Two thousand and seven hundred miles eastward of Britain's western coastline, what appeared from above to be a small, very dark island—dark and ominously effervescing as though it were covered in still-hot volcanic ash—was in fact only the shoulder, or neck, of a colossal, subaquatic lifeform, known as the Gorgon. It coursed through the sea at a hundred miles per hour, violent waves rippling forth in its wake. A few hundred yards above it serenely glided what was once the personal yacht of a wealthy nineteenth-century Dutch merchant, now refitted with enormous gold and red sails and manned by three wizards, two witches, and a house-elf. One of these witches renamed this vessel into the Methuselah, so that it might last a long while.
From the starboard of the Methuselah stood a young man, who wore a heavy, cobalt-blue tailcoat and whose head was wrapped tightly in a fur shawl that scarcely protected him from the biting winds. He overlooked the bulwark at the behemoth below. A little black shape jutting from a great black sea, it appeared like nothing more than a large rock coursing straight through a huge pool of oil—the sight engendered a perverse sense of calmness in Florizel Granger, for he knew well that what he saw was at least forty yards wide and eighty long, and was very much more capable and indeed more willing to hurting him than a rock.
Then, the Gorgon finally changed its course—it turned ever so slightly, by perhaps twenty or thirty degrees—enough for the ship, whose rotational force was greater, to steer itself into prime position for attack.
"NOW!" Florizel shouted, sending red flares into the sky with his wand. "GO GO GO!"
Like eagles diving into flight, two figures clad in heavy, windproof robes jumped off the deck of the ship on their brooms. Each of them wore a metal mask with only a small visor that enabled them to see anything at all, like the helmets of muggle welders. Though their faces could not be seen, Florizel knew the smaller, more dextrous figure was Euphemia Potter and the lankier, slower one was Draco Malfoy. The first was the love of Florizel's life, the source of all his joy, whereas the second was his bitter Hogwarts nemesis, now become close friend. Each of them held long metal sticks that looked like long fireplace irons; however these instruments, prods as they were called, were much more similar to wands, insofar that as they were weapons that shot projectiles from their tips.
"'Rizel, RIZEL! Watch out!" shouted Seamus Finnigan. "It's moving! We've got a Dementor on us, and it's not shy!"
As Florizel rushed to the steering wheel, he beheld that which his mechanic, weapons master, and friend of nine years pointed out; the Gorgon had erupted out of the sea and revealed its form. There were many types of Gorgons, and the Giant Dementor looked exactly as it was called. It was a huge, sentient funeral pall, concealing the putrefying corpse of a giant prehistoric whale. Its mouth, a great gaping hole at the top of its head, screamed with the agonising, reverberant indignation of a thousand eternally drowning men.
"Ascend — steer right!" yelled Seamus, whose coated, musclebound form impressively controlled the ship's chief weapon, a gigantic crossbow called 'the harpoon.' "Aye, it's damn well got to've noticed us now, Riz'!"
Though Florizel's arms fought against the weight of the wheel, though his entire body fought against the mercilessness of the wind, and though his eyes struggled to keep track of all the whirling objects in the sky—friend, girlfriend, monster—he was not worried. The Giant Dementor was perhaps the size of two large whales, stuck together, but it was neither the first of its kind that Florizel had seen, nor even close to the biggest Gorgon he had hunted and harvested.
"How're the brooms?!" he shouted.
"The prodding's not doing much!" Seamus called. "It's doin' bugger all, in fact! We'll have to align onto it ourselves!"
Thus Florizel tugged against the steering wheel with all his strength, as though he were trying to dislodge it from the ship. They thrusted upward—the whole world was on a slope now—the drag of the diagonal wind hit his face like a bag of potatoes.
"Brooms?!"
"Like I said! Doin' bugger all!"
"Are they safe?!"
"What?! Yeah well, 'course they are!"
Still, Florizel, never assuaged by anything except for what he saw with his own two eyes, turned his head around to examine whether everything was going accordingly—and of course it was; Euphie was an excellent flier, it was a joy to watch her steer and soar. She and Draco had both cast patronuses, respectively a stag and a fox, to keep the Gorgon's breath from infecting them. Indeed all four of them, fliers and patronuses, easily outmanoeuvred the great dread beast.
"Decelerate! Dementor's hit its altitude-ceiling!"
Left hand firm on the wheel, Florizel drew his wand with his right and aimed it at his sails, ready to draw the foreyard. He turned his head back again and saw that the Gorgon was much, much closer now—horror, pure horror incarnated in matter—he shivered and felt momentary despair. Even though he had seen much greater members of its species, he always made the same observation when beholding any of their number face-to-face; they were thousandfold his mass, had thousandfold his kinetic energy, and possibly were thousandfold more magically potent, too—the uncanny human-like chorus of screams suggested subtly that they had even endured a thousandfold the suffering.
"NOW!"
With three quick swishes of his wand, Florizel first drew the foreyard, yanked back the steering lever, and applied a mighty sticking charm on his boots to glue himself to the deck. Then, he fell onto the dormant steering wheel to hug it for his life, as the ship suddenly and violently stopped to a halt.
"FIRE!" yelled Seamus.
Though Florizel's face was buried in his steering wheel, he knew at once that Seamus' attack succeeded; he heard the harsh pulsating sound of the harpoon hurling forth from the ballista, which was but a quiet prelude to the great shrill bellow that came from its penetrated target. Indeed, the Gorgon's pain was so loud and resounding that it seemed to quell the opposing wind, all the while shaking the entire ship with its protests of pain.
"It's a hit!" Seamus informed redundantly. "Dive!"
Florizel already knew what to do by instinct, and was in fact already in the process of 'diving'. When harpooned, Gorgons would always attack their attacker with a renewed vengeance. More often than not, they simply intensified their existing attack. But sometimes, those of them that were more intelligent would ostensibly retreat and recuperate into the ocean, only to mobilise their full strength for an even more devastating attack. The Giant Dementor was of the latter sort, but Florizel already saw this; hence why he plunged the ship seaward—to catch the Gorgon as it fell.
"WHEEEEEEEEEEW!" Seamus screamed cheerfully.
It darkened overhead—they were just beneath it—Florizel yanked the braking lever—Seamus launched another heat-seeking harpoon into the Gorgon—killing it in one great thrust.
Then, the Methuselah was put back into motion. The large hatches of its cargo hold dislodged as Florizel brusquely swiped his wand, and as the ship slowly and automatically advanced, it unfurled a gigantic, enchanted net. He and Seamus exchanged only a brief look before they set into reflexive action; they each went to the broomstick rack affixed to the portside bulwark, and each summoned their nimbuses with "HERE," before flying off the ship themselves to join their friends.
Even though he'd spent many illicit midnights together on a broom with Euphie back at Hogwarts, Florizel had never gotten good at flying. Even as he surged forth to meet her, he held tightly onto the stem of his broom—even after two years as a sky-sailor, he feared falling off.
"Granger!" Draco called in his incorrigibly sarcastic voice, easily gliding towards Florizel to smack his shoulder. "Glad you could join us tonight, what took you so long? Dinner's getting cold."
"There was a little traffic on the Floo," Florizel jested, as he pridefully looked beyond his friend's shoulder to see their small ship, like a little flying barrel in the distance, unfurling its gigantic fishing net to catch the slain Gorgon.
"You know," continued Draco, in a characteristic dramatic change of tone, "our prods were completely bloody useless. They've never been like this — they've always managed provoking at least some reaction —"
"Flo-Flo!" interrupted Euphemia, whose elegant, easy form surged between the two boys. "You pathetic excuse of a sailor, you — is everything alright?"
"I'm sound and well —"
"Oh, are you? I don't care," she giggled. "How's the Methuselah?"
"Fine, seeing as you're not in it." Florizel laughed. "But are you alright?"
"I was, but not anymore, now that you're here." Then she, tightly gripping the broom only with her thighs, removed her helmet and, revealing her whole face—cascading carmenesque black hair, round ardent green eyes, and alluring smile all together—collided into him, pulled down the shawl covering half his face, to kiss him on the lips.
Like dishwater evaporating from evanesco, the tension in his body left at once. He trembled at the familiar softness of her lips, of her tongue, and the convulsions that these caresses at once engendered in his loins. He peered over his girlfriend's shoulder, and saw that the world was indeed beautiful. The vast, indifferent blackness of the Atlantic Ocean; the tranquil clouds like bundles of silk in a cosmic bath; and the immutable sun, which made every dark surface silver and every cold surface warm…
Seamus beckoned them back to reality. "Watch it Euphie, you'll electrocute him."
"Oh." Euphemia tucked the prod over her shoulder into its sheath, slinging it slantwise along her back.
"The Methuselah's alright," Seamus continued, "and it ought to be the least of our worries. Like Draco said, the prods did bugger all, why's that?"
"I suppose we'll find out once Luna examines its brain tissue," Florizel said. "Let's go and secure the nets."
The Methusaleh had slowed down to, as Florizel's watch told him, no more than six miles an hour—an amicable pace that suited leisurely gliding. The net which caught the Gorgon, though huge and itself a masterwork of magical craftsmanship, was in inadequate to contain so great a beast, even one dead; it needed to be actively reinforced by magic.
"Arresto momentum!" Florizel shouted, pointing his wand at the lattice of the net—upon impact purple ivy-like coils of electricity rapidly spread along the ropes. "Arresto momentum!"
The others did the same and, soon enough, the net no longer shook from the wind. They returned to the ship, glad to plant their feet once more on its reassuring plankboards.
Hello, thank you for reading! I have no idea when I will next update this fic.