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Harry took off his tricorn as he stepped into the fortune-teller's tent where the scent of incense assaulted him. It hung cloyingly thick in the air, making his eyes water and his throat burn. And it did little to help his poor eyesight in the dim light of the tent.
"Come closer, young man," said the fortune-teller, a woman with scarves wrapped around her head and ropes of beaded necklaces hanging down her front. "Sit. Let Sybill tell you what the future holds. If you have two pence to spare, I'll reveal what the Almighty has planned for you."
Giving away the two coins hurt more than it had any right to, but Harry put them in the fortune-teller's upturned palm and watched with increased grief as she snatched them away. He bumped his way onto a low stool and leaned down to better see the crystal ball that sat on her cloth-covered table.
"Give me a moment to connect with my third eye." She closed her two normal eyes, hummed loudly, and swayed in her seat. "Yes. The energies have gathered. The crystal ball is ready to show me what Our Lord wills."
Harry held his breath as the clear glass ball filled with dense white smoke. Though he could only see the smoke, Sybill claimed to see more.
"Ah. Ah!" she exclaimed, hands formed as claws around the ball, face almost pressed up against it. She jerked to a stop, and her voice went deep and rough. "You have left England. You are by the side of a King! You are a prince in a land without borders. You hold the power to change the lives of many. " She shuddered, going boneless, her head falling onto the table.
Harry turned mildly worried as she stayed unmoving, but before he could act on his concern, she surged back up.
Her voice was back to normal. "My third eye has closed. God has told all He wished to tell. If you want to know more, you'll have to pay another two pence."
"Right." Harry held back a scoff, thinking that the short spectacle had been a load of rubbish. He didn't have more money to throw away. He stood, almost knocking over a box inlaid with mother of pearl. The fresh scent of salt briefly overcame the incense.
"Careful with that!" She snatched the box, cradling it close to her chest. "Leave before you ruin something."
Not about to argue, Harry left. He left the fair and the many other performers who'd set up their colourful tents, not at all eager to go home to the Dursley Residence. His uncle's firm was doing poorly. Once they had employed a cook, a groundskeeper, a coachman, a governess and other servants. Now, only batty Mrs Figg remained, and any day now, she would be dismissed.
Entering the house, Harry hesitated outside the drawing-room, at once pulled towards and repelled by the sound of Uncle Vernon's ranting. He stayed in the corridor until he observed a lull in the curses directed at England, the military, every tradesman who worked out of Surrey, and then some.
"What if you left England?" Harry said, thinking of the fortune-teller's words. "People might better appreciate your trade elsewhere. You could build up Grunnings again, even expand."
"Leave England! Preposterous! Petunia, tell your nephew what an idiotic notion he's sprouted."
"Don't you see that your uncle is distraught?" Aunt Petunia glared at Harry. "Take your ideas with you and go tend the fire in the kitchen. Mrs Figg left today. The fire is your task now."
—
For all that Uncle Vernon complained, the idea found fertile soil in him, and within months, the house and firm were both sold, liquidating into enough money to buy them a fresh start in the Colonies—them being Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Cousin Dudley. They were unwilling to finance Harry's crossing, but he was determined to come along. The future that he saw for himself in England seemed bleak. With no family to speak for him, finding employment would be difficult—not that the Dursleys ever would have put in a good word for him. He'd only been tied to Surrey because of a girl he'd wished to wed, a match set up long ago by his dead parents, who had been betrothed to another. Her family was poor and needed to secure her prospects, though it hurt them to do so. No, he wouldn't waste any more time in England. He'd made up his mind. He would no longer look back, only ahead.
Using every ounce of persuasion he possessed and promising more than wisdom advised, Harry set up a contract to work on the ship to pay for his crossing. And so, on a clear and windy morning in early August of 1712, they set out from Portsmouth on board the merchant vessel Saint Elen bound for Kingston, Jamaica.
The sailing was smooth and pleasant down the coast of France and remained so as they crossed the Bay of Biscay and left mainland Europe, stopping in port for the last time in Funchal, Madeira. After that, they ventured out on the Atlantic Ocean, and for thirty-six days they were left at the mercy of the ever-changing open sea, suffering both absolute calm with clear skies and storms that whipped the waves into a frenzy.
During this time, they discovered that Harry was natural at being high up in the air, and they permitted him to help out with the sailing rather than being stuck assisting the cook in the galley. Despite his eyesight being poor, he was well suited for working as a lookout as he had a keen eye for movement, spotting any birds or ships that happened to cross their path before anyone else.
On a day when they were slowly beating against the wind, turning first north and then south to try and move west, Harry sat on top of the mainmast, and it made him the first to catch sight of the fleet of emerald sails. The wind favoured the emerald ships, but there was something more than that. Something unnatural. They practically flew across the water. Within moments, they'd come so close that the emblem of a snake cradling a skull was well visible across the sails.
"Pirates!" the cry sounded among the sailors. "Pirates!"
Saint Elen's Captain shouted, "It's the Pirate Admiral! It's Riddle and the Death Eaters! Trim the sails! Turn her around!"
The order was drowned by Uncle Vernon's bellowing, "Why are there pirates? Have we not paid taxes to finance her Majesty's navy so that the seas will be safe? And shouldn't you have planned the route to avoid this? We paid good money to have you deliver us safely to shore. I demand that you resolve this at once!"
"Go below deck, Master Dursley. You shall be safe there."
Harry figured that following his relatives below might be in his best interest, but with the sailors scurrying about the masts, trimming and unfolding the sails to allow them to change course, he didn't dare get in their way.
The first cannon boomed. The cannonball landed afront Saint Elen with a great splash. The next one chipped the railing, whooshing over to the other side. The third hit the mast. Harry nearly lost his grip, scrambling to stay secure. A second cannonball hit in the same spot, and the wood groaned as it broke. The topmast, with Harry as the sole occupant, fell.
He kept his eyes firmly shut, hands and feet cramping with how tightly he held on to the rope ladder. First, they hit the deck with a great jolt and then the water, plunging below. Unprepared, Harry breathed in some of the salty water, and panicking, he kicked to reach the surface, guided by the floating mast. Coughing and spitting, he clung to the mast, bobbing there as two of the pirate ships came up side by side with Saint Elen, blocking out the sun.
Men wielding cutlasses and pistols swung over, gracefully and practised. There was, however, nothing graceful about the screams that followed or the corpses that dropped into the sea next to Harry. The mayhem lasted for dragged out minutes. When all men with some fighting skill aboard Saint Elen had been dealt with, the battle came to a stop, but not the killing. One after the other, the sailors and the passengers were executed.
Harry sent a quick prayer for strength, let go of the mast, and paddled ineptly towards the hull of Saint Elen, barely able to keep his head above the surface. He didn't know what he could do, but he had to try to help. Scrambling to find some purchase, something to grab onto, he heard Aunt Petunia's screech, Dudley's short wail, and Uncle Vernon's bellow, each followed by a chopping sound and a thump. Harry swallowed a shout of his own when their beheaded bodies and heads were dumped overboard, quickly sinking beneath the clear water.
He told himself that it was just seawater on his cheeks, that he wasn't crying. He shouldn't be mournful about their deaths. They'd always been horrible to him. He told himself that he wasn't scared. If he died, he would meet his parents in heaven. That wouldn't be so awful.
As the ruckus and killing ended and the pirates celebrated their new acquisition, they also discovered Harry. A woman with wild dark hair stuck her face over the railing, and her eyes met his. "What's this? Oh, are we crying? Haven't enjoyed the show, have we? Are you a maiden to faint at the sight of blood? Oi, Rodolphus! Toss me a rope!"
They threw down a rope, and with the choices of drowning or being submitted to the tender mercies of the pirates, drowning seemed the better option. With the pirates, there was, however, a small chance of something other than death, and Harry couldn't embrace death that easily. The fortune-teller had said he'd leave England. That had come true. He would fight for the rest of her prophecy.
He grabbed on and was hauled up onto the deck. Harry was not met by the woman, but by a man who occupied all attention, erasing the rest of the world. His features were smooth and symmetrical, classically handsome, enhanced by dark hair and eyes and pale skin untouched by the sun of the southern seas. He wore a resplendent coat of green and silver and a sword with an intricately shaped crossguard sat at his hip. He was without a doubt the Admiral Pirate the captain of Saint Elen had been afraid of.
Riddle exuded irritated amusement as he spoke, "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you back in the water."
"You seem to like beheadings more than drownings." Harry panicked at his own boldness, biting his jaw closed.
A red spark shone in Riddle's eyes, and quick as a viper, he drew his sword, resting the point against Harry's forehead. It cut a fine line like a lightning bolt that sent a trickle of blood to join the rivulets of water running from Harry's hair.
"It's true," he said. "It's much more personal. I'm satisfied by the number of deaths this day though, and we're celebrating, so I'll give you another chance to offer something useful in exchange for your life."
"I can read and write. I can cook. I've been learning how to sail. If it pleases you, sir."
"It's your majesty to you," the woman who'd discovered Harry barked, and Harry became aware of the crowd behind Riddle, aware of their harsh faces, wild eyes, and well-used weapons. "He's the King of the Seas, and you should be grateful for an opportunity to clean the dirt off his boots."
"Thank you, Bellatrix. That's enough," Riddle said in a quiet voice. He turned his intense gaze back on Harry "What's your name?"
"Harry Potter."
"Well, then, Harry Potter." He gave Harry a nasty smile. "You'll serve directly under me aboard Le Vol de Mort. We'll see if your mouth gets you killed or if your skills stay my blade."
—
Life aboard Le Vol de Mort was deceptively peaceful most of the time. For days, they sailed the open seas without seeing anyone or anything, and then followed repeats of the day when Harry had received his lightning bolt scar and lost his only remaining family, though with varying degrees of bloodshed. The attack upon Saint Elen had been special as they'd wanted the ship. Most of the time, they looted and sent the ships and crew away unharmed so as to be able to raid them again in a few months. The lesser degree to which they hurt people stilled Harry from loud protests, and being forced to carve words into his own hand—I shall not question my King—when he did speak up, quieted him for good.
Being quiet and instead listening, Harry learned the history of the Death Eaters and the Pirate Admiral. They'd expanded their numbers rapidly because life in the navy and aboard merchant vessels was wholly unfair, making recruitment of the dissatisfied easy. Especially when the man leading was someone like Riddle. He struck fear into his enemies and subordinates alike but rewarded loyalty well. More than that, he had supernatural luck and an inexplicable aura. The weather always favoured him and his goals. All ships sailing under his flag were unnaturally fast and cannon fire seemed incapable of causing them any damage.
A couple of months on from Harry joining the Death Eaters, they were docked in Port Royal, Jamaica. Riddle didn't allow Harry to go ashore, and he found ironic that now that he'd, at last, made it to the island that had been his intended destination setting out from England, he'd never get to properly visit. He'd been ordered to clean out Riddle's quarters, which on its own was a rare treat as it afforded him the chance to see all the treasures the King of the Seas had acquired—paintings, carved figurines, jewel-encrusted daggers—and it was a rare sign of trust to be allowed in there unsupervised.
About finished, Harry stood by the large stern window, watching Port Royal. He'd not seen so many houses at once since leaving England what felt like a lifetime ago though it had been less than a year. He wasn't the same person he'd been then. He'd seen too much. And now, he saw Riddle coming down the quay towards the ship.
Not wanting to be caught loitering, Harry surged into action, knocking down a box inlaid with mother of pearl. It hit the floor, and glittering powder spilt out. He went down on his knees, trying to scoop it all up and put it back in the box. It clung to his skin, where it was absorbed, tingling and hot.
In the middle of that mess, Riddle entered.
His eyes blazed, his expression turned murderous, and his hand went for his sword.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, while Riddle drew the blade, the metal ringing against the scabbard. "I didn't mean to do it, I swear. I'm cleaning it up. It'll be alright."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Riddle stalked forward, and Harry scrambled back, his back pressing against the window. "I should have let the sea have you, should have let you drown. But no. I saw myself in you. Recognised a kindred spirit in your bold tongue and your sense to hold it when pressed. I wanted to be proven wrong. Wanted to know that I was unique, and you ruined it. We're more alike than I understood." He raised his sword, placing the edge in the crook of Harry's neck, but his skin remained untouched.
Harry reached out a trembling hand, seeking something with which he might defend himself. He found one of the daggers, grabbed it and struck. Half an inch from Riddle's face, something stopped him. He couldn't do it. Couldn't hurt. Certainly couldn't kill.
"Do you think the dust is only dust, Harry Potter? No, it is a gift from the sea, which allowed me to become its King. The sea warned me about sharing it. Whoever else touched it would either be rejected and die or… It's magic, and it has accepted you. We're connected. Irrevocably. We shall never be able to harm each other or betray each other. We shall never be able to leave each other's sides. And that means you're the only person I've ever felt comfortable doing this with."
"What do you—" Riddle cut off Harry's question by kissing him. Harry should've struggled, shouldn't have enjoyed such an intimate act with a murderer who'd threatened his life and had mutilated him, but there had to be some truth about the magic and the connection. It felt right. When Riddle added teeth, turning what should've been an act of love violent, Harry broke it off.
"No," he gasped. "You don't get to do that."
"You think to deny me?"
"This is something I won't give you."
Riddle studied him. "Maybe not now, but you forget that we're bound. Time together will wear down your resistance. You'll be the one who comes to me." He left Harry there, shocked and brimming with conflicting emotions.
The words of the fortune-teller rang in his ears. By the side of a King, a prince—his consort. A land without borders—the sea. Harry looked at his hands. The power to change the lives of many—the connection and magic.
Harry thought of the future. He would indeed go to Riddle, but not to submit. He'd kept quiet to stay alive. No more. Harry would force the Death Eaters to change, and Riddle to become a just and fair King. He held his own fortune, a fortune of expansion and rapid growth.