They had the money… if he kept Harry too, or if they ran, or arranged to meet…
A pistol exploded in the night, and he whipped his head around, reaching for his cutlass, then gritting his teeth at the followed curse and one of the men shouting,
"'T'was only a misfire!"
As he opened his mouth to order calm, the emissary lunged toward him with wild, spooked eyes, and Harry was suddenly in front of him, knocking him back.
He stumbled and tried to make sense of it all, Harry's weight sagging in his arms, the emissary shrieking on the end of Snape's cutlass as it ran him through.
"Captain! Sails!"
Another voice shouted,
"Brigantine from the west! Must have been hiding around the other side."
A pause, then,
"Looks like eighteen guns!"
Snape had the sack open and a lantern in his hand,
"Money's here. Captain! We must away!"
But Harry couldn't seem to get his feet under him, leaning heavily against him. There was something in the dying emissary's outstretched hand…
A dagger. Its blade dark with blood in the flickering lantern light.
His cry was distant and hoarse, as if it came from another throat,
"No!"
He lowered Harry to the deck and tore at his shirt, red staining the linen in a widening circle. Pressing at the stab wound in Harry's gut, he screamed,
"Ollivander!"
He peered down into that dear face, already frighteningly pale,
"Stay with me. Harry!"
Harry gazed up at him, moaning, eyes wide.
Ollivander dropped to his knees before them, leaning over to inspect the wound, too much blood flowing from it. He shook his head,
"He'll die if he stays aboard."
He took Harry's hand, threading their fingers together, keeping his eyes locked on him for fear he would be gone the next time he looked down,
"There must be something you can do!"
"He needs better surgeons and a safe, clean place, not to bleed to death on a stinking pirate ship…especially one about to do battle!"
Ollivander grabbed his coat and leaned close, lifting his chin roughly, hissing,
"If you care for him, let him go. Or he'll be dead before morning."
Harry gasped, twitching,
"No… I…stay…"
With one last, lingering look into those emerald eyes, he ripped his fingers from Harry's desperate grasp and somehow pushed to his feet without his knees giving way.
Down toward the launch, he shouted,
"Potter is coming!"
To the crew, he ordered,
"Lower him carefully, Mr. Lestrange, Mr. Avery. Everyone else, ready to make sail!"
The approaching brigantine would be the death of them all otherwise.
Harry coughed and gasped, fingers grasping at his ankle, fingers sliding on the leather. He needed to tear himself free, but he stood rooted, even once Lestrange and Avery scooped up Harry, who wailed in agony as they lowered him in the canvas hammock used for cargo.
He couldn't move to look over the rail, standing frozen as Snape shouted,
"They've got him! Now get us the hell out of here, men! Don't let them get their broadsides around, or that's the end."
Harry's screams echoed across the water even as the sails caught the wind, the brig gaining. He finally turned away from Godric's Hollow, a ragged hole in his chest as if the blade had found its target.
At the helm, he shouted orders and kept his gaze forward on the midnight horizon, fingernails gouging the wheel so deep the wood slivered his flesh. Harry had to live, and The Death Eater had to outrun the brig, which flew the Union Jack with the white crest denoting privateers.
No other options existed.
As the first round of cannon fire exploded in the night, he prayed to a Godless universe that at least Harry would survive.