The next morning the ocean was easier on her than before, perhaps because they were nearing the open ocean- a place free from obstructions that can cause large swells. Here, the only forces were the ship itself and the wind that kept them going; and Hermione appreciated the newfound gentility. Even the captain seemed to appreciate the calmness; noting he was in the cabin more, probably studying his maps or even below deck, making casual conversation with his crew about the latest whosits and whatsits. Even Billy took the wheel for the first time since they'd set sail and, appearing stoic, he seemed to enjoy it.
Hermione had set herself on the railing with her feet dangling on either side, looking out at sea without fear of falling from large waves and observed the clouds. They were cumulus clouds: the sort that make for great observation. On the far west horizon, she spotted what she made out to be a lion and she smiled to herself, reminiscing memories as a Gryffindor. The cloud beside it looked like a dog. Another cloud rolled slowly into her view: a gryndelow, she would put it, what with the whispiness of cirrus clouds at its underbelly with the promise of cool air ahead. Of course, these shapes held no meaning beyond their meteorological and seasonal nature, unlike the rubbish Trelawney might have you think.
Hermione sat forward on the rail enough to brace herself with her hands on the wooden 'seat', peering downward at the water that churned beside the ship, regarding it with a moment of perplexity. What was below? She attempted to fathom the many forms of magical creatures what roamed the ocean, waiting ever so patiently for her discovery. What she would do for some gillyweed and a moment to swim; explore.
She was forced back to presentness when the ship reared against the wave as she gripped the railing tighter until she trusted herself to balance without. But, the swells continued and stubborn Hermione sought about staying put. What did she have to fear when she had flown hippogriffs and dragons and broomsticks?
She shut her eyes and felt the breeze when she felt the abrupt motion of being grabbed. She screamed out in surprise and grabbed onto the hands that held her as they pulled her down from the railing. The hands were strong and sturdy. She spun around to face her intervenor, ready to argue, but the Captain spoke -yelled- first.
"What did you bloody well think you were doing?" Jack was fuming, his eyes darker than ever as they poured into hers.
Taken aback, she stumbled for a response to his otherwise obvious question. "I was simply looking out. It's a harmless venture-"
"It's dangerous!" He was still holding on to her. Realizing this, he released.
"I appreciate your concern, but I was -fine. Just fine, thank you." She was squinting up at him, the sun in her eyes. He grabbed her by the upper arm and lead her into the shade of the nearest sail before holding the bridge of his nose in frustration.
He huffed, summoning his patience and she crossed her arms, listening. "Hermione, I forget you haven't spent much time at sea but you cannot, and I repeat this with much sincerity, you cannot hang about the rail."
"But-"
"No. Do you have any idea what would happen to you if you had fallen?"
"I can swim-"
"You would not be fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to swim, Hermione. The likelihood of that is hardly favourable as you would be suctioned beneath the Wench by the wake, carved to bits by the barnacles and, even if you survive that, love - I rather doubt it-, by the time you reached the back of the boat to be rescued by line you would have died by suffocation for being held beneath the ship for so long. Now, am I understood?"
She had never seen him irate before, but he was. It was as though he had seen this happen before. She trusted his words. "Yes, Jack."
"Captain." He asserted himself to her for the first time and it wasn't until this moment did she fully understand his seriousness. He continued, trying to appeal to her. "I wouldn't be doing my job, Miss Granger, if I did not keep you safe." His gaze softened, but his passion did not. His eyes gazed into hers with a new fierceness and it unsettled her. Why was he so protective?
The tobacco pipe glowed deep red where the man lit it with a match, his unshaven cheeks emerging from the early night like some dull red theatrical mask before fading back into the blue-hued night. He shook the flame from the match before it had a chance to bite at his fingertips. The man took a long and much needed breath from the pipe, leaned back, and released a pensive plume of smoke into the stilled atmosphere. This night at sea was also much calmer than the first and allowed for some leisure time.
"I swear those things'll kill you, mate." Jack interrupted Gibbs' serenity with a cough, fanning the smoke away with his hands, but the elder man was mostly unphased. Jack was now leaning against the ship's banister where his first mate sat on the steps.
Gibbs turned his head ever so barely in order to meet his captain's gaze, the moon illuminating his sardonic expression. "S'long as you're not the death of me first."
"What are you goin' on about, mate? Ye sure stick around a lot for someone who has such little faith in me." Jack pressed his right hand against his chest as if hurt, but his smile expressed only amusement.
Joshamee Gibbs held the pipe in his clenched teeth while retrieving a knife from the inside seam of his stockings, casually using the dull side of the blade to pick shovel grease out from beneath his fingernails. Jack could see frustration in the curvature of his colleague's eyebrows that reflected in the face of the metallic blade.
"What is it, Gibbsy? There's no time for moping, sailor." Jack gestured with his hands in flamboyant disapproval.
Gibbs stopped for a moment, resting his arms on his knees as if to express to Jack his genuine disappointment. "She has you wrapped around her finger, ye know."
"Beg pardon?" Jack leaned in, forehead wrinkled upward in a challenging expression. The sound of the captain's grey coattails fluttering in the wind seemed to close around them before Gibbs spoke again.
"Ye heard me, Jack," Gibbs gave him a narrow glance. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd bend o'er backward for a lass. I mean, she's fine, Jack, but you bow to 'er every whim."
"I do not." Jack defied loudly, startling even himself.
"When do ye plan to get yer cabin back, then, eh? I told ya we should've left that lass at port. I see you lookin' at her every now and again. I could tell you were bewitched from the start."
"Bewitched?" The captain echoed, speaking barely above a whisper. He shook the superstitious nonsense from his thoughts. "What would you rather have me do, Gibbs? Toss 'er over? 'Miss Granger, it's been a pleasure," he acted out the scene theatrically, "but it seems me first mate, the grouchy eunuch, doesn't enjoy women. Sorry, ye prolly won't enjoy the sharks as much as they'll enjoy you." He then gestured out to sea as if tossing something overboard.
"Aye, Jack, you're the captain. Tell the lass to give back your cabinspace. I needn't be tellin' ye this!" He punctuated this statement by sticking his knife into the banister and leaving it.
Jack frowned, pursing his lips in contemplation. He did miss his bed. But, ever the gentleman, he refused to force her to sleep on that bloody couch. Jack shifted his posture at the memory of his past nights of unsatisfactory sleep, shook his head, and pulled the knife from it's wooden stand.
"What should I do with her then," Jack blinked at him expectantly, "'ave her sleep with the crew? Ye can't trust that lot as far as ye can throw 'em. That's true any way you slice it. 'Specially that Brassteeth. He's even creepier than you, mate."
Gibbs rolled his eyes, exasperated. "There be worse things, Jack. Love is a poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill ya all the same… eventually. Ever hear the tale of Davy Jones? The man cut out his own still-beating heart for a woman who could not be with him and he waited forever for her as he still does, only now rabid with hate and vengeance. Doomed with permanent heartache- cursed. Ever hear the story of Adam and Eve? They were banished from God's garden and, you can guess it, it was all Eve's fault. And I'll not let ye be forgettin' sirens, neither."
Jack frowned in contemplation before rebutting. "You know I don't believe in such rot."
Meanwhile, an oil lamp flickered a golden hue that illuminated only the table and the bookcase surrounding Hermione as she carried a quill across the pages of her journal, the ink settling onto the paper before disappearing altogether in the book that had been charmed with disappearing ink. Hermione had been writing all of her diaries and confidential reports this way since her first encounter with Tom Riddle's diary.
In this leather-bound journal Hermione documented her first week at sea: her arrival, meeting Beckett, the Captain, and his crew. Hermione had figured out that neither Jack nor any of his crewmen were magical, thank goodness. However, this didn't help her learn anything meaningful or new about the compass in question. Hermione paused in her writing, thinking. Her right hand occupied with a quill, she took a bite from a stale biscuit that occupied her left hand. She continued again, writing out her plans to find a way to get the captain to reveal the compass and its secrets to her. Would he? She thought it'd be a long-shot, but it was a necessary one. She tapped the feather against the exterior of her nose as if it would stimulate ideas. It didn't. She shut the journal before returning the quill to its inkwell with a huff.
Hermione was stumped. How should she bring up the compass to him? She sat back against the chair in a frustrated pose before resorting to a change of scenery. She'd been at the writing desk all evening. Maybe a walk around the ship would stimulate ideas, she thought to herself. Besides, she can't get any more sunburnt in the moonlight.
She regarded the chill of frost on the windows and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders in preparation to walk the ship when the captain entered unexpectedly.
"Allo, Miss Granger." He appeared abnormally formal, to which Hermione only raised her eyebrows in surprise. He continued. "I 'ave a proposition for you… an accord to be made, dependent upon some… particular negotiations."
"Alright, then. Let's hear it." She stated plainly, off-putting him with the way she listened to him, intently, sweetly. Those whiskey colored eyes undid him completely.
Bewitched, much?
"Erm," his perfectly prepared argument fell apart like caramel on his tongue and he was left to scavenge for mere traces of coherency. "I want my spot back. On the bed, I mean." He stood as tall as he could manage. "'Tis all, love. 50%. Bloody fair deal, don't you think?"
"Jack, I understand but I think it would be, well, awkward if-"
"What is a bed, really? A bed is sacred to a man, or, erm, woman... humans." He quickly backpedaled, not wanting to tread in the, erm, sexual direction. "A bed sees us born; sees us die. It is the… ever changing scene upon which the human race play in turns interesting dramas, laughable farces, fearful tragedies... And, for that, a good and decisive captain needs his bed. Not to mention that bloody sofa is a pain in my arse."
Before Hermione could consider to reply to his lengthy and rather dramatic explanation, Billy entered the room. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"
"No." Said Hermione.
"Yes." Jack glanced at her before cleverly resigning his answer. "No, in fact… perhaps we've just settled on our compromise. I agree that with Hermione that "no", Billy is not interrupting something as, we agree, I reclaim my fair 75% of the bedspace."
"You just said-" Hermione was astonished at him.
"Shall we settle at 50, then?" He smiled widely before she rolled her eyes and left the room wrapped in her grey cloak.
Jack watched her leave before turning to Billy with a victorious grin in place. "What?" He shrugged his shoulders at Billy's disappointed expression.
"Charming as always, Jack, but I'm sorry to interrupt. Seems someone's gotten into the cargo hold and taken from our surplus supply. Found the door opened. Even the rum is half gone, now."
"Why don't you bother Gibbs or someone -quite frankly anyone- else with that one, Billy?"
"Because you're the only one who has the key."
