Author's Notes: I was really struggling over how to write this chapter. Writing Harry doesn't really come naturally to me. He's such a paradoxical character to me. He's insensitive and confrontational, but he's nice… I want him to be good, but not a doormat and IT DOESN'T WORK. Trying to write Harry totally kicks my ass. Anyhoo, here it is.

(Oh and in case someone notices, I know that I wrote day 8 twice. That's because the part in between, with the evaluation is a flashback and I was just reaffirming that it's still at day 8.)

Part 2

…

DAY 8.

Harry Potter is not a person anymore. He's an idea, a metaphor.

He is David.

He has no hobbies. He has no friends, no enemies, not dreams or goals other than the one that was set for him by someone else a long time ago.

Harry (the person) likes pizza and hamburgers and anything made by Mrs. Weasley. He likes watching TV and playing Quidditch. He hates olives and waking up early.

When you're on a deserted island, things change.

When Harry's on a deserted island, he likes waking up early. To watch the sunrise. The clouds and colours surrounding the sun are different everyday. The myriad of light and shadows they cast on the waves make them sparkle in unison with the thousands of tiny wet corns of sand on the shore. Of course, he wouldn't put it like that. If you asked him about it, he would shrug and say, "I dunno. It looks cool."

Harry (the person) knows some things about life. He knows that it is not fair, and that it is not easy. He knows that when he was one year old, any right he ever had of being his own person was ripped away from him, and an obligation was set upon him.

Of course, he wouldn't put it like that. If you asked him about it, he would shrug and say, "I dunno. I do what I gotta do."

People may have been good at making him think he's had a lot of choices about where his life was going. The career's advice in fifth year was classic. There's no work pamphlet for saving the world and dying like a hero, so they ask him what he wasn't to be when he grows up. (Alive?)

So he lived his whole life on other people's terms. And he hopes that maybe if he does this thing for the world - Then maybe they can get off his back, and he can live his life. His OWN life. That is, if he doesn't die. Fingers crossed.

…

"Ok, ministry," Pansy says, holding her microphone up to her mouth. "You're really fucking hilarious. I get it. You put two opposites on an island and listen as they freak out at their situation. I bet you're just laughing your asses off, listening to us. Right, I learned my lesson, I have to be nice to Potter or I don't get any fish, which equals starvation. Big deal, I learned a skill for my future career as an auror. Because we all know that in a war type situation, I will be stuck on a deserted island with someone annoying who knows how to fish."

They've been sleeping in the tent together for four days now - tonight will be the fifth - and every night before they go to sleep, they do their evaluations. It was on the fourth night they turned them on. Really, it was Pansy who turned them on, not because they had made any progress, but – judging from the hour she spent doing it – she liked to bitch about Harry. At first he thought Pansy was just speaking to the air – lamenting or something, and it wasn't until the hard plastic of his microphone was flung across the tent and hit him in the face that he realized she turned them both on and was whining about him to the ministry.

"Parkinson, don't bitch at the ministry like that. This is supposed to be a professional evaluation, not a reality show-"

"Shut the fuck up, Potty! Did you hear that, ministry listening guys? Do you hear what I have to put up with? And what the hell is a reality show? No – don't answer. I don't care."

She laughs.

"Now, where was I? Oh, right. I think you should really come get us now – or you'll have a little murder-suicide on your hands. Wait, scratch that. Just a murder, because after I throttle Potter, I'll have no reason to kill myself."

She laughs again.

"And you know, I have to do everything around here. I got the tent up."

"Uh, we got the tent up."

"– That's just Potter sugar-coating it," she says loudly. "I did it. By myself. Potty's surprisingly crap at muggle stuff, considering he was raised by the filthy things and is best friends with a mudblood–"

Harry bends over towards her and yanks the microphone out of her hand. He's breathing heavily as he leans in close to her. His eyes are dark, and partly covered by his glasses, so she can't see them properly, but she'd guess they're all bulgy and crazy.

"Look, Parkinson. I don't care if you want to take credit for pitching the stupid tent, or if you want to make this difficult. But if you say one more thing about muggles, or Hermione, you'll -"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Pansy swallows.

"Ok, Pottyyy—eer."

He raises his eyebrows.

…

DAY 8.

"This is dangerous. I'm going to get bitten by something!" Pansy wails. "And it's gonna be all your fault!"

Pansy is walking closely behind Harry, and she resists the urge to clamp on to the back of his shirt. The dark jungle is sinister and scary all around them, and she learned about ten minutes into their little jungle hike for food that it's best not to look at the forest floor, because oh yeah- that's swarming with bugs.

"We're not going to find any food! We're going to die here, and that's gonna be all your fault too-"

Suddenly, she screams and a split second after that, Harry feels her arms clamp around his neck and tries to pry them off so he can, you know, breathe.

"Pan-"

"THE- HUGE! SLIMY! And all with the slithering!"

Harry's eyes are watering from lack of oxygen, and the jungle scenery swims in front of his eyes as she pulls him in a half-circle and releases, crouching down behind him and grabbing onto his legs, using him as a human shield.

He tilts his head to look down at her, massaging his neck. "What the fuck was th-"

"LOOOOOK!" she yells, her arm shooting up, towards a tree branch some three feet to the left of them.

There, coiled on the branch, is a bright green snake, at least four feet long.

Somewhere below him, he hears Pansy whimper. He looks down and smirks.

"Isn't it a little ironic that you're scared of snakes?"

"This is NOT the time for Slytherin jokes, Potter!"

"It's always time for Slytherin jokes, Parkinson."

She ignores him "Throw something at it! Or.. do something else.. manly and heroic.."

He snorts. "Manly and heroic?"

He turns his face towards the snake. At first Pansy thinks he's spitting at it or something – but then she realizes.

Oh yeah. Potty can talk to snakes.

The snake uncoils and slithers soundlessly away from them.

"There. Heroic enough for you?" Harry bends down, takes her hands in his and pulls her up to her feet. She looks at him, and he's looking at her and it occurs to her that their faces are less then a few inches apart. They stand there, looking at each other, wordlessly.

Suddenly, Harry feels the familiar sensation of her hands on his chest, pushing him violently backwards.

"Hello, lacking sense of personal space much, Potty?"

She turns around and stalks off, deeper into the jungle. "Alright, let's go hunt, kill and eat various small rodents, Potty!"

This time, where his fingers touched hers, she doesn't wipe them off at all.

…