Last chapter:

Gibbs and Hermione were sent as emissaries aboard the Gull, a poacher ship the Black Pearl hunted down thanks to Jack Sparrow's magical compass, in order to invite their captain Jim Hawkins to a negociation with Sparrow and Barbossa. Hermione and Harry suspect James Potter -- who is 'what Harry wants most in the world' -- is aboard the small ship.

“I know Barbossa’s way of getting around the Code,” Hawkins was saying. “What guarantees my safety on the Pearl?... And you still haven't explained Miss Granger's presence."

Hermione started at the mention of her name and her eyes shot back to Hawkins, who stood there looking at her with a slightly amused expression, one eyebrow raised and a half-smile tugging at his lips — his expression so familiar that she gasped aloud in shock, her eyes widening, taking in the details of his face for the first time — and she heard her own voice ring in the silence, although she had never meant to speak the words aloud.

“Oh my God, you’re James Potter.”

~ Drink Up, Me Hearties ~

Chapter 6 — Time

Eight years.

Eight years of sailing, pirating, poaching, stealing, fighting, killing, smuggling, and squandering. At sea and on the land, with that blasted sun hammering down his head and the heaps of water brought down on him by storms and hurricanes. Eight years of thinking of nothing but survive the day. Eight years as Jim Hawkins, captain of the Gull.

And one name, one miserable name stammered out by a famished, tousled-haired parody of a woman, was enough to resuscitate in his mind the pitiful shadow of a sorrow-eaten widower losing himself in fruitless researches, burnt from the inside by an obsession belonging to another world.

James Potter. He had not recognised that name as his for a long time. Hell, he had very nearly forgotten it.

The girl was still staring at him with wide eyes—eyes too large for her pinched face. She was pale under her tan, with a forehead white with salt and peeling skin, sharp cheekbones and chin, and surrounding all this a thick mane of brittle, dirty matted hair that the sun and salt had bleached to the colour of straw. The clothes hung limply off her bony shoulders, her too-thin arms were folded in a protective stance under a chest that had probably seen better days, and from her torn-up breeches emerged two sticks of legs ending in feet that sported dozens of small cuts and abrasions; two of her toenails were black with dried blood.

He was certain he had never seen her in his life; or indeed, in either of his lives. Yet this wreck of a girl, this girl he was meeting for the first time and who looked so damn young—this girl knew of him. Of the old him.

“Captain?”

Meunier’s uncertain voice cut through his thoughts, and for the first time Hawkins became aware of the  uneasy silence that lay over the crew of the Gull. He felt on him the weight of two dozen pairs of questioning eyes. He needed to act.

In an impulsive move, he pulled his gun from his belt and cocked it. “You stay here,” he told Meunier shortly. “Keep the ship steady, ready to move on the Pearl. If the worst should happen…” He glanced at Gibbs, who had mirrored his gestures and held his gun aimed at Hawkins’s belly. “…Keep to the Code.”

Gibbs gave a snort that was half-derisive and half-satisfied, and the two armed men took the time to glare at each other while the girl between them squirmed on the spot. Then Hawkins said, “Let’s go.”

And so, against his best judgement, Hawkins left his ship for the Black Pearl.

He had been aboard the legendary ship before, back when Jack Sparrow had been captain and Barbossa his first mate. He had witnessed the mutiny that had landed Sparrow on a deserted island—the very same island Hawkins had been rescued from by rum smugglers, over sixteen years ago. The Albatross. That was it, the first boat he'd served upon, when his name was still James Potter. Strange that he would still remember the name of the boat after so many years.

He sat at the back of the dinghy while Gibbs handled the oars, glaring balefully at him the entire time. Hawkins was aware of the pistols and rifles that were pointed at his head from the deck of the Pearl, like as many malevolent eyes; not as worrying, but just as piercing, was the girl's insisting gaze.

“Why bring her along?” he asked Gibbs, nodding towards her.

“Captain’s orders.”

“Which one?”

If anything, Gibbs’s glare intensified at his question. “The captain of the Black Pearl.”

“Last I heard the Pearl had two captains,” Hawkins countered. “Which one are you taking orders from? Your friend Jack?”

“That’s Captain Sparrow to you, you piece of filth of a poacher,” growled Gibbs. “And if you don’t stop asking questions something bad’s gonna happen to you.”

“What’re you gonna do, old man? Knock me out with an oar? Or do you count on the lass to defend you?”

Gibbs was going purple with fury but he clenched his jaw, pointedly refusing to answer Hawkins’ provocation; snorting, the poacher glanced at the girl, who crouched inside the dinghy between the two of them. She looked confused and ill at ease, but she still stared at him without fear, pensively and almost—almost fondly. As if his face was something familiar and comforting to her. It made Hawkins uneasy, but at the same time the mystery around her fascinated him. She was too young to have ever known him…

“What’s your full name, girl?” he asked.

She nodded, as though she had been expecting or even hoping he would ask, but even as she opened her mouth to answer Gibbs barked at her, “Don’t answer him. Don’t talk to him.”

She cast at the quartermaster a nervous look before recoiling in a little heap on the floor, with a kind of apologetic grimace directed at Hawkins. He rolled a shoulder in a shrug, and her face lit up again with that unnerving look of recognition; troubled, Hawkins looked away.

Their dinghy hit the Pearl with a scraping sound, and they seized the lines that hung along the hull to haul themselves aboard. The girl was going first, her gestures slow and somewhat jerky. Hawkins, who was just behind her, had to pause several times during their ascent, and it wasn’t without a certain relief that he saw muscled arms reach down to her and pull her bodily aboard. He had soon reached the bulwark and hauled himself up on the deck.

A half circle of scowling sailors greeted him, their pistols cocked, naked blades in their hands shimmering feebly through the unnatural fog.

Hawkins raised his voice so that it carried over the entire ship. “So where’s Jack Sparrow, so we can get it over with and go back to gunning each other?”

An excited murmur ran through the assembled pirates like a quick wind wrinkling the sea.

“Now, that’s my kind of talk!” a rough voice called back at him.

The ranks parted to let through a bulky man wearing a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a soaked, filthy feather, and a sea coat open to expose the baldric crossing his broad chest. A long sword beat against his leg.

“Captain Hawkins,” said the man.

“Captain Barbossa,” replied Hawkins.

“Been meaning to talk to you,” Barbossa drawled, stepping forward to detach himself from the ranks of his crew. “Was that you that emptied every ship in the area for the last coupla months?”

“You worried I’m a better pirate than you are?”

“Time will tell,” said Barbossa, uncovering yellow teeth in a sneer. “Which one will survive longer?”

Laughter rang all around Hawkins, and the pirates moved, drawing a little closer to him. His right hand clenched harder the butt of his pistol; he drew back his sea coat so as not to be hampered when he would reach down to his cutlass. The ranks of the Pearl’s crew stabilised once more.

Then another man stepped through the gathered sailors into Hawkins’s field of vision.

“Captain Hawkins!” called the newcomer in a joyous, satisfied voice that was completely at odds with the heavy atmosphere. A few sailors looked at him in confusion. Hawkins had to repress a sigh of relief.

“Captain Sparrow,” he answered with a polite nod of his head. “You wished to speak to me.”

“Actually, yes I did. Gentlemen, if you would go back to your respective tasks while I have a word with this man.”

“We’re not letting them escape,” spat Barbossa, and the pirates grumbled their agreement.

Sparrow stared at him for a second, then adopted a patient tone that one would usually save for small, slightly retarded children. “As long as their captain is here, the schooner won’t go away. And even if they did try to get away without the only man who can hope to outrun us—” he nodded towards Hawkins, “—then I’ll find them again, just as I’ve found them four times over.”

Barbossa scowled, Sparrow gave him a bright smile, and the sailors exchanged puzzled glances.

“Keep the ship steady, the guns on the schooner,” ordered Sparrow, raising his voice. “If they start the fight, shoot them. Off you go. Move.”

Sparrow made aggravated little shooing gestures with his hands, and the men scattered, whispering to each other and glancing back at Hawkins as they went. The captain of the Gull felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The thought of the girl crossed his mind and he wondered where she had disappeared to—but just as he scanned the deck to find her, a pestilential smell made him flinch and look round.

He found Barbossa had taken a few steps towards him. He had to struggle not to step back; for a lot of reasons, Barbossa was best seen at a little distance.

“Don’t think I’m gonna let you get away with that, Jack,” said Barbossa, although his eyes were still studying Hawkins. “Whatever you have to tell this poacher, I’m gonna hear it.”

“If you absolutely must,” Sparrow sighed. “But it’ll probably be impossibly dull.”

“I’ll put up with it.”

There was no discussing to be done. All three captains made their way to the captain’s quarters. The skin on the back of Hawkins’s neck prickled all the way as he walked before the captains of the Pearl—both Sparrow and Barbossa, for once agreeing on something, had their pistols trained on his back.

***

When Hermione had been abroad—and by abroad she meant France, which, before she was thrown into the Caribbean some two hundred years before her time, had been her only destination outside of England—she had once met another English family, visiting the city of Bordeaux with the wide eyes and lost expression peculiar to tourists.  There had been an instantaneous complicity between her family and those complete strangers, a feeling of belonging to the same clan, sharing the same language, culture and references, enhanced by the fact they were in the middle of a foreign city. Exciting though the trip might have been, meeting countrymen there had felt deeply reassuring.

It was, more or less, what she’d felt when recognising James Potter. He had hundreds of little gestures and facial expressions that were familiar to her because Harry displayed them so often she had stopped paying attention to them. At times, a hint of a British accent would escape him, like a friendly little wave from her homeland; and she’d feel a little thrill of excitement. As she watched him on the way back to the Black Pearl, she repeated to herself that he was a man who had gone to Hogwarts—who had known Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hogsmeade village, the Gryffindor common room, Diagon Alley. They belonged to the same world.

Hermione had to snap out of her bubble of excited happiness when it was time to leave the dinghy and climb up the horribly high flank of the Black Pearl. The mist still rolling in thick clouds added to her vertigo, and she was made more clumsy still by her awareness of the two other men’s presence behind her: in her attempt not to slow them down, she fumbled with the line and nearly fell a couple of times.

“Girl, they’ll never make it if you don’t hurry your ass up!” someone called from the deck.

“I’m—trying,” she said through gritted teeth, knowing they couldn’t hear them. A second later, she gave a loud squeak as two hairy hands shot into view, grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her bodily aboard.

“There ya go,” grunted the pirate, setting her roughly on the deck. “Move outta my way, now.”

Hermione didn’t need telling twice. Threading her way through the tight crowd of pirates, she darted to the main hatchway and ran down the ladder into the ship’s depths. The atmosphere down there felt loaded with electricity; the gun deck was packed with people, from the experienced gunners standing behind each of the cannons to a myriad of younger pirates, little older than Harry or herself, who served as powder monkeys.

Dread pooled in Hermione’s stomach. She had been a powder monkey during the attack of the Spanish ship, in charge with getting new bullets and powder from the ammunition store—and she had thought she would not come out of the experience alive; if someone spotted her there, she would surely be enlisted again.

She ducked her head, doing her best to look small and insignificant, and set off along the deck in search of Marty. She found him sitting with his back against the bulkhead; he had left aside the fishing rod he had been working on all day and now held a considerably more ominous tool—a thick-barrelled firearm, like a miniature canon. The dwarf’s eyes were screwed in concentration as his tiny hands ran expertly over the black barrel, which shone with fresh grease.

“’Ere you are,” said Marty when she went to crouch next to him. “So that really the Gull?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “It’s a tiny ship, much smaller than the Black Pearl—”

“The Pearl’s a warship, silly girl. The Gull’s a schooner. Can’t have more than thirty or forty men, and forty’s pushing it.” Marty shot her a sideways glance, his tongue held between his teeth as he started carefully loading his gun. “You saw their capt’n, aye? Jim Hawkins?”

Hermione nodded. “Do you know who he is?” she asked. “He didn’t look like a poacher…”

“Don’t be a fool, you ever seen a poacher before? No. So there. Well, he’s a poacher all right. I don’t know how he started, but he’s been ‘round a long time. Half the Caribbean would like to see him hanging from a yard, but he’s a slippery sort—always has the wind in his back.” He squinted at her. “That true he’s talking to the captains now?”

“I think so,” said Hermione.

“Mmh. I still think we’re gonna gun them down. Filth.” Marty raised the heavy gun at eye level and checked the greased length of the barrel. “You serving as powder monkey, aye?”

Hermione gulped audibly and retreated a little further in the shadows of the hull. Marty looked at her sideways again.

“Better get your ass out of ‘ere then,” he growled. “Before someone spots you.”

“Right. I’ll—I’ll do that,” stammered Hermione. “Hum, have you seen Harry?”

“Potter? Up in the riggin’, prolly—‘Ermione, if you stay here the gunners are gonna see you. You need to get out now.”

“Yes. Sure.” She scrambled to her feet, shooting terrified glances all around her, but the pirates had not yet started screaming for monkey powders to start the terrifying dance—running down to the ammunition hold, fetching one of the unbearably heavy bullets piled up in the dark there, and running back up, stumbling over each step, arms aching and fingers threatening to pop out of their sockets as they struggled to keep hold of the treacherously smooth lead, the sweat running into her eyes and the pirates’ insults ringing in her ears… Her heartbeat sped up at the memory and a cold sweat formed in droplets at her hairline. Head held low, bare feet silent on the wooden deck, she ran back out into the fresh air.

Emerging from the main hatch, she caught sight of Cotton, standing at a short distance with his legs slightly apart and his parrot perched on his shoulder. She hauled herself on the deck and made her way to the old pirate.

“Hey Cotton—know where Harry is?” she said, stumbling all over her own words in her haste.

The mute jerked his head towards the foremast as the parrot screeched, “Arrrh! A typhoon ahead!”

“Of course not—the weather’s fine,” Hermione muttered to herself, hurrying towards the starboard bulwark. A thick-roped shroud was tied there, climbing up towards the mast and the faraway fighting top, small and fragile and suspended at a vertiginous height. Hermione swallowed a mounting wave of bile and bravely quickened her step.

Several terrifying minutes later, she hauled herself through the lubber hole with trembling arms and her heart ready to spill out of her mouth.

“You’re getting better at it,” snickered a dark-skinned pirate who sat placidly in the middle of the fighting top, a pistol and a cutlass negligently lying across his lap.

“Uh—thanks—I guess,” Hermione puffed. “Where’s…?”

“… Potter? On the yard there.”

Hermione stared down the thin, round, smooth-looking piece of wood that stretched unsupported over the void, covered in treacherous lines and ropes. Her heart sank back into her chest and even went a little further than usual, settling down somewhere low in her abdomen.

The pirate burst out in raucous laughter. “’Kay, I’ll call him then, right?”

Still chortling, he leant over the edge of the fighting top with casual ease—as if he wasn’t risking falling to his death by doing so—and called over to the sailors working on the yard, “Oi, Potter! Come over ‘ere!”

There was a disturbance between the gathered pirates, with much swearing and aggravated shouts, until finally a lean figure detached itself and started progressing along the yard with both arms gripping the solid wood, using the thin line running under it as foothold. Harry reached the fighting top in a surprisingly small amount of time and Hermione rushed to him at once—as much as one could rush on a six-feet wide platform.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a whisper.

“I was on the Gull just now.”

Harry’s face tightened. “And you saw…”

“Yes.” She rose on tiptoes and spoke directly into his ear, to be sure the pirate behind them wouldn’t hear. “It’s the captain, Harry. Jim Hawkins. He’s your father.”

She searched his face eagerly for signs of excitement or joy as she settled back on her heels—but to her dismay he simply averted his eyes, pressing his lips together so hard they lost all colour.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in turn. “Harry? Aren’t these good news?”

“Well…” He heaved a sigh, then leant even closer to whisper fiercely into her face, “I don’t know, do I?”

Hermione blinked confusedly at him.

“He’s… my father. When I was a kid I used to imagine that my parents weren’t really dead, that they had just disappeared, and that they would come back one day. And I thought it would be great, but I never thought about how it would really be, see?”

She didn’t, but nodded all the same. “So… you think you’ll be disappointed?”

“I don’t know!” he hissed again. “I don’t know him. I’ve been my whole life without a father. When it was just a dream, sure, I wanted to see him more than anything in the world, but—”

“Now he’s real, you’re not sure you want to see him,” Hermione completed.

“I…” He slid a hand into his too-long hair and gripped it tightly, in a gesture of sheer frustration. “I don’t know.”

There was a moment of silence. They stood so close to each other that Hermione could feel the heat emanating from his body, but he wasn’t looking at her—his eyes were fixed on the thin masts of the Gull, still hovering over the mist ahead of the Black Pearl. The wind ruffled his hair back, uncovering the thin scar that ran across his forehead to the point of his right eyebrow; it looked white against his tanned skin, unnaturally neat, and oddly fitting on his sharp-featured face.

Fitting—that was a troubling thought… It was like saying his tragic history suited him, that it was best for him to have lost his parents and be marked by Voldemort. That it was right for him to remain an orphan, alone against the dark wizard.

Obviously that wasn’t true, and yet, when Hermione tried to picture his face without the scar it was like trying to block out his nose… or his eyes… Or—or indeed, his mouth…

 

“I’d hate it if something happened to him though,” he unexpectedly said.

Hermione abruptly snapped out of a reverie of half-formed thoughts, probably induced by the height. “Wh-what?”

“If something happened to him,” Harry went on, “even if I don’t know him at all, it would be still—he would be still—”

“Family?”

“Y-yes, sort of.”

Hermione gave him a blank look, and Harry grimaced. “It’s complicated, I don’t know how to explain it but—”

“Hey, you two!”

The call startled Hermione so badly she jumped with a little scream, wildly swinging her arm about to grab at the rigging in an attempt to remain in one piece on the narrow platform.

“What?” Harry snapped at the pirate whose head was visible through the lubber hole at their feet. The newcomer glowered at his tone of voice and Hermione’s knees went a little weak.

“The girl, to the gun deck with the other powder monkeys,” said the sailor.

Hermione had to hold back a whimper.

“You,” the pirate added with an intensified glare at Harry, “to the captains’ cabin. They want to see you.”

The sunburnt head disappeared from view as the pirate climbed back down the shroud. Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance; Harry was noticeably paler than a minute previously, but his face was otherwise empty of all expression.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go.”

***

Hawkins looked across the table at both captains in turn. None seemed eager to start the conversation.

“So what am I doing here?” he asked.

Barbossa narrowed his eyes at him for a second before turning to look at Sparrow, who was busy drumming his ringed fingers on the worn oak of the table. At Barbossa’s and Hawkins’s combined stares, his hand froze—then had a curious, jerky little gesture towards his chest, as if he had wanted to take something from the inside of his coat before changing his mind at the last second.

“What you’re doing here. That’s a very good question. Yes, very good question.” Sparrow frowned at the ceiling, a finger thoughtfully tapping his chin. “You see, captain Hawkins, I don’t like your sort much. And any sailor less considerate than myself would’ve gunned your ship down at the first sign of you; nonetheless... I want to make a deal with you.”

“How did you find my ship so fast?” Hawkins interrupted. This had been bothering him more than anything else.

“I’ll get to that point later.”

“Actually I want to know too,” said Barbossa.

Sparrow heaved a long, all-suffering sigh. “I said later. I’ll tell you, so don’t sulk, but later. That deal should make even you happy.”

“Oh I highly doubt that,” Barbossa grumbled.

“That’s what we’ll see.” Sparrow turned back to Hawkins. “Deal’s as follows, James. You keep sailing, you keep going after ships. But this time, no poaching for your own benefit. Half of your plunder—” Here Sparrow jabbed his thumb into his own chest, “—goes to me.”

“To us,” Barbossa corrected.

“To the Pearl,” Sparrow said loudly, speaking over him. “And her captain.”

Hawkins stared at Sparrow.

“And what if I don’t do it?”

“Your ship’s sunk, I hang you to my highest yard, and that’ll make me just as happy,” Barbossa promptly replied with a satisfied little smirk. “Eh, that’s not bad, Jack. I like that deal.”

“Okay, let’s suppose I’m not stupid enough to say no,” Hawkins impatiently said. “Why would I keep my word once I’ve sailed away?”

“Oh I’ve found your ship, four times over,” said Sparrow, lazily leaning back in his chair and placing his feet on the table, one boot crossed over the other. “I can find it again. But something tells me I won’t even need to. Hector?”

“What?”

“I need you to call for the Potter kid while I keep an eye on this gentleman.”

Something very cold settled in the pit of Hawkins’s stomach. He didn’t know whether it was the mention of his old name—even though that name was quite common in this part of the world, there had been more reminders of his past in one day than what he felt comfortable with—or the captain’s confident attitude, but he felt suddenly, irrationally scared.

And as though it weren’t enough, when after several distrustful glances Barbossa strode to the door and barked a couple of instructions to a sailor standing just outside, Hawkins caught Sparrow’s eye again and was struck by a doubt. Jack Sparrow, going to all this trouble… just for money? He didn’t know the captain well—few men could boast they did—but according to what he did know, this sounded out of character.

Sparrow’s eyes were planted into his, as if he was trying to tell him something without resorting to words. An impulse made Hawkins speak up. “It’s not what you’re really after, is it?” he hissed, low enough that Barbossa wouldn’t hear him. “You’ve got something else in mind.”

Jack Sparrow bared his teeth in a grin.

Barbossa’s heavy footsteps drew closer and Hawkins bit back the question on his lips. The second captain of the Black Pearl let himself fall into the third chair and glared at Sparrow.

“What?” the latter said.

“What does the new brat have to do with all this?” Barbossa demanded.

“Well, we will know soon enough, won’t we?” Sparrow drawled. “Isn’t there any rum in this old tub?”

Awkward silence fell once more. Hawkins’s heart was pounding hard enough to break his ribs, although he strove to remain composed. The strange girl, the way Sparrow had found his ship—using something on it as beacon, he reckoned; but what?—that young sailor he had just sent for, the unnatural mist that had only grown thicker as the Pearl got closer to the Gull, and Sparrow’s secret plans… One enigma chased another in his head in an infernal dance. He was also acutely aware of the rumbling of the ship getting ready for a fight, the bloodlust and excitement poisoning the air as far as within the captains’ cabin, the tension and alertness he felt in the very wood of the ship. Everything reminded him he was gambling with his and his men’s lives.

After several minutes that dragged on at an impossibly slow pace, the door opened again and someone slipped inside the cabin.

“Captain Sparrow, captain Barbossa,” the newcomer said.

He seemed reluctant to come forward; Hawkins could tell he was little more than a boy, which was not unusual, even on pirate ships. The sleeves of his shirt had been torn off, revealing a loose bandage over one shoulder. He sounded British, but was otherwise unremarkable—or he would have been if not for a curious, flat glint of daylight on his face. Frowning, Hawkins paid more attention and recognised a pair of glasses; modern glasses in fact, such as he had never seen in this world except for his own.

“Mr. Potter,” Sparrow said. “Come on here.”

Hawkins’s suspicions were getting more precise now. That kid obviously came from the other world, as did the girl. Someone back there must have told them about him, shown them old pictures, maybe… Could it be a coincidence that the boy was named ‘Potter’? It seemed hardly likely… But it had to be. Everyone was dead.

There hadn’t been any time. He remembered that much. They were all dead.

His mind reeled with the implications of the two kids’ presence, almost too great for him to consider, just as the boy obediently stepped forward.

“James,” said Sparrow. “You know who this is, don’t you?”

“I have a good idea,” Hawkins replied. It occurred to him that Sparrow hadn’t stopped calling him ‘James’ all through the conversation—he was one of the very few men to have known him under that name.

“Young Harry Potter here will guarantee that you own up to your part of the deal, I think,” Sparrow went on. “Do you agree?”

Hawkins stared hard at the boy, refusing to listen to his growing doubts. It was not possible. They were both dead. They had been dead for sixteen years.

“I need to think about it,” he said at last.

The boy’s eyes met his for the first time—for one second—then he looked down again. His rigid posture gave Hawkins the feeling that he was torn between the desire to get closer and the impulse to run away as far as his legs could carry him.

“I still don’t get—” Barbossa suddenly fell quiet, his eyes widening then narrowing again as they went from Hawkins to the boy. “Well, well… Now that’s interesting…”

“Good to see you’ve caught up,” Sparrow cheerfully said. “Now, Hawkins—I’ll give you ten minutes to think this through. Not one more. And you’ll stay here.”

“Fine.”

“You leaving him alone here?” Barbossa asked, sounding utterly disgusted. “Now Jack, the first part of your plan was good, but that’s just the sort of thing that lands you in trouble every time. Only thing you can trust is a corpse.”

“Oh, I’ve been betrayed by a corpse. Several times, even. Several corpses too.” Sparrow frowned, then nodded at the boy. “And I wish I was speaking metaphorically. Harry, you stay here with him. Hawkins, remember my guns are turned on your ship. I’ll see you again in ten minutes, gentlemen!”

Upon these words Sparrow left the room, in that swaying walk that was peculiar to him, and without even deigning to glance back. Barbossa seemed to hesitate for a second before spitting out a curse and hastening to follow him.

“He doesn’t want to leave him on his own,” the boy murmured.

Hawkins’s eyes jerked back to him. He was still staring at the floor as if he hoped to burn a hole in it with his eyes. The little he could see of his face was like his voice—blank.

“They both want the ship,” Hawkins replied brusquely. It was easier, much easier, to talk about Barbossa and Sparrow’s quarrel over the Black Pearl than anything else.

“Yes,” the boy said. “I don’t know who is really captain.”

“Sparrow was captain first, Barbossa took over the ship and sailed for ten years. Then Sparrow killed him.”

The boy looked up in surprise, his brows knit together. “He killed—”

“That’s the story,” Hawkins said with a shrug. “Weirder things have happened.”

“So when he said he’s been betrayed by corpses…”

“… I don’t think it was a manner of speech.”

The boy raised his head to look directly at him, lifting a hand to brush back the long, matted dark hair that fell in front of his eyes. Hawkins found himself studying the boy’s face avidly, half-expecting to see something monstrous, like a ghost or a living corpse, come back to haunt him. But he looked normal and unfamiliar, no different from the hundreds of ship’s boys he had ever seen in his career. A thin, scarred, slightly angular face, dark hair and large clear eyes behind round glasses; a lithe figure.  

A pang of regret went through Hawkins. He did not recognise the boy. He recognised nothing in him. This was what he’d expected, hoped, even, and yet…

“Who was your mother, boy?”

The question escaped him before he thought about speaking at all. Surprisingly, he did not regret asking it.

Daylight glinted off the boy’s glasses, masking his eyes and preventing Hawkins to see his expression. But he heard the contained emotion in his voice—whether that emotion was anger, joy or sadness, or a mixture of the three, he couldn’t tell; and that didn’t really matter because what the boy said wiped all thoughts from his mind.

“Lily Evans, sir.”

“Lily Evans,” he echoed.

The boy nodded.

Hawkins averted his eyes. “Lily Evans,” he murmured again.

Nothing happened. No rush of emotion, no tightening of his chest, no memory called forward. He tried to remember her face and couldn’t quite recall the details—he knew she had been clear-skinned, red-haired, and green-eyed; weirdly enough, he could even tell what her height had been within an inch; but he couldn’t see her anymore. He hadn’t thought of her in years. Her ghost was gone.

“Sir?”

Hawkins met the boy’s eyes again. “I can’t remember her,” he said, and he heard the wonder in his own voice.

“You don’t remember Lily?”

“I remember her,” snapped Hawkins, annoyed, without reason, that the boy didn’t understand what he meant; in growing agitation he rose to his feet and paced before the oak table. “She was my wife. But I don’t see her face.”

“She’s dead,” the boy said coolly.

Hawkins paused in his pacing. “How?”

“Voldemort killed her.”

“Yes. Of course he did.”

The boy looked at him strangely. “You remember Voldemort?”

“When I don’t even remember my wife?” Hawkins completed. “No. He’s no more real than she is. But I do know he killed her—in another life.”

“I’m real though. And I’m here.”

“Yes,” Hawkins said, staring at the slim figure in front of him. “That you are.”

Harry Potter stared back at him through his round glasses, the only remain of another life, another world; the only hint that he did not truly belong here. The moment his gaze lingered on them, Hawkins felt the pressure of his own frames on the bridge of his nose, like a reminder of his ties with the boy. Hawkins fought back a snort at the thought. No emotional bond, no sudden understanding, no teary recollection—nothing but a pair of glasses reminded him of who this boy was to him.

“You’re my son,” he stated.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never had a son.”

The boy smiled thinly. “I’ve never had a father.”

“You don’t know me,” Hawkins went on. “I’m a stranger, right?”

“Right,” said Harry. He didn’t add, And you don’t know me either. He didn’t need to—they understood each other fine.

They were strangers who happened to be related. The boy was not asking for his help, and Hawkins was not offering it. Had they never met, none of their lives would have been affected.

“You don’t have to do… whatever Sparrow wants you to do, because of me,” said the boy, clearly thinking along the same lines.

“No, I don’t,” Hawkins agreed.

He really didn’t. This wasn’t truly his son. They had nothing in common but blood—and blood, on its own, was unimportant; there was more to family than a handful of shared genes. His family, his true family, had vanished years ago. They never had any time.

And the boy… The boy was alone, and maladjusted to this world. He was wounded. He was on a pirate ship, and had very slim chances of surviving another year on it. He didn’t have much time, either. He would soon vanish, as his mother had. As his father had.

Hawkins looked away, towards a window that was blank with the billowing mist. The blood was pulsing in his ears, loud, dull, but regular and slow. Ticking seconds off.

No, the boy didn’t have a lot of time… But he had some time.

The door hadn’t burst open yet. The spell hadn’t connected to his chest. He still had a move to make, to try and gain time.

“On the other hand…” Hawkins murmured.

He frowned, searching for words to translate his rambling thoughts, the mounting wave of his old obsession. He recognised the feeling—the fever, the stubborn rage, and always, that fascination with time, the time he’d lacked and the time he could gain and the time he was wasting…

 

“On the other hand,” he said at last, more to himself than to the boy, “I’d hate it… if something bad happened to you.”

The boy blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and after a silent struggle with himself he closed it again.

Hawkins nodded at him. “Go find Sparrow,” he said. “Tell him I’m taking the deal.”

***

A/N: This one has been sitting in my computer for months. I wasn't satisfied with it. But I'm tired of seeing it gathering dust, so here it is -- I officially can't better it anymore. Unbeta'd.