Part 4: The Captain

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by their respective owners. See additional notes at the end.

A/N: If you get tired of waiting for updates on this, I suggest you read DukeBrymin's fanfiction on other sites. It's definitely worth checking out. And thanks to my wonderful betas.

Also, I plan on writing more of this story, as there are so many things I didn't get to.

–SassyFrass

Part 4: The Captain

Harry walked home from school, clutching his book to his chest. Ms. Florin, the school librarian, had given him–Harry James Potter–a present. It was the last day of school, and when he'd stopped in to say goodbye, she'd handed him a brightly wrapped package. She'd explained that she wouldn't be back the next year, and since he was her favorite student, she'd wanted him to have something to remember her by. So she'd given him a copy of one of her favorite books.

He hugged the book a little tighter. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a real present. The Dursleys sometimes gave him something for Christmas, but it was usually something like a sock, or a hanger; once it was a used tissue. Not something that normal people gave or got, and definitely not something that you gave to someone you loved.

The fact that someone cared enough to give him a real present meant more to him than he could say, and even if he didn't like the book, Harry would keep it forever as a reminder that he was liked. That Ms. Florin thought enough of him that she would pick out a present especially and specifically for him, that was a better present than even the book was.

He was turning the corner, about halfway home, when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

"Hey, Freak!" Oh no, his cousin Dudley was coming, and he likely had his group of friends with him. Harry looked behind him, and sure enough, Dudley, Piers and a few more of his gang were following him. He turned toward the other boys and drew in a deep breath.

"Leave me alone, Dudley. I'm just going home."

"Ooh look, Dud, the Freak's telling us what to do," Piers egged Dudley on.

"Yeah, Freak. You don't getta tell me what to do. I tell you what to do." Dudley cracked his knuckles menacingly as the boys drew closer to where Harry had stopped. "What's that you got, Freak? You steal something from school?" The overweight boy had seen that his skinny cousin was clutching his arms across his chest, hiding something.

"No!" Harry mentally groaned as he answered. "It's nothing." He knew that Dudley would try to take the book away from him. Dudley always took Harry's things, even if it wasn't an item that Dudley wanted. He just didn't want Harry to have it. Harry turned to hurry home, hoping that he could get enough of a head start that the gang wouldn't be able to catch him.

No such luck.

"I think you did steal something. Get him!" Dudley yelled the last to his friends, and they charged Harry.

Piers, for all that he was a rat-faced, skinny little brat, could sprint rather well. Harry wasn't far enough away to use his better stamina to advantage, and Piers quickly caught up to him and tripped him. Harry tumbled face first to the ground. A sharp pain shot through his wrist as he heard a faint crack! and his book tumbled out of his grasp and onto the pavement ahead of him. Piers quickly pounced on the present and held it up for Dudley to see.

Harry attempted to push himself up, but bit his lip as he collapsed back to the ground. His left wrist was sending waves of pain through his body. Probably broken again, he thought to himself. Putting his weight on his other hand, he forced his body up, and glared at Piers.

"Give it back, it's mine!" The other boys were gathering around Piers and Dudley, looking at his book. Normally, Harry would have taken the opportunity to escape while they were distracted, but the book was too important. It was his. His book. His present!

Dudley ignored him as he paged roughly through the at the lack of pictures, he lazily ripped out pages. Piers laughed as he watched the torn pages float slowly to the ground. Harry felt the anger rise in him like a heat wave. His temper was something he had learned quite some time ago to keep a tight rein on. Uncle Vernon punished any sign of personality in Harry, and that included his temper. The anger seemed to grow beyond his control, roiling with an energy of its own. Suddenly it burst out of him in a flash of heat. He vaguely heard his voice shout out something that sounded like a word–Stop!–maybe, he wasn't sure. Faster than he could blink, a ripple shot through the air around him, like the hazy air of a heat wave in late August, and Harry stood frozen in horror as Dudley and his gang were thrown back from him. They were sprawled on the ground in a semi-circle around him, and his book fluttered down gently to rest against his foot, moving in a nonexistent breeze, tapping him as if to remind him it was there.

Paling, Harry was barely aware as he reached down and grasped his book, and the torn out pages that had settled next to it. He kept his gaze on the unconscious boys, anxiously watching to see if they stirred.

Harry winced as his left wrist twinged again, reminding him of his injuries. Carefully, he held his broken limb to his chest, and clutched his torn book tightly against it, to provide stability.

What happened? I'm dead. Uncle Vernon's going to kill me for sure. The thin boy began to hyperventilate as he imagined how his obese uncle would react to him hurting Dudley. His head grew lighter as he panicked, until, finally, one of the boys on the ground groaned. The sound startled Harry, and he bolted. He ran as fast as he could, uncaring of where he was going. He dodged through alleyways, and hedges, automatically hiding his tracks, fearing that soon, someone would be chasing him down.

Consumed by the thoughts of what would happen when Uncle Vernon caught up with him, Harry didn't see the man in front of him until it was too late. He collided with a solid whump! into a hard object that bounced him backwards, making him fall to the ground. The encounter was so abrupt, he didn't have time to brace himself, even if he hadn't had his arms clutched to his chest. He groaned as pain once again raced through his broken wrist, now pulsing in time with his back and head where he'd connected with the pavement.

"Ay, pobrecito." A strong hand reached down and grasped his upper arm, pulling him back to his feet. "And where are you going in such a hurry, hmm?"

The injured boy panted with pain, struggling to look behind him to see if anyone was following him. It wasn't until his frenzied brain realized no one was chasing after him, that he realized his arm was still being held in a firm, warm hand.

Hesitantly, he looked up at the man holding him upright. Blinking, Harry finally recognized the new man in the neighborhood. He was Spanish, that much Harry knew from Aunt Petunia's and Uncle Vernon's muttered discussions about "bloody foreigners." The boy rather thought that the only way the Dursley's could hate the man more was if he were French.

"Sorry, sir," Harry whispered, still clutching his broken wrist and his book to his chest. "I didn't mean to run into you like that."

"Not to worry." The man's dark eyes shone with an emotion Harry didn't recognize. It was softer than anything he'd ever seen on his relatives' faces. "Now then, we should take care of the wrist, hmm? And possibly do something about that headache that's likely ringing inside your head." The Spaniard wrapped his arm around Harry's thin shoulders and steered him to the right. Harry finally recognized where he was. It was a quieter street that connected to Wisteria Walk, where old Mrs. Figg lived with her cats. Harry was guided up a walkway that, he realized, led to the house that the Spaniard had moved into. He had known that the gentleman hadn't moved onto Privet Drive, because of Uncle Vernon's mutterings of "at least that Foreigner has the decency not to live on this street with us normal people." If the Dursleys were normal, Harry was kind of glad that he was a freak.

The house that Harry was ushered into matched the style and shape of the others on the street, but there was something distinctly off about it. It wasn't anything obvious, but Harry felt it was different. It seemed to have softer edges, and rounder curves. Privately, in the place Harry hid the thoughts that he knew were freakish, he decided that maybe the house moved a little, like breathing, as though it were alive.

Once he was through the door, Harry forgot all about the mystery of the uniqueness of the house. He was too busy being amazed by the un-ordinariness of the interior. It felt as though he had gone through a portal into a different place, somewhere far removed from Little Whinging.

"Come in, Harry, come in." The man's voice was warm, and a little jovial, almost excited at the thought of welcoming the boy into his home.

"Yes, sir," Harry hurried to keep up with him. Harry was a little perplexed that the man knew his name, but then again, most people in the neighborhood knew 'That Potter Boy' who had been foisted on the Durlseys. So he mentally shrugged the thought away.

"Oh, no, you musn't call me sir. Perhaps. . ." Here the man paused and thoughtfully tapped a finger against his lips. He studied Harry, then his eyes seemed to brighten when he saw the book that Harry still clutched in one hand. "Perfect. Yes, my boy, you shall call me Captain. Captain Montoya if you feel the need to be formal." Bewildered, Harry nodded, then looked closer at the book he held. Dread Pirates of the Seas: From Bluebeard to Roberts. Finally he shrugged, maybe Mr.–er Captain Montoya liked the book? Harry hadn't read it himself, but had been looking forward to starting when he was locked into his cupboard that evening. But then his face fell. Dudley had torn it rather badly, and he'd been in such a panic that he wasn't sure if he'd gathered all the ripped-out pages.

Captain Montoya watched the expressions cross the thin lad's face, and frowned a little in sympathy. Finally he clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, startling him from his reverie. "No worries, young Potter. We'll fix it up like new." Montoya led Harry through a large wooden door, into a room that held shelves and shelves of books. Harry's mouth dropped open. It looked like there were more books than in his library at school!

"You just sit right there, and we'll get that arm taken care of." The Captain pushed Harry down into a plush chair, and hurried out the door. He was back in moments, carrying a jar and some cloth bandages. Harry was a little curious as he was certain that his wrist was broken, and the Captain wasn't carrying anything that looked like a splint. Mentally he shrugged his shoulders and decided to wait and see what would happen. Montoya dragged a low stool over in front of Harry and sat down, placing the jar and bandages next to him.

"Alright, kid, let's look at this wrist of yours."

Harry carefully laid his book and the torn pages on his lap and held his left arm out towards the older man. The boy breathed deeply, trying to control the pain that was radiating from his wrist. He could see the funny bend in his arm, and the sight made a cold shiver run down his spine and settle uneasily in his stomach.

"That's got to be painful alright, but luckily it's a clean break. Easily fixed. It'll be good as new in just a bit."

Harry wasn't sure he understood Captain Montoya right. He knew from school, and previous experience, that broken bones–while they might be relatively easy to take care of–took weeks to mend properly. But maybe the Captain just meant that it would be splinted-up soon.

He watched as the man opened the jar, and scooped out a large bit with his fingers. "Hold this," Montoya said absently, handing the container of purple paste to him. Harry took it gingerly with his right hand, and studied the hand-drawn lettering. Max's Miracle Paste: For burns, bruises, and breaks. He sniffed it cautiously and scrunched up his nose, his eyes watering at the sharp odor. Montoya laughed softly.

"It doesn't smell the best, I agree, but it certainly works." The Captain's words drew Harry's attention back to where the man was working on his wrist. He was spreading the paste gently from the base of his fingers, over the break in the wrist, and partway up Harry's forearm. "You want to make sure that you take care of any injuries to the surrounding tendons and muscles," he explained. "After all, it doesn't do you much help if the bone is mended, but the tendons and muscles don't work correctly."

Harry could feel the paste numb the area that it covered, while a faint tingling was crawling up his arm, where it settled into his chest. The pain faded away, and he took a deep breath, and relaxed as his stomach settled. Then the ache from his head and back where he'd hit the ground after running into Captain Montoya seemed to double in strength.

The tingling from his arm grew more intense, and Harry watched as the Captain wrapped his arm carefully with the bandages. "To keep the paste on, so it can soak in and do its job," he said when he noticed the boy's interest.

"Excuse me, sir, but how will this help my broken bone? I've never heard of putting paste on it, just a cast."

Montoya chuckled as he nudged Harry forward, looking at the lump on the back of Harry's skull. "Why it's magic of course, my boy. Miracle Max is one of the best potions makers in the world. He can practically raise the dead. A broken arm is nothing for someone of his abilities."

Harry was caught on the first part, Magic!?

"B-but magic isn't real! That's just in books, and on the telly." Harry stuttered.

Captain Montoya scoffed. "Of course it's real, and you should know. After all, you're a wizard, Harry!"

XXXXX

Additional Disclaimer: Harry Potter and friends belong to J. K. Rowling. The Princess Bride belongs to William Goldman, and 20th Century Fox.