"One, two, three, block, cut, parry, riposte!" barked the powerfully-built, stubbled man.
Harry sweated and brought his sword through a series of feints, blocked, slashed towards the other man's side, was parried, blocked the riposte and counter-attacked. Ever since he was ten, in return for a couple of hours helping in the forge, the local blacksmith taught him to fight with swords. Starting with light short-swords, they were now using hand-and-a-half swords with wooden covers on the edges.
Just a few hours sweeping, organizing things, and occasionally working the forge furnace itself in return for this, Harry felt he got a good deal. Baggy robes at school hid a lot, including a slightly-scarred but heavily muscled body.
"Cut head, block, feint head, cut to flank. Good!" said Bob, the forge master and swordsman.
The elder man knew his pupil had secrets and never pried, but when Harry had admitted that there was a homicidal maniac after him at the end of his first year at boarding school, he'd increased Harry's fencing hours to four hours a day, with two hours of exercise and two of helping in the forge. The Dursley family couldn't care less, they just assumed that he was doing hard, painful and possibly dangerous chores.
It had been a few weeks since Voldemort's resurrection and he had once again upped lessons to three two-hour sessions a day and each was more intense than those before.
With a feint to the Bob's flank, Harry drew his sword back and began to curve it upward to bring it down for a strike to his head, but then suddenly dropped it into a two-handed lunge where the wood-covered tip impacted the blacksmith's stomach. He had gradually been growing better as a swordsman.
Twice more, they fenced and Harry struck through his guard to hit him.
"That is it." said Bob, sheathing his sword and throwing it onto a workbench; "I have nothing more to teach you."
Reaching behind the scruffy, smoke-blackened desk which served as his office, he pulled out a sword, with a circular pommel engraved with Anglo-Saxon patterns, a hand-and-a-half grip wrapped in dark-red leather, a plain, slightly upswept cross-hilt guard and a broad blade with a single deep fuller running some distance toward the tip, but the strange natural patterning of the metal was what set it aside.
"About a decade ago, researchers at Stanford University, California, managed to recreate Damascus steel. The metal, with a touch of modern technology, is one of the best ever created." he stated, handing the sword to Harry. Despite it being a heavy weapon, being more than just a small-sword, it was perfectly balanced and suited him well. Then a dark-red leather sheath was thrown his way, the tip, mouth and halfway down it were wrapped in silvery metal with the same Saxon patterns both sewn into the leather and engraved into the metal.
Two plainer daggers in black leather sheaths followed.
"I've got a cousin who told me a month ago about you. Muggleborn he calls himself. From what he told me, you'll need these." grunted Bob, smirking at the boy's shocked expression as he picked up a belt from behind the desk; "Friend of mine made the sheaths and the belt, blades are my own. If you can work some of the hocus-pocus he described, make 'em better, I'd be happy. I'd be happier if you survive what my cousin described. Get in close and gut the bastards."
"I-I don't know what to say." Harry stuttered as the sword was sheathed, put on the belt with the daggers and tied about his waist.
"Then don't say anything. Remember, you're a free person, be free. Don't let others control you, don't let others kill you. I did a few years in the commandos, I'm no stranger to death, and sometimes the best way to save someone is to kill a whole load of others. Always go into a fight with the bigger knife or end it from afar." stated Bob and turned him around, unstrapping the belt and putting the contents in a large black bag. "Don't want to get the police annoyed with you carrying around a blade like that."
"You mean to say that Lord Potter is aware that with the Triwizard Tournament that he came into his inheritance?" growled the fierce looking goblin.
Stood awkwardly in his only smart shirt, tie and slacks that weren't Hogwarts clothes, Harry allowed the goblin by his side to reply. They were in a Spartan office, with a thick oak door covered by metal studs. Unlike the 18th Century French-style furniture of all the other offices he passed, this one had one large desk, several bookcases and a number of weapons and animal heads littering it. Definitely the home of a warrior.
"I am afraid so Blademaster Grimrock." replied the goblin stood next to him.
"Then I'll sum it up. Potter vaults drained through a series of wars in the last century. Lots of artefacts in the family vault and about ten-thousand galleons in your own." growled Grimrock; "The old Potter manor is essentially derelict and Potter castle uninhabited. A skeleton crew of about a thousand werewolves live in a small village in the grounds of the latter and the merchant fleet of a dozen ships is down to the flagship, a sixty-four gun war galleon. You have the title of Lord Potter on the wizard's Wizengamot and a non-magical title of Earl of Ravenscroft."
"That sums it up." Harry said in amusement and then asked; "What do I do to claim this and what is the current pound-to-galleon rate?"
"A magical declaration will activate all our paperwork and that of the College of Arms. While the Potters were once the most powerful of the Ancient and Most Noble Houses, they have declined to just you, however, to take up the title of Earl would require a visit to the Queen." replied Grimrock; "And the rate is five pounds per galleon."
"Could you withdraw a thousand galleons from my account, half in pounds." Harry smirked; "I look forward to much profit for myself and for Gringotts."
"Then I will either laugh with you over a mug of Goblin Grog or laugh at your pitiful attempt at life." shrugged the goblin, throwing a small leather pouch to him.
Harry was never more glad than then that he'd removed the trace from his wand and learnt from Sirius how to apparate. He'd just spent two-thousand pounds on a load of broken antique furniture, which he was assured would once have fetched a hefty price. A few repairing charms later and he'd hired a van and driver to transport it to a big antique showroom.
Two days of lounging at the Dursleys later and he'd just received a call on his newly-bought phone informing him of a thirty-thousand pound income. Smirking, Harry repeated this again. Once he started, he couldn't stop. By the end of the week, he had a comfortable balance in his Gringotts account of thirty-thousand galleons.
Acquiring a Portkey to the Potter Castle Estate was easy and he strode down straight to the small village on the banks of a river estuary where he could see masts rising out from beyond the houses. A few people came out from the stone cottages as he walked down to the quayside, all of them with the small signs of the werewolf curse.
"Word is the new Potter's in town." growled a voice behind him.
"That's me." Harry stated, wheeling about, his smart dark-blue suit and long coat covering the fact he was wearing both sword and two daggers.
"Mayor, at least unofficially, of the Stockade, Jim Hunter." introduced the man.
Harry greeted him with a polite smile and a firm handshake;
"I've been wondering, what would it take to outfit the ship;" he asked, gesturing to the massive galleon, two decks of cannon ports wreathed in elegantly carved wood, a sloping rear and a low forecastle with two forward-facing bow-chase cannons; "And have her ready to sail."
"Two thousand galleons." replied Jim immediately; "We could carry a cargo worth that in one run though."
"Why don't we use larger ships, not old warships to transport cargoes." asked Harry.
"Nobody tell ya son?" Jim said, throwing an arm around his shoulder; "Some magical substances, being most potion ingredients, don't react well to concentrations of metal for any length of time. That's why you have specific metals for cauldrons for specific potions."
Harry nodded his understanding;
"What would be a normal run?" he enquired.
"Give us a week to outfit her, sail down the Channel, pick up a few things from the Veela colonies on the North Coast of France, stop at Brest for the magical jewellers, head down the Bay of Biscay, San Sebastian in Northern Spain, Lisbon for its cork and other wood, the coast a few miles from Seville for its fruit. Then Casablanca in Morocco where we offload the Lisbon wood, European fish and Seville fruit." replied Jim; "Mind we haven't done this in about a decade, but we could probably arrange it with ease. We pick up leathers and suchlike from Casablanca, the posh Europeans can't be without their smart leathers as dragonhide is only for those who need the rough protectiveness of it. Also furniture is a good one to bring back from Morocco. Bring it here, we offload it and sell it for the Potter family, though we get a small payment from your vault and free living here in return for coming to arms when called. You get the rest."
Raising an eyebrow at the fact he had a private army on his payroll he didn't know about, Harry commented;
"Won't people notice an incredibly ornate war galleon sailing into ports?"
"Nah, mixture of illusions and confounding charms active when we get close to the coast." said Jim; "You might tread on a few feet though."
"Oh?" Harry said.
"Malfoy family, Nott family, and a few other Death Eater scum." scoffed Jim.
"Can we outrun or out-gun them?"
"Up for a bit of piracy Master Potter." Jim smirked; "We can do both. I personally would swarm their ships and take them as prizes."
"Modern weaponry would eliminate the need to swarm their ships." Harry commented to himself.
"What's that Master Potter?" asked Jim.
"Modern military weapons, you could kill someone at a mile, more or less." Harry shrugged; "Haven't any of you seen a rifle."
"We have, load it with a bit of canvas soaked in palm oil, then put in some gunpowder and then the shot." Jim replied.
Harry burst out laughing;
"Those went out of fashion about a hundred and fifty years ago. I'm talking automatic rifles which can empty a thirty-round magazine in three seconds and hit accurately at over three-hundred yards. They're the light weapons of the modern age. There are heavier things. The best place to acquire them would be America. How many flintlock weapons do we have?"
"Several thousand." answered Jim.
"You see, antique weapons like those are worth quite a bit, thousands of galleons, while modern firearms from the right places are less. Set the ship up for the European run, and then we'll go transatlantic, pick up something like cotton, tobacco or sugar from the old colonies, pick up firearms and head back here." Harry mused, looking around at the other rather derelict, smaller ships; "I, the new Potter, want to pull this lot together. And cut off the support of the Death Eaters if it's coming from shipping."
A week later, with all sails deployed, in the darkness of the English Channel at night, the lone galleon broke out, racing west, eager not to be found by camera-happy photographers.
The Evening Star was running with a full crew and an empty hold, an adventure of sea and magic ahead.