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The Salazar’s Secret glides silently over the horizon, catching a meandering jet stream and riding it in the half-light. Soon, it will be dusk, and a wispy fog is cloaking the land, a layer of cotton separating ground and sky. They don’t need the light, Draco knows. The airstream will guide their journey.
“We’re making good time,” Pansy says, coming to stand by him. “Altitude steady at two thousand feet above sea level. Wind is on our side.”
And so it is. The jet stream is whipping unusually fast for this time of the year, but Draco is grateful for it, as if the purpose of his voyage is heaven-ordained, and even nature is lending itself to his task.
“How much farther?” Draco asks, and Pansy unfurls a map from inside her sleeve, worn through and tattered from use, but glowing in places. “Here,” she says, pointing to the line connecting where they are and where they want to be. “We’ll have to jump off the jet stream in about five minutes.”
“Can you handle it?” Draco asks, and Pansy shoots him a look.
“Of course,” she says.
Draco steps aside and hands the wheel over to her. “She’s all yours.”
He climbs down onto the main deck and lets the wind whip over his face, welcoming the chill, embracing it. Before him, his crew mills about, finishing up the last of their duties and settling into position, a kind of prickling calm in the air, heralding the heat of battle. He knows his crew hungers for it, as does he.
And then the ship lists sharply to one side as Pansy twists the wheel and yells, “Hard a port,” as the rudder creaks, vessel turning almost perpendicular to the stream. Draco grabs onto a railing and holds tight, feet anchored solidly on the deck, riding the lurching wave as they’re flung off the jetstream and into still air, hovering as the crew rights themselves.
A boisterous cheer is thrown out by the people, fists pumping in the air at another manoeuvre well done. Pansy shoots them a lazy smirk, and steps aside for Draco to take the wheel once more. Up ahead in the distance, he can see a shape, growing larger by the second: a lone airship, ripe for the picking, lightning bolt emblazoned over its ballonet. Got you, Draco thinks, and steers his ship closer.
They cover the air in a matter of minutes, glamours rippling from front to back of the Salazar’s Secret like a wave. When they arrive, Draco gives the signal and the spell drops, but the crew aboard the other ship offers barely any indication that they notice, let alone care. Particularly him.
Draco has only ever seen him in sketches, but he’s unmistakeable. A mop of dark hair that’s more unruly in person than an artist has ever managed to capture. An intense look, as if he’s been doing battle each day for longer than he can remember. He wears a simple linen shirt and dark trousers that sit high on his hips, with leather boots that have seen better days. He is missing the fine coats or pointed hats that other captains wear to set themselves apart from their crew, but he doesn’t need them. Draco can tell from the way his crew rallies around him that they’d lay down their life for him. Because of Draco, some might.
He doesn’t have the stance of a man about to lose his airship. Instead, he’s leaning his forearms on the taffrail as if he’s casually admiring the view, eyebrow raised. The Secret hovers a few feet above Potter’s ship, so he’s forced to crane his neck slightly to look at them, but he doesn’t seem bothered. No self-preservation instincts, clearly. This is going to be the easiest ship Draco’s ever taken.
With a precise throw from Zabini, the anchoring hook snags onto the mast of the other airship and the Secret finally comes to a complete halt. A hush falls over both crews. Draco lets Goyle do the honours, clearing his throat and unravelling the scroll. His voice carries across the evening air.
“This is a royal warrant for the arrest of Harry Potter, as well as any person or beings found guilty of assisting him. Harry Potter is wanted for charges of piracy, theft and heresy, among others. Resistance to arrest will result in the use of any measures necessary to protect the safety of the realm. Signed, Lord Riddle, Admiral of the Fleet.”
Nodding to himself, satisfied, Goyle rolls the scroll back up and silence falls once more. The words sound civil, but both sides know they are a declaration of war.
On the deck of the Niffler, a tall red-haired man claps slowly, the sounds breaking the stillness of the air. “Well done,” he shouts. “That was a long speech to get through. Your mother must be very proud.”
It breaks the silence to jeers and shouts on each side. Zabini spits over the side of the Secret, aiming for the redhead’s boot, and a slender frizzy-haired woman makes a rude gesture up at him, glowering. She's Potter’s first mate, Granger, infamous in her own right. She has ink stains on her shirt, a small revolver on her hip, and a sizeable bounty on her head. Pansy snarls at her, fingers itching towards the hilt of her dagger. But Draco only has eyes for Potter.
This is him. The man who had driven Riddle so mad with anger that he’d sent fleet after fleet to bring him back. They had all been unsuccessful. Draco is the latest to be tasked, and he has no intention of letting Riddle down.
“What do you say, Potter?”
Potter breaks into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling. “Whatever it is you want,” he calls up, “you’ll have to come and get it.”
Draco shrugs. “Have it your way.” He gives one sharp nod, and his crew erupts.
It starts, as it always does, with ropes. They snake over the side of the Secret, slithering around the railings of the Niffler and pulling themselves taut. Draco’s crew follows, holding the rope between their thighs, gripping with one hand and drawing swords with the other. Potter’s crew readies themselves too; there’s the sound of clashing steel before the first boot hits the deck.
The crew know their roles well. Pansy launches herself off the ropes with the poise of an acrobat, knife between her teeth. She’s hissing like a cat as she draws a second knife from her boot and starts slashing at Granger with both hands. Goyle lowers himself without grace, landing with a thud, but uses his considerable bulk to grab one of Potter’s crew by the collar and throw them into the rigging before launching himself at three others. The rest follow, Draco last, leaving only Greengrass manning the instrument deck, until the deck of the Niffler is a ballet of twirling coats, clanging blades and broken shouts.
There, at the centre, is the man himself, Harry Potter. He is dispatching Draco’s crew with the ease of boredom, swatting Zabini’s cutlass away as if it’s nothing more than a feather and it boils Draco’s blood, and he steps forward, drawing his sword, calling out. “Leave the captain. He’s mine.”
“You know,” says Potter, turning to flash Draco a smirk as Zabini steps back, “I think I like it when you call me Captain.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.” Draco’s heels are loud on the planks of the deck.
“Oh, I will,” Potter says, and raises his sword, and the entire world seems to fall away as the two of them meet in the middle, a vortex of calm in the eye of the storm. The clanging of steel, the grunting of men, the thumping of boots on wood, it all seems to fade. The only sound is the sound of their footsteps, the clash of their swords as they meet.
“Not bad,” Potter says, smirking lazily, letting his eyes rove up and down Draco’s body.
Draco bares his teeth at him and lunges forward, but Potter catches his charge with the edge of his blade and slices it off to the side, stepping back, coming at Draco from below. It’s a complex manoeuvre that sends Draco reeling. And it dawns on him for the first time that Potter might actually be a good swordsman.
Not just good, Draco thinks, jumping out of the way as Potter thrusts in from his left, razor-sharp and quick, fluid like a dancer, and Draco has all of a second to turn his sword up and chase Potter’s arm as he pulls back, thrusting from below, aiming for the collar. But Potter is quick, quicker than Draco’s ever seen, and he jumps back in the nick of time. Draco’s only managed to slash his shirt open, fabric flapping in the wind to reveal the hard planes of his abs. Draco’s mouth turns dry.
“See something you like, Malfoy?” Potter asks, winking, and it’s enough to drive Draco mad. He plunges back into it again, but Potter parries him with ease, twisting, leaping, skipping out of the way, and Draco realises he’s toying with him. It’s getting to Draco and he wants to end this now. He pushes back against Potter, trying to corner him, back him into the wall, but Potter dances around like he’s letting Draco do it, sliding out of the way and climbing the ladder to the quarter deck. Draco grits his teeth and chases after him, feeling sloppy and slow and uncoordinated – he hasn’t felt like this since he was a boy, following his father on his first sky sortie.
“How about we change things,” Potter says, spinning out of the way and performing some kind of complicated swish with his sword that sends both of theirs clattering onto the floor.
“Fuck you,” Draco spits, charging at him with his bare hands, jabbing at his jaw from below, but Potter catches his arm and strikes him straight in his forehead, then his jaw, hard enough there are black spots dancing in his vision. Draco shakes his head and growls, elbow pounding into the side of Potter’s face, adrenaline fuelling him, pushing him up against the ship’s plating so hard his back smashes into it with a thud.
“Now this, I like,” Potter says, grinning, and Draco raises an arm to strike but he’s too confined, too close, and Potter blocks him with ease. “You can’t–”
Draco whips out a knife from the inside of his sleeve and bares it against Potter’s throat, pressing hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to draw blood. Yet.
“Yield,” he whispers, pressing himself against Potter, holding him in place. His thigh slots in between Potter’s legs and Potter squirms. Draco pushes up against him and Potter’s eyes darken in response, mouth falling open, and he licks his lips slowly, as if unaware he’s doing it. “Well?” Draco asks, voice hoarse, and Potter leans into Draco’s space, mouth grazing the tip of Draco’s ear, breath hot against his neck, murmuring, “I yield,” in a tone that sends shivers down Draco’s spine.
Draco wants to keep him there.
Instead, leaving the knife at Potter’s throat with one hand, he reaches for Potter’s wrists with the other and wraps his fingers around them, holding them crossed together. Potter is pliant and waiting.
Good boy, Draco thinks, and Potter’s breath hitches.
Draco blinks; he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.
Things move quickly after that. With a snap of Draco’s fingers, heavy black chains gather at Potter’s feet and, before he can move, they encircle his thighs and torso, pulling him back against the taffrail and securing his wrists. In the fading light, Draco’s crew assembles Potter’s, tying them together against railings and masts. Goyle and Zabini start the search, sticking blades into sacks and barrels, spilling grains and liquid. Pansy stalks across the deck and disappears into the cabin. Moments later, books and papers start flying out of the door, landing crooked and bent, loose parchments fluttering in the breeze. Granger spouts a stream of colourful insults until Pansy comes back out and leans over her, staring into her eyes.
“Easy way to stop us, bitch. Tell us where the diary is.”
Granger spits in Pansy’s eye, earning herself a stinging slash to the cheek that starts dripping blood onto her shirt. Pansy uses a filthy rag to gag her, although the withering look on Granger’s face says more about her opinion of Pansy than words ever could.
Up on the quarterdeck, Draco and Potter watch the search. “It will be easier for your lot if you stop resisting,” says Draco casually.
“I’m curious,” drawls Potter, “does asking that ever actually work for you? Is that how these fights usually go?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snaps Draco.
“No, I’m serious,” says Potter, his eyes wide and innocent. “Have you been thinking you’re a real warrior? Because if it’s just asking people to stop fighting, you know that doesn’t count—”
“Most people recognise a fight they can’t win, Potter. Might I remind you, you yielded to me.”
“Oh, yes. So I did.”
Draco leans back in. “Tell your crew to stand down, Potter. Make it easier for them.”
Potter shrugs, and the chains around his wrist clank against each other. “I don’t tell my crew what to do.”
He’s a filthy liar. “You’re their captain,” says Draco. “Of course you do.”
“I’m captain of the ship,” says Potter, as if that’s any different, and Draco snorts.
“And what a ship it is,” he says, voice dripping with venom. The Niffler is an older airship than the Secret. The ballonet is weathered and faded, and he can see several places where it has been patched up. The deck isn’t gleaming brightly like the polished oak of Riddle’s fleet. At some point, they’d hung some brightly coloured bunting from the owl’s nest to the rigging, now tattered and fraying from the wind. A tabby cat, hidden during the fight, stretches and rubs its back against a barrel. Drawing back, Draco paces around the ship’s wheel. “The great Captain Potter’s ship. I must say, you do not live up to your reputation.”
“You’ve heard of me, then?”
“Hard not to hear about the lowlife scouring the continent, sinking ships.”
“Only Riddle’s ships,” Potter says. “We share the spoils with the people.”
Draco snorts. “Idiots will do anything for scraps. Even believe fairytales.” He steps closer to Potter, forcing him to look into Draco’s eyes. “They say you survived Davy Jones’ locker, but you know what I think? I think you wouldn’t survive a favourable wind if it picked you off the ground and sailed you straight to your hideout.” Not with this airship, not in this state. It looks to be falling apart at the seams, like the slightest breeze might send it spinning. It’s a wonder they’ve lasted this long, Draco thinks. This mismatched, ragtag crew has nothing on the might of the Riddle armada: a hundred military vessels fortified with dragon scales and arrows that spew manticore venom, reinforced with the strongest sky-sailing charms known to man. Each ship is worth a hundred of any other.
“Think what you want, Lord Malfoy,” Potter whispers back to him, smirking like Draco’s the one in chains. “I could outfly you on a broomstick.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” Draco steps back. “Recent events have hardly served to provide me with a ringing endorsement of your prowess.”
“Would you like a demonstration of my prowess?” asks Potter, giving Draco another one of his long, sweeping looks. “I’d be happy to be of service.” He winks.
Draco feels himself flush. Damn the man and his rakish, roguish manners; he isn’t used to this. “The chains are confirmation enough of your capabilities in that regard,” he says steadily, only the slightest hitch in his voice, but it still serves to embolden Potter further.
He grins at Draco, lopsided and wicked. “Like seeing me tied up, do you?”
“I do not,” Draco protests hotly. Around him, his crew is doing their best to pretend like they aren’t listening in. He glares at them and barks out orders in a quick, mindless flurry, and they hurry to comply.
“Are you getting flustered?” Potter asks, watching Draco dole out duties as he tilts his head sideways.
Draco obstinately does not look at him. “No, I am not.”
“A shame,” Potter says, “I’ll have to try harder.”
Draco grinds his teeth and snaps his head away but he’s saved from responding by a tap on his shoulder, followed by a shout. Draco turns to find Pansy gesturing to a figure on their airship. “Fleet incoming,” Greengrass reports, calling down from the Secret. “Radar shows ten airships coming in from the South West.”
Surprising that Riddle should show up so fast, but the Admiral has always had some strange fixation on Potter and his crew. Draco turns back to Potter, lip curling. “You see? You won’t escape. He’ll be here before you know it, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes then.”
“You’d probably faint at the lack of hand-crafted Thestral leather,” retorts Potter, and Draco rolls his eyes.
“Enough of your jokes, Potter. Tell us where the diary is.” He lowers his voice. “Or I’ll sink your ship and everything in it.”
“Then you’ll never find it,” Potter says smoothly, and Draco narrows his eyes.
“So it is on the ship.”
Potter’s mouth falls open in surprise, but he quickly catches himself and smiles. “Interesting. So you’re not just a pretty face after all.”
“I’m not–I’m not pretty–”
“Even more so when you’re all pouty and red like that. It’s a rather attractive colour on you.” Potter gives him a playfully twisted smirk.
“I will sink this ship,” Draco repeats, swallowing and clenching his jaw. “I will run this ship into the ground and search among the wreckage if I must. And if I have to take you down with me to find it, then so be it.”
“Can’t imagine your boss will be pleased with that. I heard he wanted me alive.”
“What Riddle doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Think of it as a leadership opportunity for yourself, Potter. A good captain goes down with his ship.”
“Would you like that, Malfoy? Would you like me to go down?”
“He really will, if you let him,” calls the lanky redhead from behind with a snort.
“You’ve already said I’m good.” Potter bats his eyelashes.
Draco groans, stamping his foot. “Fine. Don’t tell me. In just a few moments, the Admiral himself will be here, and you’ll have no choice but to surrender. You might be able to hold out against me if you were halfway competent” –he shoots a derisive look around the ship– “but not against the strength of the ten ships he’ll bring with him.”
A smile breaks across Potter’s face, and he licks his lips, looking behind Draco, and then back to him. “Ten ships?”
“An entire fleet.”
“Ten ships?”
“That’s what I said,” Draco snaps.
Potter takes a step forward, leans as close as he can while straining against the metal. “Look closer,” he says.
Draco turns, squinting at the horizon, at the mass of shapes that are coalescing into battle formation, the outline of a spear.
“Do you see?” Potter murmurs against his ear, his breath hot against the back of Draco’s neck.
“What?”
“Those are no ships.” Potter’s got a gleam of triumph in his eye, despite the chains rattling around his wrist. “Good show, though.”
Draco’s stomach swoops, and he scrabbles for the telescope at his belt, his fingers sweaty against the brass. Finally unclasping it, he lifts it to his eye and it extends of its own accord, pointing itself to the blurry shapes on the horizon.
They’re missing the balloons of the airships and moving faster than they should be, and Draco knows what they are before the telescope adjusts its focus.
“Dragons,” he breathes.
As he watches, a large Welsh Green detaches itself from the pack, swooping higher and tilting its head back to breathe out a belch of fire that lights up the twilight sky. In the light of the flames, he can see its rider, a stocky man with shoulder-length red hair, who is laughing and patting the dragon on the head as he urges her on.
Draco has failed. The realisation is sudden and bitter. He should’ve sensed something was off the moment he saw the shapes in the distance. A ship isn’t half as fast as a dragon, something any sky-sailor worth their salt could’ve told him. He should’ve known to be careful because Potter is a pirate, Potter’s not going to stand around flirting with his captors unless he’s stalling for reinforcements. And apparently he’s got dragons doing his bidding now, something the Admiral neglected to mention. Who knows what other tricks he has up his sleeve.
Draco pulls the telescope away from his eye and, as he does, it’s like a signal to the rest of Potter’s crew. They move in unison. Ropes and shackles fall away, daggers are pulled from hair ties and boots, and he’s thunderstruck as the ship’s tabby cat morphs into a middle-aged, wiry woman who swiftly digs the barrel of a flintlock pistol into Zabini’s back.
“Meet Minerva, our navigator,” says Potter affably as Zabini grimaces and raises his hands in surrender. The ship is waiting with bated breath, staring up at Draco and Potter on the quarterdeck.
Draco turns slowly back towards Potter who raises his hands in a shrug, the undone shackles thudding to the floor.
“No hard feelings,” he says, and winks. “I’m a difficult man to catch.”
He closes the space between them, and before Draco can react, Potter’s holding a knife to his neck and leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Do you yield?”
The Welsh Green blots out the sky above them. There are gasps and a scream from Draco’s crew. At its rider’s urging, the dragon rends a tear to the Secret’s ballonet that causes it to lurch in the sky. The safety enchantments kick in to stabilise it, propellers groaning and juddering, but it’s not enough to prevent it from starting a slow, inevitable descent.
He hears Pansy shrieking as she’s the first one bundled off the Niffler at Granger’s knifepoint, down an extended gangplank to the sinking Secret. The Niffler’s crew are soft. Despite their victory, they’re not taking captives or lives. Just teaching lessons, apparently. They’ll lose eventually. Riddle is persistent.
The anchoring hook is detached from the Niffler’s mast and thrown after Pansy, hitting the deck of the Secret with a thump and severing the link between the airships.
“Yield.”
Potter is so, so close. Draco can’t help his eyes dropping to Potter’s lips, then his bare chest. He licks his lips.
“Yield.”
“No,” Draco says, and Potter laughs, like it’s a game they’re playing, one he’ll let Draco win because it amuses him.
“This was fun,” Potter says, pushing him one final time across the gangplank. “I hope Riddle sends you again next time. Or maybe you could come back on your own.”