James Sirius Potter, son of the savior of the Wizarding World, was constantly overshadowed by the accomplishments of his younger brother, Albus Severus. James was undeniably better on a broomstick, and had played both beater and seeker on the Gryffindor team, but Albus, for all that he was in Slytherin, had the looks that always connected him to their father and the talent with actual magic. James had no trouble with transfiguration, but in every other subject he was outstripped by his brother, the child prodigy. Albus, at twelve, had invented a potion that cleared and prevented acne with no serious side affects, at thirteen had developed a charm that allowed the caster to become a temporary metamorphmagus, and was currently patenting a way to contact the dead. Such a feat most seventeen year olds would never dream of, but Albus had accomplished it the year before, while greater wizards had tried and failed for centuries. He had made the connection between the veil that Sirius Black had fallen through, the faint voices on the other side, the spells that allowed the imprint of a persons character to last long after their death, and was currently having lengthy conversations with both his and James' namesakes.
James wasn't ordinarily prone to jealousy, but he had made the Appleby Arrows, the youngest person to do so in over a century, was now on the team that would be playing for England in the Quidditch World Cup, and no one had noticed or congratulated him because, at the time, Albus had made his first breakthrough and was talking to Rowena Ravenclaw.
James, honestly, couldn't have cared less about the opinions of the dead- they were, after all, dead- but he did care that, after several months of not speaking to his family, none of them had tried to contact him.
If his captain wondered why he became steadily quieter and worked even harder at every practice, he said nothing. The only person to mention the change in his general exuberant demeanor was his best friend, Rhiannon McDevon.
She cornered him before practice one Thursday morning.
"James, what the hell is wrong with you? Why haven't you been answering my calls?"
James scowled at her, his stomach twisting at the worry in her large gray eyes.
"I'm just fine, Rhia. Been busy. Decided telephones weren't really my thing- owls are ever so much more efficient. I'll be late to practice."
"I don't care," said Rhia stubbornly, moving to block him. "If you like owls better, use them! And you haven't been busy- you come here after practice every day and mope- it's even in the bloody tabloids!"
James smiled grimly. "Maybe that'll get their attention. I can see it now- "Quidditch Star, Son of the Savior, Wasting Away". Mum might even see it, and maybe she'll write. Unless Albus has made another groundbreaking discovery."
Rhiannon groaned. "This is about your bloody family? If they're so god-awful, why are you letting them ruin your life? James! Get a grip!"
James said, "I'm going to be late," and apparated away before she could stop him.
James knew at once that something had gone wrong with the apparation. There was a twisty sort of feeling in his gut, like nervous nausea except more violent and unpleasant, and an awful sort of stretching that seemed to elongate him and squash him at the same time.
It ended, and he was in one piece- thank Merlin- but he was somewhere he'd never been before, among people whose clothes were more than a century out-of-date. He was getting odd looks, so he tucked himself into a corner (of which there were quite a lot) and discreetly transfigured his clothes to seem more like they'd actually come from the seventeen hundreds.
He had the distinct impression that this was not just some theme park set to imitate the mid-eighteenth century, but that he had actually, somehow, traveled through time. What had he been thinking of to land him here?
Trying to remember, he left his corner and tried to remain inconspicuous, and failing as he was several inches taller than most of the people he saw. Trying not to feel too stupid, he walked around trying to figure out what to do with himself. This was obviously not one of the most virtuous towns of the age- it was filled with whores, drunkards, and pirates. He'd determined to ask a particularly ugly woman where he was when a man caught his arm.
"That's Old Matilda, lad," said a voice in his ear. "Don't go talking te her iffen ye want jus' friendly talk."
"That's all I want," said James, noticing, as he tried to pull away, that the man grinning at him was really rather attractive, for all that his hair was long, in dreadlocks, and his teeth were a mess. James reminded himself that he wasn't gay, because then Albus would be even more of a favorite, but came up short as the man leaned in closer.
"You're a strong lad," said the man, "And ye be owin' me for savin' ye from 'Tilda. 'Ave ye ever crewed a ship?"
James shook his head, backing away slowly. The man's grin did not fade.
"More's the better! Ye'll 'ave te listen te me, te learn 'ow, and I'll warrant ye'd not mutiny like me last crew! What d'ye say?"
James was about to refuse and run away, but then he thought- well, why not? It's not like I have a way to get home. I don't even know if I could recreate the apparation if I tried; I could bloody kill myself!
"Alright," he said warily.