Isle of the Lost, 2013
"Hey, that's my compass!"
Harry's head whipped around, eyes locking on the person who had shouted. He had been trying to pawn the broken compass, and now he had been spotted by the half-drowned man from yesterday.
And like any good pirate, Harry stuffed the loot in his pocket and bolted. The accuser was soon in pursuit, yelling at him to stop and threatening him with the most creative insults. But Harry had the advantage. He knew the Isle well; its maze of streets and alleys had been his home since he was a toddler.
Ducking and dodging and doubling back, Harry ran until he could no longer hear his pursuer shouting, and then for a while after that, just to be sure. Finally, he stopped for a breather in a dark corner, trying to look casual as he fiddled with his hook.
The cold metal of a pistol's muzzle rested against his forehead, radiating chills down his spine. Harry smiled and met the dark, shadowed eyes of his pursuer. Old Seadog didn't smile back.
"My compass, savvy?"
Harry laughed. "I'm not scared of you."
"Well, you're an idiot kid," the old pirate said in a dismissive, muddled sort of way, pistol still leveled at Harry. The man was more intimidating when he wasn't waterlogged and unconscious.
"It's broken anyway," Harry shrugged, pulling the useless compass out of his pocket and tossing it at its owner, who caught it with impressive clumsiness. Harry stepped back as soon as his attacker was distracted, putting distance between them but still keeping a wary eye out.
Old Seadog looked up from examining his returned property. He held young Hook's gaze as he slipped the compass into a pocket in his waistcoat. Gold teeth flashed in a roguish grin.
"Pleasure doing business," he said, tipping his black tricorn before disappearing.
Harry wanted to be like that old seadog one day.