Chapter 11
They clapped Harry's wrists in two thick irons, each bolted to the wall with a length of chain. The weight dragged his arms down, straining the joints of his elbows and shoulders. Water sloshed around his ankles as the deepest part of the Flying Dutchman, repurposed, became his jail.
Jones stood at the single door out, further than Harry could reach even if he strained the chains to their capacity. He gripped his sword, still stained with blood – Harry averted his eyes as the town people's cries filled his ears – as he leaned against the doorway, satisfied. One tentacle on his beard curled around Harry's wand and held it out so he could see before tucking it deep in the tangle of Jones' neck.
Harry gritted his teeth. It was worth it, coming back quietly, relinquishing his wand, allowing himself to be chained. It was worth it if it meant that everyone else was safe. The fear, the anger in Poulston's people were meaningless. They didn't deserve death, not when Harry's presence was what lead the Dutchman there in the first place.
"I'll leave you to it, boy. A little damp and dark never hurt anyone eh? You better do a little bit of thinking down here and remember what you swore."
Jones recalled the two unnamed crew who'd restrained Harry's hands, loomed a second more in the doorway before turning on his heels and left. The door slammed. A click. Locked.
The room was flooded in darkness. Harry let out a relieved breath. He waited a few beats of his heart, stirred only when silence was all that met him. He leaned back against the wall, letting his arms sag. He expected worse, much worse. Expected his blood to bathe the decks of the Dutchman at the least. Or, if not his, then Grue's. Or Bill's, though Harry would have fought his last to stop that. But the Dutchman's captain hadn't done more than manhandle him a little, taken his wand and thrown him in a darkened room.
He'd been good on his word as well, leaving those in the town without further bloodshed. Harry'd seen Bill, safely tucked behind his father, as he was pulled under the waters by a trio of the crew and dragged back to the ship. They'd be safe. The Dutchman wouldn't bother them again.
Only now he didn't know what kind of punishment he was in for. There was bound to be something coming. Something that would make him regret running off and using his powers to speed the Spiracle away from Jones' grasp.
Was the waiting part of it? It couldn't have been more than a couple minutes since Jones left but Harry was already twisting his head around the prospect of punishment. Was the Captain's plan for him to stew in the dark, dreaming up the myriad of ways he'd suffer under Jones' hand?
Well, if that was his plan, Harry wouldn't give into it. With grim resolution, Harry hefted the chains, feeling their heavy links with his fingers. He wouldn't be able to even lift his arms up to his shoulders with how much they weighed. He followed the chains to the bolt on the wall, found rusted iron sturdy enough to keep an elephant in check.
Not that Harry thought of breaking out. Testing Jones' patience so soon after his escape was bound to be trouble. Still, he experimentally strained against his bonds. He couldn't escape, but he couldn't just sit around, either. It'll feel too much like giving in, and Harry would be betraying himself if he ever let that happen. He hadn't given up when he faced a lifetime with the Dursleys, he hadn't given up when he saw Voldemort on the back of Quirrel's head, nor when he faced the basilisk in the Chamber.
So what, if he was suddenly in the 1600s, on board a cursed ship, having cursed himself in order to survive, and was undergoing the same horrific changes that the rest of the crew had suffered? So what? He'd faced worse.
Or at least, that was what Harry tried to tell himself. He sank to his knees, uncaring that he was soaked by the tepid water – it was a relief, in a way, soothing – and covered his face with his hands.
One deep breath, then another. He'd get through this, some way or another. In some form or another. That was his promise to himself. He'd get through this and find a way back to his world, back to his friends and away from this hellish nightmare.
The water lapped at his legs and he leaned against the planks of the wall. At least he'd always have the steady, comforting presence of the ocean. The ocean, yes, and the soft, lilting sway of the ship beneath him. Harry dropped his hands and let them soak as his eyelids dragged themselves down tired eyes and he sank into sleep.
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Harry woke to his stomach grumbling. He blinked gunky eyes awake and rubbed them out, blinking as he found his fingers wet. That's right, he thought. Still in the bowels of the Dutchman. The room was dark, apparently untouched since he'd been chained up here.
Another pang of hunger made him wrap his arms around his stomach, the irons clanking against each other. Thick, unwieldly, and oddly slimy.
Harry frowned. They had been dry as far as he could remember. Then his eyes widened and he reached up to feel his neck. He smacked himself instead, hitting the side of his neck squarely with his wrist.
What?
He tried again, with more care, and did the same thing. The hunger went forgotten as he used his body as a guide, trailing his arm slowly up to his neck. There they were. The gills. Only as he felt them in the dark, they were less slitted flaps than raised bumps. Was that what they were like before? Or had he changed further during his sleep?
Harry shook his head, an uncomfortable thought welling up in his chest. He concentrated on returning back to his normal form, turning his attention to smoothing the skin around his neck, turning the slimy outer coating into dry skin. And then, unexpected, he felt his arms shifting. Shortening.
A chill ran down his back. His arms had gotten longer. That was why he couldn't control them as well. His bleeding arms had gotten longer!
Harry fought to control his breath. What was happening? Why was everything going so fast? Grue – how long had Grue been on the Dutchman? And his body was pretty much human! All he had were some glowing spots. Harry couldn't have been here for longer than a week. How long was it, anyway? Harry shook his head. He couldn't focus. He couldn't concentrate.
"Lumos."
His whisper fell on deaf ears. No light, no magic.
"Lumos," he tried again. Still nothing.
A tickle at his neck and chains clanked as Harry whipped his hand up. Just his hair. No gills, no weird little bumps. They didn't come back when he was awake, it seemed. Awake and concentrating. How was it that it was more difficult to stay human than to slip back into that slimy abomination that had taken over his form?
Then his stomach grumbled again. Harry let out a breath, partly relieved, and partly to stop himself from bursting into hysterics. So he could still be hungry, huh? That was one aspect of humanity that didn't seem to be disappearing. That begged another question. Was this what Jones intended? Punishment by starvation? He couldn't overdo it, not if he wanted Harry alive, and Harry'd been well accustomed to hunger pangs. They wouldn't last for long, half an hour perhaps, and he'd be in relative comfort again. Then, if it went on for a few more days, they'd disappear entirely.
That must be it, Harry thought with relief. He could handle this, had handled this in the past. And at least there was space to stretch out his legs and keep them moist in the bellows of the ship. No spiders, either, for better or for worse.
He did a round of the room, tracing the walls, feeling nothing but the rough, uneven wood that made up the ship. As he stepped, he sloshed but the water didn't bother him much. His footsteps made for easy company, a welcome sound after a length of silence. Then, in an arc, stretched the chains to their full length, arms heavy and straining to pull them tight, testing the boundaries. The ground, narrower than the ceiling as the ship's depths curved to a point, was unoccupied by furniture. The room was barren.
Harry returned to his spot by the origin of the chains and settled down. If Jones doesn't make an appearance soon, there was nothing else he could do. He didn't sleep – not having just woken so recently. But it was all the same, eyes open, eyes closed. There was nothing in here, after all.
# scenebreak #
Something had changed. Something was different. Hermione dismissed her bluebell light and cast a questioning look at him and Ron. Snow fell in sheets, or had been until this new disturbance stilled them in their tracks, hovering in the sky. The air was silent. Too silent.
Harry stirred from his place by his shackles and placed a hand flat against the planks. The Dutchman had stopped.
Harry frowned, unsure of how he came to that knowledge but only had a moment to wonder before the door to his spacious prison opened. Light flooded in and Harry turned away as best as he could, narrowing his eyes with a grimace. White spots danced across his vision, bright specks against the equally bright surroundings.
The rhythmic thud of Davy Jones' chitin leg was a distant thunder, each step bringing him closer until the sound was nearly unbearable. Just how long had he been down here? Stuck without light or sound apart from that which he made himself? With no way of measuring time, Harry had given up on doing anything more than sitting still and falling back to his days at Hogwarts.
Was it time? Jones must have come for a reason.
The Captain's legs stopped right in front of him. Harry traced them up, to the familiar visage of Jones' tentacle beard, to his beady, human eyes that had been so furious last time they met. Now, there was anger, bubbling near the surface – or was it the tentacles that bubbled? – but it was the intensity in the gaze that brought Harry fully to reality.
He sat up straight, chains clanking. The Captain glanced at Harry's shackles, then dismissed them as he scoured his face.
"What in the seven seas had happened to you?"
Harry tilted his head. What did-
The light from outside the cabin shone on his arms and he blinked. His skin had changed again, become slick with mucus, thick like rubber. With alarm, he noticed the formation of webbing between his fingers, made of the same thick tissue as his skin. He couldn't spread his fingers apart, his thumb was trapped beside his other fingers.
He glanced up in a panic, for the first time since coming to the darkness and pushed himself to his feet. Only to slip as his foot twisted beneath him. Harry crashed to his knees and tried to catch himself with his arms but they moved sideways and he landed face down into the water.
A gasp of surprise brought water into his lungs. Harry coughed, hacked at his throat, but felt something warm wash over the sides of his neck and down into his shirt.
Oh. That's right. He could breathe water now.
He pushed himself up, steadying his baulking elbows. "What happened to me?" Harry's voice was husky, though he didn't know if it was from disuse or some other aspect of his changes. That he still had a voice was a relief but not enough to take the edge off. "What the bleeding fuck do you mean, what happened to me? You're the one who did this, you're the one who's turning me into-"
Jones' claw arm clamped down on Harry's neck and pinned him to the back board. Harry squeezed his arms in the gaps, uncaring of the burs and the crags of the claw and tried to force it away.
"Get. Off."
"Be still."
The claw tightened, squeezing Harry's arms against his neck. He stilled, but only until it registered that there was no pain, only an uncompromising pressure. And then he tried again to pry the Captain's grip off of him.
"I said be still. Or shall I return after another month?"
Harry's eyes widened, jaw dropped as he searched for any evidence in Jones' face that he was trying to trick him. A month? Could it be true? Surely he couldn't have survived for a month, in the darkness. It had been a long time, but he would have known if it was a month!
Jones looked Harry up and down, his eyes narrowed. "Now, this is unusual. Very unusual." The claw didn't budge.
"What do you mean?" Harry forced out.
The Dutchman's Captain snapped back to stare into Harry's eyes. "Did you know," he began, soft with a touch of suspicion, "that of everyone inducted to the Dutchman's service, they all changed the same? There is a very strict order to things, one set by the coming and the going of the tides, as regular as the phases of the moon."
"Then why-"
Jones fixed Harry with a stern look. "Shall I force the impulsiveness out of you as well?"
As well? Harry gulped, glanced down at the seaweed entangle claw. It wouldn't take much for it to snap shut, cut his head right off, if the Captain wanted. He only stayed his hand because of Harry's magic, of the potential uses having a wizard on a ship, even if Harry didn't know any of the spells he desired.
"No? Then shut your yap and answer me this. You. You and your… magic. What effects does it have on…" The Captain stumbled on his words.
Harry glanced up, but found the mess of tentacles as unreadable as ever. His magic? That couldn't be causing this, could it? Wizards couldn't turn themselves into monsters at will, unless they were animagi, like McGonagall and that took years of training.
He shook his head, too wary to speak. Jones stared him over, shifted his hold and lingered on the sides of Harry's neck. Harry shifted his arms as well, feeling for any changes in his gill bumps and found with some alarm that they were larger and circular, like two stumps. Almost like they were a new pair of arms, and wasn't that a horrible thought? If he were to be a monster, Harry had rather thought of himself as a humanoid monster. Having an extra pair of arms, like Benny, that was just another thing that could go wrong.
"Then that leaves one other option." Jones' voice demanded his attention. "Though none other were as rapid as you, those who changed the soonest had the most to change."
The Captain let that sink in with unusual solemnity. Harry stared back. He shook his head. No. No, that wasn't on. The most to change? What did that mean? He'd started so early, changed so quick, and there was more to come? When would it stop? When would-
But he had been able to change back. The panic seeped out as his heart calmed. He'd be able to change back, from whatever he'd become. All it took was a little concentration and some time and he'd be back to regular old Harry. Just Harry. That had to still be true.
Harry closed his eyes. He felt the Captain's annoyance but this was more important than risking his neck. If he couldn't turn himself back, then he'd be nothing. Not a wizard, not a human, only a monster. One of the Dutchman's crew, like all the rest. He focused.
First, from his fingertips, dissolving the webbing, reforming his nails, the structure of his hand, his forearm and up to his shoulders. There was resistance along the way, things were slower, more difficult than before. He'd jump ahead, trying to split his attention on two places at once and his efforts would fail.
He eased the rising panic down, refocused and tried to distil what it had felt when he was normal.
"Devilry."
Blocking out all stimulus from the outside, Harry dug deep. This was who he was meant to be. His focus travelled down, straightening his legs, returning muscle to limbs that had felt so weak when he tried to stand. Then, his neck, then his head and face. This was important, now. He had to get this right.
"Work of the heathen gods."
Harry's eyes snapped open. He could feel the difference. Though not all was what he expected. His vision was poorer, the visage of the Captain blurry. The water was an uncomfortable chill on his skin and all of a sudden a thousand little discomforts made themselves known. His throat was parched, his stomach still yearning for food. The wood he leaned on was hard and uncompromisingly curved, unfitting for the shape of his back entirely.
The shackles were heavy, the skin on his wrists sore.
But he was human.
Jones stood, still staring at Harry with an unnerving gaze. He didn't know what to say. Could he even explain his transformation to himself? It must have been his magic, shielding him, allowing him the respite of taking back his form, or any other of the crew would be able to change back at will.
The claw around his neck eased, drew back and Jones leaned away. Harry rubbed his throat, this time feeling the dimples in his skin from the edge of Jones' claw.
"You continue to be a surprise, boy." Jones turned, hesitated, then looked back. "Expect something to whet your throat. We'll have you growing yet. Oh – but don't think you're let off so easily. One month is nothing on the scale of your indenture to the Dutchman." With a harsh cackle, the Captain stomped back to the door. It slammed shut, and there was the same dreadful click of the lock.
The sound of his single chitin leg faded all too quickly and then there was nothing. The Captain, gone, leaving Harry sore and wet in the darkness. Jones' words ran through his head and Harry hugged his knees close to his chest. He shut his eyes, trying to return to the make-believe Hogwarts of his memories but all that greeted him was the feel of slime on his skin and the rock, rock, rocking of the Dutchman.
AN: Hello! Planned out the next couple chaps and now all I have to do is write it. Ha. Good things to come. If you enjoyed, please leave a review.
Til next time,
31st
