Violent Delights

Arc I  

These violent delights have violent ends.

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder which,

as they kiss, consume.

(Romeo and Juliet, act II, Scene VI)

Tom

"Darling, you could go anywhere with me, doesn't that sound nice?"

Tom gives him a scornful look. He has sand stuck under his clothes, and the nausea accumulating in the pit of his stomach doesn't make him particularly happy. He's never been a particularly fierce navigator, because he's never needed to be before. He's the bloody Prince of Slytherin, he doesn't require austere knowledge like navigation.

Much less to apply it to a pirate ship.

The man, the evil known in some realms and across the seas, Harry Potter, smiles at him like the rarest of specimens, the lively twinkle in his large emerald eyes managing to impress Tom a little. His arms are crossed and there is no tension in the width of his shoulders.

Tom can make out the red hue of skin burnt by continuous exposure to the sun, and a faint trace of curly black hair under the rumpled shirt and open. It is careless and so plebeian that Tom forces himself to restrain the grimace of disgust that threatens to form at the corners of his mouth.

The cabin lurches and Tom certainly struggles not to brace himself against the dark wooden wall, for he refuses to lower himself further in the face of a common pirate. He will not be humiliated, even though he knows his clear disadvantage in the situation; If he does not offer something good enough for this man, he may well become one of the many disgusting floating corpses that have drowned in the ocean, found by some sailor on a shore.

And to think that he is in the terrible position of negotiating with a man who should be in the dungeon awaiting execution. He has power over Tom and not the other way around.

"Even if the offer is flattering," He lies blatantly, the tone of his voice cool and calm despite the hoarseness that creeps into his pronunciation. "As the Crown Prince of this country, I can already go anywhere if I wish. Now tell me, what is your price for my freedom?"

The pirate, Harry, barely seems to register Tom's formality. He just hums, the curve of his lips curling in a mocking manner.

"What makes you think I have one, Your Excellency?"

"It is His Highness. His Excellency is reserved for the King alone."

Tom watches the man's confused blink, irritation slowly bubbling in his chest.

"Sure. Yeah," The pirate, disinterested, shrugs. He doesn't seem bothered by Tom's haughty correction. That's certainly humiliating, but he accepts it as helpful in escaping his degrading situation. "Whatever you say. You nobles use a lot of unnecessary paraphernalia to name yourselves, don't you? What a load of crap."

The boldness.

As if a man of the sea would ever understand the importance of respect in language. The obvious distinction that sets them apart, that sets royalty above the rest. The class pyramid is necessary, and only his prudence and the lack of a sword prevents Tom from attacking him mercilessly.

He does not have the big muscles of the pirate, and he is quite sure that his fighting is very different from the fighting Tom knows on land and not at sea, but he is capable enough to fight scrappy and vicious.

Tom fervently ignores the teasing and the man's smile widens, the mockery in his expression as clear as day.

"I can offer you coffers full of gold. Your crew and you will have no need to plunder for quite some time thanks to them. If you accept, we'll discuss the exchange while you change course for Slytherin's shores." Tom says, the conversational dialogue is still cold and serene. It's only a matter of time before the Slytherin ships take to the sea in pursuit, anyway. "You have a lot to gain, Potter, but also a lot to lose. You have the... choice."

He does, in fact. But Tom very politely omits his real intentions. Once he is safely with the royal guard, he will dispose of the pirate and his crew. It doesn't have to be at that time, there's a long life ahead of him. It will make life much more difficult for him. Tom has not been bred to offer empathy to the unmerciful. He is vindictive, and he does not believe he is capable of forgetting the humiliation he has been pushed into.

The pirate, Potter, hums. His fingers drum on the sword strapped to his doublet, and Tom feels a momentary tension nestling in his shoulders.

"Oh, no. But my coffers, darling, are already full," Tom purses his lips into a thin line, and doesn't answer. The man chuckles under his breath and runs a careless hand through his long, frankly tangled curls. "They're full of your money."

"My ship didn't contain gold, Potter, I don't see how."

This is no lie. Tom was destined to meet with the King of Ravenclaw for business matters involving Slytherin's bountiful ocean, and as Prince and next monarch, he would have to come to a satisfactory agreement. Nothing less is expected of him. He has never given less than perfection.

So, no matter that he has been docked by pirates, he needs nothing more than his cunning to survive.

Although he is not quite sure that the frivolous and false laws of the Court are like the savage laws of the sea and poverty.

Tom doesn't think so. But it's all right.

He can get there.

"Right. Although it wasn't you who offered it to me."

The tension in Tom's body tightens like a spear. His fingers feel numb, and the accumulated salt on his skin stings some more. The bad feeling that had been coiling like a snake in his stomach flares up. Because, of course, he should have expected it. He's grown up around betrayals. Tom has been expecting this particular one for years.

His voice does not tremble when he admits it out loud. Dryness and certainty rumble through him. "You were paid to kidnap me."

And to kill me, he does not say, his tongue between his teeth. Anger beats through him, a forest fire lined with calamity.

The green eyes, dimly lit by the candle pressed firmly against the mahogany desk, stare at him with an intensity that reverberates around Tom's bones. For the first time in a while, he doesn't think he can read another individual correctly; their possible intentions, their thoughts. It's unpleasant, and a wave of disgust threatens to swallow Tom whole.

Harry smiles. He takes a long, measured stride towards Tom, imposing despite being a little shorter. "You worked it out fast, darling."

Tom Riddle is the son of a servant woman.

It is an absolute truth that everyone in the prosperous kingdom of Slytherin is aware of. It is likely that all the other nearby kingdoms are aware of it too. An attempt was once made to hide the fact, but a particularly nasty scandal was enough to shock the populace, and the secret hatched like a bad poison. He went from being the bastard son and commoner of Merope Gaunt, to being the Prince and heir of Thomas Riddle, monarch for ten years of Slytherin. However, it matters not that he has been legitimized; no matter how good his upbringing is, no matter how much like his father he is. His blood is still muddy and dirty, a low level inherent in it that he can never get rid of as long as he lives.

Tom was born quietly in a filthy stable surrounded by straw and horse dung, outside the humble rooms where Merope Gaunt used to sleep after long hours of cleaning at the Palace. No one celebrated his birth. He was rolled in a dirty apron under the tears and blood of the woman who bore him. She eventually gave in to the cold, wrapping her arms around him that morning when the sun was barely welcoming the new day and the wind whipped the straw wildly and carelessly. Tom does not remember crying when they discovered his mother's corpse wrapped around him many hours later.

He grew up hidden in the stable of a castle in which he soon walked as if it were his own.

He did not ignore or forgive the looks of disdain, the disgust inscribed on the faces of the other nobles. He will never forget how hard he had to work to form a complete mask of perfect serenity, learning to deal with the cruelty and coldness of his father's Court. How he had to fight to prove that he was better than them, that he was like them even though he was the son of a servant woman.

He despised Merope Gaunt. But he didn't despise her any more than he detested the egomaniac Thomas Riddle. The only thing he appreciated about the man is his heritage and his indifference to his moves manipulating the Court once he planted his own roots and thorns. Tom gained his own allies, made a name for himself beyond being the Prince. He went to battle once at sixteen and emerged victorious, wearing the victory like a title of Conquest attached to his chest in honor of him.

However.

Marvolo Riddle is born.

The kingdom of Salazar rejoiced. There were celebrations for long days, tournaments in honor of the blessing of his noble birth. They created quick stories of how magnificent the new Prince's future would be, despite the delicate tension that surrounded the Imperial Court during the following months. Marvolo Riddle, second son, is also second in line to the throne. He is the legitimate son of Queen Adeline Selwyn.

Marvolo was born strong. The stars aligned, obligingly, the day he came into the world in the Queen's elegant, gilded chambers. Unlike Tom, he did not come from a common, illiterate servant woman who had no chance to know any better than to humble herself and obey the King's command.

Tom doesn't despise them. He hates them.

Fervently, with fury making a home in his chest. A dark, icy flame clinging to the flesh surrounding his bones. His father's second son posed an obvious threat to his inheritance. Because Tom knew. He was not freely chosen. He was not favored, but Marvolo was.

Marvolo, with only nine days of the name.

Marvolo, who has not had to fight for his position, for respect, for affection, no matter how much he gets his political or language lessons wrong, how clumsy he is at riding, or how much he complains about holding a wooden sword for practice. Marvolo, who deeply admires Tom with so much emotion that he promises to choke him any day. Marvolo, the half-brother Tom would ditch at any opportunity, if he didn't know he would be charged and executed immediately.

Tom is aware, in fact, that a child like him is not really to blame for being born right, with clean blood and with a chance to grow up a little freer, with a little more love and less pressure and cruelty. But Tom is self-made, and fed on the same cruelty he received. He doesn't consider himself a good person, but neither does he favor a soft and weak morality.

He is not afraid to despise his half-brother. He's got all that good building up in all his crevices. Tom may have been born with dirt in his soul.

He doesn't care, either.

"Brother, look!" Marvolo shouts, enthusiastically, his blond hair perfectly combed back and a wooden sword encrusted with pretty stones in it swinging in his hand. Tom pauses, flashing the same placid, affectionate smile that maintains his position as the good, adoring older brother. "Father gave me a new sword! I'd like to debut it by training with you, please!"

Marvolo did not say please very often. He is a Prince, what need has he to show servitude to others? Oh, however, towards Tom...

Tom taught him well.

His smile becomes a little more real as he takes a step away from his guard and sworn knight to crouch down to the same height as Marvolo.

"Marvolo," He begins, his voice as smooth as silk. His half-brother's bright brown eyes gaze back at him eagerly, oblivious to Tom's viper mask. "I won't be able to train with you for a while, you know I'm preparing to travel to the Ravenclaw realm..."

Marvolo's boyish smile falls softly.

"Nevertheless," Tom says, his fingers smoothing the boy's blonde hair back. "Why don't you come with me to my meeting with our father and thank him personally for the gift?"

The boy lights up again so easily that Tom finds it absurd. Somehow, he sees himself faintly in it. Eager to meet and please a King they privately call father. But there has always been and will be an abysmal difference between the two; Marvolo received all the affection and consideration that Tom did not.

"Yes!" Marvolo exclaims, his fingers gripping the lapel of Tom's cloak eagerly and tightly before he realizes what he's doing and shrinks back in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, brother. I didn't mean to be rude."

Tom swallows the bitterness that settles in his throat. He doesn't like to be touched without his explicit permission from him. In particular, he shies away from touching Marvolo as much as he can unless it is strictly necessary to play her good role. He shakes his head, his faint smile tightening around his jaw.

"Don't worry, Marvolo. I'm your brother, you don't have to be so careful. Come on, we shouldn't keep the King waiting for us."

Marvolo quickly finds his way to hold Tom's hand, much to his chagrin, as he is wont to do with Queen Adeline, even though he is now nine days of the name, not five. At his age, Tom knew the palace as well as any servant, and his language, history and political lessons were advanced. He did not hold hands with anyone, because that is childish, and Tom was never expected to be childish. It is frankly humiliating to see the abysmal difference between the boy and himself, and that in spite of this, Tom would never be chosen if it were for the father of them both.

As they walk through the west wing of the palace, heading for the Throne Room, Tom turns his neck towards the sworn knight of Marvolo, who had moved as far forward as possible to stay close to the boy, as if Tom were a danger to Marvolo. He gives him a cold look, urging him to take the required respectful distance of him in his position.

He will not stand for any gentleman, noble or commoner, attempting to stifle his own presence on Marvolo's behalf.

After all, Marvolo is in no danger at Tom's hands.

Not now, at least.

He listens, his plastic, soft smile tucked into the curves of his mouth, to Marvolo's enthusiastic chatter until they reach the Throne Room, where two guards bow their heads and make their presence known.

"Their Highnesses Prince Tom and Prince Marvolo Riddle!"

King Thomas Riddle, first of his name, King of the First Men and lord of the realm of Slytherin, always wears a serious expression. He regarded every individual around him with a crushing indifference, and although his reign is prosperous and he is not an unnecessarily cruel monarch, many believe that he is only capable of empathy and emotion around Queen Adeline, which led him to cultivate sympathy and distrust throughout the Court.

Tom learned from his father's mistakes. He prepared every small step to show himself as a better version, and his physical resemblance of him only seemed to help, if the praise written for him around the kingdom was anything to go by.

Still holding Marvolo's hand, Tom smiles from time to time at a few of the nobles lining the sides of the corridor leading to the throne. The Queen is absent, and their father stares at them, his dark eyes fixed on Marvolo. His temper is still sober and dour, but Tom knew better; how the corners of the man's eyes softened and there was no hardness in his stony gaze.

Tom squares his shoulders a little better, the well-known anger throbbing in his chest again.

"Your Majesty," He bows respectfully. He releases Marvolo's hand, urging him with a delicate hand on the back of his neck to imitate him. They remain in the same position until the King urges them to raise their heads, and Tom feels Marvolo shifting nervously on his feet, a little pale from having the full attention of the nobles who inhabit the palace and who are at Court at the time.

At the King's side, under the main step of the throne, as Hand of the King and Counselor of the Coin, is Lord Grindelwald.

There is no greeting for him. "What's Marvolo doing here, Tom?"

The sound of murmuring from the nobles is paused.

The Crown Prince gives his best affectionate smile, despite his eyes fixed on the ground as a synonym of respect, managing to evoke some cooing from the young noblewomen. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I ran into my brother, Marvolo, on my way before my meeting with you, and I thought he might also greet and thank you."

The King is silent for a few moments.

Tom feels Marvolo's hand grasp his trousers from behind, nervously. For no matter how much affection he receives, no matter how little is demanded of him, Thomas Riddle does not know how to offer fatherly love to even his most adored son.

And isn't the man's incompetence ideal for Tom and his plans?

"Your Majesty," Marvolo's embarrassed murmur quickly catches his attention, the way he hides his small wooden sword behind his back and takes refuge in the imposing and warm figure of his older brother, not going unnoticed. "I wanted to... I wanted to thank you for the gift. I- um, thank you."

Tom pretends to forget decorum momentarily, and pats Marvolo gently on the head, his expression almost flashing with glee as the King's face contorts unpleasantly. Of course he does not like his beloved son being close to Tom. He dislikes deep down Marvolo's admiration for Tom. He is aware that he cannot get rid of that admiration no matter how far away he has tried to keep them.

It's not that Tom has been opposed to having peace if Marvolo's annoying presence could be left behind like the very dirt beneath his shoes, but the boy has always found a way to join him at the expense of everyone else.

So, of course, who is he not to take such an advantage for himself and against his father?

The King sighed deeply. He has a green silk cloak around his shoulders, and the fine gold crown frames his straight features, despite his stubble. "Come closer, Marvolo."

Marvolo looks quickly at Tom for approval, and is encouraged with a slight nod from Tom. It is another of the many gestures that do not go unnoticed. The King's own son, asking his older brother for permission to obey a command. Lord Grindelwald's eyes are fixed on Tom's figure, wary and sharp. He has never expected less from the man; it is no secret to Tom and his inner circle that the King's Hand, with all the power he has accumulated as an advisor to the late monarch and the current one, prefers to replace Tom from his position as heir to the throne and place the moldable Marvolo in his place.

Tom was, after all, a bastard, regardless of whether he had been legitimized. A mixed blood bastard should not be the next monarch. That right belongs to Marvolo, that's what Lord Grindelwald thinks, that's what many people think.

Tom's façade, on the other hand, threatens to crumble, ridiculously destroyed beneath his feet, when the King places Marvolo beside the throne to speak to him smoothly and pleasantly under his breath, like an intimate secret between them that makes the boy smile with vague hope.

Still as a statue a few feet away from them, below them, Tom is forced to watch their talk in silence without understanding any of it, excluded even from his father's show of affection when he abandons a caress on Marvolo's forehead.

Oh, how Tom hates him.

Tom struggles not to clench his fists, swallowing the howl of anger. Humiliation bubbles in his stomach the longer he is left standing silently in front of the throne. Forgotten and ignored in full view of the Court, because he is not allowed to leave until the King gives the order. There is a tense, uncomfortable silence around the nobles. Tom wants to shout at them to get out, so he can to endure the situation with better dignity if he is alone.

Twenty minutes pass, he supposes.

His anger doesn't fade, but Tom allows himself to get lost in his thoughts about what he would do to his father. They are not particularly pleasant. He finds morbid satisfaction in fantasizing how he would kill him with his bare hands. In another life, he would climb up the steps of the throne and squeeze his neck with his thumbs, cutting off his breath and leaving him to choke with only Tom's pleased face as his last sight. In any slightly more macabre one, he would see him drown after being poisoned; his skin would turn purple with nasty veins, his eyes would burn until the flesh is peeled from his cheeks, and he would be unable to breathe. Eventually he would die in pain and suffocation, and Tom would smile in complete satisfaction.

But it won't happen.

Not right now.

It will do so in the future, however. Tom will personally make sure of that.

The King blinks disinterestedly at Tom, raising a hand to dismiss him. "Ah, Tom. You're still here. You may leave."

Tom feels the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue as he bites down hard enough, holding his gaze firmly on his father. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Would you prefer to delve into the last meeting about my visit to Ravenclaw's realm after lunch, before my farewell?" He bows again, his eyes burning fixed on the white marble.

"No. That will not be necessary. I trust you will properly attend to what you have been charged with as Crown Prince of this realm."

When Tom was a little boy, he used to ramble on about what a good King his father was. Tall and imposing, an unfamiliar and cool figure who opened up the best unimaginable path to greatness for him. He remembers the shock and awe-filled impression when he was introduced to the King and consequently told that he was his father. Tom did not reason long, that the King, known among the servants to be honorable… Never made any effort to find or know him at all.

Why didn't he pick Tom up sooner? Why didn't he give him a better life and education when he was born? Why did he wait seven years to do so?

He understood it over the years.

Tom looked so much like the king that it was undeniable. He could no longer hide or ignore his existence.

"Very well." Tom replies, his voice strong and firmly controlled. He cheekily omits Majesty, and crosses between the nobles with a raised chin and a look of icy fury.

It is not like Corvus to sneak up on Tom. It is an action much more akin to Abraxas, but perhaps he has seen the impending fury that his master has etched into his every expression. He walks behind him out of the Throne Room, his eyes flickering to the floor. If he were a dog, his ears would be down, fearful. "Your Royal Highness..."

Tom dismisses his guard before Corvus continues his chatter.

"I have a lot to prepare for my departure first thing tomorrow morning, Corvus. Whatever you wish to tell me has to be quick." He orders without indulgence, his hands clenched at the sides. His lips are pressed into a thin line and he walks with long strides, a far cry from his measured, calm gait of him.

Tom is not a fan of sailing. He is good at it, as he is at most things he sets his mind to. He understands the composition of ships, he understands sailing and steering, even though he doesn't do the hard work himself. But the sea makes him feel vulnerable. The ocean gives him respect and fear unlike anything else in the world. He can't control what happens, he doesn't know what lives in the depths and the smell is sometimes downright unpleasant. As a result, he is not looking forward to going to Ravenclaw's realm tomorrow, despite the grand plans he has for the trip.

Hopefully, it will arrive in less than two weeks.

"There have been sightings of Alphard Black in the kingdom of Gryffindor."

Corvus' words bring Tom to a very slow halt. "What did you say?"

Alphard Black used to be a candidate for heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His blood has been in the Salazar Court as long as the Riddles, and he used to, ironically, belong to Tom's close circle. Until he disappeared without a trace and Orion Black, Alphard's older cousin, took over the lordship's inheritance after the death of Cygnus II Black.

It was clear to Tom that it was not a kidnapping or some remotely ridiculous situation. He was no stranger to the intimate relationship that Alphard immersed himself in with his own knight. So, when they both disappeared, Tom knew about it.

He didn't take it well.

But apparently, the Black family is known for the immediate flight or disappearance of some of its members. And to think Tom pondered marrying the eldest daughter of Pollux Black, Orion and Alphard's cousin. The misfortune in which he would fall if she dared to flee too.

He had no great trouble attracting the naïve Orion Black into his ranks, even though he is the age of Tom's own father, but Alphard was made of a different kind of strength that Tom valued and did not appreciate his abandonment of him at all. Tom had, all along, intended to tragically get rid of the eldest Black so that Alphard could take over the inheritance. Oh, but he did not deign to have a conversation with Tom regarding his plans. Tom might even have offered to help, if it didn't get in the way of his own ambitions.

Corvus swallows. Tom's dark eyes are fixed on him, icy and untamed. "Yes, my lord. He has been seen in the company of a group of ruffians. The knight... Stewart, we believe, was one of them."

Tom's lip curls in disgust. "Oh, Alphard. How low you've sunk." Surrounding himself with ruffians and living on the street for the fun of it. "Don't lose track of them. Pay mercenaries if you have to. I want him alive."

"Yes, my lord," Corvus nods, his analytical gaze still fixed on the ground. He has always been a dutiful man to Tom, despite his libertine personality. Corvus Lestrange is far more observant than most, and Tom is aware. Not many are able to foresee the actions of a man like Corvus, with a façade that encourages you to rub shoulders with him quietly, waiting for a good time. But he's a viper to the bone. "And Stewart?"

Tom scoffs under his breath. There is something cruelly accommodating in the revelation. "Get rid of him if you can."

The next day, the people stalk the harbor with the intention of catching a glimpse of one of the Slytherin royalty. Tom, who gave them a picture of genuine humility and concern mounted on a steed as he made his way to the harbor. He did not hide in a carriage, but allowed the people to see him, greeting them with a charming and warm smile.

By that night, they would write praises of joy about him.

However, when Tom entered his private cabin on the Slytherin ship, he washed his hands with soap and water in disgust. He doesn't like the poor. He feels an unconscious disgust towards the filth and stench they seem to give off.

"Your Royal Highness," The ship's captain, Morgan, knocks softly on the door. Tom snorts. "Forgive me for interrupting your time. I notify you that we are about to depart."

"Thank you." Tom says dryly.

He runs a damp hand over the back of his neck, distracted, and spends the next few hours with a quill between his fingers and patches on the next political moves he will try to make in the future. The smell of salt still clings to his clothes, even though he has not spent much time on deck.

He doesn't do much else the rest of the days.

When Tom is not disappearing into his cabin to mind his own business and enjoy the privacy of him, he goes out to make his presence known among the gentlemen and marines, cordial even for his  royal position. He has long conversations with Captain Morgan about the workings of the ship, the direction they are going and the area they are in, pointing out the location on a neatly drawn map.

However, on the sixth day, with Tom's mood slightly more sour than at the start, he murmurs ripple through the ship as they spot an unfamiliar vessel. They do not recognize it, and the sail is barely visible. The captain decides to keep a watchful eye on it, and orders the guns kept loaded, in case they are not traders and turn out to be pirates.

They were not mistaken.

Two days later, at night, they are attacked by the ship camouflaged in the darkness.

The candle that was not visible before is visible now, and the mythological beast of the golden griffin in the black candle does not bode well.

Because that is the sign of the pirate ship The Golden Grail.

The captain, unfortunately, is Harry Potter.

One of the most infamous pirates in all the oceans surrounding the Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff kingdoms. He has the highest bounty on his head despite not having been at sea for that many years. His crew is almost as infamous as he is. They dock anywhere and far outnumbering any attacks by the royalty of the kingdoms or other proud pirates who try to subjugate them and take all their wealth and renown. Where he comes from is unknown, but strong rumors suggest that his journey to the high seas began in the kingdom of Gryffindor.

Apparently, Potter rubs shoulders with another of the pirates with a bounty on his head, a crew full of ruffians with a captain even worse than all of them.

The wolf, they call him.

Tom has his sword in his hand long before the ship's captain rushes in to alarm the situation, despite the sound of shouting and cannons rattling in the sea around him. The roar and sudden movements cause Tom to lose all his pristine essence and he grabs the captain by the throat, pushing the aging man hard.

"Who is attacking us?" His question is barely more than a cold whisper. He presses the tip of the sword against the man's overstuffed stomach.

His eyes are wide open. His complexion is pale. He looks surprised by the Prince's imminent threat. "Pirates, my lord. They-..." He takes a deep breath. "There are many of them. We are outnumbered."

"I need you to explain to me, Captain, how the hell we're being boarded by pirates who were so far away from us just a day and a half ago, despite your vigilance." Tom's gaze flits down the corridor outside the cabin, scowling angrily. "How many emergency boats are there?"

"It was an ambush, my lord. I believe they hid in one of the cliffs just past the Gryffindor coast..."

Tom presses harder on the sword. "The boats. How many."

The man lets out a shaky breath. "Five."

Tom clicks his tongue, turning sharply away from the man. He does not put the sword away, and his brown eyes, intense and as sharp as his weapon, stray back into the hallway.

It's not the first time the royals have been attacked by pirates on the high seas. But it is the first time Tom has been accepted by them, and although his instinct and pride urges him to plunge into the fray to dispose of those damned pirates, no matter how much flesh he slices and how much he tears apart with his teeth if necessary, he cannot act impulsively.

As a Prince, he has a duty, and his main struggle here is not to swing his sword, but to get out alive.

"Gather only the knights who came with me," Is a cruel request. It will leave many of them to die at the hands of pirates. Tom couldn't care less. "Enough for at least three boats."

The captain nods, his eyes wild as he watches Tom finally put the sword away and pick up a blunderbuss and map from the desk.

"My lord, you should wait here, sheltered, while I gather the men..."

"You do not want me to repeat myself, Captain Morgan. Obey your Prince. Now."

Tom's heart is racing as he slips out of the cabin shortly after the captain, the panicked shouts and the smoke and ash making his eyes sting unpleasantly. He has purposely left his green cloak with the Slytherin seal on it behind, dressed only in plain black as he steps into the starboard side.

The first thing he smells, apart from gunpowder and ocean salt, is charred flesh. He swallows the nausea that clutches at the pit of his stomach, and does not hesitate to kill with a quick cannon shot one of the yellow-toothed ruffians who intended to attack one of his royal guard knights from behind. It is the opposite of fighting on land, leading an army and swinging a sword. A naval battle keeps him watching his step along the way the ship is tossed back and forth by the waves of the sea. Tom, frustrated, forces himself to be careful not to fall due to the limited space. There is water all over the ground. It's very different from the way his boots used to bury themselves in the ground moistened by rain or blood in past battles.

It has been in battle, survived and won.

But this battle is completely unlike any other I have experienced.

He dodges the corpses piled up on the ground and slides down the starboard to the stern, where the boats are hanging.

From his position he catches a glimpse of the huge pirate ship. Tom recognizes it instantly.

The bloody Golden Grail.

He grits his teeth, and dodges a particularly huge man who came at him with a machete.

His sword is quickly in one hand as he keeps the blunderbuss in the waistband of his trousers. In one fluid motion his sword pierces the beast of a man right through the shoulder blades, causing a mortal wound, and blood splatters his face.

"Shit." He takes a shaky breath for a second, his eyes flickering around him. Not allowing himself to waste any more time, he runs back to the stern, where one of his men intercepts him and shouts, "Your Highness H-!"

Tom nimbly twists his wrist and, throwing off the grip that the knight dared to impose on him, pierces his throat. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck. The man falls to the ground and the sickening gurgle of blood gushing from the wound causes him to slowly suffocate. His gaze is wild. Tom feels no pity. He cannot allow a fool of his caliber to be the one to accompany him to the boats. The man could have alerted the surrounding pirates by calling Tom by his noble title, and who knows how many pirates would have approached wanting to feast on the Crown Prince of Slytherin.

He shakes his bloodied sword, snarling, and runs back, dodging the bodies, hidden in the smoke from the cannon.

When Tom reaches the stern, he sees Captain Morgan.

He takes a step forward, until he sees a sword thrust into the captain's head, and a blade grazes his own neck, stopping Tom in his tracks.

"You're quite a sight, little prince," Says a husky, austere voice behind him. Tom's body tenses, agitated, and he purses his mouth in an unpleasant bellow. He clenches the handle of the sword tightly, his knuckles turning white and visible despite the blood that stains them. "Drop the sword or we won't be able to have a nice conversation, because I won't hesitate to slit your throat so you can drown in your own blood. A taste of your medicine, mh? How ruthless with your own men, murdering them in cold blood for your benefit..."

Tom licks the accumulated sweat and blood from the corners of his lips. His stomach clenches, humiliated. He has been captured just like that. He didn't even notice the presence behind him. "For a pirate, you talk too much," He replies venomously. He should obey and remain silent, review his options and observe, adapt to the situation, even though it is life and death. But he doesn't control his tongue this time, because frustration rides like an evil calamity through the expanse of his chest. "I thought you all had your tongues cut out."

The pirate laughs, and the laughter reverberates up and down Tom's spine. The blade of the sword presses a little harder on Tom's throat, making it difficult to swallow. "Some pirates don't have it. Lucky for me and unlucky for you, I'm not one of them. Now, darling, would you kindly drop both weapons on the ground?"

Tom obeys. His calloused, wet fingers dropped the sword in a clatter. He bites his tongue again, avoiding swallowing.

"You're missing one." Says the pirate. Tom can hear the thinly disguised amusement in his voice, either because of the closeness or the way all alert senses are focused on him. Despite the salt, blood and ash that reaches his delicate sense of smell, he catches the essential scent of the man's liquor. His lips tighten into a thin line, pulling the blunderbuss from the belt of his trousers and throwing it forward against the ground.

Even if he tried to turn on himself to shoot or elbow him, the pirate could slit his throat faster than Tom could escape.

"Right. Thank you, darling. You sure know how to be nice after all."

Tom wants to gut it. Slash him in the esophagus and pull out his entrails and feed them to him.

The pirate, still with the blade of his sword grazing the thin skin of Tom's neck, walks to his right, placing himself in his field of vision.

All Tom sees is a red shirt and black doublet next to skin darkened beyond endless hours in the sun. He has a gold chain hanging from his neck, and Tom can make out the bulging muscles in his broad shoulders. His hair, however, a disheveled clump of black curls, is slicked back, and the cheeky, mischievous grin contains as much mockery as the big, stunning green eyes that stare back at him. There is a grotesque scar across the middle of his forehead that momentarily catches Tom's attention.

Tom's chin is raised, his brown eyes scanning the pirate. He is not as repulsive as other ruffians they have had the misfortune to come across.

"You have a deadly look," The man whistles, impressed. He doesn't seem fearful at having assaulted the Slytherin Prince, but curious and amused. "How you have been called prince charming around the kingdoms it is beyond my understanding."

"Have you attacked my ship solely for the pleasure of mocking me?" Tom responded dryly, just a cold thread in his voice while trying not to let the edge of the sword slip the delicate skin of his neck.

The pirate smiles, "Maybe."

The same red-haired man who murdered Captain Morgan whistles at them from the top of the stern.

"Hey, Harry, we've already caught some!"

Tom blinks.

Harry?

"Great, mate! Tie them up and take them to the boat!"

Tom mutters, disbelief shaking him to his foundations. "You're Harry Potter."

The most infamous pirate, Harry Potter, tilts his head to the side, attentive to him despite having shouted a couple more orders at the other man. His mocking expression seems to grow larger.

"Ah, yes, that's me," He makes a sly bow. "The pleasure is all mine!"