Harry really hated the sea.
He hated its smell, he hated its seeming endlessness, he hated its boring, bland uniformity, and he especially hated its ever-so nauseating sway.
The cell was appalling. He could barely make out the minuscule droplets of water dripping steadily from the rotting, creaking boards of the ceiling. The putrid smell of mould and mildew was threatening only to further heighten his nausea.
A sudden, sharp jolt of the ship brought him back to his senses.
He was a prisoner, wandless, on a ship going who-knows-where, overseen by an obnoxious rabble of muggle military men speaking a language he didn't understand, and trapped with seemingly no chance of avoiding his unpleasant fate.
Perhaps, in retrospect, undertaking a mission to the continent at this time was a guarantee that he would land himself in trouble—he was perfectly aware that the French wizards had been stirring up a bit of a fiasco with the muggles—and perhaps, in retrospect, it was a bit of a miscalculation to arrive in the Netherlands very obviously as a wizard without speaking the slightest word of Dutch. But still, go where he will, do what he must, spontaneous plans had always been his forte.
It was quite a bit of a surprise, then, when he was surrounded by a cluster of drab grey and detained. He'd already been carted to and fro by rabbles of muggle military men for two months. His new beard was starting to scratch quite annoyingly, let alone the mess of blood and grime that matted the top of his head. He didn't really think of himself as a dandy, but the unbearable filth of his hair was only exacerbated by the extent of which he was forced to degrade himself.
He had been starved, beaten, starved, beaten again, and unceasingly interrogated about the "esoteric secrets" of Revolutionary France. He didn't think he looked French, gave off any indication of being French, or displayed any of their infinite arrogance and disdain (perhaps he might have done), but his captors were assured of the fact that he was every bit as French as the now headless King of France's loafers.
Perhaps it might have had to do with the fact that he only spoke English and French, and that he might have introduced himself in French to the soldiers at the Amsterdam port. Perhaps it might also have been because he was clearly magical, and perhaps, seeing as the French currently had the only statute-defying wizards in the world, the Dutch presumed that magic was inherently French. Perhaps he should have realized that the coalition soldiers would immediately arrest any person who spoke French. Granted, he didn't think he was that conspicuous. Yes, he was a bit distracted by his attempts at removing the pigeon excrement frustratingly stuck to his broom, but surely the soldiers patrolling the streets shouldn't have automatically assumed that a perfectly mundane-looking broomstick would be a clear indication of his magical nature.
His explanations that no, he was certainly not French and no, he was certainly not here to spy—perhaps he was—but definitely not for the French had resulted only in increased beatings from his interrogators.
The French magical community, in all their wisdom, had decided to overturn a century of established order from the Statute of Secrecy. Why that was, Harry wasn't exactly sure. Quite a few years had passed since that initial surprise, and he still didn't really understand.
And he didn't want to understand. He couldn't really find any drive in him to sympathise. They found it boring that they couldn't go outside without mildly inconveniencing themselves by dressing as muggles, they found it boring that they couldn't use spells amongst muggles, they found it boring that they couldn't wear colourful robes: those were too obviously magical, and they found it boring as well they couldn't even wear expensive robes: those were also too obviously magical. Of course, they didn't understand that a bit of boredom was a fairly reasonable exchange for the security and survival of magical world.
Nevertheless, feeling oppressed, they revolted.
He wasn't ever supposed to be at all directly involved in this conflict. He was a nobleman's son, not a fighter, not a leader, and for Merlin's sake barely even a diplomat. It had absolutely nothing to do with him that a bunch of stuck-up wizards decided to overturn their perfectly prosperous century of stability. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever that they, the completely uninvolved magicals from the other side of the channel would need to shoulder so much of the responsibility of remedying this absurd fiasco.
The ship lurched violently, abruptly becoming uncharacteristically silent. The swaying stopped; the musky air of his cell was eerily still. He basked in the silence.
A flurry of enraged shouts suddenly resonated from the upper decks, penetrating the stillness. Harry blinked. He wasn't sure if his knowledge of the Dutch language was that out of touch, but he could have sworn that he'd heard the word "cavalry" in the midst of the chaos. He wouldn't think much of it anyway, there was not any doubt in his mind that there was some sort of attack taking place. If there was any correct time to attempt his escape, it would be now—even if he had to swim across the entire North Sea.
He frantically began to scour his surroundings for any possible means of escape. It really was disgustingly rancid here. He scrunched his nose in disgust, continuing to scan the cell for anything at all that could be of help.
A tiny glimmer of reflected lantern light caught his attention. He could probably just break his way out directly, the guards didn't seem to be posted near him anymore, he remarked, channelling his magic in his attempt at undoing the extremely muggle padlock clasped onto the entrance. It was quite funny, he never would have thought his seemingly redundant ability to do simple spells without his wand would actually come into a real, practical use. Then again, he never would have thought he would ever have been parted from his wand.
The lock unclasped; the door creaked open. There wasn't a single indication of life in the corridor. His wand, however, was waiting for him somewhere in the ship. Attempting to minimise his presence, he carefully trod through the ship's narrow corridors in search of his beloved eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather, paying deliberate attention not to make the slightest noise.
The air was piercingly cold, but Daphné felt none of it. She shouldn't have, after all, it was all her doing.
The only thing she could really feel was triumph as she gleefully rode alongside the ranks of the Revolutionary Army into Den Helder. She would never have admitted it, but she was almost astonished that the Dutch campaign had managed to pass so smoothly.
She brought her horse up to the colonel.
"Are the regiments in position? We won't have much time to spare after I cast the spell."
"Don't be so hasty Mademoiselle Daphné," the colonel remarked, unnaturally calm, "Impatience is not befitting of a woman of your status."
Refraining from formulating a response, she gritted her teeth, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. The air was already intoxicatingly rife with victory.
The soft pats of the covered hooves were becoming all too grating. They were just a stone's throw away from victory, a tiny nudge towards being one step closer to achieving their ultimate goal. Soon, the Dutch wizarding community would be able to join their French compatriots in their open existence alongside the muggles.
Daphné felt for the small locket tucked below her collar, softly smiling as she detected the textured bump. Her mother had taught her to be proud. She would never defer to any other person, and she would never think of herself as anything but perfect. The idea that she was forced to hide this perfection, this pride from the vast majority of the world had always greatly unsettled her. At Beauxbâtons, she could never understand just how all of her peers were content with sitting there, hidden from the greater world, hidden from attaining their full potentials.
She scoffed. Her peers still could not understand how monumental these passing events were. When the Civil Constitution of the Clergy was passed, she rejoiced, proud to be free from a century of oppression, proud to be liberated from her restrictions. Most others, instead, used it as an opportunity to frolic about, creating unnecessary chaos that only served to be a detriment to their cause.
Daphné wasn't one to complain, however. She just couldn't believe she was at the forefront of all this.
The icy wind blew across her face. The satisfaction of her impending triumph was unbearably close. Each gallop of her horse, each shout from the officers served only to increasingly frustrate her. They had received word from the Dutch muggles that they had captured one of the French wizards. Daphne scoffed. How exactly they expected that would make them acquiesce was beyond her.
A deep voice from behind drew her from her thoughts.
"Ready when you are, Mademoiselle." The colonel drew his horse to a stop.
Her fingers tingled with anticipation; her trusty laurel wand unnaturally warm. Her horse, seemingly sensing her trepidation, halted at the shoreline.
The bay was calm, tranquil, undisturbed by the turmoil ravaging the country, its waters nearly as still as ice. Daphné scowled at that thought, nearly was not going to be in any way enough. She shut her eyes, feeling the familiar sensation of her magic in her wand. Tendrils of white mist began to slowly manifest from her wand, penetrating the chilly air in coiled spirals. The unreserved commotion of the battalions suddenly ceased, blanketing the entire area with a suffocating silence.
She opened her eyes to observe her success. A deafening crack resounded across the bay, disrupting the silence. The calm, tranquil waters seemed to freeze in place, bringing the before waving masts in the distance to a standstill. It was all rather peaceful, serene even.
Pandemonium erupted in an instant in the otherwise quiet port. Waves of cavalrymen rushed into formation, storming across the newly formed ice with apparent ease. Daphné let out a breath of relief. Her spell had worked considerably better than she'd expected.
She sighed, bringing her horse forward into the ranks. She still had an obligation—to rescue some incompetent cretin from some nefarious situation brought about by their own wrongdoing. Really, could it have been that difficult not to be captured by muggles?
Her trusted steed steadily traversed the ice, conspicuously clopping its hooves across the frozen surface. The frosted peaks of the warships' masts began to shimmer into view, the details becoming finer as she gradually broke through the murky haze.
The Admiraal Piet Heyn was majestic, or it would have been if it were not for the near total darkness of the winter night. It was beautiful nonetheless, Daphné thought, observing the moonlight's shimmer off the frosted hull. She disembarked from her horse, taking heed on the slippery surface. She calmed, the air around her blurring as she gracefully ascended the upper decks of the ship, softly touching down onto the frigid planks of the top deck.
She hesitated, carefully descending into the lower decks. Head high, she briskly made her way towards the stern of the ship in search of any clues to aid her search. The door was ornate, Daphné remarked, tastelessly exuberant.
Drawing her wand into her hand, she summoned her magic, the door steadily creaking open. She stared, gaping at the mop of horridly messy hair before her, the owner's horridly uneven complexion and more importantly—what was surely a wand that he seemed to be clutching.
Her nostrils flared with indignation.
"Just who exactly are you supposed to be?"
Harry couldn't believe his luck.
He had managed to sneak through the entirety of the ship without being noticed by any of his muggle captors. It really was a fluke of luck, save the fact that his wand was nowhere to be found.
The narrow corridors were becoming oppressive; the walls seemed to be pressing in on him, becoming closer and closer with each step he took. The ship was seemingly endless, each ladder leading to another, each corridor only serving as an extension of another. His nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he stumbled through the decaying planks in search for his wand. He hesitated momentarily and painfully hit a final, ornate door.
The light reflecting off of the brass handle was almost blinding, the detailed images on the carvings threatened to jump out at him. Harry halted, momentarily deliberating. Shaking, he placed his hand on the cold metal, pushing open the door with surprising difficulty.
It was obnoxiously swanky, in the centre of the back wall stood a portrait of a rather plump man with an oddly distinct chin. A meticulously carved desk was planted in the middle, with brass-handled drawers begging to be opened and searched. The walls were lined with shelving, its contents separating themselves from Harry with uncharacteristically luminous panes of glass.
For quite some time, he rummaged through the room, searching through every nook in every drawer of the desk, his frustration only increasing as he continued to no prevail.
He took an upwards glance at the clock fixed on the wall. It struck midnight, the shouts from outside only increasing in volume. There—behind the glass—in the shelving, a familiar rod of holly was inconspicuously resting, further enticing him to reach forward and grab it, to relieve his frustration.
The transparent pane swung out before him, lightly creaking on its hinge. His arm extended; his hand outstretched, relaxing as he closed onto the familiar warmth.
A familiar grinding noise sounded from behind, forcing him to knock his knees against the unnecessarily sharp edge of the desk in his surprise. A decidedly feminine voice filled the room.
"Just who exactly are you supposed to be?" A strong smell of lavenders penetrated his nose.
His wand flew out of his hand. Alarmed, he sharply turned around, again colliding with the edge of the desk.
A sudden cold burst caused him to shiver. An immaculately dressed woman stood before him, twirling his holly wand in her hand. She looked young, about the same age as him, but carried herself with significantly more maturity. Her expression seemed to exude confidence, her refined symmetry radiating a sense of condescension.
His limbs froze into place, and he collapsed onto the hard planks.
"It would be rather nice if you answered my question." The woman demanded annoyedly, stepping towards him. His wand continued to weave in between her fingers.
Harry faltered, putting his best effort into avoiding her piercing gaze. Her blue eyes were frighteningly bright.
"I said," the woman restated, now holding the wand tightly, pointing it at him, "Would you please answer my question?"
"Vernon Dudley."
"Don't. Lie." She gritted through her teeth, eyes narrowing.
Harry recoiled. "I'm Harry Potter, the muggles on this ship took me. Now, would you please return my wand and unbind me?"
"From where?"
"England. I was with the Ministry of Magic."
She shut her eyes momentarily, sighing. "As strong as my desire is to never see you again, you're in all likelihood just a bit too valuable."
She levitated him into the air, leading him through the now strangely liberating bowels of the ship and onto the top deck, unceremoniously dropping him onto the cold, hard surface.
"What use am I to you anyway?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"I'm not moving an inch without an explanation."
"You don't have a choice."
He was again lifted into the air, slowly and steadily gliding towards the edge of the deck. The ice underneath was illuminated by the torchlight of the cavalrymen. He looked back at the woman, making out the outlines of her face in the dim light.
"Who are you?"
Refraining from formulating an answer, she released her spell, unceremoniously dropping him onto the back of her horse.
A/N: I had originally written this for a story competition on the DarkLordPotter forums, and meant to extend it into a more expansive AU. I guess this is the point where I'm finally getting around it.