Chapter 10

Harry focused on his human form, concentrating and hoping that he'd be able to hide his changes like he did aboard the Spiracle. His skin began to dry out, solidify and return to normal but it was slow, painfully slow.

"Oh Lord almighty, he's one of them!"

The words came soft, from one of the patrons by the side, a small, timid man who clutched a book to his chest.

"He's been leading them to us all this time," growled another. A larger man this time, wielding a glass mug that still had the foam of his bear along the rim. He took a step forward.

As if that was a signal, the spare around Harry started to shrink. Harry cursed for putting himself in the centre of the room, turned slowly to see the men of the Spiracle in similar positions, crowded around him. Their captain, Bill's father, was the one who held the pistol.

Bill, thankfully, had tugged the man's arm down so the gun pointed at Harry's feet instead of his head. A brush of relief touched Harry's shoulders. He hadn't know whether he'd have anyone on his side after this. But as he watched the other boy's eyes, Harry realised that not wanting someone to get killed wasn't the same thing as being on their side. Bill didn't meet his eyes. Harry bit his lip.

"I say we get him. There's more of us. And he's puny, weaponless. We get him before his fellows get us."

Harry spun around. "Wait! I-"

"You can't do this, he's just a boy," interrupted Bill. "He hasn't done anything wrong. He's been trying to help you, even if your dim, hard knuckled heads don't see it. Father. You understand, right? He's been working with me. He helped every bit on the Spiracle as I did. He's not our enemy."

Harry stayed silent, still concentrating on restoring his form. Compared to revealing everything, it took a great deal more effort to pull everything back. He had to shift his thoughts through every inch of his body, actively will the changes. He didn't want to think about what that implied, that it was easier to become part of the Dutchman than it was to stay as 'Harry.'

The Spiracle's captain shook off Bill's restraining hand. "When we are in public, you are to refer to me as Captain, boy." He kept the gun pointed at the ground, but Harry knew he could bring it up in a flash.

"Fa- Captain, then. You can't shoot him. You can't shoot Harry. Look, look, he's not important." Bill looked around the room. "What's important is that the Flying Dutchman just rose from your coast and if what Harry's saying is true, they're on their way here."

"And he's the one who lead them here."

Harry turned as the man from before ran at him. Two quick steps and he was there, pitcher raised high above his head and a snarl on his face. There wasn't time to react. The light from a ceiling light glittered on the glass of the pitcher, Harry brought his arms up to break the blow and thick, hot magic pooled in his stomach.

No. Not now, he thought. He'd rather take the hit than reveal how much more of an alien he was.

Harry pressed down, trying to dispel the magic as he was dispelling his changes but it was like pushing down on a filled glass. The harder he tried, the more out of control the power went, bubbling, rising until the wind spilled out from his body and in a gust, knocked the man right off his feet. The pitcher went flying and the man fell hard on his back.

Sharp silence reigned in the bar as the dust settled. The power, now quiescent, slunk back to wherever it had come from. Harry struggled to catch up to his breaths, still heaving. The wind had left him with barely the energy to keep standing, unwillingly as he had spent it.

The form of the man was unnervingly still, sprawled out, head leaned back away from him. Out cold or…

"Harry, run!" Bill's voice galvanised him, sent a shock through Harry's chest.

He didn't think – couldn't think. There was too much. He moved, a single step towards the door and the path cleared before him. He pushed with his feet, breaking into a run, a rhythm, something he was comfortable with, barely taking note of how the men of the Spiracle hurried aside, clutching their limbs to their chests and fear on their faces.

Harry broke out, out away from all those people and ran through the cobbled streets of Poulston, turning away, away from where he knew the Dutchman was waiting. His heels struck the ground with a tap, tap, tap and his breaths sang in his ears. He turned inwards, through a narrow lane crowded on both sides by houses and littered with the filth of the day.

Ahead came a row of bed sheets, hung out to dry, blocking his sight and shifting lightly in the wind. Harry didn't slow. Five steps. Four. As he neared, the wind came to him again, softer, this time. Not enough to move ships or blow a man away. Just enough to throw back the sheets, just enough to let Harry pass.

He turned. Inwards again, trying to block the sight of the sea. He didn't dare turn to look – the sea was close enough that the waves and the caws of the seagulls still thundered, he didn't need to see the twisted wreck of Jones' ship as well. And perhaps if he couldn't see them, they wouldn't see him.

But the bar was straight at the water's edge. And Bill was still in the bar.

Harry slowed. He slowed and pulled to a slow jog, wrought with indecision.

He was the one with magic. He could go back there. Keep Jones' crew at bay while the people of Poulston… run or fight or whatever they wanted to do. Harry cursed. How many homes had he gone by without spreading the word? For all he knew, only the people of the bar even knew the Dutchman was at their ports. Those in the home, at their work would be caught unaware, defenseless as Jones' men…

Harry frowned.

They'd be defenseless as Jones' men… what? Killed them? Stole? The thought didn't sit right. For all Davy Jones proclaimed himself as the king of the seas, it didn't seem right that he'd care for those on land. The words of the barkeep, that Davy Jones can only step foot on land once every ten years sounded much more like the tentacled captain of the Dutchman.

Harry stopped dead. They weren't here for anything based on land. But Harry wasn't, as Bill had called him, a landlubber. He had sworn.

Loyalty until the seas run dry, until the Dutchman's quarry seeks no more its service, until hundred years pass of duty to the Dutchman and its captain.

All of a sudden, he knew it to be true. They were here for him.

Then, out of the sounds of the sea came footsteps. Short, quick. The girl from the bar came running, dress gripped in her hands to keep from tripping herself, bare feet making the smallest of sounds on the stone. From the other side of the street, her eyes widened as she spotted Harry and she made straight for him.

"Please, please you have to come back," she said. "They've taken everyone. The… the monsters. They-"

Harry dragged a hand through his hair. He was fully human, not that it had done him any good. With a dull feeling in his stomach, Harry pulled out his wand. He ignored the girl's sniffles and patted her on the back.

"I know," he said. "Take me back. I'll set everything straight."

She raised her head, hugged herself around her stomach and nodded. She was shaking, just slightly. Her eyes went to Harry's wand but for the barest second, just to check that he wasn't going to use it against her. Then, as Harry held it still, and didn't move to attack her, she dismissed it and turned.

"Please, hurry. They're at the water."

She caught Harry's arm and pulled. He stumbled into a run but this time his legs were waterlogged and his heart beat twice as fast. There was no energy left in him. It was all he could do to keep from falling flat on his face, bringing one foot forward to catch himself, and then another, and another. He wasn't running so much as stumbling but somehow, he managed to keep with the girl's pace.

She looked back, once or twice, still latched onto Harry's arm. He didn't see concern in her eyes, only fear and a courageous impatience as she tugged for him to go faster. She needed him to help the others. She didn't care one way or the other for Harry himself.

Harry gritted his teeth. He thought he would've been alright with that. He had an opportunity to save a whole town, rather, the opportunity to not endanger a whole town. The Dutchman had targeted the Spiracle, yes, but it was his escape on it that fueled the chase. Harry was under no illusions about that now.

Back through the streets they went, skirting around corners and taking the larger, straighter roads that Harry had avoided. There was a market set off to the side, coloured store fronts and the sickly smell of day-old fish flashed by. They didn't stop.

Another turn and the ocean came into sight. A thin ribbon of blue, low on the horizon. Harry could only see a sliver of it between the houses along the streets and he nearly smiled in relief before he caught himself. For just a moment, he had longed to return to the seas, to set foot on the rocking planks of his ship.

His ship? Harry shook his head, trying to pull himself back. He caught his feet on the raised edge of a cobblestone – there wasn't even time to feel the pain on his toe – and fell to his knees, pulling the girl with him.

She stumbled, recovered and tried to pull him along on the ground. The rough stone dug into Harry's knees through his trousers but the sensation took an age to get to him. Everything was as a haze, indistinct.

The world spun, colours bled into each other and as Harry looked to his hands, his fingers became blurred, lines blundering into another, fusing, splitting. His arms weakened and there was a sharp burst of panic – was he changing even more?

From above came a hint of a voice, a pressure was on his back. He was being dragged. Then the world went black.

And then the world returned. Harry blinked up, finding himself still on the ground, still being dragged. Only now, there were more voices upon the air, louder, high pitched, drawn out. Voices buffeted by the rhythm of the waves, covered slightly by the sea wind.

Harry rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his arm out of the grips of the girl. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and took in the salt in the air. The girl shot him a single glance, face gaunt and waved at the water's edge.

Then Harry saw him. Jones. Pacing in front of a line of men on their knees, waist deep in the shallows. There must have been ten, fifteen men there, boarded by two of the Dutchman's crew. Harry couldn't tell the Bill's group from the others but he couldn't find his friend among them. A larger group of Poulston's people were kept in a huddle, mostly women and the young and the elderly. They were the ones who called out.

The men – the men were silent. Silent, head bowed before Davy Jones as he strode through the water as easily as someone would do in air. His tentacles writhed, peeling back before his head as he leaned down to the next.

"What. What are they doing?" Harry asked.

The girl squeezed her eyes shut, hands going to her hair. A sharp wail came from a woman caught by Jones' men, just in time for the Dutchman's captain to plant his feet on the kneeling man's chest and pull out his sword. Harry's eyes widened.

"They've got my father. He chose to live," she said. "He was the first. Please, you have to stop them."

The body fell with a splash, staining the water with red. One of Jones' men – grossly disfigured with a neck that extended up like that of an eel – stepped up and dragged the body further into the water, diving down when he couldn't walk any further and disappeared.

Jones moved down the line, leaning down to whisper into the ear of a man shivering so ferociously he stirred the water around him.

Harry threw himself to his feet, mouth dry and tasting of bitterness, and as if it was a signal, Jones straightened, leaving the man quivering in the water. Harry held his ground as their eyes locked and in Jones' gaze he saw a startlingly human anger. It was something more fearsome than something animal. There was reason behind that gaze, reason and a horrible promise.

And from all the way across the bay, Jones' voice carried. "Well, look who stands before me. Our lost little lamb."

Harry gulped. His knees were weak and his head a great deal lighter than he'd like but at least he could grip his wand tight and stand tall.

"Come, boy, join us. You're just in time. We've been… celebrating." Jones chuckled and swished his sword, flicking specks of blood off behind his back. "Surprisingly accepting of death, they are. Well, except for this lump of lard before me."

Jones struck out, kicking forward and knocking over the man into the water. He came up, spluttering and reached forward to latch onto Davy Jones' coat. Still, the Dutchman's captain didn't look away from Harry.

"Please! Please let me go," the man said. "The boy you wanted is here. You said you'd stop-"

Jones snapped forwards with his clawed hand, latching onto the sides of the man's neck and cutting him off.

"Well? What do you say, boy?"

Harry stepped up, filled with a grim purpose. The Dutchman sat low on the water, a black bolt on the horizon as the sun set. There was a sense of finality, as if the sunset was to be the last he ever saw. Worth it, if he could just save one life, keep one family together.

"It's me you want," he said, feeling braver than he had a right to be. "I'll come. Just let these people go."

AN: Yay, more writing. If you enjoyed, a review would be awesome =] If it goes to plan, there'll be stuff happening next chap. Maybe.

Until next time, 31st