A/N: Hello, TL here, the one that will make you read all the ridiculous AUs you never needed.
I have tentatively set this as completed, because I honestly don't expect to come back for it. I'd like to warn you that the ending is rather open and not nicely wrapped up. It was sitting on my hard disk though, and it's not going to do any good there so...
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to JK Rowling. No money is being made.
On the last day of June in 1724, Harry's fate apparently decided to fuck it all and dropped him into chaos. He couldn't really blame it, the struggle to keep him out of trouble must have started somewhere shortly around his birth.
He might have also provoked it a bit by deciding to cross the Atlantic. But really, people did that all the time nowadays, and he had nothing that kept him at home. Still, a small heads up would have been nice.
Except there had been warnings. One week. One whole week without as much as a single breeze. Nothing too uncommon, or so the sailors told him. But a bad omen nonetheless.
So understandably, being the ignorant landlubber he was, he had been excited when he had felt a gust of wind in his hair this morning. The sailors however had taken one look at the sky and told him to start praying.
Sailors were a superstitious folk, but most only religious under high distress. So that had been a bit disconcerting.
The captain told the few passengers on board that a storm was coming, but that his ship had withstood every weather so far and that there was most likely nothing to worry about.
It could have been fine, would have been fine probably, if Harry's bad luck had the courtesy to stay in Europe.
A few hours later the storm was almost upon them and the lookout spied a ship.
And that could have been fine, would have been fine probably, if Harry's bad luck had the goddamn courtesy to stay in Europe.
Because the captain's face went ashen and he crossed himself with a reverence that he usually only showed when it came to drinking.
"It's the Voldemort."
It was barely a whisper, a tiny breathless sound that somehow still ghosted across the whole ship. A few members of the crew simply jumped overboard then and there after hearing it, into the sea that was rapidly becoming alive.
And that was the moment Harry knew, he knew he was screwed. As usual though, he didn't know why.
In the overall panic that ensued, Harry grabbed a hold of the captain. "What? What's a Voldemort? What's going on?
"They are pirates. The worst of the worst."
A spike of unease jolted through Harry at his words.
The sailors spoke of the sea like she was alive, a temperamental thing to be loved, but violent and terrifying at times. Some also spoke of giant monsters that devoured whole ships.
But if you really wanted to spook someone and shock them with a bloodied story, you told them of pirates.
Ruthless killers, plunderers, savages. They dominated the seas.
He squinted his eyes at the ship, still too far away to make out the famous black flag.
"Yeah, so? We don't even have any riches. Why would they want to pursue us?"
"They don't want riches, boy," the captain said tonelessly. "They just want blood."
Well that sounded promising.
"But the storm! They'll be caught in it too right?"
"Aye," the captain said and looked up at the sky, clear blue a few hours earlier, now black and thunderous, ready to split. "If we're lucky we'll die before they get us."
The sky tore open then, water splashing down as if it were trying to drown them from above. The sea lurched, waves rose so high and solid you'd mistake them for mountains. The wind picked up, howling, grabbing like invisible hands, shaking everything it touched.
The ship tilted and rocked, helpless in the uneven ocean. It had looked majestic in the harbour, but was now so very tiny amongst the forces of nature.
Water splashed across the decks, buckets, shackles, barrels swirled around loosely.
Sailors screamed, scrambling to save their ship, but there was a fear there that had nothing to do with the storm, a helplessness that robbed them of any coordination, any organization.
Those that tried to combat the storm were trying to roll up the sails, those that wanted to flee loosened them again.
Harry was the only passenger still on deck. The others had scurried into their cabins long ago. He couldn't fathom why anyone would want to go below deck right now, even closer to the sea that tried to devour them.
They've had storms before, but this one was worse. Harry wasn't sure this still classified as a storm. Looking around he was sure he saw the apocalypse itself.
There was a loud blast, followed by a swishing sound. Amongst the thunder crashing around them Harry almost missed it, but it seemed to have purpose, this one.
It was the only warning he got, before their foremast splintered and cracked down.
He realized that even in this hell, even while the elements beat down on them, the other ship had fired at them.
How it had gotten so close in these waves was beyond him. With the rain pouring down and the sea spilling in from the sides, Harry had a hard time naming where was up and where was down, let alone steering a ship in the desired direction.
Another loud blast, another splintering sound and the ship tilted precariously. A hit in the bulk most likely.
More screams filled the air, but mixed within the desperation there was jeering now, laughter.
It was probably one of the most disconcerting things Harry had ever heard. In these circumstances, it sounded just plain wrong.
Officers and the captain started bellowing commands, apparently they had gotten over their shock and seemed determined to at least take some of the pirates with them to hell.
But their vessel wasn't suited for combat. The sailors were only trained because some soldiers needed to be there to protect the passengers. It was more of a mental assurance than an actual protection.
A huge wave crashed over their ship, basically submerging it. A moment later the ocean lifted the ship, the deck almost vertical for a moment before the ship dropping down on the other side, only to repeat the process.
Harry could only grab the railing and hang on to it for dear life.
He was certain that by now barrels and lifeboats weren't the only thing being spilled overboard. Men slipped, lost their balance, or simply got washed away by a wall of water.
Over them thunder tore apart the skies.
And even so, the pirates boarded their ship, jumping and swinging across the turbulent abyss between their vessels.
They appeared completely carefree amongst the violent elements. Unbothered by the overpowering forces.
Harry had only ever heard stories about pirates. While he disagreed with the cruelty, at least so far he had understood them partially. They sounded basically like thieves who plundered ships, not houses.
But why on earth would they board their ship? During this storm? With nothing to gain? A ship that they had already destroyed enough for it to become clear that it would not survive the storm? Shouldn't they save their own ship rather than coming onto one that was sinking?
The fighting started, though Harry wasn't sure one would call it that. With the bucking ship beneath them, men had a hard time finding their footing, let alone move enough to fight.
Soon there were so many pirates amongst them that Harry couldn't distinguish them from the crew anymore. The darkened sky and the chaos of the storm didn't allow enough visibility for orientation.
Mixed in with the thunder, the splashing and the cracking noises were now also the clanking of steel meeting steel. Men fought right beside and in front of him, so far ignoring him or just not seeing him.
He scrambled away, aware that he hadn't even so much as a knife to defend himself.
But what did it matter anyway? Their ship would sink, even if they somehow defeated the pirates with a miracle. Maybe he should get into one of the lifeboats? Though most of them were either in shambles, or had been washed away by the force of the ocean.
And with the sea that lively there was no way he'd survive in the tiny boats. Let alone get anywhere, here in the middle of the Atlantic.
He managed to pull himself onto the quarter deck, which seemed relatively deserted compared to the crowded main deck, where people tried to kill each other before the storm could.
He sat down, pressing himself to the railing, trying to not lose contact with the bucking ship and gasped a few breaths, coughing when the all present water splashed into his face.
His eyes burned from the saltwater. He blinked, then saw that there was a man lying in the middle of the deck, moaning in pain, slithering precariously on the wooden planks.
Harry cursed and crawled to him on all fours, basically sliding on the wet deck.
"You have to grab something! You'll be washed away like that!" Harry screamed at him over the howling tempest.
The man's eyes were closed, his face scrunched up in pain, giving him no indication whether he was even still coherent enough to understand him.
Harry looked him over and saw his leg was gushing with blood. Shot? No, stabbed, very deep.
The ship reared up again and they skidded helplessly on the deck, crashing onto the doors that led to the captain's cabin.
When the ship balanced itself out again Harry set to work. He tore away the bloodied remains of the man's trousers and inspected the wound. The blood had looked more severe than it actually was, because it got mixed with the water. Still, the wound was deep. It would need stitches, but Harry had no means to do that now.
He tore the other leg of the trousers away and swiftly bunched it up to press against the wound, then made to grab the belt to wrap it tightly against the man's calf.
Except the belt tumbled away from him as the deck tilted again.
Harry cursed violently, a habit that had gotten worse with the amount of time he spent under the sailors.
Then he saw someone walking up the stairs of the quarterdeck.
"You there! Hand me the belt!" he ordered impatiently.
The man looked down at his feet where the belt lay then across the deck to where Harry was crouching.
He was standing.
Harry couldn't even imagine the perfect balance needed to stand in this pandemonium. And the man did so without even holding on to the railing. He tilted his head pensively, scrutinizing him.
They didn't have the fucking time for contemplation!
The man finally bent down and took the belt, then walked over to where Harry was.
The ship skewed and reared but the man seemed unfazed, anticipating every tilt and effortlessly balancing himself out.
Harry was on his hands and knees, still having trouble just staying where he was.
"He's not one of yours," the man pointed out, standing in front of him, but so far making no inclination to actually give him the belt.
Harry frowned confused and looked down at his bleeding patient. He didn't recognize him that much was true. He wasn't one of the crew. And neither was the other man.
"Last time I checked no man belonged to me," Harry snapped back. "The belt if you'd please. Now."
He held his hand outstretched, but when nothing happened he looked up from the patient.
The barrel of a gun pointed directly at his head.
Harry was speechless for a good second. "Are you fucking serious?!"
"It is what I do," the man said, amused.
"Well can you do it later?! This man is about to bleed to death! Hand me the belt, now!"
The man blinked, his head tilted curiously as a small smile tugged at his lips.
He made no move to point the gun elsewhere, but he did hand him the belt.
Harry snatched it from his hands, scowled at him, then quickly turned to wrap it around his makeshift compress.
Another huge wave hit the ship and the water that spilled in from the sides pushed Harry back until he hit the man's legs. The gun pressed into his skull now.
Harry pulled the belt tight and tried to wipe some water away from his stinging eyes.
"Can that thing even shoot with all that rain pouring down?" he asked irritated.
"Care to find out?" came the smooth reply.
Before Harry knew what was happening, a hand grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head around. He could almost hear his neck snap from the abrupt movement.
He gasped in reflex and the barrel of the gun was shoved into his mouth, making Harry gag from the metallic taste.
There was an audible click and… Nothing.
Harry's eyes widened, realizing how close he'd come to death. There was another click and he shuddered in anticipation, but the gunpowder was indeed too wet.
"Hm, you were right," the man said offhandedly.
He pulled the gun away and released him. Harry coughed and gulped for air.
"I always did prefer knives," the man continued, pulling one from his belt and grabbing Harry's head again.
Harry froze in his hold.
"It prolongs the moment. Making it more honest in a way, intimate."
The cold metal of the knife caressed his throat. There was nothing but amusement and excitement in the man's eyes. The tempest roared around them.
Harry couldn't help but try to flinch away. The hold grew firmer.
"Now, now. You were oh so charmingly impertinent before," the man mused, then leaned in closely. "Are you afraid to die, boy?"
Harry spat at him in response.
The storm washed it off easily to his disappointment and the man grinned at his action.
"My, all the fun I could have with you."
Harry started clawing at him, but the knife pressed more fiercely into his skin, warningly.
Suddenly a loud, clear whistle came from the main deck and men started to jeer.
The man stilled momentarily, looking over to where the sound came from, before focusing back on Harry.
"Do you know what that means? It means every single one on this ship is dead. I guess they didn't count you."
Harry's eyes widened as the faces of the crew and passengers flashed across his mind. All dead. He hadn't known them well, but he had spent the past months with them. And there had been absolutely no reason for their death.
The man looked pensive again.
"He'll live?" he asked, nodding down to the bleeding man that had fallen unconscious at some point.
There was a moment of struggle as his desire to tell the man to go to hell and his other stupid urges battled. As always, his stupid side won.
"He needs antiseptics, pine or tea tree oil will do well. Stitch the wound, change the bandages daily. Make sure they were drenched in alcohol before. If the flesh starts to rotten the leg will need to come off. Cauterize the wound, treat it with a cooling balm obtained from aloe vera or coconut extracts."
The man's amusement was palpable. He did put the knife away though and hoisted him up by the collar.
"You survived the cannonballs, you survived the gun… Third time's the charm, isn't that what they say?"
Harry got dragged to the railing and the man hauled him halfway across it. His upper body was suspended in air now, the raging ocean below him.
"You think me cruel? You've clearly never met the sea. Let's see if you survive her."
With that he shoved Harry overboard and for a moment he was falling with the rain through nothingness, the wind howling around him, lightning striking down above him and the sea swirling below him.
Then he hit the cold water and was engulfed by darkness.
Life is weird.
Harry had thought he'd gotten used to that fact by now. With his penchant for getting into trouble he had pretty much resigned to an unpredictable future.
But not even he would have ever dreamed to be halfway across the Atlantic, his body frozen from the cold water, his scalp burnt from the hot sun and his fingers numb from where they clung to the wooden plank.
His eyes stung from the salt water and his throat screamed for potable water.
The world had disappeared. There was nothing around him. Nothing. Not a bird above him, not a fish around him, not a drifting algae and not a single strip of land on the horizon.
He was alone. Just him and a splintered wooden plank. And the water.
The ocean was calm, a smooth mirror that stretched out endlessly. The air didn't hold so much as a single breeze. He had sneezed a while ago, just to test if sound still existed.
The physical exertion of the sneeze had almost been too much for him. If his hands weren't clasped and locked around the plank in a stiffness that resembled the rigor mortis, he would have probably slipped quietly away, into the silent ocean around him.
His thirst was so unbearable it had become unnoticeable. It was simply a part of him now.
He wondered why he was still alive. He wondered how many days he'd been here, just him and the vast ocean. He wondered where he was and how deep the water below him went. He wondered how the weather could turn form so devastatingly violent to utterly calm in such a short time. He wondered if there was in fact an end of the earth and if he'd found it.
He wondered if he was delirious yet. He couldn't bring himself to care.
He probably should care, he wanted to be a physician after all. He was good at it too. But now he was a lost soul drifting in the unending plain that separated his home from the land of endless possibilities.
It had never crossed his mind that death was a possibility too. Funny that.
Life is weird.
He closed his eyes against the blinding reflection of the sun.
He dreamed of his mother.
Of her long red hair and her radiant laugh. Of her soft hands caressing his hair and her gentle voice singing him to sleep. Of her brilliant eyes, overflowing with love.
Of the men she brought home with her, a desperate look on their faces, scared to lose her, hating the thought of not having her for themselves alone.
She had a way with men that surpassed any other of the women that stood around the docks every day.
The men jeered and grabbed at them. But not once did someone call his mother a whore. She didn't go out and searched for men. They came to her.
Not with the drunk determination they showed towards the others, when they ganged up on the prettiest ones while the others ignored the screams. To her, they came with flowers, poems, gifts. She was a fantasy.
And she always brought them home, those selected few that caught her attention after weeks of courtship.
But Harry only realized where their money had come from long after she died.
"Is one of them my father?" he asked, when he was about seven years old.
He'd heard you needed a woman and a man to get a child. A novel concept to him. There only ever had been his mother.
"No sweetie," she smiled lovingly. "Your father does not belong on land."
"Where is he then?"
"He lives on the sea," she said, staring out of their little kitchen window to the harbour. "If you stand on the docks and close your eyes, you can smell him."
So Harry stood on the docks, eyes fixed on the horizon and smelled the ocean, imagining his father.
Out of all the men he was the only one whose child Lily carried. If his mother looked out to the sea her emerald eyes glazed over and a smile tugged at her lips.
That was how Harry learned of love.
His mother got sick when he reached the tender age of eleven. They didn't have enough money for a doctor, but he came anyway and Harry recognized him as one of her regulars.
He said it was the side sickness* and that he could only ease her passing.
That was how Harry learned of pain.
On her funeral the doctor apologized to Harry, saying that if he'd received better education then maybe he'd been able to save her. He had heard of cases where the patients lived.
Harry had never felt so helpless before. He became obsessed with medicine.
The local doctor took him in, probably out of guilt for not saving his mother. Soon Harry was the one making the rounds, treating people all across the city. Dockworkers came to him frequently.
Sailors from faraway places too. He liked them best. They reminded him of the soft look in his mother's eyes whenever she had mentioned the sea and his father.
He accepted their wild stories as payment for his treatment and they greeted him with enthusiasm every time they saw him because of it.
When he was nineteen, a ship's doctor came to them for help because the whole crew was suffering from scurvy. Harry treated the men for almost a week at the side of the doctor.
Afterwards the doctor had taken him aside and asked if he wanted to study medicine, more than the local quacks could provide. He'd written a letter of recommendation for Harry, saying that his old friend who lived in America was one of the best physicians alive.
There was nothing holding him back at home anymore. So he got onto the next ship that accepted passengers and set sail for America.
And then he was drowning.
When he opened his eyes again he felt that something had changed.
At first he couldn't pinpoint what it was. The sea was still calm, the horizon still endlessly blank and the air still unmoving.
But he could feel a presence. He wasn't alone anymore.
Then he heard the soft creaking sound of wood and the faint fluttering of a lifeless sail.
With a tremendous effort he turned his head and rested the other cheek on the wooden plank.
There was a ship to his left. Very close, amazingly big from his point of view. If he could stretch his numb arm he would be able to touch it.
There was no wind, so the sails of the three masts were useless, the ship drifting gently in the calm water like Harry and his plank.
Harry forced his eyes to glance up, higher than the ship's bow and hull, up the mainsail and to the topmast.
Skull and crossbones. White on black. Jolly Roger, the pirate flag.
His eyes widened involuntarily at the sheer impossibility of his godforsaken luck.
His eyes travelled a bit down again, to the ship's deck. A man sat on the railing, peering down at him curiously.
His jet black hair was immaculate and his skin unnaturally pale for someone who spent so much time outside. Instead of rags, scars and crooked teeth there was only smooth perfection.
He looked nothing like a pirate and that's how Harry recognized him immediately.
The man continued to watch him, half leaning onto the ratlines behind him that span to the main mast, completely relaxed, but obviously waiting for him to do something.
Considering that neither of them were moving on the water, Harry had to be drifting beside them for quite a while now, so the man had probably watched him for some time.
They were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the Atlantic and the chance to actually meet anything out here was basically non-existent. To meet the man who had turned him over to death again was rather ironic.
"Hi," Harry croaked. His voice was raw from the all-encompassing thirst he'd endured during the past days.
The man's eyebrow rose in amusement. "Hello again."
His voice was a deep tenor and cool like the water around them.
"Please tell me I'm dreaming this," Harry said weakly.
The man shook his head lightly and Harry sighed, too exhausted to care.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Harry had no clue what to do. He hadn't expected to meet anyone, so shortly before his death. Let alone meet the exact same man responsible for his situation.
He wanted to be angry but he didn't find it in him. He had no energy left in him, his arms only clutching the plank because that was the position they'd been in for the past few days.
If he could still move them he'd have let go willingly days ago, to finally fall into oblivion. It was a bit embarrassing really, to drift here all on his own with a plank, next to the imposing ship.
"How's it going?" he asked, for the sake of saying something.
The man's head tilted to the side, contemplating. "Swimmingly."
A wheezing sound escaped Harry, muscles that hadn't been used for days spasming in his belly. He realized belatedly that he was laughing.
"Ow, ouch. Don't make me laugh you jerk."
"And what are you doing, all the way out here?" he asked, as if the man didn't know exactly how Harry had ended up here.
Harry did find the energy to glare at that. "Oh y'know… Nothing much. Hanging around, mostly."
"How is that working out for you?"
Harry looked at his shrivelled fingers, swollen like those of a drowned corpse. "Could be better."
The man hummed in agreement, looking up at the clear sky. "We haven't had a breeze in days now."
"Must be tough," Harry commented drily, earning him another amused look from the man.
They fell silent again, the water lapping gently at the large ship's hull.
"You've got a beautiful ship," Harry offered after a while.
"She is," the man said, pride evident as he looked behind him to the decks. "The name's Voldemort."
Harry frowned, remembering the captain's ashen face when he had uttered that name. "You or the ship?"
"There's no difference."
Harry didn't understand what he meant, but he found himself often puzzled by things the sailors said, so he guessed this was just one of those.
He examined the man again. Was he the captain? He looked rather young. Then again, Harry had no idea how old pirates were usually. Did you need a certain age to plunder the seven seas?
The man tuned his head slightly and Harry could see that he wasn't completely smooth perfection after all. There was a thin cut running along his cheekbone. The slash looked rather recent and the tissue around it was beginning to turn reddish.
"You should get that looked at," Harry commented and the man turned his attention back down to him.
"Your cut," he elaborated when the man remained silent. "It looks slightly infected. I've seen the swords the sailors used, most of them rusty. It's bad if it gets into your blood."
"Are you always this infuriatingly caring?" The man gave him another onceover. "You're not exactly in a state where you should worry about others."
Yeah that was his problem wasn't it?
"You need to stop worrying about others and start looking after yourself Harry."
"Why did you do that Harry? It was dangerous!"
"Don't bother, it's too late for him."
"It's just a stray cat Harry."
"Who would want to go near her?"
"You have a hero complex Harry."
"You shouldn't have rescued that child."
"You're only going to get into trouble Harry!"
"Just walk away, you can't save everybody Harry."
He couldn't help it.
All these lives… How could he not try and help them? How could he stand by and watch them vanish forever?
All their dreams, gone. Their families, destroyed. Their friends, grieving. Their whole future, cast away.
So what if sometimes it was dangerous for him? It was worth the chance.
He was a nobody.
He didn't say that to belittle himself. He had never hurt anyone. He had never rebelled against his mother's wishes. He was trying to become a good man. He would be a good man.
But after his mother's death there was just no one there. Harry didn't form attachments easily. His friends had been casual acquaintances at best.
He was just another human living his life. He didn't have the ambition that drove so many people to make a change.
Crossing the Atlantic and becoming the apprentice of one of the best physicians alive had been the most ambitious thing he had ever attempted. And he had only done that so he could learn more and help those around him better.
The pirate looking down at him might have killed people, might kill many more. But he was still a man, he had a crew, friends, goals in life, a future.
So Harry couldn't help it, that cut bothered him.
"You should try comfrey or styrax resin," he said.
The man looked at him oddly. "I can't decide if you're trying to be helpful or cheeky."
Harry just blinked at him. "At least wash it out with alcohol."
"Do you want me to rescue you?" the man asked suddenly, completely changing the topic. The question had apparently bothered him for quite some time now.
Harry glanced up again to the Jolly Roger. A fate worse than death was said to befall those captured by pirates. Most claimed the pirate's ruthless killings were actually a twisted mercy, to spare the survivors of said fate.
But really, Harry's main concern was that the man had literally tried to kill him three times already. He wasn't about to crawl to him for help now.
"You're kidding me right?"
The man looked thoughtful. "Well, I suppose the answer to that question is always yes, so I needn't have asked but-…"
"Yeah, just no. Hell no."
"No?" the man sounded as if he hadn't even considered that answer.
"No," Harry confirmed firmly.
"Hmm…People in your situation usually beg for it."
"Do you often come across people like me?" Harry asked irritated. "You know, people you've shoved into the stormy sea?"
A small ripple on the ocean's surface spilled over Harry's mouth and he sputtered weakly.
"People in your situation? Here and there," the man tilted his head again, as if to study him from all angles. "People like you? Can't say I have."
"Well, no, we're all unique aren't we?"
"What a disgustingly naïve thing to say," the man stated derisively, but his expression was still mildly intrigued.
"You don't think you're unique?"
The man bristled lightly and rearranged his legs on the railing. "Of course I am, silly boy."
"Well, doesn't everyone think they're unique?" Harry prodded.
The man shrugged indifferent. "They do. They are wrong."
He was philosophizing with a pirate in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.
Life is weird.
"How do you know you're not wrong?" he continued.
The man glanced down at him with a spark of annoyance. "Do you always ask that many questions?"
"Yes," Harry said solemnly. "Natural curiosity."
"Natural curiosity and zero regard for your own life, I see," the man chuckled. "What's your name, boy?"
He was a nobody drifting in the sea.
The man nodded slightly in acknowledgment. "No last name?"
"Well just Harry, what if I want to rescue you?"
Some more water splashed into his face and he sputtered again. Maybe the sea was starting to come alive again.
"Do I look like I care what you want?"
Couldn't he at least die in peace? That wasn't so much to ask for was it?
The man smirked lazily down at him. "It's not like you have any say in the matter. You can't go anywhere."
A small, ever so slow current picked underneath Harry, tugging at his body.
"I'm faster than you," Harry pointed out and his lips stretched into something resembling a smile.
Maybe it was only just underneath him, or the ship was too heavy for the gentle current, but Harry began to move forward almost unnoticeably.
They continued to stare at each other, while Harry moved along in an agonizing slow speed.
After maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, maybe an eternity, he had perhaps gained half a meter from his original position in regards to the man.
The man smirked tauntingly.
"Yeah okay, it might take a while," Harry conceded.
The man chuckled and shook his head, as if resigning from figuring something out.
He reached behind himself and a second later something splashed down in front of Harry. The water droplets made his eyes sting, because he had been too slow to close them.
The end of a rope now lay on top of his plank. It went all the way up to the deck and was knotted around the railing, next to the man.
Harry just stared at him blankly.
"Grab it," the man demanded.
"I can't," Harry muttered.
His eyes became heavy again. The talking had exhausted him. It would be nice if he could sleep again. Dream of his mother maybe, and then die peacefully.
"Do you want to die?"
"Don't know. Can't be too bad. Why do you want to save me?"
Harry opened his eyes to peer up at him, feeling rather annoyed at the man's preposterous declaration.
"No I'm not."
"Of course you are. Everything swimming in the world's oceans is mine."
Harry mulled over that fact for a while but he couldn't really see the man's logic. "Why?"
"Because I say so."
"What if I say something different?"
"You don't have a say in that matter," the man said offhandedly.
Harry snorted and closed his eyes again. "Oh fuck off."
"Grab the rope," the man insisted.
Harry frowned with his eyes closed. "No, I'm sleepy."
"You're not sleepy, you're dying."
"Mhm," Harry made, demonstratively turning his head to the other side.
There was a louder splash right beside him. He wanted to open his eyes to see what has happened now, but found himself too weak to do so.
Strong arms encircled him, feeling entirely too warm on his ice cold skin. Then he was lifted up, out of the water, away from his plank.
"Leave me alone," Harry grumbled feebly.
"Third time's the charm, Harry. Welcome on board the Voldemort, boy-who-lived."
A/N: Sooo... I'm just going to leave that here then?
Random background info straight from wikipedia! (in case you're wondering about the year)
'The era of piracy in the Caribbean began in the 1500s and died out in the 1830s after the navies of the nations of Western Europe and North America with colonies in the Caribbean began combating pirates. The period during which pirates were most successful was from the 1660s to 1730s. Piracy flourished in the Caribbean because of the existence of pirate seaports such as Port Royal in Jamaica, Tortuga in Haiti, and Nassau in the Bahamas.'
*side sickness: A term used in 'The Medicus' and I'm just going to assume that's what it was called around that time? It refers to apendicitis. Apparently they didn't start operating it until the late 18th century.
Also, Harry just listed some medicinal herbs, I don't know if they were actually used for that specifically. As always I have no clue what I'm doing. Ahaha - why does this keep happening?