HMS Hogwarts
Disclaimer: Me? I neither possess Harry Potter nor profit from it. That's JKR's business.
A/N: This is terribly, terribly AU. My inspiration for this fic was the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World. (James D'Arcy was beautiful as First Lieutenant Tom Pullings!) And I was reading Peter Pan at the time too, so go figure. There may be OOC-ness to some extent in certain characters. To all those who can't stand the ship, this is SS/HG. You have been warned. The rating is for swearing. If all of the above does not scare you off, do continue reading. Thank you.
"ARRGH!"
The hapless Neville Longbottom, cabin boy aboard the HMS Hogwarts, scuttled on deck, while crashing noises came behind him from the captain's cabin, which he had just hastily vacated.
Several boys clustered around him.
"What happened?" asked deckhand Dean Thomas, dark eyes anxious.
"I – I was serving him tea, and the ship pitched – and I spilled on the captain." Neville's voice rose shrilly.
There was a collective, sharp intake of breath, and Seamus Finnegan, another deckhand, said ominously, "You're in for it now," thumping his mop on the deck for emphasis. Captain Snape was notoriously ill-tempered.
His conjecture proved to be correct: no sooner had the words left his mouth when more incensed bellowing issued from the captain's cabin.
"I'll see you cleaning out bed pans in sick bay for two weeks, Longbottom!"
Neville winced.
"At least it's only bed pans," Harry reassured him. "You didn't get demoted."
"I'm only a cabin boy," moaned Neville. "Is it even possible to be demoted?"
"Oh, right."
Harry had been a midshipman despite lack of influence and connections, because he had defeated a particularly nasty pirate named Voldemort when he was a very small child. Voldemort had killed both his parents, then turned his sword on Harry, only to slip during a severe oscillation of the ship, and fall upon his own blade. Harry had escaped with merely a scar on his forehead. Captain Snape, however, had stripped him of all rank for insubordination. As the captain told it, Harry had failed to address him as "sir" in every other sentence he spoke to his face. Harry's story had been quite different – in his own words, "I can, you know, do math and stuff," and someone who could carry over in multi-digit addition was certainly overqualified to count "sir's" for every other sentence.
"Maybe he could have made you a deckhand."
"I'd rather swab decks than serve the captain meals," said Neville mournfully.
"Come on. Remember what he did to Sirius . . .." This from Ron Weasley.
"That's true." Many faces darkened at the memory.
The captain had left Midshipman Black at an uninhabited island equipped with only a screwdriver and a basket of cantaloupes. This was punishment for repeated drunken renditions of "Ladies of Spain" while the captain had been attempting to wash his hair – always a very delicate operation, and as Captain Snape yelled, "Not to be further complicated by your intoxicated howling, you impertinent lout!"
Along with a good many others, Neville shuddered and, in the end, resolved to serve his punishment obediently.
All of these instances adequately illustrated how the captain had effectively alienated three-quarters of his crew. A few who respected the captain did exist, such as Midshipman Hermione Granger. In her eyes, he was capable, she would go as far as to say "brilliant" even, but as she was highly intellectual herself, compassion was an unnecessary quality in someone she admired. Thus had Captain Snape obtained her loyalty.
Furthermore, mutiny was impossible because the First and Second Lieutenants, Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick, respectively, had gained the complete faith of the crew, and they were wholly devoted to the captain themselves. Both of them were also extremely able officers, and kindhearted besides.
The HMS Hogwarts had been at sea nearly a month, on a mission to sink or take as prize the French vessel Pamplemousse, on orders from Admiral Dumbledore. The admiral was a genius, if a bit eccentric, and he had personally christened the HMS Hogwarts. It was rumored that the odd name had come from an esoteric disease the admiral himself had suffered in his childhood. Well, one never knew with Dumbledore.
They were in the area which the Pamplemousse was said to haunt, off the northwest coast of Africa, but nothing of note had happened so far. Dr. Lupin assured them that when action did take place, it would be sufficiently gory to satisfy even the most bloodthirsty of appetites. No one disbelieved him.
Captain Lucius Mal Foi, who commanded the Pamplemousse, was known for his ruthlessness, and in the last month or so, he had taken or sunk three British warships. It was not to be borne, declared Admiral Dumbledore, a sentiment with which Captain Snape agreed, and seemed determined to uphold unto death. Discipline aboard Hogwarts was unfailingly strict.
Mostly, though, a whole lot of education had been going on, for the crew was almost entirely new to sailing. Rumor had it that the last crew had hated or feared the captain so much that those who hadn't jumped over had resigned as soon as they had pulled into port.
Lt. McGonagall and Lt. Flitwick were excellent teachers, patient and thorough, and nobody on board disliked helping the doctor. Even the most squeamish ones found something to like in Lupin's routine.
The captain himself instructed them in hand-to-hand combat. Personally, Hermione felt that he was no less aggressive than Mal Foi, and that he was consequently the best person to be their sword master.
"Miss Granger, would you fetch the captain now? I believe he is presently finishing his log."
"Aye, sir," said Hermione, saluting Flitwick. Captain Snape gave them fighting lessons four times a week, and everyone was assembled on the forecastle, waiting for him.
She had never entered his cabin before, and she was slightly apprehensive. At her tentative knock, the captain growled, "Enter."
Flitwick was right; he was writing furiously. A quick, surreptitious look around took in many jars of eerie organs and animals, suspended in green or brown liquids. Hermione had heard that one of the captain's passions was science, specifically chemistry, but then she had also heard that his mother was a one-legged shaman from the Barbary Islands.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Everyone is waiting at the forecastle for you, sir."
"Very well." He put his quill down and rose.
Hermione noticed a large, gray cylinder mounted on what looked like a gold stand, and protected by a glass case. More intriguing still, it sat in pride of place atop its own carved mahogany stand. She'd never seen anything like it before, and upon closer examination, it had a texture something like skin . . .
"If I may ask something, sir," she began, her interest piqued.
He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione realized too late that it was probably not the wisest thing to ask the captain something unless it was absolutely necessary.
"I was wondering what that was?" She pointed to the cylinder.
For a moment it looked as though the captain was struggling with whether to answer or not. At last he said brusquely, "It is a . . . hollow elephant's foot. A gift from the admiral," he added hurriedly at her nonplussed gaze. "I am told it is very rare and valuable. He told me that it was supposed to be used as a wastebasket." This last was said in a somewhat defensive manner.
"Oh."
Hermione could tell he prized it greatly, never mind how odd it was. Naturally, a gift from the admiral was worth its weight in gold. Hermione dreamed of becoming a captain herself one day, and the crowning achievement of her career would be to make the acquaintance of Admiral Dumbledore.
But then, something in his tone also told her that he rather wished the admiral had given him a more practical or conventional present. A hollow elephant's foot . . . no wonder they said the admiral was bizarre.
"No more questions," he ordered, as if afraid a thousand more inquiries would suddenly tumble uncontrollably from her lips. His fears weren't misplaced; he was her sword master, after all, and Hermione's inquiries as to whether this angle of holding the sword was preferable to that angle had often annoyed him to the point of tears.
"Yes, sir." She opened the door for him and followed him out.
Standing in front of the assembled crew, Snape cast a look of general contempt upon them, and called, "Where is that miserable Longbottom?"
Horribly red, Neville shuffled to the front. The last lesson, he had lunged at his partner in an imitation of the thrusting move Snape had taught them, tripped over an uneven plank, and nearly put his own eye out.
"You are excused from this lesson. In battle, just do what you did last time, except to the enemy, and I may find that I am forced to promote you for distinguishing yourself in action."
Filch, the boatswain, laughed croakily. He was always trying to get in the captain's good graces, a fact well known to all.
Snape smiled coldly at him, and continued, "In any case, practice is unnecessary, and may even contribute to the deterioration of what little ability you possessed in the beginning. You may assist the steward in the kitchens . . . make yourself useful." He waved vaguely, dismissing Neville.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Neville turned in shame.
"I'd rather work with Dobby than Snape any time," whispered Ron. "You're quite lucky, really."
Neville smiled awkwardly, and many other people murmured their consolations.
Hermione pursed her lips. She thought that was excessively cruel, and neither lieutenant tried to reason with the captain. McGonagall and Flitwick both seemed unhappy with his actions, but they did nothing.
"Sir!" she cried, forcing her way to the front.
"No!" Harry reached to seize the back of her coat. Beside him, Ron froze in horror.
They were too late; everyone's attention was focused on Hermione.
Snape appeared displeased for a second, but a smirk soon appeared on his face.
"Miss Granger," he said softly.
"Sir, I think you're being unfair to Neville. You should give him a chance. It's not his fault he's not as - coordinated - as the rest of us. And it doesn't help that you're always mocking him unmercifully. Maybe he would improve if you were a little more patient with him. I -," Hermione realized that it was painfully quiet and everyone's eyes were fixed on her. Not in a good way, either.
"Well." Snape gave a dry chuckle. Filch immediately laughed again, but went silent at Snape's look. "How noble of you to protest on Mr. Longbottom's behalf," his eyes flickered to a spot in back of the crowd, which, Hermione presumed, was where Neville had frozen on his way to the kitchen. "But it appears that he is not unhappy with this arrangement. Are you, Mr. Longbottom?"
A barely audible "no, sir" came from Neville's direction.
"So you have been disruptive and insubordinate in the same breath, Miss Granger."
Oh no. She had forgotten to count her "sir's." Damn it.
"Ordinarily I would assign you an appropriate punishment, but why not open today's lesson differently?"
She didn't like the way he said differently.
"You appear to be a competent with a sword, unlike Mr. Longbottom, and since you dare to confront the captain verbally, surely you would not decline to accost me with your sword?"
Amidst the gaping crowd, Harry and Ron were motioning "No!" frantically.
"If you manage to draw blood before I do, I will withdraw your punishment."
He was suggesting that they aim for a small amount of blood, like a thin line across the arm, not a near-fatal wound. Still, this proposal frightened Hermione. Either he had a very high opinion of her abilities or he just looked forward to making her squirm. Very likely the latter. Drawing blood was subtle, precise, and difficult; and though Hermione wanted very much to win, she did not want to maim her captain either.
Unfortunately for Hermione, she had an innate sense of pride that was near indestructible.
"Why not?" She paused. "Sir."
The spectators gasped in a fittingly dramatic manner (was that Colin or Dennis Creevey that had fainted?), and Snape's lips thinned.
He drew his sword, a magnificent shining creation of Spanish steel, and she drew her own. It was a gift from her former captain, and though she had always been fond of it, now she looked at its dull, marred blade and worn hilt, and her heart sank. Lt. McGonagall, who rather liked Hermione, smiled in what was supposed to be a reassuring way, but came across as worried. That didn't help either.
"On guard, Miss Granger," he purred.
"The same to you, sir," she muttered.
They began.
He circled on his feet, as if he were dancing, and he kept making irritating shadows of movements that were barely even feints, so slight they were. As such, Hermione was constantly tensed, and her muscles cramped quickly. Of course he would wait for her to make the first move.
How could she have thought that she had any chance of defeating the captain? He had taught her everything she knew about sword fighting.
Yet they could not circle each other endlessly. She thrust at him half-heartedly, and he parried effortlessly. He pressed his advantage, so that she was forced to be on the defensive all the time. Gradually, his attacks became quicker, more forceful, and Hermione could tell that he was toying with her. Her breath was coming harder now, and sweat slid down her back. On the other hand, his eyes were gleaming, and the hair escaping its ribbon only enhanced his lively, tousled look. "Lively" being a relative term, of course: his skin would always have the sickly hue of a decomposing corpse.
Lavender observed morbidly, "At least it's a good day to die."
The sun was mild, and the breeze pleasant: the sails were not swollen, nor were they slack. Placid ocean the color of a robin's egg rocked the ship gently.
"If Captain Snape kills her, he'll have to let us go ashore to gather flowers for her funeral," said Parvati, in the same tone as Lavender.
"Shut up!" said Ginny, eyes riveted on the two figures.
By now, Hermione thought, he must be tiring of this. He'll put an end to it, swiftly. Once he decided to, she was helpless.
The thought of giving in to the inevitable never crossed her mind. And now she had a plan. Not a very good plan, true, but she had nothing else.
They had slowly been edging towards the same place Neville had tripped last time. A few more well-placed thrusts of the captain's, and several feeble parries on her part, and they were there.
She let out a cry somewhere between "oh!" and "ow!" as she contrived to trip. Hopefully he hadn't seen through her absurdly simple ruse. Hermione pretended that she had hurt her ankle badly. In order to do this convincingly, she had to drop her sword, which was the hardest part.
Unbelievably, he fell for it.
Following the code of honor, he sheathed his sword. Hermione had been counting on his unwillingness to attack a fallen opponent.
"Miss Granger," he started complacently, "it appears that you have tripped, and consequently, there is no need –,"
As rapidly and carefully as she could, Hermione grasped her sword, rose, and made a small slashing movement towards Snape. It happened to come near his face, and she was privately terrified that she had blinded him, or worse, cut his nose off.
A slim line of red welled up on his cheek, and he automatically reached up to touch it. For a moment, he stared at his bloodied hand in silence. All eyes on the pair were round and awestruck.
In a very small, clear voice: "You were saying, sir?"
"You used a very underhanded method to accomplish your goal, Miss Granger." He was looking at her now, his tone neutral.
"With all due respect, sir, Lucius Mal Foi is more than likely to use dishonest maneuvers, and we should not be sanctimoniously honorable if it means the difference between life and death."
To some, it appeared that Snape hesitated. Others noticed that the First Lieutenant smiled and inclined her head very slightly.
This happened in less than three seconds. The captain immediately regained his composure and turned to the crew.
"What Miss Granger says makes sense. Is Lucius Mal Foi a gentleman?"
"No!" was the unequivocal response.
"Does he, or his crew, possess honor?"
"No!"
"Should we be honorable in battle with them?"
The answer was vague. Ah, they were a British crew through and through.
He smirked. "Let us forget honor when it means the difference between life and death, then, shall we?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Should we send for Dr. Lupin, sir?" asked McGonagall.
"No, it's only a scratch."
"It may scar."
He shrugged and turned to Hermione. McGonagall raised indignant eyebrows at Flitwick, who giggled.
"You are an outstanding swordswoman, Miss Granger."
"Thank you, sir."
She thought he almost smiled, but he faced the crew again and said, "We will carry on with this lesson. And let it be known that Mr. Longbottom is invited to rejoin the class."
***
"It's said that you are in a very good position to be promoted," Lupin said conversationally.
After dinner, Hermione had offered to assist the doctor, and now they were organizing his medical equipment and taking an inventory. Hermione liked Lupin's quarters; they were cozy and neat, and the candlelight cast a warm glow over their work.
Hermione paused, her quill over a list of wound dressings in the doctor's possession. Most officers were promoted if they distinguished themselves in battle, but Snape was infamous for being hard to impress, and Hermione had little experience of actual combat.
"Why would they think that?" she asked cautiously.
"You were wonderful today."
"In real combat, I wouldn't have lasted two minutes, and you know that, doctor." She lowered her head to write again.
"If the captain had come to me immediately, I could have prevented his cheek from scarring. I saw him at dinner."
"I'm sure the captain doesn't care that much about his appearance."
"Oh, he does." Lupin grinned mischievously. "Ask Mr. Longbottom to see the three-page list of instructions Captain Snape gave him on the care of his uniform. He gave his last cabin boy twenty strokes for failing to clean his coat well enough. He claimed that he couldn't see his nose in one of the buttons."
Hermione stared. "You can't be serious!"
Lupin laughed. "Well, not about the last thing. But, seriously, you ought to ask Neville for a look at that list."
"Er – what's your point, sir?"
"I think the captain intends to wear that scar with pride," confided Lupin with the smug air of a boy who has sneakily eaten all the plum cake.
"Mmm." Perhaps the doctor was feeling a bit strained. Hermione made a note to inform the surgeon's mate, Ms. Pomfrey. She should help him more if this is what overwork did to him. He was making no sense at all.
Thankfully, they began to talk of other things, and he didn't show any more of that – instability? Whatever it was.
When she left, however, she didn't see Lupin rub his hands in what most people would describe as glee. Or anticipation. Perhaps even gleeful anticipation.
Except it looked awfully wrong when benevolent, smiling Dr. Lupin did it.
A/N: Who doesn't love constructive criticism and gushing praise? I'm no exception to the rule. Review and I'll glow for days. And who knows, I might even update sooner. ^_^
The line "I can, you know, do math and stuff," is really said by Harry in the first book (p.49), when he first meets Hagrid, and Hagrid is yelling about Harry knowing nothing. For some reason this line cracks me up.