Draco Malfoy knew that he was being watched. He liked it that way. He liked imagining all the sniveling cowards in Port Royal, pissing in their undergarments over the fact that his ship had been sighted in the bay. Why else did they think he'd allowed them to get a glimpse of the Death Eater at all? If he hadn't wanted them to see it, he would have been more careful.
All he had to do now was bide his time. And that was something Draco was quite good at.
He leaned back in his chair and squinted through the eyepiece of his telescope at the tiny strip of land visible through it. There wasn't much to see: just a smear of black where the horizon was, and tiny ship's masts sticking up here and there, like needles jabbed into a pincushion.
He frowned; he should have been able to see a little more than that. The tiny panes that made up the bay window in the captain's quarters were filthy. He'd have to get someone to clean them later. Maybe Pettigrew… that would be a laugh, watching that rat-faced man doing his bidding. Draco smirked at the thought. He could just wave his wand, say a quick Scourgify, but where was the fun in that?
There was a knock at that moment, and he swung round to face the door leading out into the ship's galley. "Come in," he drawled. The door creaked open, and in its frame stood Crabbe and Goyle, the Death Eater's two hulking bodies weren't quite able to squeeze into the door's confines.
"Captain Malfoy," said Goyle, in a low voice that was more like a grunt. "We've got all the gunpowder up from the hold." He held up a thick hand in a salute, and then awkwardly let it drop back to his side.
Draco stood from his desk. "Good." He raised an eyebrow. "And the torches?"
"Soaked in whale oil, sir, and waiting for the men to go ashore," Crabbe spoke up. His voice was less of a grunt – more of a croak, like a toad's. "They'll set everything ablaze, sir, quick as you like."
"Good," the slim blonde man repeated. He ran a finger under the high collar of his white shirt absentmindedly, looking down at the maps and diagrams spread out on his ebony desk. Port Royal was a tiny town, though plenty rich. Governor Potter was supposedly one of the wealthiest men in the Caribbean, and if these mansion plans were anything to go by, the rumors were more than true. But tonight's little party wasn't about seizing riches, and he'd made sure his crew was well aware of that.
Lord Voldemort's crew was growing stronger, more numerous, and more fearsome almost by the day. Draco had heard whispers about his power even back before he'd joined his forces and captained a ship for him: people were terrified, and they always had been. The Death Eater's jaunt into Port Royal would shake things up, get people even more properly scared, and prepare them for the way things would be when Lord Voldemort ruled the entirety of the seven seas. It was an excuse to boost morale, ease tensions, and destroy a few things. Though he wouldn't be participating directly – the Death Eater would be nothing without the youngest man to ever captain her, of course – Draco was just as excited about the prospect as the rest of his crew. A good, old-fashioned, no-nonsense pirate raid. His first, and hopefully not his last.
He realized that Crabbe and Goyle were still hovering in the doorway, like they were awaiting further orders from him. Draco waved a hand at them irritably. "You can go." He paused, and then corrected himself. "Actually – send Pettigrew down here. Then let the crew know they're free to amuse themselves as they see fit until sundown."
The two boatswains shot grins at each other; it was a rare day that they weren't worked from dusk to dawn, but Draco liked being popular, and wanted to keep it that way. No sense in risking having a mutiny on his hands. Before they could allow him to change his mind, they scurried off, as much as their girth allowed them to do anything like scurrying.
Draco turned, meaning to cross back to his desk, and instead caught sight of himself in the looking glass on the starboard side of the captain's quarters. He puffed up inwardly with pride; God, he even looked like a captain, didn't he? His father had seen to that: the expensive muslin shirt, the black silk vest with the silver serpent embroidered on the breast, the sturdy black cotton trousers, the expensive black leather boots. Outfitted like a king.
Lucius Malfoy was Lord Voldemort's quartermaster, the second-in-command aboard a pirate vessel, and the wealth earned from a position like that was evident in his son's grooming. Draco smoothed down a nonexistent flyaway in his silver-blonde hair and smirked at his reflection. Some men muttered that Lucius Malfoy had bought his son the position as captain of the Death Eater, too. Well, and so what? Draco was a great captain, though he was younger than many of the men he commanded. The Death Eater hadn't suffered so much as a scratch as long as he'd been aboard her. No one could argue that. Lucius might have provided the means, but Draco had paved his own way.
Another knock sounded at the door. He started out of his thoughts and snapped, a little harshly than was required, "Yes? Just come in, Pettigrew."
But it wasn't Pettigrew. It was Scabior, a crewman with a pointed face and stringy, dirty hair, who poked his head around the jamb. He grinned at Draco with a mouth full of brown teeth, mossy and crooked, like moldy piano keys.
"Hey, Cap'n," he leered, excitement glinting in his dirt-colored eyes. "You'd bes' come up on deck. There's somethin' you ought t'see."
"What is it?"
Scabior shook his head. "I was tol' to send for you specific'ly." He pointed back toward the main deck of the Death Eater.
Draco swore softly under his breath – they knew he hated to be bothered – but he picked up his hawthorn wand from the desk, tucking it into the slim wand case he wore around his hips, hanging on a black leather belt. A shining cutlass in a scabbard hung on the belt's other side. Their two pairs of boots clunked hollowly as they climbed the stairs leading up to the middle deck of the ship. Cresting the top, he now saw a horde of filthy men were clustered around something he couldn't make out.
Men nudged one another as he approached, and "captain" was the alert hissed from mouth to ear. The circle parted to let Draco pass through; he spotted Pettigrew on the fringes, looking as though he might faint. A hint of a sneer touched the blonde man's lips. Coward. But then his attention was diverted away. Crouched in the middle of the mob, lashed to the mast with black ropes that had clearly been sprung from someone's wand, was a man called Travers. Draco didn't know much about him; he had joined the Death Eater's crew fairly recently.
"What is it?" he said, just loud enough to force every man to fall silent if they wanted to hear him speak. It didn't work; the crew continued to chatter amongst themselves about Travers. Draco removed his wand from the case at his hip and pointed it lazily over the ship's port railing. A boom, as though from a cannon, immediately silenced the crew, like the jinx had been placed on them instead.
"Is anyone going to tell me why I've been called up here?" he sneered, cool gray eyes finding each of his crew in turn.
Crabbe was the first one brave enough to break it. "It's him," he said excitedly, pointing at the crouched and whimpering Travers.
A man stepped to Draco's side, silent as a shadow. Blaise Zabini, Draco's own quartermaster, materialized at his side as though he'd learned to Apparate noiselessly. "He was caught," the taller man said, narrowing his eyes at Travers. Blaise was nearly six and a half feet tall, with impossibly sharp cheekbones and coal-black skin and eyes. They looked like the inverse of one another when they stood side by side: angel and demon, moonlight and deepest night.
"Caught?" Draco repeated.
"He was overheard telling the cabin boy about how he was going to escape during tonight's raid," Blaise said, lip curling, still not looking at the captain. "Said he planned to sneak away and never return to the ship." Blaise cut his eyes at Draco. "Obviously, that would be something of a liability."
"I didn't!" screeched Travers, interrupting. He flailed uselessly against the magical ropes that bound him to the mast. "I'd never abandon – never try and –" He was panting hard, and his eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. "I'm loyal, always loyal!"
Blaise aimed a kick at Travers's ribs. "Shut up," he snarled. With bony fingers, he reached behind him and plucked something off the deck, handing it to Draco. "His bunk was searched as soon as I tied him up here. This bag was found under his hammock."
Draco upended the cloth bag onto the worn boards under his feet. A spare set of clothing, a map of the port, and a small sprinkling of coins went everywhere; a few of the crew members lunged after the coins before they could slip through the cracks and tumble down into the hold beneath their boots.
"Well, Travers," Draco said languidly, shaking the bag to make sure nothing else was left. "If you weren't planning on running away, what's all this about?"
The captive man let out an animalistic moan, eyes bulging still more ferociously. "No, no," he groaned, straining against the ropes. "You misunderstand, Captain – I'd never –" But again, he couldn't quite seem to finish the sentence. He licked his lips and looked around wildly, but there was no mercy to be found from any of the rest of the pirates surrounding him. His eyes found Draco again.
Casually, like he was doing nothing more than washing his hands, Draco pushed the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. He snapped open the wand case at his hip and tilted his wand out into his fingers. "I don't think I need to tell you my feelings about loyalty," he said smoothly, brushing a speck of dust from the tip of his wand. "If you wanted a way out of your service, Travers, I'm more than happy to provide one."
The man's jaw went rigid. "No," he said, word hoarse in his throat. "I won't – I'm sorry –"
Draco pointed his wand at Travers. The Dark Lord's boatswain, Severus Snape, had recently divulged a new curse to the rest of the crews. This would be a perfect opportunity to test it out, have a little fun.
"Sectumsempra," he whispered, the word skimming off his tongue like a blade as he brought his wand down through the air in a savage slash.
The skin on the captive's arm split open like a seam. Blood trickled in steady rivulets down his arm, pooling beneath him and wicking into his ragged trousers. Draco performed the curse a second time; a second cut appeared. Again, again, and more and more crimson liquid pooled underneath Travers as his skin slowly turned to ribbons. The man was screaming, but Draco almost couldn't hear him through the heady buzz in his own head. He stopped when Travers ceased moving and hung, limp, from the ropes that tied him to the mast.
Draco took a step back so the already-congealing blood wouldn't reach his boots. None of the crew was laughing anymore. Humiliation was one thing; seeing a man being turned into an example was another.
"Anyone else feel like abandoning the crew tonight?" he called out into the quiet. "Want to test your luck and try deserting?" Wind whistled through the sails, carrying the scent of salt and sea with it, but no other sound rang out across the desk. He tucked his wand back into its case, snapped it shut, and turned back to the ragged circle of men.
"You can take that" – he jerked his chin at Travers's limp form – "as your first and final warning. Chuck him over the side for the sharks. And clean that up," he added, gesturing in disgust at the pool of blood soaking into the deck. "Then scrub the rest of the decks. Your friend there just cost you your afternoon of rest."
Low grumbles rippled around the crew, but just a look from Draco silenced them almost as soon as they had begun. "Then," he continued silkily, "outfit yourselves to make for shore tonight. The raid's still on." He turned on his heel and, without looking back at the assembly, descended the stairs to his quarters once more.
Lucius Malfoy might have helped his son become captain of the Death Eater, the youngest by far in Lord Voldemort's crew. That was true enough. But Draco would be damned if he would stand to let anyone pull the wool over his eyes because of it. He was young – but he was also smart, and cunning, and ruthless. It was good for his men to see that – and he didn't mind the rush of power that surged through his veins when another man's life was in his hands, either.
He slammed the door behind him, took his wand into his hand, and slid the end of his belt through the buckle, letting the scabbard and wand case thump to the ground. He sank into his chair and pulled his pipe to him. He'd stolen it from someone; he'd long since forgotten who. It was craved like a dragon, and its gaping mouth, ringed with razor-sharp fangs, was stuffed with spiced tobacco. Draco tapped his wand to it and let it start to smoke.
Let them be afraid of him. Travers wasn't a huge loss. By tonight, by the time Port Royal was set ablaze, the crew of the Death Eater would have forgotten all about that spectacle anyway.
He popped the end of the pipe in his mouth, blue smoke quickly filling the cabin, and pulled his diagrams back toward his chest. There was still a lot of planning to do before the fun began.
A/N: Some people have asked, but just so you know, I plan on updating this story about once a week. It's only been five days since the first chapter, mind you, but I really wanted to post another chapter. I won't stick to a strict schedule, but hopefully once a week will be the average. Thanks for all of the follows and favorites so far! Please continue to let me know what you think!