At twilight the open ocean was darker than the universe where Orion led their way toward the far horizon and where stars were colorful and abundant; shining through the stilled air and demanding to be observed. Bright blues and reds and yellows dotted the Milky Way that stretched across the atmosphere like a diamond encrusted sash. On tonight's program: the rise of the crescent moon. There was nothing to distract her other than the now faint sounds of the ship creaking through the calm waves of an even calmer evening where the ocean was darker than obsidian.

Hermione shut her eyes, and unraveled the sleeves of her nightgown down to cover her arms a bit more when a cool wind tugged at her cloak and threatened to push her overboard. But this relaxation was short lived. She leapt awake, startled, when a huge burst sounded from the water. Was it a cannonball? She ran to the starboard side where the splash had emanated, watching wide-eyed for any sign of movement as the water settled into scarce bubbles, dotting the ocean's surface like sizzling carbonation; marbles that danced silver in the moonlight. Slowly but suddenly, a creature reemerged beside the ship; water cascading off of its large, lumpy backside as it raised itself above the water, spitting a fountain of moon-bright seawater up into the air. Hermione relaxed when the whale's spray lightly dotted her face, catching the pale spaces on her nose and cheeks where her freckles had missed.

"Magnificent creatures whales are." The first mate had come to rest against the railing beside her. Hermione was surprised at this. Could he be attempting cordiality? Hermione eyed him quizzically.

The man inhaled from his pipe before releasing a cloud of smoke on his other side. "Granger," He continued, voice gruff, "You must know by now, the captain's appetitive inclinations…"

"Sir?"

"Don't be daft, girl. Even if you think he fancies you, do you expect that he should have any nature beyond short term affection? It's a sailor's life, freedom. Freedom to come and go, and go they will." He exhaled heavily, as though a burden was lifting from his shoulders. "Men like Jack Sparrow venture to a brothel and find familiarity with every wench. Do not torment yourself, Miss Granger. Think not that his motivations are of sound mind and heart."

"I do not leap to such judgement, sir, and neither should you."

"Let's get down to brass tacks, aye? I leap to no judgement. I've known Jack since he was a young'n. He doesn't need a woman like you to interfere with his career, and women like you do. As his first mate, I seek what is best for my captain, and that's not you, Granger. I'm as certain as the Earth be flat."

"Then you should have nothing to fear if his intentions are short term, as you say."

He breathed out heavily, realizing she was right.

Hermione continued. "I should have you know, I have no intention to court the captain. I am here to complete a task and return home…"

"Isn't that what all you English women do, though? Seek husbands?"

Hermione twitched, scoffing at him under her breath. "You do not know me, sir."

He left as quickly as he'd appeared, leaving Hermione more quizzical than she had been before. She rested her face on her palms for a moment, tapping her fingernails against the wooden rail, as if doing so would soothe her ire. To diffuse, she made her way toward the bowsprit, a quieter space than the always-occupied main deck. A quiet deck, it had become her favorite spot on the ship. Hermione climbed down to the lower deck where the figurehead of The Wicked Wench led the ship toward mistier waters. There were no stairs, so jumping down was her only option. She landed with both feet on the deck this time with a thud, but it was an improvement from her graceless fall the day before when she had explored. Hermione stood and pulled down the skirt of her nightgown that had caught at her waist on the leap down. Luckily she was alone. If anyone had seen her undergarments in this era she would have been mortified.

"Out late tonight, are we?" The captain's voice sounded from the figurehead. She thought he was still in the cabin!

Hermione spun around so quickly that she nearly tripped on her nightgown and fell. A deep blush seized the normal color on her face when she realized that the captain had seen her undergarments. This was confirmed when his trademark, mischievous smirk etched its way across his lips. "Oh, no." Hermione brought her hands to her face, hiding her redness.

"Don't be embarrassed, love," he leapt from his spot on the weatherdeck and set his beverage down on a nearby barrel, liberating her hands from her face so that he could view her disarmed, bashful eyes. "You 'ave lovely knickers." When he saw what little good the compliment did, he continued, "'Ere, I'll show you mine if ye like." He turned around as if to unbutton the square area of his trousers that covered his rear when Hermione began to laugh. "Think this is a laughing matter, do you?" He jested, "Did I laugh at you?"

She caught herself quickly and masked her smile, but he caught it just the same. It was in the grey-white luminescence of the moon that he noticed how bright and unexplainably straight her teeth were: He decided she had a truly perfect smile, framed by most alluring lips.

She couldn't figure him out exactly but when a small gleam from his kohl-lined eyes searched her a nervousness pitted deep within threatened the integrity of the joints that kept her standing and the hairs on her arms stood straight up. No, no, it was getting chilly. That had been it. She berated herself, reminding herself of the conversation she had shared with Gibbs earlier: Jack may not have sincere intentions. She needed to put her task first.

"Why don't you take a seat up yonder with me? I'll share my rum with you. It's one of the last bottles, anyhow." The captain offered with a wide, toothy grin. She accepted his hand that aided her climbing up behind the wooden woman, but refused his drink. He followed up after her and took a seat in a pile of rope that he'd fashioned into a comfier tangle.

"Don't mind me first mate," Jack said, casually, sitting himself on the ropes ungracefully, "the greasy tosser. I don't know what he told you, but, his conversations are never very pleasant, no. Never figured out 'ow to talk to women, he. Poor Joshamee Gibbs hasn't had much success with the ladies, what with his short, erm... life... Not like me, though." His eyes were dark and excited and he wiggled his eyebrows for her to laugh at. "In truth, 'Popular with the ladies' is my middle name." He paused, thinking with squinted eyes. "Well, that and 'danger'. And 'freedom'. And possibly Robert... Depends on who you ask, really."

The captain pulled the cork from his bottle with a thump before kissing the glass rim and allowing the alcohol to run freely down his throat that extended upward like the mast. While he was preoccupied, Hermione caught view of the compass that rested at his side. A drunk Captain Sparrow might be most likely to tell her about the compass, she plotted.

"Like what you see, darlin'?" He thought she was looking at his-

"Why do you keep that compass? I thought it was broken." She pointed at the compass to correct his misunderstanding.

"Ah," He untied it from his belt and held it up for her viewing. She could tell by the extended 'ahhh' and the pungence of his breath that he'd ingested quite a lot of alcohol already. This could work. "This is my magic compass." He flipped it open matter-of-fact-ly and placed it in her waiting hands. Hermione looked it over as if seeing it for the first time.

"It's broken." She gave him a dull look. "I remember that much."

"No- no." He quickly defended, taking the compass from her again. "It has its quirks but my compass works fine."

"How, if it doesn't point north?" Hermione prodded him for information.

"Hold this for me, love." He cleared his throat before drunkenly handing her his rum bottle. Jack shook his compass for effect before reopening it and allowing her to watch as the red needle spun twice before coming to a stop in Hermione's direction. She didn't understand. "Now... pay attention." He swayed, taking the rum bottle away from her and setting it on his opposite side, the needle following it the entire way. Her eyes widened when she discovered what the magic was but her eyes quickly turned into a disappointed scowl when she realized the purpose of his compass.

"It points to rum? That's what it does?" Great disdain was evident in her voice even though she attempted to mask it. That is the great mystery of the magic compass? He uses it to locate his favorite alcoholic beverage? Hermione was fuming as she rested her arms on her knees to diffuse the disappointment that roiled her stomach. Did the Ministry take her for a fool? She had thought she was destined for greater.

Jack eyed her with concern, rocking on his bum as his sobriety and drunkenness battled for control. "Don't be so discontented." He slurred his vowels. "It's magic." He leaned in close to her, so close, in fact, that she could feel his breath against her face. She recoiled, sitting back again with her face contorted for more reasons than one.

Perhaps it had a valuable explanation, Hermione bargained with herself. Despite an oncoming headache she rationalized that she shouldn't be too surprised that magical sailors in the eighteenth century Caribbean chose to create an enchanted compass that points to rum, and lucky muggle Captain Sparrow happened across it. It made some sense, but where did he get it?

"Let me try." Hermione accepted it from him again before opening it and watching the needle spin endlessly on its bearings. "Nothing? Suppose I don't like alcohol, anyway."

"Sorry, doll." He said before taking another large sip of rum.

"Where did you get it?" Hermione asked.

He frowned at this question as if revisiting an old memory, swaying a bit before regaining his balance. "It was a gift." He plucked it from her hands and tucked the compass away in his blouse to mark the end of the conversation. "Now," He leaned coolly on the ship's railing that creaked against his weight, attempting to display sobriety, "It's my turn to ask you some questions. Only fair and square, right?" His eyebrows rose expectantly.

"Right." Hermione complied, unsure of what he was getting at.

"What does mudblood mean?"

Her eyes widened and she hid her scarred arm behind her. He'd seen it. How had he seen it? When had he seen it? Jack could tell by her stunned response that his question unsettled her. It was a scar, after all, and he'd never seen anything like it. He crossed his his arms patiently, ignoring the way his billowy white blouse fought against a new gust of wind, and kept the spotlight on her.

"How did you see it?" Hermione needed to know. She'd always kept the sleeves of her dress long enough to cover it. Always.

"You've been having nightmares," He reached for her arm that she'd been hiding behind her and gently rolled up her sleeve, revealing her scar to the both of them. "I went to check on you and found it poking through your sleeve, here..." Suddenly he didn't seem drunk anymore. Hermione was beginning to doubt whether he had been drunk at all. Had he planned this from the beginning? "You said it in your sleep, too. What does it mean?"

As they both studied the etchings on her forearm that read like a grisly epitaph Hermione was struck with no sustainable answers for him. Jack carried his thumb over the length of the scarred letters gently, feeling each of the ridges and boundaries as if attempting to read her past like braille. She blinked rapidly, thinking. She turned away, unable to look in his eyes that bore deep into hers, searching to understand. "It's derogatory..." she found breathing was more and more difficult now, "I'm sorry, I can't.." was as thorough an explanation she as could manage. She hoped he would accept it.