Raphael was... not a fan of the water. He would have said otherwise only a day ago, when he'd been leaning over the rail looking down into the ocean below, listening to the waves crash against the boat and feeling the gentle caress of the mist against his cheeks. He'd already been planning all the ways in which he would describe the beauty of the blue waters when he returned to shore. He'd talk about the choppy waves, the calm waves, the birds whose presence let him know they were close to shore before the captain could announce it, how he'd been lulled to sleep at night by the gentle back-and-forth motion of the boat.

But now things were different. He was trapped beneath deck, half the furniture in the room pressed against the door, and every attempt to clear the doorway with magic having been challenged by the gravitational pull of the sinking ship. He could have apparated, but everything was out of place now; he room was tilted at an unnatural angle he was sure that trying to apparate above deck would result in him apparating into the ocean, and that was out of the question.

He wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but he could tell things were worsening. He wanted to be free. He—and he wouldn't admit it to anyone, even to himself in the privacy of his room—wanted his mother. An hour had passed since his last attempt to escape, and Raphael had situated himself against the dresser... which was pressed against the bed, which was pressed against the writing desk, which was pressed against a chair, which was pressed against the door.

He was doomed.

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