione, they were all missing, leaving just Harry, the thick air, and the corpse before him.

"Harry."

He blinked.

Fred stood by the gaping hole in the outer wall, silhouetted by the star light.

"Fred," Harry said hoarsely, recalling something from his last dream. "You're really here, aren't you. You. Cedric. You're real."

"Yes," George said, "It's really me."

Harry took a step forward earnestly, limbs shaking and heart pounding, "Merlin! It's good to see you again. I've – We've all missed you."

"Harry, we don't have much time," George continued seriously. The wind howled behind him, a strange clicking growing faintly in the background. "This island is dangerous. You have to leave. "

"What do you mean?"

"The magic here is unpredictable, uncontrollable. Wizards aren't even meant to know of it. You're not supposed to be here," George licked his lips nervously, "It's not what was supposed to happen. It could change everything."

Chills rushed down his spine. In the distance, an ominous force approached, the weight of it tangible in the air.

George's image seemed to fade and flicker, and he reached out into the wind that howled between them. "Harry, I don't have any more time, its coming. Avoid the island's magic at all costs. If it gets a hold of you—"

Harry shot up, gasping in air as a sudden pressure slammed into him.

The forest roared into life behind him.

He fell forward in a mad scramble, climbing to his feet. Loud roaring noises filled his ears, filled the air around them. He threw out his hand, willing his wand forward and it snapped up from its holster and into his grip.

The others were beginning to gather, looking out into the jungle in fear, and he backed up cautiously to join them. Foreboding magical pressure swept around him, and trees began to tremble and crash before his eyes. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ceased, the pressure easing awayas if it had never even existed. His heart pounded in his ears heavily.

As the other people around him erupted into panicked noise, Harry slipped his wand into his pocket and studied the forest before him.

"Did you see that?"

"What the hell was it?"

'Did you hear that noise?"

Shit.

If that wasn't an ominous warning, he didn't know what was.

To be continued.

Author's Notes: Hello everyone. This fic has been up a while, and has since undergone some major revision. Hopefully this has caught your eye. If not, please leave a helpful, inspiring review that I may learn from. Advice and critiques are always well received and admittedly needed.

The timeline is canonical, so you're free to use that as your reference. By my reckoning, Harry would be 24. Also, for the purposes of this story, Harry has some mystery in his life – like all of the Lost characters. Any strange behavior is entirely on purpose.

Updates are sporadic at best. It all depends on my motivation and whether or not my blasted computer is working.

Thanks for reading,

StrictlySomething