Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There had never been a king or queen of the Isle. There had never been one single dominating villain. There were never enough resources to risk wasting on a battle of that scale. Many of them were already close enough to the top as it was. So, with as little bloodshed as possible, they claimed footholds to cement their territories around the Isle prison. They were lords ruling over the masses in the place of any one monarch. They were exiles ruling a prison colony without any trade or representation on the mainland.

The Isle, though, like all lands born from magic, imbued with it despite the magical barrier’s attempt to keep magic out, yearned for a champion to be crowned. Someone willing to fight for the children born of her, those she left her biggest mark upon.

Many years after the Isle’s creation, children that might finally be worthy appeared. One born of Maleficent, the other of Ursula.

The Isle watched them shed blood in the name of claiming and protecting what was theirs, claiming land, resources, and people both. She took special interest in who they claimed, especially those chosen as their seconds in command. Mal chooses Jay, son of Jafar, and Uma chooses Harry, son of Hook. They would be fine future generals of war, loyal and wild seconds that could rule alongside the rising queens of the Isle. The rest of their selective crews were made up of plenty of potential royal advisors to choose from.

The Isle found it would be happy no matter which queen came out on top.

Years passed, and it appeared that the young descendent of Maleficent had won. With just a little more time, and as her power and influence only grew with each defeat to Uma’s pirate crew, and the other struggling gangs of the Isle, the half-fae would soon be hailed by the Isle inhabitants as their high queen. It was inevitable, even if those of the Isle had yet to fully realize it. The Isle needed someone to lead her, and she was getting restless, just like the children, from having her magic and very essence stifled behind the barrier for years on end.

But then her future queen left, carried away in a limo and over a magical bridge with her subordinates. There were whispers of a plan to free the Isle, though. That her future queen had a plan to help the Isle and her children, to free them all.

But it all fell through, and her soon-to-be queen turned into her never-queen, a false savior of her people, and the Isle turned her gaze back inwards.

There—the pirate captain Uma had taken control of the territories Maleficent's descendant had left behind, accruing more resources and children to her cause. And right beside her stood her second in command, her first mate, Harry. Like Jay, he’d been by the potential queen’s side almost from the start. He grew alongside her. In that way, they were no different. But unlike Jay and Mal’s relationship, the Hook boy had taught the sea witch how to be a leader. Not how to lead, for the girl showed aptitude for that in leaps and bounds, but how to use her abilities in the best way to make people follow her, to become a true leader.

The young woman hadn’t learned what it was to be a leader through watching her own mother’s example, as Mal had done through watching her own. No, Uma had to find her own way with only the steady hand of a captain’s son to lead her, someone who saw her potential and could assist her in bringing it to the surface.

The boy could be an excellent captain in his own right, the Isle concluded, an excellent leader, a possible champion, a king in place of her queen—if he’d ever allowed himself. But the boy remained a second in command, and Uma reigned supreme with the Isle inhabitants finally recognizing the sea witch as one of the Isle’s chosen champions.

They called her queen in their minds, at first in rebellion towards Mal, the would-be queen of the exiles and the next queen of Auradon, but then they started to actually call her queen out loud, in murmured, fervent whispers, as they began to sense, to taste, the freedom that was just out of their reach. They finally had begun to realize what the Isle had known all along, that they needed a ruler, a leader, a champion, a captain to lead them toward freedom.

They called Uma queen and so it was. The Isle was sated, for now.

And then Uma left, too.

Chapter Text

Harry exits Ursula’s Fish and Chip Shop to the crew's stunned silence. It feels like the whole Isle is holding its breath, waiting for the reality to set in, desperately hoping that this is all a joke, that their newly acknowledged queen didn't jump ship and abandon them. That their plans—their hopes and dreams—didn’t just go up in smoke, or, in this case, turn to lead and sink into the depths of the ocean. That Uma didn’t just give up and exile herself from the exiles.

His walk from the restaurant to the Lost Revenge is a quiet one. The few people he runs into on the way are taken care of by a dark glare. Once on the ship, the crewmates stationed there scurry away at just one look at him. Normally he might relish such reactions, but tonight is not such a night.

The sound of his cabin door slamming against the wall as he opens it brings him closer to his new reality: His reality of being alone, a first mate without a captain.

He bangs his door shut at the thought and then locks it for good measure, not that he thinks, even for a moment, that any of his crewmates, even Gil, would be stupid enough to try entering his cabin right now. Not with the foul mood he’s so clearly in.

Releasing a sigh, he gazes around his mess of a room, taking in the ripped red, black, and brown fabrics that lay haphazardly atop a ratty-old mattress against the far wall. Against one adjacent wall sits a cracked mirror over an old vanity where he usually does his makeup. He has a pile of boots against the other wooden wall with miscellaneous hooks for all his hats and coats that don’t quite fit in the broken wardrobe, which is missing a door, crammed against the side of his bed. It’s more than most people on the Isle have, he knows.

His father was one of the better off villains before and after being imprisoned on the Isle. Though Harry no longer relies on his father, nor interacts with him more than strictly necessary, the habit of collecting things—fashionable clothes, the stolen goods peeking out from various resting places around his room, necklaces missing a few too many pearls or gems hanging off the vanity, trinkets and rings tucked away in the secret compartments of the furniture—continue on in him. The habit of having is hard to break—not that much of what he actually has can even be considered as having much of anything by Auradon standards, but he digresses.

Even though the Lost Revenge is still here, his room is still here, his things are still here—just as he left them—Uma isn’t. And amongst the clutter of things that make up his room, his home, he feels hollow.

Empty.

He doesn’t know what to think or do. The VKs had never come this close before—this close to freedom—and now it’s all been ripped away by Mal and Ben and, cruelest of all, Uma herself.

Harry heard the whispers starting up amongst the crew—Uma gave up. She abandoned them. She left. All it took was a few words from a pretty-boy king and she stopped. She swam off to who knows where. And, logically, Harry knows his captain likely weighed the odds of her victory against Mal and the forces of Auradon and concluded it was best to retreat and live to fight another day with another plan. But here, right now, after the aftermath of that live broadcast where such an exit screams of defeat and—and loss…

Harry lets out a frustrated yell, tinged with all the anger he’d been bottling up since seeing Uma turn her back on the crowd on that boat, and rears his arm back, throwing his hook against the wall of his cabin. The loud thump as it bounces off the wood, only nearly missing his already cracked vanity mirror, to fall onto the floor isn’t nearly as satisfying as he needs it to be, and he finds himself nearly collapsing onto his bed. He sits there and roughly runs his hands through his hair, uncaring as he knocks off his hat. He then rubs at his eyes, smearing his make up, feeling them burn with red rage and other unmentionables—weaknesses—that are not allowed on the Isle, as his appearance grows more wild with every gesture.

“Shite,” he breathes out, just to have something to fill the ensuing silence. He lets his torso drop onto the bed, pushed down by the weight of Uma’s actions.

What am I supposed to do now? he wonders. Uma was always the brains of the operation, the captain. He couldn’t possibly take her place, could he? There was a reason why he didn’t want to take up the leadership role in the first place, why he happily submitted to Uma as captain. It wasn’t just to piss off his da, it was because he genuinely thought Uma was a great ruler—that she could rule over whole worlds easily. She was better than him, effortlessly so.

Though, if Harry is being honest with himself, which he isn’t often, his desire to remain the second in command, no more and no less, also included the fear of the responsibility being captain brought—of how people would look to him and expect him to always have a plan, to always be right, which Harry just wasn’t, not like his sister Harriet was with her own crew and not like Uma. It didn’t help that such power, by its very nature, could also easily be abused.

Harry pointedly does not think of his father ordering his subordinates around, like kind-hearted Uncle Smee, with ridiculous requests and dangerous consequences if his expectations weren’t met. Harry feels the scars on his back ache just thinking about it as he rolls onto his stomach and buries his head in his folded arms.

What am I going to do? What to even say to the crew? If there even is a crew left by morning, if they didn’t all abandon ship and go on to join Ginny Gothel’s little group of miscreants or someone else’s…

Harry doesn’t know how long he lays there wallowing in his own thoughts, spiraling and surfacing only to spiral down again in waves of grief. The occasional mirthless laugh rips through him as he lets his mind ponder a fantasy where Uma didn’t leave, wouldn’t leave because Uma is Uma—and who’d be there to say her name if it wasn’t him? Who’d be there faithfully by her side, who’d be her first mate? What was he without her, with no way for her to return through the barrier to them? What was she without him? Stronger? He surely felt weaker in her absence.

“Harry?” Gil’s voice comes through the door, accompanied by a knock.

Lifting his head from the darkness his arms provide, Harry has to squint at the weak daylight filtering through the small porthole and into his room. He dazedly wonders if what he’d been doing technically counts as sleeping, though he doesn’t feel any more rested than when he originally laid down.

“Harry?” Gil asks through the door, concerned at one of his best friend’s lack of response.

Gil, sweet, kind-hearted Gil.

Even if everyone else left me, Harry thinks as he turns over on the bed to sit up and rub at his face, Gil would still remain.

Another insistent knock has Harry rolling his eyes.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” he tells the other teen, pulling himself to his feet and making his way to the door. “Ye can quit yer knockin’.”

Pulling the door open after releasing it from its deadbolt leaves him inches from the relieved face of his second mate.

“Harry, you’re awake,” he says, like this is news.

“Indeed, I am,” he sighs. “Hard ta sleep when someone’s knockin’ insistently at yer door.”

Gil has the decency to look sheepish. “My bad, man. I just wanted to see if you were all right after last night. You left in a real hurry and Gonzo and some of the others who saw you come back last night said you didn’t look too—” at Harry’s raised eyebrow, Gil seems to think better, for once, about his choice in words, “—good.”

Harry snorts but otherwise doesn’t bother with responding, or, rather, he doesn’t know how to respond, instead letting his eyes wander and rest on anything other than his last remaining best friend. How does one admit, out loud, that Uma left them? Admitting that seems like a betrayal all its own.

And the fact that he doesn’t know what to do. That he’s scared, that—deep down—he’s scared about what might happen if she never comes back, an impossibility he can hardly begin to fully entertain in his mind.

“Oh, also there’s—like—a bunch of people here to see you.”

Harry looks up so fast from his examination of the floorboards he thinks he might have popped a blood vessel in his already straining eyes.

“Wha’?”

“Yeah,” Gil says, his usually sunny smile dimmed by a few degrees but still ever present. “Like, a lot of the minor villains and hench people, a lot of Isle kids—oh! And your Uncle Smee and the twins are here, too.”

“The Smees?” Harry hasn’t seen the boys and their father much since joining Uma’s crew a few years ago. There wasn’t much time between ensuring survival of their crew, fighting Mal, and defending and accruing more territory. Not to mention the fact that the Smees were very much still under the thumb of his father, though less so in recent years since his father—in a rare show of kindness—allowed his first mate to live on land in his old age and run his shop where he sold the wares the crew managed to gather from the barges and the shores of the Isle.

“Yeah.” Gil nods as Harry takes a step out of his cabin, following the blond as he starts to walk down the corridor toward the stairs leading out onto the main deck. As they draw closer, Harry becomes aware of a slowly intensifying buzz, a noise that he suddenly realizes has been present ever since he woke up.

“Gilly,” the son of Hook starts as he steps up onto the stairs, “wha’s tha’ noise I—?” The rest of his question dies in his throat as he exits onto the deck to bear witness to a truly insane amount of people on board and out on to the surrounding docks and nearby shore. One by one, the crowd’s eyes turn toward him and a hush falls over the gathered people, putting an end to the buzzing.

“Wha’...?” Harry let the question trail off before it’s even properly begun, looking to Gil to fill him in on what he’s missing.

It seems like a weird fever dream. Never in all his life has he seen so many of the Isle inhabitants gathered around anywhere, except maybe at the barges, and even then, not like this—never like this.

Suddenly, one of their younger crewmates, Desiree, appears at his side. “They want to hear you speak, Captain,” she informs him.

Harry can hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth. “But I’m not—” He can hardly wrap his brain around the title and its application to him. Uma is captain. Uma’s always been captain.

“Uma’s gone,” she tells him carefully, like she’s worried how he’ll take the news, like she’s not sure if he knows.

Uma’s gone. The world feels a little off kilter. The sights and sounds a little out of sync.

Harry starts to shake his head, feeling a shiver run up his spine. If he had a mirror, he’d probably see his eyes were turning red, as they tended to do in times like this, and not just from being bloodshot. He feels like his energy has been bottled up and zapped all at once, jittery and tired. He wants to scream She’s not gone! or She’ll be back—she’ll always come back! Because she can’t be gone. She can’t have left him. She can’t have left her crew, her Isle. It’s not a thing that they do. Pirates don’t abandon their crew, they don’t abandon ships—especially not captains.

But their captain is gone.

The Isle was just finally coming to see in Uma what he’d known all along. That she was a goddess, a queen.

And instead, now he was the captain of their ship. He had more than a boat load of people staring at him—and he was the captain. He couldn’t wallow in his own fantasy land right now, where Uma never left and they continued on with their Isle life together. Now he had command of a crew.

And maybe an Isle… if the looks of that growing crowd was anything to go by.

He felt something click at the thought.

With a sudden influx of energy, he throws back his shoulders and raises his chin, a mask slipping into place with a familiar, lazy smirk stretching across his lips.

His eyes are definitely red now, as he strolls up to the captain’s wheel, his crew and the other Isle children on board parting for him. He feels the red as it creeps into his vision, coloring his surroundings, blanketing him in it. It’d be so easy to let this hue of blood take him—of madness, his mind sings like a siren’s song. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too widely as he ascends the stairs to the wheel. He tastes blood. Good, he thinks. Let them see the extra red on my tongue, blood in the teeth. Let them see. Let them see all that Uma left them with.

He’s finally at the wheel and he’s simmering anger beneath the surface as he laughs at the onlooking crowd. See what your queen’s left you with?! See what she’s doomed you all to?!

Many in the crowd shift uneasily at the sound.

It feels glorious to laugh—even if the world doesn’t look quite right anymore. It feels good to let his other feelings give way to anger, give way to the burning resentment that’s now begun to fester.

How dare Uma put these responsibilities on me?! What did I do to deserve this?!

He hadn’t wanted to be a captain of a pirate ship in years, even though his da said he should be the captain instead of Uma. That it made no sense for Harry not to be. That he was a Hook,—and Hook’s were born pirates—born captains.

But that was neither here nor there. This is now. And now Harry Hook has command of a pirate crew with a whole lot of land dwellers staring at him as well, waiting with expectation.

Frankly, the red clad pirate isn’t quite sure he can deliver on those expectations set forth for him. What even were they? The expectation to be as good of a leader as Uma? A great and ruthless captain like his sister and father? Harry isn’t quite sure.

Thinking about his family, though, leaves him burning with a renewed need to prove himself.

Harriet already had her own crew and ship thanks to their father. She’d been captain for years. How hard could it be? He was just as good as his sister, despite what his da liked to tell him. Maybe he wasn’t Uma levels of captain perfection—but she wasn’t here now, was she? And what kind of captain left their ship and crew behind? Left their first mate behind?

It’s at this point that Harry winds himself down from laughing and promises himself to be the best captain there ever was—one that would never leave their ship and crew behind.

He’d show his family and he’d show Uma—show her he could captain a ship without her, make her proud so that, when she returns, her crew and her Isle would still be there waiting for her. He’d already been a first mate for years, grew up on a pirate ship under a captain’s guidance. He’d been the one to show Uma, fresh from a harbor-bound fish and chip shop, how to sail and run a pirate’s ship. He could do this.

And maybe if he did this, proved to Uma he could lead their people – she’d come back faster, save them faster – see all the hard work he, the one she left behind, could do, while she enjoys freedom. Maybe she’d see him and see that he was worthy of joining her there – that he and their crew, the Isle, are worthy of coming back for.

Eyes burning, he tells the gathered crowd, “Uma’s gone.” And because he said it—confirmed it—now it’s fact. Now it can’t be taken back—and people start to whisper.

Though, in the dark recesses of his mind, Harry still doesn’t accept it, won’t ever accept it as fact. Because saying it like that makes it sound like she won’t ever be coming back, that she turned her back on him—on them, on the Isle—something they swore to each other they would never do because how could they? They were all each other had.

She’s coming back, he swears it to himself, he just has to keep it together for her. Keep the crew together—reassure everyone on the Isle that she isn’t another Mal, another Evie, Carlos, or Jay. Keep them and their territory from falling under attack for a perceived betrayal, perceived weakness.

He forces himself to swallow past the lump in his throat—conscious that he’s probably been silent for too long now, lost in thought.

He grins manically, mask firmly in place, trying to play off his lapse of time as part of the performance—because it’s always a performance.

He throws his arms wide pretending to feel joy he couldn’t possibly feel. In reality, what he feels is like something in his chest is being mauled by what he imagines is a miniature version of Tick-Tock.

“Lucky me!” He looks pointedly to his crew. “Guess that makes me Captain now.” He smiles shark-like, daring them to question him.

They don’t.

Satisfied an immediate mutiny isn’t in the cards, he turns his focus back to the rest of the gathered crowd. He confidently swaggers to the railing to better overlook them.

“Why, dearies—is all this attention for a little ol’ me?” He laughs. “Come ta wish the new captain well, have you?” Everyone remains silent, and he revels in it, watching them squirm. Most won’t meet his eye. He loves it—to be feared in this way, to make people wary of crossing him.

It’s what he needs to survive. What his crew needs to survive.

Suddenly, there is movement on the dock and an old man in a familiar red cap manages to push his way to the front of the Isle residents.

“Permission to speak, Captain?” And Harry has to forcibly bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming at the wrongness he feels at having his Uncle Smee ask him that, call him that.

Still, Harry manages a nod, and hopes his mask holds.

Smee pauses for a moment, visibly steeling himself for what he says next. “With all due respect, Captain, I think I speak for everyone when I say that we came to see you because we need you.”

For a moment, Harry can’t breathe. “Need me?” he finally asks, and his voice sounds hardly held together even to his own ears. It makes him laugh before he finally manages to get out, “Wha’ possibly for?”

“Protection,” someone says to the side of his uncle. Standing tall, chin raised high, is Drizella Tremaine.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Hope,” speaks another voice, this one from the front of the marketplace. Later, Gil will inform him that it was his Uncle LeFou who spoke, a person Harry had never met except through the blond’s tales of the small man.

“The shadows are talking,” states another voice, this one on the edge of the crowd. Some people gasp as the Voodoo man himself, Dr. Facilier, makes his way through them, the other onlookers parting before him.

“Been sayin’,” he continues, “that there’s a new champion that’s been chosen.” He comes to a stop at the railing sectioning off the marketplace and the docks, the land and the sea. The crowd whispers and shoots looks between him and Harry. The Voodoo man stares determinedly down at the pirate, hands clasped on his cane in a relaxed posture of elegance as he stands at rest.

“Champion?” Harry asks, meeting the man’s gaze head on.

“The Isle,” the Voodoo man says, “she needs a ruler.”

“Wha’?” Harry asks in disbelief, laughter on the tip of his tongue. “An' ye all think tha’ it’s me?”

“People remember you, Harry,” his Uncle Smee says, capturing the pirate captain’s attention once more and forgoing titles. “All those times you helped them out in the name of Uma; you were as much a part of taking care of the Isle as she was.”

And Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, especially as there seems to be a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

But, for the life of him, he can’t think of what he’s done. All he’s ever known is scaring people for the hell of it, for his own sake and the crew’s. Of stealing and fighting. There’s nothing he can think of that could warrant the respect and gratitude he can so clearly see painted on so many people’s faces, and it must show on his own, because a head of partially dyed hair steps up beside her mother on the docks.

“You protected me,” Dizzy Tremaine states, “from Gaston Junior and Gaston the Third.”

And he did, Harry suddenly remembers, once upon a time, as the wee lass took her time in the marketplace, looking at some bits and bobs of fabric and broken jewelry. The older Gaston brothers had snuck up behind her, pulling a knife—and Harry had acted on instinct, jumping out of the shadows of a nearby alleyway where he’d been studiously counting out the coins he’d snagged from someone’s pocket not five minutes before. When he’d heard her shriek, his mind immediately blanked, and, the next thing he knew, he had a sword at Junior’s neck and the other brother on the ground wheezing from a knee to the groin Harry didn’t remember placing there.

The older teens had retreated, glaring, and Harry had gotten a hug and a “Thanks” from Dizzy the moment he’d turned around. Before Harry could even contemplate returning the hug or pushing the younger teen away, she was already running, presumably, back home.

Harry shakes his head at the memory, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Had she forgotten the times he’d taken her money, her mother’s money—all their money?

Harry was known as the enforcer of Uma’s crew for a reason—he knows how to instill fear. It’s why he insisted on collecting the protection money from the residents of their ever expanding territory each week. Gil’s big muscles could be scary, but the real scary thing was a bloke with a hook and a deranged smile, with his own decent set of muscles, that set people on edge because they never knew what he might do. Plus, Gil tended to be a sucker for sob stories.

Maybe Harry hadn’t actively threatened them as much as he could have, or laid a hand on anyone unless it was necessary, but he’d still actively done harmful things to them by forcing them and others to pay the high tribute tax Uma imposed on their crew’s territories.

Yes—they’d called it protection money, they’d called it a lot of things, but that still didn’t negate what it actually was—stealing, plain and simple.

And—yes, Harry was aware that Uma and their crew were not alone in doing this. Other gangs did this to their own territories. Mal famously did it worse. There used to be a joke on the Isle that Mal’s crew charged an arm and a leg for protection, but, then, they had the added benefit of some of the most fearsome villains backing them.

Now those villains were largely in hiding or gone, along with their children—of course, for varying reasons—and in their place was the crew of the Lost Revenge to keep order. And just because they did things a little bit more nicely than the old villains, and those VKs who had abandoned them, did not necessarily mean they were inherently kinder, or whatever else those present thought.

Harry doesn’t have enough time to sort out his thoughts and form a coherent reply before Dizzy’s proclamation ignites a wave of others.

“You gave me food!” calls a little girl from across the crowded deck of the Lost Revenge. Her shirt is ratty and too big, and he figures she must be one of the many children that live on the street. He vaguely remembers giving her some of his lunch one day, some simple grub from Uma’s mum’s shop, as he hurriedly walked as he ate, already running late for meeting up with part of the crew on the other side of the Isle. She was a small, thin thing—and still very much is—when he ran across her.

She tried to swipe something out of one of his coat pockets, and nearly managed it, on account of his hands being full as he stuffed his face with the chip shop’s greasy fries. Unfortunately for her, he’d managed to spin out of her reach, just in time, to a stop not far away.

She looked terrified, swallowing nervously, looking ready to bolt at a moment's notice—with wide, blue eyes that reminded him a bit too much of one of his sisters.

Harry had promptly lost his appetite.

Turning on his heel, he tossed the remainder of his lunch over his shoulder at her, uncaring if it landed on the ground or beamed her in the head. (It did neither, as his toss was rather high and gentle, she had no problem catching the bag of greasy food out of the air.) He walked on and did not look back.

Now, a woman holding a young boy shouts, dragging Harry from one memory and into the next. “You gave us medicine!”

That one only happened because he was on his way back from the barges and had managed to find some barely expired fever reducers. It was enough to last the crew for a little while. One could never have too much of it. Medicine was such a rarity on the Isle, after all.

He was just on his way back to the ship, splitting off from some of the rest of the crew to make his way alone with the goods as the rest of them moved on to the marketplace, when he heard coughing coming from the darkness of one of the nearby alleyways.

Curious, he’d crept closer to the noise. Craning his head around the mouth of the alley, he could just make out the hunched figure of a woman cradling a smaller form tight to her chest with shaking hands.

That close, he’d been able to make out the woman’s crying.

“Don’t—don’t—just hold on,” she’d said. “You’ll be okay. We’ll—we’ll find a way.” She kissed the top of the child’s head.

Harry had found himself creeping closer. He was painfully aware of how loud his footsteps sounded at that moment, causing the woman to look up sharply in alarm.

“No, no, please,” she begged, drawing herself and the figure in her arms further back into the brick wall behind her, trying in vain to escape.

Harry did the only thing he could think of to seem less threatening.

He slowly reached up to grab his hat, allowing her to track the movement with fearful eyes, before dropping said hat purposefully on the ground. His sword and hook followed.

The woman’s gaze, increasingly confused, was still nowhere near trusting enough for what the teen suddenly intended, but that was okay.

Harry lowered himself down to his knees, which only served to confuse the woman further. He raised both of his hands in a gesture of surrender, giving her one of the softest smiles he could manage (not that he’d had a lot of practice giving them, but he thought he did alright).

“If ye’ll kindly reach into me upper left pocket,” he told her, watching as her eyes started to widen in something akin to hope, “ye’ll find a bottle full of pills meant ta help wit' the reducin’ of fevers.”

The woman licked her dry, cracked lips, trying to comprehend. “You—”

“Take a small handful,” he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. Acknowledging kindness? Offering it? Better to pretend it’s not happening at all. “Use it, sell it.” He purposefully pitched his voice so that it sounded like he was the one pleading.

Her eyes alighted with understanding as her hands reached around the bundle in her arms to dig into the insides of his coat.

By the time Harry left the alleyway, his cap was back on, his sword and hook had been returned to his belt, and his precious cargo was several pills lighter than it should be.

“You gave us shelter!” yet another voice calls from the edge of the dock. A young boy in rags stands surrounded by other children like him, other children forced on to the streets.

At this point, Harry is leaning heavily on the railing of the ship, gripping it tightly. He finds it hard to swallow as he remembers not shooing this particular group of children out of the back alley of Ursula’s Fish and Chips Shop.

He had just finished helping Uma close the shop after a late shift and was taking out the garbage as he went, when he almost stepped on a huddled figure in front of the dumpster. Looking around, he’d found others lining the walls and corners of the alley.

A shuffling near his feet had drawn his attention as the huddled figure looked up at him, face covered in smudges of dirt and resignation.

Harry had only blinked down at the child, cocking his head slightly to look at them better.

The moment lasted until Uma called for him to come back inside and he was prompted back into action.

So, Harry did not spare the child another glance as he tore his eyes away to focus on the task at hand, chucking the garbage in the bin and walking resolutely back inside.

And, after, if he asked to be the one to take the rubbish out every evening, and if there were always children huddled together and trying to rest behind the shop, then it was only because Uma hadn’t said anything about it.

And, inherently, Harry believes, she must have known and not cared—or else she would have said something. After all, it’s her goal to eventually help every child off the Isle to where it’s safe. Affording a few children a safe haven every now and then by turning a blind eye isn’t all that different, he reasons.

By now, still standing on the deck of Uma’s—of his—ship, his attention is drawn to more shouting, and he’s begun to lose track of who's saying what.

“You gave us rations!”

Sometimes he would, just like giving that little girl his leftovers.

He’d take some of the shop’s food, at the end of the night, to the gangs in the other territories, sent by Uma to use such rations as a way to barter with them. And he still does that, most nights. Some nights he makes a detour to the streets of the Isle he knows to be almost completely abandoned if not for the street children that live there and call it their home—the home to the most unwanted of children on the Isle. The ones not seen as strong or skilled enough to be accepted into any one of the Isle’s gangs of children and young adults.

He thinks Uma would do the same thing if she knew. She seemed adamant about providing kids around the Isle health and safety by way of the fish and chip shop, along with the occasional free meal, if she could swing it, out from under her mother’s watchful gaze—

Hell—Uma was smart, the smartest he’d ever known. She probably knew what he was doing and was allowing it because she approved.

So he was really, essentially, only doing Uma’s bidding. Nothing as impressive as these people seemed to think

“You gave us clothes!”

Same with the clothes—it’s not anything special. He was just getting rid of unnecessary clutter.

Here on the Isle, nothing is to go to waste. Extra clothing he’s outgrown over the years, extra bits of fabric he’s found too small for him to create any of his own clothing out of, all of it gets patched up and chucked at the nearest child that could find better use for it.

So what if that child happens to be someone outside of the crew every now and then? Some little boy or girl that belongs to one of his da’s crewmates that just couldn’t cut it on the docks or anywhere else?

A million little perceived services these people think he's done. And—worst of all—they each have a grain of truth to them. Because everything they’re saying is a result of an action or an inaction on his part—some impulse of his that he gave in to, some action or inaction he reasoned that Uma would have taken had she been in his place. All these things happened, for one reason or another, and he doesn’t know what it all means that all these people seemingly remember, value, all these small and large instances of what some might argue as weakness, others kindness, and others a form of solidarity amongst those who have been victimized by the other villains of the Isle and Auradon at large.

And the examples of his apparent service to all those gathered do not look to be ending, either because there are truly more to be heard, or people have given up and have simply started shouting in excitement, but after a while someone raises a cry that carries and multiplies and consolidates into one big, repetitive chant.

“King Harry! King Harry!”

And now, said king really doesn’t know what to do. Because he hardly knows what to do with people calling him captain, and now they want to throw around the title of king on top of it? Like all these supposed good deeds warrant that he be responsible for more than just his crew?

Yes, he might have had an inkling that the crowd was here for something, wanted to look for him for something—but he thought it would be in the terms of a captain, in the terms he was already familiar with through growing up and working alongside pirates for so long. The only things he knew about being king were from the stories his da would tell, when he was more sober, about meeting the rulers of the lands and being hired by them to attack and plunder their enemies’ ships.

These were, of course, the days before his da ventured into Neverland, where he proceeded to stop aging for various lengths of time depending on how long he stayed within its vicinity. In other words, his real life examples of how rulers worked were rather outdated, and the rest were general fairytales—things the Isle was based on—containing no real substance on how to go about ruling.

Harry had no idea what code he was supposed to go by, as kings surely didn’t live by the pirate code. What were the rules to this?

For all of his conviction that Uma would make a great ruler, a great queen, he had no true idea of what that would fully look like. Only vague ideas based on all these preconceived notions he’d gathered through various stories.

With all the noise, with all the shouting and the chanting, Harry feels his head pounding.

“Enough!” he yells, effectively silencing the crowd.

He feels out of breath and is suddenly hyper aware of the wood of the railing digging into his skin, of the splinters he’s giving himself. He hangs his head slightly, just enough to hide his eyes, which he closes, and forces himself to take a few slow and measured breaths.

It’s almost meditative—or as close to meditative as he’s ever really managed. And he surprises himself with how fast his heartbeat seems to slow down, how fast an almost detached sense of calm takes hold of him.

When he opens his eyes, he feels more grounded, less like everything is skewed. Less red, as he lifts his chin up and stands tall once more, surveying the gathered people of the Isle, all watching with bated breath.

“Uma is gone,” he says. And there are no cocky smiles, no dangerous smirks, no masks. “She’s gone. She left,” and he has to swallow roughly as his throat goes dry and his eyes threaten to water over, “an' I, her first mate,” he says slowly, “am now captain.” And it feels as much like a betrayal as it feels suddenly right to say soberly—because these are the new facts of his life and he’s going to have to accept them if he’s ever to hold any authority at all.

He takes another deep breath. “An' by yer own admission, you all, fer some reason, have decided ye want a ruler.” He shakes his head, tears still in his eyes as he tries not to dissolve into laughter again. “An'—for some unfathomable reason, ye’ve decided ya want me as yer—” he waves his hand in the air as he bites back a laugh, “—king! King! Really?” he asks the crowd, letting the sentence hang in the air. No one in the crowd answers. Evidently they have all said their piece. They just stare at him intently.

He sobers. “I’m not Uma,” he states to the crowd. “An’ I’m not me da,” he continues, “an’ I’m not me sisters.” Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he thinks he sees the vibrant red of Harriet’s hat for a moment in his periphery, but he doesn’t dare look to confirm. “An’ I’m not royal, an’ I don’t have a drop of magical or godly blood in me.” He looks back at his crew, at the children of the Isle. “But I guess tha’ type of stuff doesn’t really matter under a anti-magic barrier, or ta any of us tha' grew up without titles or powers of any sort.” A smile pulls at his lips as he receives some solemn nods and laughs at that.

“Still,” he continues, turning to meet the eyes of Dr. Facilier, “if the Isle and her people, as ye say, demand a ruler—there’s others to choose from.”

“None that are left on the Isle, and none that she wants besides,” the Voodoo man replies evenly.

“I’m a captain, not a king,” Harry presses.

The older man doesn’t hesitate in his response, “The Isle thinks you can be both.”

“And we think you can be, too!” Dizzy adds, full of encouragement from where she hops up and down on the docks.

A chorus of agreements rises up from the crowd.

Harry opens his mouth to try and argue further, but the kindly voice of his father’s former first mate cuts him off.

“And you're the only one we would accept, anyway.” His Uncle stands there with his two sons, Squeaky and Squirmy, who’ve always looked up to him as their older brother, and Harry wonders if trying to deny things further will only let them down.

Would it let Uma down, too?

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? He promised himself he’d hold their crew for her, their territories and, if need be, the Isle—as she is it’s rightful queen, shadows and whatever anybody else says be damned.

He can hold the throne and abdicate later—that was a thing, right? He could do that. Until such a time when Uma is able to get them all off the Isle, they need to all stay alive. And there is safety in numbers, safety in unity—being a part of a pirate crew and living on the Isle his whole life has taught him that.

“Well,” Harry finds himself saying after a long moment, before smiling wryly, mask slipping back into place, “I suppose I should ask where me crown is then, hm?”

The answering roar of the Isle is deafening.

As he stands at the railing of the ship, surrounded by all the joy and excitement that comes with suddenly appointing a new ruler, he feels something shift in his chest—a little explosion of warmth that lasts only a second before settling. It exudes the impression of finally being satisfied—that there was an itch for some sort of satisfaction he hadn’t gotten until now.

It’s weird, he decides, but ponders it no further as a celebration breaks out, thoroughly distracting him from further contemplation.

Somewhere in between getting whisked off the Lost Revenge by a sea of Isle children and someone shoving a cup of something strong into his hands as he’s set into a familiarly decorated chair of teal, coral, and starfish (he tries not to think too much about who it used to belong to, who the color stands for), a crown is placed on his head instead of his usual tricorn, which he’d left somewhere in his cabin. The crown is nothing but a ring of woven precious metals, like silver and gold, with a mixture of fake and real multicolored gemstones set in it. As far as crowns go, Harry doesn’t think it’s all that bad and, quite honestly, of the Isle in style. He then proceeds to think nothing more of it as he laughs and drinks from his mug with his fellow Isle inhabitants.

There’s nothing for him to do but sit and be waited on and enjoy himself.

At some point, someone starts passing around food, and it’s only slightly rotten. It’s like the whole Isle has decided to come together here in the port, and Harry can’t recall anything like it ever happening before. They’ve had no festivals, no large banquets or parties—nothing that feels like a proper celebration, something that can only be imagined in places like Auradon where everyone comes together, weapons left at home, and sharing food and drink, warmth and happiness, in a truly festive occasion.

And, for a moment, he imagines that Uma’s here, lost in the crowd, enjoying the singing and dancing of her people, just out of his field of view. And he can forget that she’s gone. Pretend that all's right with the world.

And—for now—it is.

Chapter Text

When Harry wakes up the next morning, it’s to the dim, muted light of sun through the clouds hanging over the Isle—a perpetual grayness that shines on his mess of a room as he draws himself up from where he’d been sprawled on his stomach across the bed. He doesn’t remember making his way down the stairs, or flopping ungracefully down onto the bed. He doesn’t remember anything other than flashes of warmth, laughter, dancing—things unheard of on the Isle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the glint of gems, a circle of tangled metal, and all he can think is—What have I done? The flood of memories leading up to the warmth, the dancing, the laughter.

“What have I done?” he asks himself again, this time out loud.

He allows himself a moment to wallow in self-pity as he brings himself to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Shite,” he breathes, his head falling down into his hands. “Shite! Shite! Shite!” He kicks and stomps his feet. “How could I be so stupid?!” And now he’s up and angrily pacing his room, feeling like a caged animal.

“What have I done? What have I done?” It’s like a mantra flooding in and out of his head to be repeated ad nauseam.

Harry feels the room tilting and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

“Shite!” he gasps, clutching at his chest. “Shite!”

He distantly feels the bite of pain as he hits his knees hard on the wood of the floor.

He’s still gasping though. His vision is going in and out now, and all he can think of is I’m a failure of a first mate. What do I think I’m even doing, taking Uma’s place in her absence? Becoming a king without her when the position should be hers? I’m a failure, I’m a failure. I’m not worthy. What am I doing?

Mercifully, darkness descends, stopping that train of thought.

When Harry wakes up, it’s to a raging headache and a knock at the door.

He has no idea how long it’s been since he passed out, but his internal clock would wager it’s a little past noon, especially when factoring in some of the familiarity of the sounds coming from around the ship that he can hear. Either way, it’s obvious that it’s way past time for a captain of a ship—a king—to be properly out of bed. He feels another worsening stab of pain behind his eyes at the thought of how badly he’s already fucking up this Isle leadership thing already.

“Ugh,” he groans, scrubbing at his eyes.

Why did he already feel so entirely exhausted?

The knock comes again.

“Harry—King Harry, sir?” It’s Gil’s voice—unsure and hopeful.

Shite.

—------------------

Harry decides that the best way to live in this new reality he’s helped create is to just go back to living life, ignoring the weirdness of the last day and almost convincing himself that it and Uma’s leaving didn’t happen.

Of course, denial only gets one so far when he finally surfaces topside to be greeted by cheers of “Good morning, Captain!” and cries of “Long live King Harry!” in the streets when he and his crew go for their weekly market run. It’s crazy and surreal and so very, very uncomfortable. His skin itches and his eyes water. Thank gods for his reputation and his years of perfecting his signature manic grin or he’d be dead in the water already.

But—gods—is it tiresome.

He could already feel his mask cracking. And he knew red was just around the corner, ready to creep up on him and obscure his vision.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses control now, here, in the middle of the marketplace where people have started to surround him and ask him things—small things, miniscule things, big things.

He could feel his crewmates, Bonnie and Gonzo, hovering around him, making sure people don’t get too close and generally keeping a pretty good eye on things. But they aren’t stopping people from approaching close enough to be heard, and Harry feels like a fool on display for everyone to see as he unofficially holds court in the middle of a gods-damned marketplace, and he doesn’t know what to do except let others words just sort of wash over him, especially since there’s not really any order to it. People have just sort of taken to shouting and yelling at each other, and Harry can feel another crack forming.

The Isle has never had a court, never had a true royal ruler, so how would anyone know what protocol was. He barely knew what proper protocol was. Again, his da’s stories of courtly life were old and sparse on the details, but they all carried with them a sense of general order within them.

The problem with that is that the Isle has never been orderly a day in its life.

Harry feels a little light headed at the thought, another mantra starting up.

Impossible. Look what you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Harry.

“Hey!” shouts a familiar voice. “Let me through!” And then there’s Mr. Smee appearing at the front of the crowd, the most assertive Harry’s ever seen him as he turns on those surrounding Harry, glaring, and suddenly the Isle inhabitants' shouts are dying out.

“Shame on you!” the man scolds, the disappointment palatable. “Shame on you for approaching your king in this way!”

“And who are you?” one brave soul questions pointedly from the crowd. It’s not a particularly intimidating man who poses the question, but he’s got noticeable muscle, height, and youth on the older Mr. Smee.

But his uncle has dealt with the likes of his da on his worst days, in which nothing can truly compare, and is not fazed by some younger criminal trying to throw his weight around.

“I’m his advisor.”

And—huh—Harry hasn’t really thought that far ahead, but having an advisor makes sense. It sounds like something kingly. And who better to give him advice than the man who taught him virtually everything he’d need to know about being a proper first mate?

“Now,” Mr. Smee continues, coming over to Harry, and Bonnie and Gonzo move out of the way for him, as if everybody in his crew except Harry already knew that the old man was his advisor, “we must be off for the King’s royal fitting.” And then Harry is being gently guided through the crowd of Isle inhabitants, Bonnie and Gonzo flanking him, while the rest of the crew continues with their regular market day expenditures under the guidance of Gil and Jonas.

Harry thinks the worst part of the whole thing is that he has to grin and bear it lest someone think him any less than fully in control.

So he lets himself be led by his advisor down the street, overly conscious of all the eyes upon them and some of their owners' greetings, to arrive at Curl Up and Dye. Upon their entrance, he is met with the excited, nervous and bubbly presence of one Dizzy Tremaine giving him a curtsy and calling him ‘King’. On the table next to her is a pile of bright and fantastical looking leathers and fabrics as clean as clothing can be on the Isle.

He turns to his uncle who only smiles kindly at him. “One must always dress appropriately for the part they wish to play,” he wisely says.

And there’s really no arguing that, is there?

Though Harry’s wardrobe is full and suitably full of clothes functional for a pirate, they’re still littered with holes and tears. He generally makes a point of sewing and altering a lot of his own clothes, but there’s only so much time he has in the day for it, so many times he can stab himself with a needle before he sees red. And, beyond that, he’s only mildly any good at it. He can actually find it quite meditative at times, but that only lasts so long before he runs out of patience or something—more often than not one of the other crew members—interrupts him because a first mate’s work is never truly done. Plus, a lot of the time he neglects sewing his own clothes in favor of sewing and altering ones for other children on the Isle.

So, the amount of clothing items he could consider most suitably “royal” are maybe one—a nice outfit that his mum supposedly left him, having made it for him when he grew older—if he grew older—before she passed away after having his sister CJ.

Harry had never touched the thing since he’d hate to chance it getting ruined. He’d always sort of fantasized that the only time he’d give himself permission to wear it would be for Uma’s and his wedding.

Of course, that has always been a pipe dream since he and Uma weren’t even dating. And, while Harry’s flirted with her, he’s also flirted with almost everyone else of consenting age on the Isle. Even if he’s only ever been serious about her, he is not quite sure if she returns those feelings. He’s also not quite sure if, when she indulges him in little touches here and there, when she looks at him a certain way, when he lets her—and no one else—touch his prized hook, if she realizes just what effect she has on him.

Of course, she’s Uma, amazingly smart and talented Uma, so she probably knows and she doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t feel the same way. And—that’s fine, she doesn’t have to. She can keep using him and his loyalty to her for as long as she needs however she wants. It’s fine. For as long as he’s useful and needed by her, it’s fine. As long as he has her trust, it’s fine.

So Harry probably isn’t ever going to wear that nice outfit his mum made him, but it’s fine. He can dream.

In the present, though, he’s not in a dream, and he’s been crowned king. His Uncle Smee is right, he has to dress the part to play the part or risk letting everyone down, including Uma. And he can’t have that.

Harry licks his suddenly dry lips and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“Okay.”

Dizzy sequels in delight, and the measuring begins.

—------------------

There is a manicure after the measuring and Mr. Smee filling Harry in on a meeting he had, apparently, scheduled for after their time here. The manicure is something Dizzy insists upon—and Harry is quite happy to receive, his own plain black nail polish having started to chip during his fight with the unmentionable traitors. Plus, Dizzy has some truly wonderful ideas on how to add some much-needed flare to them.

“Oh! This looks marvelous!” he praises. He feels himself wearing the first genuine smile he’s had all day.

“You really think so?” she asks, so excited and earnest. He can’t believe Mal and her crew left this adorable ray of sunshine to rot on the Isle.

And, as he looks from her down at the tiny hooks painted on both his forefingers and the teal anchors painted on his thumbs, he feels a burst of happiness that feels entirely too good to be true, along with a settling calmness he hasn’t felt all day.

The thought comes unbidden to his mind—I can do this… I can make her life better… all their lives better.

Harry can’t quite stifle the giggle that comes out of his mouth.

Something’s not quite right, he thinks. But, then again, when were they ever when it came to him? The thought only has his smile growing wider.

“Of course I do, little ducklin’,” he says, placing a hand gently briefly atop Dizzy’s head as he brushes past her towards the exit. He can practically feel the sunshine and rainbows coming off her due to his actions.

“Are you ready?” Mr. Smee asks as the son of Hook steps up to him, Bonnie and Gonzo coming to flank them.

Harry’s smile becomes a bit more dangerous but no less gleeful. “Well, it wouldn’t do ta leave them waitin’ any longer, would it?”

—------------------

Arriving back on the deck of the Lost Revenge is less of an ordeal than leaving it was in the early afternoon. Most everyone has seemed to calm down from the day before and the Isle almost seems back to normal, except for the occasional revenant greeting, which Harry is still trying to get used to.

No one stops them, no one gets in their way. His entourage and their purposeful walk seems to warn off others, which Harry is always thankful for. Again, it’s almost like the Isle is back to normal, like how it was when he could just stalk around the streets by himself and scare everyone away from his path. Only, now, they leave his path for an entirely different reason, a different form of respect that doesn’t quite have anything to do with fear.

It annoys and confuses him, but not enough to take away the burst of happiness and joy he’d taken with him out of Dizzy’s shop.

“We have them waiting for you in the captain’s office. Gil and Jonas are with them,” Desiree informs his group as they step foot on board the Lost Revenge.

Harry can only nod. “Right.”

He moves smoothly past her and tries not to think too hard on who the room used to belong to—still does.

But now’s not the time to dwell.

It’s time to act, Harry thinks, his footsteps, and those following him, particularly loud on the wood to his ears. What would be decided here would be what would truly cement him as ruler and maintain his newly instated power—power which he hasn’t been able to exercise yet, not that he’s necessarily tried.

It’s time to act. And, if there is one thing he’s good at, it’s that.

“Harry!” Gil exclaims as they round the corner of the interior hallway. The blond relaxes his stance from where he stands guarding the door. “We—”

But Harry pushes past him in favor of kicking open the door—because dramatics have always been in fashion and he’s nothing if not fashionable.

“‘Ello ladies!” Harry grins, swaggering past the matriarchs of the Termaines and Helga Sinclair. “Gents.” He nods to Prince Hans and Dr. Faciliar on the other side of the room.

Rounding the lone desk in the cabin, past a hovering Jonas who’s been faithfully guarding it, he flops down into the chair behind the desk before kicking his legs up onto it—in what Harry is sure is a pale imitation of Uma’s own movements.

But it will have to do, Harry decides.

“Wha’ can I do fer ye?”

The Voodoo man smiles all teeth, gaze assessing. “I can see why she chose you.”

And Harry can’t possibly fathom what he means by that—unless he wants to go down a path of Uma, Uma, Uma—so, instead of guessing, he decides to just keep grinning as he stares the other man down.

Mr. Smee clears his throat. He’s come to stand beside Harry’s chair on the side opposite the one Jonas and Gil have taken up. Bonnie and Gonzo guard the exit. All in all, it’s getting rather crowded in the room, isn’t it? Harry can’t think of a time this many people have tried to fit in here.

Perhaps they could use a spot of redecorating? Expanding? Harry thinks.

He lets his brow furrow, feeling a spot of warmth in his chest that feels like approval of some sort.

“—everything alright?” comes his uncle’s voice.

“Mm?” It’s then he discovers everybody’s been staring at him, a question or two having been missed.

He drops the hand he realizes he’d brought to his sternum, puzzlingly over it.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to regather his already scattered thoughts. “Aye.” His voice came out stronger.

Bollocks, he hopes he didn’t just fuck everything up.

Mr. Smee had explained there needed to be a meeting between some of the powers on the Isle and how it was supposed to go, and here he’d already fucked it up by getting lost in his own head. Typical Harry.

He feels a new wave of warmth and assurance, and he can’t quite hide his wince. He tries to cover it up by switching his seating position, letting one of his legs drop to the floor.

One of the Tremaine sisters jumps and Harry’s mask fits back into place, feeling grounded.

It’s the former prince of the Southern Isles who says next, “Let’s start again then.” He pauses to meet the eyes of the other villains in the room. “We come here today, your majesty—” Harry can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, but otherwise lets the redhead continue, “to officially unite the Isle in a proper form of governance and lay down some new policies we can all get behind for the betterment of those who remain here indefinitely.”

There’s a pause, and Harry barely has half the mind to say, “I’m listening,” before it goes on too long.

Thankfully, Hans takes it as the permission it is to keep talking, because Harry honestly has no clue what a proper form of governance entails or what kind of decrees should be made besides the decent ones he and his crew already try to live by.

“We would like to institute a governing council to work under you.” The prince pauses again, but the newly instated king is hard pressed to find an objection to anything that takes more of the weight off his shoulders with the whole ruling thing.

“Of course,” Hans continues, “we nominate ourselves for the prospect as we have some experience with ruling or organizing and running different businesses and organizations—”

“The reforms are simple,” Helga interrupts. “They can get more complicated later, but the basics have to be established.”

“Right,” the redhead agrees, with what must be his most charming smile directed at the blonde—though it clearly doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll need reforms to better the lives of the people, particularly the children. Now, we already have some people who have volunteered to help implement them,” he says, pulling out a bundle of papers from his coat. Harry’s marginally impressed by how untorn and unstained they look. Good paper that wasn’t sullied in some way was hard to come by on the Isle. “Besides your crew, most noticeably a lot of the children who tend to live on the street corners are saying they’ll work for us.”

One of the Termaine’s chimes in, “It’s a great opportunity for them to earn some money or goods in exchange for their services.”

“And some of my crew at the arcade are willing to lend a hand, provided they get their cut,” Dr. Facillier adds.

Harry grins. “Naturally.” Nothing any Isle resident does is for free.

“Now, the reforms themselves—,” Hans starts.

“Food, shelter, better living conditions, etc.,” Helga says.

“The problem is knowing where to start and how to go about them,” Lady Termaine states.

“And how to fund them,” the blonde agrees.

The Voodoo man laughs. “The funding is the easy part,” he says as he leans against the cabin wall. “Institute a tax in place of tribute and put everyone in line who won’t pay.”

“Um—” The whole room turns its attention to Gil, and Harry hopes he won’t have to punish him for saying something stupid. “—won’t that just be like going to war with people?”

Thank the gods, Harry thinks.

“Yes, Gilly raises a good point.” The new king could see the blond boy practically radiating sunshine at the praise. “Uma’s territory,”—not mine, not mine—“came to encompass Mal and her crew’s after they left, but that still leaves pockets of other areas, discountin’ the one you run,” he says with a look at the doctor.

“Quite right,” he agrees with a grin, coming a step closer to the desk, which is really more like a micro-step with the cramping issues of the room. “But ya never had us with you before.”

Harry looks around the room and sees something grave in their eyes, something undeniably serious as they look unwaveringly back at him, Helga with her gun at her side and Hans with a sword at his hip that their hands ghost over, Facilier with his cane, and the others, even Gil and Mr. Smee, stand by looking ready for war.

The terms of payment and how everything is going to work aren’t even settled yet.

They trusted him.

Not just simply to rule the Isle, but with their very lives.

They trusted him.

Gods know why.

They trusted him.

“Okay,” Harry says.

What would Uma do?

And Harry doesn’t quite know the exact answer to that, but he probably has an idea. And, if anything has proven to work in his favor, it's that his intuition about what Uma might do has never quite led him astray concerning the wellbeing of others.

So he continues, “But we do this my way.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s way of dealing with the villains of the Isle doesn’t end up being all that strange or remarkable at first.

He starts with the nice route first. Harry and his council set taxation for the new government and nicely asked people to pay up once a week while also stopping all infighting amongst former factions. Surprisingly, most of the notable villains and general populace on the Isle paid their dues and accepted the new rule without a fuss. Harry was astonished that the Huns seemed to accept things as they were, and other major villains, like the great hunter Clayton, only gave a token fuss over the newly instated way of the Isle. Admittedly, it was hard to say no to a blonde, German woman with a gun and proper military training to back it up. The newly instated King of the Isle was very aware of how much harder his sudden implementation of governance would be without Helga as part of this Council and being willing to take on the role of enforcer. He makes a mental note to give the woman a nice present of some sort.

The older woman had assisted him in recruiting and scheduling shifts for those who were to be the Isle’s new police-force. Amongst those given shifts to make up the twenty-four hour coverage the Isle needed were, of course, the crew of the Lost Revenge as well as those who were formerly known as the son of Jafar’s street rats. Together, with Helga as their leader, they walked the streets, divided into teams of four or five, that would either collect taxes, try and collect food and other goods from the barges in a more civilized manner, and generally maintain order and stop crimes in progress.

It’s still hit or miss on how well they can get those groups of enforcers organized and keep the maiming and the chaos to a minimum on the Isle, especially as better goods have recently started getting mixed into the otherwise dismal trash heaps the boats usually come with.

Of course, any and all goods he and his crew, his people, manage to get are given to those who need it most with Harry’s stamp of approval.

Looking down at his hand, sitting in the captain’s office on the Lost Revenge, pouring over the papers Hans gave him regarding budgeting the revenue they’ve been collecting, Harry catches sight of the actual to goodness stamp—a royal seal on a brand new silver ring—on his hand. He supposes his da has one on his finger, too. Confiscated from some long dead royal whose treasure he plundered in the olden days, but now Harry has one, made by Dizzy and Facilier with Hans input.

He looks at it now and finds something nostalgic about it. A pleasant humming in the back of his head when he gazes at it.

The ring depicts an anchor floating above a dock that leads, presumably, to the Isle, with a Hook overlaid and entangled with the anchor. A way to say that the people of the Isle came by ship and anchored (whether intentional on their part or not).

And they're mine, something in him rumbles as his fingers trail, unconsciously caressing, the raised metal image of his hook.

—------------------------

Though the majority of Isle residents are ready for order, the minority that still held out are still powerful forces to contend with—and this is where Harry’s not so nice route has to come into play. If asking nicely or asking with a token warning of a showing of a sword or a gun didn’t do it, then drastic measures had to be taken.

Some might call it war, like Gil. Harry just calls it life—a necessity, and Harry has always been good at taking care of necessities.

What’s the best way to protect the kids? Harry asks himself. What would Uma do to ensure their safety? and then it hit him.

Join or die—no mercy. Either stop making problems or be dealt with.

That was the pirate way—the Isle way, as there weren't enough dungeons and resources to make an appropriate prison for those who committed wrongs too egregious for the Isle. There wasn’t room—and if they had to remain on the Isle—indefinitely—they needed to do some form of population control—make way for the new and get rid of the old. It was a win-win in Harry’s opinion.

But Harry, a voice inside him questions, why risk a fight with the big guns when you don’t absolutely have to?

And to that little voice of self-doubt, he says, Listen up, those villains are old now. Many, like his da, are drunks. Many lack the magic they used to depend on. Many have gotten used to the status quo—they’ve become complacent. And complacent isn’t something to be on the Isle.

Those that actively cause trouble—like the older Gaston brothers and his father—and those who actively hurt their children—like those already mentioned and others like Cruella DeVil—would be made examples of.

Those like Ursula, the recluses who hardly did much, might be allowed to survive through their own tendency towards apathy alone. Everyone else has a choice—fall in line or die.

That was the Isle way. And that was the way it would stay—but on his terms, the VKs terms.

That was their way.

That ever-growing warmth inside his chest hums in agreement.

But how to start? How to make sure people see he’s serious and it's not perceived as another “Harry being Harry,” moment and dismissed?

How to make even the villains who still see Harry as a little kid come to see that he’s all grown up?

In hindsight, it’s a rather simple fix, once you think about it.

If yer gonna hit em—do it do it quick before the villains have time to regroup.

And to make sure they knew he was really serious…

Kill the legacy. Kill his father—and everything’s fixed.

It’s not like his raging drunk of a father was of any other use. The almost paternal figure the captain was before his wife died was never coming back. Harry and his sisters could attest to that.

All that was left was a man who beat on his children, ran people threw with his sword for sport, and drank and drank and drank.

He had to go.

And that thing in Harry’s chest, that he’s taken to thinking of as a she, hums in agreement.

So the plan proceeds as follows.

The new Council of the Isle makes a list of all the skirmishes that happened within the first two to three weeks when it came to trying to collect taxes and stopping gangs fighting over territories and goods. The major factions that still remained to be dealt with were that of the Queen of Hearts, Madam Mim, and Scar with their descendants and followers. Other miscellaneous villains who stayed silent on the new governance, such as Claude Frollo and Harry’s own father, also found themselves on the list of those needing to be dealt with due to their penchant for unwarranted murder and other serious crimes, which they committed on the regular.

This leads to Harry, dressed in his newly tailored clothes, courtesy of Dizzy, a black and velvet coat, shirt, and pants, as dark as the night, to leading his ever expanding crew and able-bodied council members through the streets on the next moonless evening. On this night, the night that would become known as the “Night of Black Blood” by those on the Isle, the new king and his followers systematically hit all the remaining resisting factions and slaughtered those rapists and assorted other worst offenders who would remain.

By the rise of the next sunrise, the remaining people of the Isle find their numbers reduced by one-fourth. Their king, face streaked red from the blood of his people’s enemies but otherwise looking fresh in all black, walks down the center of their streets back to the port with his father’s infamous red hat in his hand as the dead are gathered and counted around him.

All taxes are paid on time from then on, and crime noticeably decreases and stays relatively low as Harry and his Council finally turn their attention to more tedious but no less important affairs—like further budgeting and the creation of a better standard of living for the Isle residents.

With several big named villains being eliminated and several of their lairs and places of residence now empty, there came the opportunity for growth and renovation.

The Tremaines have been surprisingly helpful in this regard.

The matriarchs start setting up shelters, even if they are just makeshift tents out of drying linens or rags in some of the surrounding alleyways by their shop. Then, with the addition of the newly emptied buildings, they started creating more well-established communal living spaces for the children of the Isle, helped further by Carlos’ initiative to have a house for the less fortunate kids to be refurbished and made less uninhabitable by Bargain Castle with the help of an Auradon construction team, which has its own regiment of guards in place as the workers work.

This all helps Harry with enacting his next decrees as ruler. No kid has to live on the street anymore. No kid is going to go hungry. A general health assessment of the Isle is to take place, something he’d taught Uma how to do and learned from Mr. Smee—how to take stock of one's crew and their needs, and now that his crew has expanded to encompass the Isle, well… there were a lot of needs, that is for sure.

The Tremaines and DeVil’s initiative already helped with the housing situation. The food issue has been partially handled by the reduction in population and the more systematic scavenging of the barges. But the health assessment still remains an issue.

Oh, it’s easy to implement, in a way. Knowing the issues of the Isle population's health isn’t hard—and the results aren’t great. But it’s the issue of what to do about them, how to fix them, that is the problem.

Malnourishment and poor hygiene are the major issues—and they can’t be fixed overnight.

The first step, so Harry is told by his council, is to make the Isle itself more hygienic.

Thus begins their campaign to clean up the streets.

The police force on the Isle starts to spend half their time patrolling and half their time cleaning. It’s not long after they start that some of the more general Isle residents start up their own cleaning initiatives, taking responsibility for cleaning their own corners of the Isle—sweeping the streets and putting the trash into unused alleyways whose contents are then hauled away to the uninhabited parts of the Isle and buried.

Dizzy shows some of the women who visit her family’s salon how to make crude soap, and the method spreads, quickly showing signs of fixing some of the chronic illnesses and general unpleasant smells that seem to permeate the Isle.

This then spawns the better organizing and cleaning of the clothes found on the barges—an unintended side effect.

In less than a month, the hygiene issue has been generally dealt with and the problem of their ever permanent food shortage is on its way to being less of a problem as the cleaning initiative on the Isle has gifted them with some actual space to try their hands at growing food of their own.

It’s not perfect and it will take a while to bear any fruit, literally and metaphorically, especially as they are restricted to trying to grow plants that do well with little in the way of actual direct sunlight, with the Isle seeming to be cast forever under a grey cloud. But it’s progress.

———————————-

“My King,” Drizella says, catching Harry’s attention as he is checking over a document Hans sent over to him for review in his office one day. She is flanked by Gonzo, who’d granted her entrance into his cabin.

“Yes?” Harry says with a sigh, rubbing his temple as he sets the piece of paper aside.

It had numbers on it.

Harryhates numbers.

“What is it?”

“We’ve got a situation,” she says, “down by DeVil’s home for the orphans.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, the Auradon workers set up street signs at the corner there before they left.”

His brow furrows at this. “Street signs?” He’d never heard of such a thing.

Evidently, his lack of awareness on the subject must have shown on his face, as Drizella helpfully, if a bit exasperatedly, supplies, “Signs to denote the names of streets. They make it easier to differentiate the streets and alleys instead of going off of landmarks that might change.”

“Ah,” the king says, “I see.” Except, he still didn’t quite, but that’s alright. He’s sure she’d tell him what he ought to make of all this.

“Well,” she continues, picking up steam, “they put the names of the four traitors on them.”

Harry feels his brain screech to a halt at that.

“The,” his wets his lips, “four traitors?”

Her gaze is assessing as she nods. “Gave them the courtesy of having streets named after them without consulting us. Consulting you, my King.”

Harry knows she expects him to be mad, be boiling over with rage. That’s how his persona of crazy usually seems to personify itself.

Drizella’s looking to feel justified in her own anger. She’s looking to feel vindicated in her own distaste for the presumptuous nature of Auradon, and all who now inhabit it.

And, he is, somewhere deep in his chest, she makes her displeasure known. Displeasure over being claimed once more by those who no longer know her.

But that anger is a flash. It’s not necessary. If anything, Harry finds it more amusing.

Carlos, the new king can understand. Though the boy no longer walks these streets, he did show genuine care in helping to create another safe place for the kids without homes on the Isle to go. He’s earned his name on that sign.

Evie—well, Harry always had the least against her and the boy genius, and she seems to genuinely care for kids like Dizzy.

Jay is another story—but when isn’t he? Still, he showed actual care for the street rats that ran with him.

Mal, though?—Now that—that is funny.

Harry doubts Drizella is expecting manic and uncontrollable laughter as his response, the fire in his chest only stroking it further.

“Ha! Ha! Hahahaha!” he chortles, and wide eyed Drizella stares as he clutches his sides.

“M-my King?” she says, clearly hesitant to interrupt his mad laughter. Gonzo stands just behind her looking comparatively nonplussed, which only has Harry chuckling harder at the comparison between the two.

Termaine turns to look at his crewmate, asking with her eyes if they should be worried.

Gonzo just shrugs.

Finally, Harry’s mirth subsides enough for him to form a coherent sentence.

“Keep all but the dragon’s,” he says.

“I beg your pardon?” she says.

Harry rolls his eyes as he picks back up his neglected piece of parchment, the ink appearing in sharper focus than before they began this conversation. Will you look at that?!

“Keep the names on the signs fer all but Mal’s,” he says, already moving on from the topic of conversation.

“Oh,” she says.

“Change it to Uma Street, or whatever,” he says, feeling a cruel smirk twist his lips. The half-fae would hate that.

He sees the evil step-sister nod from the corner of his eye.

“Understood.”

“Mm,” he hums, dismissing her with a wave of his hand before a sudden stroke of brilliance hits him.

“An’ find someone ta make a new map of the Isle,” he calls after her, looking up from his work to catch her eye with a shark-like grin. “If Auradon’s namin’ our streets because we haven’t, we should fix tha’, shouldn’t we?”

“Of course, my King,” she answers over her shoulder, a sharp grin of her own making its way onto her face before she fully excuses herself from his cabin.

Problems like these, Harry finds are relatively fun to fix, as rare as they are.

Other problems, like the issue of more criminals still being brought over to the Isle, are much less so. They have to actually start coming up with an honest to gods judicial system. Harry doesn’t have the foggiest idea of how to properly go about this. Pirates didn’t exactly do trials and such, unless you counted trials by combat.

This is what his council is for, though. They’d actually lived in societies that had these judicial systems. So Harry puts these things into their capable hands.

Though his sitting in on the meetings outlining such management proceedings did result in some interesting observations from Harry, like when the topic of the crime of manslaughter came up.

Having it explained to him, as the concept of essentially ‘accidentally’ killing someone was fairly foreign to most of those born on the Isle, all he could say was, “Manslaughter. So, it’s surprisingly less fun than regular slaughter, despite its name?”

“Do you hear yourself talk sometimes?” Helga asks, rubbing her temple in obvious irritation.

Harry blinks. “No, why? Do I lose me accent?”

His lack of full understanding of things isn’t a hindrance to these meetings, though. Mostly this is because he’d long mastered the art of grinning like a loon and nodding. Either he understood everything they were telling him or he didn’t and no one would willingly press him on anything with him smiling as he did.

The last, but not least, of the major issues for him to deal with was the Isle schooling situation, but that was really a matter of proper funding, finding more teachers amongst those on the Isle, and enforcing the attendance of all the children under the age of thirteen. Anyone older than that could either choose to attend or continue as they were. Harry had survived long enough without proper schooling beyond what Smee, his father, and, the few times he deigned to attend, Serpent Prep had taught.

“You’re a captain’s son, Harry,” his uncle had said. “You never know when you might be caught in the presence of royalty and nobility. You must be prepared to present yourself accordingly, along with the know-how that comes from knowing how to read, write, and do arithmetic.”

To be fair, though, Harry knew he was probably one of the most educated teens out of all the Isle children, outside of Mal, Uma, Evie, and Carlos, all of whom were no longer physically present on the Isle.

He could admit his own privilege.

To deal with the schooling issue, Harry put his Uncle Smee, Dr. Facilier, and Yen Sid to work on further fleshing out a curriculum and finding capable teachers, allocating a decent percentage of their governance tax revenue to the trio to distribute as they saw fit to fix the Isle’s lack of a decent education.

It’s after four months of being King of the Isle, enacting all these new decrees and initiatives when his Uncle Smee finds Harry, late at night, working away in the captain’s cabin on more paperwork.

“Knock knock,” the older man says, letting himself in. Bonnie, who’s on guard tonight, lets the former first mate enter freely.

“Hello, Uncle,” Harry says, barely sparing him a glance.

“Still hard at work still, I see,” the former first mate says, approaching the king’s hunched form.

“Mmm,” Harry hums in answer before looking up. “Did you need somethin’?”

“No,” the elder man says, “no.” In the dim firelight of the burning candles, the young king can just make out his uncle’s kind, smiling face as he stands before his desk.

“I just thought—,” his advisor starts, “What I mean to say is—”

Harry finds himself fondly smiling as he sets down his quill, content to sit back and wait for his uncle to stutter through what it is he wants to say—the other man’s nervousness nostalgic.

His Uncle Smee takes a deep breath to collect himself before finally saying, “I’m proud of you.”

Harry blinks, stunned, feeling like he must have misheard.

“I know I’ve never said it,” the old man continues, “Probably no one ever has, but you should know that I’m proud of you, Harry.”

The young king feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, all the air having left him. His eyes are watering. The arms of the chair somehow withstand the tight grip he has on them.

“And I want you to know that I always thought of you as one of my own blood,” Uncle Smee admits. “My son.”

A moment of silence stretches between them along with the space of the desk.

“Why?” Harry finally manages to rasp out. His throat feels like it's closing in on him.

Why him? Why now? Why—?

Uncle Smee smiles something soft and warm, his own eyes containing hints of wetness. He steps around the desk so he can stand beside the young man. “I suppose,” he says, reaching across the distance to take one of Harry’s hands from its death grip on his chair into both of his own, “I finally felt it safe enough to tell you.”

Harry swallows hard as the old man, the only adult he’d ever truly felt safe with, felt loved by besides his own mother, pats his hand with such obvious fondness.

“Because of you,” his uncle continues, “people finally feel safe enough to express what they’ve been feeling in their hearts for so long.”

Something other than red starts to obscure Harry’s vision and, with a blink, he feels his first teardrop fall.

“I’ve loved you and your sisters since you were little. I helped look after you. You are my children as much as my own.” His uncle sniffs messily. “And I love you all so much.”

The admission, the emotion, seeing the man he looked up to all his life, the only decent role model he knows, break down in front of him has Harry standing up and crushing the elder man to him in a hug as they both give over to the tears—the weakness—that they’d long bottled up.

And (s)he is content.

Chapter Text

Harry’s different, Gil’s noticed.

He thinks maybe it started during that unofficial first council meeting of Harry as king.

His new captain had missed what people were saying to him after he’d sat down.

Harry losing time like that—staring off into space, eyes distant with his head cocked to the side like he’s listening to something—isn’t altogether unusual, but his hand rubbing his sternum is. From where Gil is standing to one side of his best friend, he can see his captain's actions clearly.
The crew, who haven’t known Harry as long as Gil has or were never as close to him, don’t notice anything amiss—but Gil does. He always does.

Something isn’t right.

Gil asks Bonnie about it later. She’s a knowledgeable crew member who has some basic medical experience under her belt.

“Maybe it’s acid reflux or heartburn,” she says, dismissively. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

But things just get weirder.

Gil might not be the smartest person on the Isle, he knows his own shortcomings, but he understands his best friends. And without Uma here, all of his attention has been focused on his new captain’s wellbeing. He can’t let himself worry about Uma because she wouldn’t want him to focus on her, she would want him to continue looking after the son of Hook, the one who’s always had a way of needlessly endangering himself. He made a promise to Uma and Harry to be there for them till the end, and that’s what he’ll do. They ride with the tide, forever and always.

It’s weird, Gil decides after several months of Harry’s increasingly odd behavior, that no one notices how unlike Harry it is to sleep as little as he does and seem the same as ever energy-wise. The newly promoted first mate has the job of checking in with Harry’s security team, taking note of when the king is sleeping and how much he’s eating. Anything that could make their captain more vulnerable. And while Harry is eating fine, he’s going longer and longer without sleep.

Some people might think it’s due to all the new responsibilities that come with being captain and king, but they’d be wrong.

The former first mate has always been good at delegating, and he’s been no stranger to helping Uma with paperwork for the crew, for the fish chip shop. While Gil’s never truly sat down and catalogued how often and for how long his best friends have typically slept, he gets the sense that it was more than just around five hours at a time.

Then there's the mood swings—the possessiveness.

Now, the son of Gaston knows Harry isn’t immune to bouts of extreme mood changes.

He’s pretty sure most of it is for show, though. The blond’s never truly felt threatened by Harry and his hook like the other crew members sometimes are. Gil knows a lot of them think he’s weird because of it—that he’s not all there. That he’s too stupid to be afraid.

Maybe they’re right.

But Gil swears these latest instances are different.

For one, it’s rather the opposite emotion Harry usually swings for. Instead of manic laughter, and indiscriminate rage, it’s sudden calmness.

Sometimes these emotions, or lack thereof, are followed by his friend placing a hand to his sternum or tilting his head in that way he does.

Then there's the possessiveness. Gil knows the original crew of the Lost Revenge just think it's a logical extension of the possessiveness he’s always displayed for them under Uma and for the captain herself. And, maybe, there is some truth to that, but it’s different.

It feels sudden how much Harry cares for all of the inhabitants of the Isle.

Maybe he really did always care for them. Maybe—

But there’s the swiftness to which he comes to terms with his kingship and how quickly he displays his willingness to do anything and everything in his power to bring about the changes he’s now enacted in the many months since his coronation.

Sometimes these emotions, these actions, they don’t all seem to be Harry’s own, which leads Gil to now, standing before his captain, his best friend, with Dr. Facilier in the ship’s lone office.

“I’m just worried about you, dude,” Gil says after explaining all the things he’s noticed to the other men. He’s pleading with his eyes for Harry to tell him what’s going on, to get help if he needs it—that the blond can provide it.

Harry meets his gaze with bewilderment—like he hadn’t realized how odd he’s being—how he’s changed—before his head tilts and his sea-green eyes go distant.

Gil’s breath catches in his throat.

He’s not stupid.

That’s not normal.

Gil’s not stupid—that’s not normal.

It’s the sound of Dr. Facilier tutting from beside Gil that has both teens snapping out of their respective heads.

“And here I thought she’d made things quite obvious,” the Voodoo man says.

“What do you mean?” Gil asks, looking between Harry and the taller man.

“The Isle. She speaks to him,” Dr. Facilier answers to the blond before turning to meet his king’s eye, “through him.”

Gil watches his best friend take this news in. The brunet’s hand is at his sternum again and his other, the one with his signet ring, has his fingers on it, spinning the silver band, stroking the insignia of it possessively. His brows are furrowed like he’s trying to sort out what emotions and thoughts are his and which are hers, the Isle’s—where he begins and ends.

“Hmm,” Harry hums as he finishes up his examination. He doesn’t look as concerned as Gil thinks he should, his hand falling from his chest back to the arm of his chair.

“The coronation?” the king asks the Voodoo man, though it is more of a statement, the blond thinks.

Gil watches as the doctor inclines his head. “It cemented the bond, so to speak, though you likely felt her influence before that.

Harry hums again at the news. His eyes, once again, go distant.

The blond takes the opportunity to ask Dr. Facilier the most important question this news brings him.

“Is she hurting him?”

“No! Non!” The older man actually laughs at this. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he says. “Our king has likely never been healthier.”

“But—his sleeping—”

“He doesn’t need to sleep, boy,” the Voodoo man hushes him. “The Isle sustains him some, even in her limited state.”

“Limited state?”

“The barrier,” the man says, like that’s all that needs saying, so Gil nods like it is.

“It’s also why King Harry hasn’t been increasing his food intake.”

Gil’s eyebrows furrowed at this, “Why should he be eating more?”

Dr. Facilier cocks his head to the side as he squints at him, like the blond said something off again.

“Don’t you think it strange that the amount of available food on the Isle has increased, yet, your friend here,” he points to Harry, who is still lost in his head, with his cane, “hasn't felt the need to indulge or otherwise reap the spoils of his hard work?”

“Oh,” Gil says, cheeks heating in embarrassment at missing what probably should have been an obvious issue.

The doctor nods. “I think it best we take our leave now.” He places a hand on the blond’s broad shoulder.

The son of Gaston nods absently as he lets himself be turned around by the taller man and made to head toward the door.

“Wait,” Gil says, coming to a stop just as the Voodoo man makes to step out into the hallway. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”

They both look back to Harry—the king still far away in thought, hand back to the place above his heart.

“I think it best to let sleeping dogs lie, non?” the doctor says, before ushering the blond out the door. “He’ll be alright.”

And Gil silently vows to make sure of it.

—----------------------------------------------

The day comes where the forms for VKs to get off the Isle and attend Auradon Prep are introduced. It's been about six months since anyone from the mainland visited. News of it comes in the form of posters posted in and around the Isle—the faces of the VK traitors.

Harry’s crew brings word of it to him quite quickly, as soon as the first posters and their accompanying forms hit the streets.

The king finds it laughable that they sent over forms without any handy writing utensils or a thought to the many illiterate children and adults that make up at least half the Isle’s population.

Still, he supposes they can be forgiven for their forgetfulness, that their faces can be allowed to be put up by way of posters, that streets can be named after then—but not Mal’s, never Mal’s—because they’re giving the Isle children a chance, and Harry will be damned if he lets even a small chance as that be taken from them, especially Squeaky and Squirmy.

So he and his crew allow the excitement to sweep the Isle, giving the kids something new to focus on even amidst a trend of beatings he’s noticed in the few children that remain with one of their parents for having a sunny disposition. (They do end up sending Helga and her police to do some beating of their own of said parents…)

Harry even has the crew, the literate ones, handing out what writing utensils they'd been able to scrounge up from the barges and give them out to the other islanders. The literate of his crew and new governance team are tasked to assist the younger and illiterate VKs to fill out their forms. (And if Harry, the king, personally insists on helping with Squirmy and Squeaky’s even though they had their own father’s literacy and teachings backing them up, that was neither here nor there.)

It’s bittersweet for him and his original crew. He knows the main pirates of the Lost Revenge likely aren’t going to be amongst those chosen, not with the stunt they pulled with the King of Auradon almost half a year ago now. But if he can help the other children, help the wee ones have a chance at goodness, well… It’s what Uma would want, he’s sure. And maybe a little part of Harry is hoping that his efforts to get some of his favorite wee ones, like Squeaky and Squirmy, to find peace and happiness in the seemingly plentiful land of Auradon, pays off. He wants Uncle Smee to not have to worry about how his actual sons will turn out. That he doesn’t have to worry that they’ll turn out like him—a no good crazy pirate, despite his Uncle’s best efforts to curb that thought, telling Harry he’s proud of Harry. That he loves Harry, that Harry’s his son. (Thoughts and sentiments the Isle tries to amplify to varying effects.) But Harry knows his uncle must be tired of dealing with his family’s gene pool and the brunet’s innate ability to lose his temper and give in to temptation to hurt somebody because he can, to make himself feel powerful.

Yes, Harry tries to save those chaotic, painful moments for those who truly deserve his ire but sometimes—sometimes he’s aware when he says something too harshly to Gil or one of the other crewmates, especially the younger ones who look up to him as some sort of surrogate older brother figure. Sometimes he’s aware his scare tactics go a step too far when guarding their territory from some piss poor drunks—aware that even in his saner moments he’s still too harsh, too manic, too everything for whoever he’s talking to, even when he doesn’t mean to, even when he doesn’t want to.

It’s taken a lot of effort to try and reign some of those tendencies in since Uma’s left, but it’s draining and exhausting and too much, even if the Isle does her best to try and keep Harry calm.

All he wants to do is hang up his hat and sleep for a week, but he has to stay up into the wee hours of the night and get up in the wee hours of the morning just to get all that he needs accomplished accomplished all the while asking himself as he stares over reports, goes over finances, and takes meetings and delivers orders, Is this how Uma did it? Am I handling things right?

And Harry doesn’t know the answer to these questions, but he’d like to think that the answer is yes and that he’s doing alright—for his own sanity, anyways.

Nevermind that Gil thinks he should eat and sleep more even after consulting the expert on all things magical, Dr. Facilier, who tells him that the new king is somehow fine with only the few hours of sleep he’s been getting. Still, the blond takes to forcing his captain to do both when he can get away with it. Harry relents, too damn tired and short tempered to be of use to anybody, seeing red, which happens around the thirty-six hour mark without fail. It used to happen much sooner, before the twenty-four hour mark, during the time of Uma—that’s how he’s begun to mark the time before and after his rise to kingship. Before and after Uma, his captain, his queen].

Finally, the day comes that the Core Four come back to the Isle to pick the next four VKs to go to Auradon. Momentarily they are back. Momentarily they are beloved—even Mal. The effects of holding the key to freedom.

Do the four idiots even realize?

Harry doesn’t attend the event—staying, instead, far away on his ship—his home base—working on reports and looking over meeting minutes.

He has some pirates attending in his stead, for safety and protection—and because they deserve a chance to get out of here. But Harry has to stay for the Isle. But not himself. Never himself. He already buried that bridge.

Besides, he has to stay for Uma. He can’t just leave unless he’s sure the island can handle it. Because, without him, who did they have? Harriet? His older sister already helps him enough with providing backup for Helga and her enforcement team.

No.

Harry has to stay.

And Squeaky and Squirmy are chosen.

That night, after an afternoon and early evening full of celebrating, only just finally lying his head down to sleep for the first time in what feels like days, Harry’s jerking awake to Gil’s frantic knocking on his door, a too common occurrence. Had it always been this hard for Uma as captain? She made it look so effortless.

Harry hardly has the door to his cabin open before Gil barges in, saying, “Celia’s been attacked!”

The King of the Isle feels his stomach drop, a foreboding feeling taking over him.

“She got attacked right outside her father’s arcade.”

Nobody ever touches the Faciliers. No one ever wants to risk the wrath of whatever curse the Voodoo man could lay upon them. In that way, she was one of the few untouchables on the Isle. No one dared try attacking her or her kin.

But to attack her and, not only that, do it right outside her father’s lair?

Something was off.

“My King!” Desiree yells. The young pirate is running down the corridor of the ship’s narrow passageway. “Come quick!”

“What’s going on?” Harry asks.

“It’s the Smees,” she pants, and his heart nearly stops.

“Their apartment,” she says. “It’s on fire.”

Harry doesn’t even think, he just moves.

He feels himself barking orders as he climbs on deck, telling half his crew to get to Curl Up and Dye, get to Dizzy who’s surely also in danger, the rest are with him besides the bare minimum of his crew that’s needed to guard the ship. He distantly hears Gil asking him “What is going on?”

Harry has no time to explain beyond, “Those feckin’ idiots jus’ declared open season.”

From there, it’s a race against time and all he hears is the blood pounding in his ears to the beat of his and his crew's footsteps. How many are even with him? He’s never been good at counting.

They make it to the apartment the Smees call a home above his, now deceased father’s, bait shop.

The building is on fire, along with the one next to it. If they’re not quick about bringing water to put it out, the whole Isle could go up in flames.

“Smees!” he calls against the roaring heat, stepping closer to it before a hand on his arm stops him.

He twists out of the person’s grip, brandishing his hook with a swipe.

The metal of his weapon meets steel as his older sister appears, pushing into his space, forcing him to step back.

“Don’t be an idiot, Harry,” she reprimands him. “I won’t be losing you, too!”

Harry snorts at her impertinence. How dare she try and tell him what to do?! He’s king?! His will is law!

Red clouds his vision, sweeping him away with it like a tidal wave, rolling him in its depths. His rage feels too big to fit into his body.

How dare someone attack my people!

He grabs his sword, but is met with a hand on his wrist, preventing him from pulling it from its sheath.

“Listen to your sister, my King,” Helga tells him. She was likely amongst the first of his police force on the scene.

“We cannot lose you.”

“I don’t care!” Harry spits back, breaking from his sister and turning his hook on the blonde woman, which she easily butts away with her gun.

The king lets out a snarl of frustration before diving in again to land a hit on the woman standing between him and his Smees.

“Harry!” a weak call to his right has him pausing his attack.

The son of a pirate feels the red drain from his eyes as quickly as it came.

Harry turns, lowering his weapon, to turn his gaze on his soot-covered Uncle Smee and the twins.

The king chokes on the emotions clogging up his throat. He allows tears to well up and flow as he runs to hug and reassure himself that the three Smees are really there.

He’s sobbing, shaking, as he grips them, but he can't find it in himself to care. Let the people of the Isle see their king cry. He’ll find the ones responsible and make it so the repercussions are all that’s remembered—why no one should dare hurt what’s his.

It is as he is cleaning up the twin’s soot-covered faces, listening to them cough, that he comes to a decision.

The Isle simmers.

Chapter Text

Harry doesn’t get much sleep between the fiasco that was that first night following the Core Four’s announcement and the day, a week later, when they come back for their “chosen” ones. But that’s alright, he thinks, his people are in danger. The threat is ever present.

Protect my people.

Just thinking about what could have happened if his people weren’t fast enough, not strong enough, not—

It fills him with renewed righteous rage and energy as he sits—simmering over what must be done.

He’s aware of Gil’s concerned look, the consulting of the Voodoo doctor about his state of mind—but no one says anything when they meet his burning gaze.

Afraid, he thinks.

Respected, the Isle says, as Drizella finishes giving him her reports on the state of the orphanages since the announcement, giving him a respectful bow as she leaves that Harry does not remember having instructed her to do.

Come to think of it, his counsel, his crew, the Isle populace, all started doing that, didn't they?

When did it start?

The greatest form of respect he’d ever been gifted before seemingly ‘graduating’ in station to king, would probably be a respectful head tilt.

When he first met with the council, he’d only received nods, if even that.

When did he become—?

When did it become real?

When did it become more than a title? The title of king?

When does a boy graduate and become a man? And when does a man become a king?

At what point is respect earned? Obedience and deference earned? Gained?

Does it matter?

He doesn’t know…

Uma would.

She probably would have acted already, too. Not wait till the night before the big day in the dead of night, after having said his goodbyes to the Smees, Dizzy, and Celia, as it wouldn’t do for him to be seen so soon in his new capacity of ruler when the former VKs deign to show up to collect their new charges.

Knock knock.

Let the show begin.

________________________

When one is summoned by the new King of the Isle, you appear.

Or you would if you weren’t a god.

Honestly, this is nowhere near the first time a king has tried to summon Hades to their throne room, and he doubts it will be the last.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t bother heeding a call like this. Afterall, what consequences could they bring to him should he not comply?

Kill him?

Now that’s funny.

Still, Hades finds himself being drawn out of his underground lair for one of the few times he’s cared to step outside of it since being forced on to this barren rock.

Curiosity killed the cat, and all that, and Hades is curious about the child that has usurped his daughter on the Isle.

The shadow man isn’t the only one who can sense the will of the land.

And Hades is the god of the Earth. His mother, Gaia, the goddess, the mother of the said world they live in and Hades, her most unloved son, the steward in her absence. He hears the whispers of land in the dark depths of his lonely cave, their voices the only comforts he still has.

They plead, they cry, they laugh, and she seethes, waiting for an opportunity to formally enter their ranks.

The Isle sounds like a beast restrained. An animal just vying to be let out of its cage, overprotective of the young ones in its care—desperate to take their pain away and make all that would do her and hers harm suffer and pay.

And here sits the embodiment of all her wants and desires—hungering for a way forward—her red clad king staring Hades down as the immortal enters the teen’s office, like the older being is not an all powerful god, like he’s not an embodiment of nature to be feared and respected.

No matter the king or queen—they always look at him the same way when they want something, and this one is no different, young though he may be. The look that communicates stubbornness and a demand for ultimate obedience.

Distantly, the voice of Auradon cries and weeps for her unacknowledged sister. Auradon, the rich land across the sea, begs the Isle not to do this. Sobs her apologies and begs, but the Isle does not answer.

Hades does not know if she is deaf to them because of the barrier or if she is willfully blocking them out, but the reddening eyes of the Isle’s chosen do not budge.

“What do I owe the pleasure of this invite?” the god of the Underworld asks as the door shuts after Dr. Facilier’s retreating form, leaving the two of them alone in the small quarters.

As he scans the room, Hades does not bother with pretense for this being anything other than a transaction as being truly beholden to any demands is laughable. He makes a point of touching the knick knacks on the small bookshelf—a miniature captain’s wheel, how wonderfully nautical.

“You know, I have a wonderful rerun to catch at three.” He spins the little wheel, letting it squeak as it turns. “It's called ‘Barren Cave Walls.’ Riveting stuff—I tell you.”

Hades waits for the rebuttal, the rejoiner, the rebuke—but nothing comes.

The god feels his eyes narrow as he pivots on his heel to face the young king to meet that piercing red gaze.

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?”

Silence greets him as they continue to stare.

Having enough silence (Geez! If he’d wanted that, he’d just have stayed underground. Ugh!), the older man sighs.

“What?! What do you want? Eternal life? My first born?! Newsflash, both are impossibly out of reach—”

“Hades,” the calm voice of the king cuts through, effectively silencing his rambling.

Impressive, Hades thinks. Not many royalty would dare, even if they would dare to impose and demand.

“So he speaks,” the god says.

“Hades,” the boy king says again, ignoring his jab. “How would you feel about a prison break?”

Hades can’t say there is much in this world that can still surprise him. He’s seen just about everything humankind is possible of—seen a lot of things first hand—but this is unexpected.

And intriguing.

“Explain,” the god demands.

“The kids are leavin’ tomorrow,” King Harry says.

“And what exactly does this have to do with me, your majesty?” Hades questions.

“Don’t ye want out?” The pirate has the nerve to raise one eyebrow imploring, mischief dancing in his eyes—the screams of Auradon growing louder.

Hades laughs. “Of course I want out! Everyone wants off this gods forsaken rock!”

“Not everyone,” the boy corrects.

The lapse into silence again at that—this one more contemplative.

Though the boy wasn’t born with royal blood in him, the ways of diplomacy and negotiation have clearly drilled into the son of a pirate at a young age, no doubt, along with the ways of courtly manner—as his father, an honorary noble in his prime, had rubbed shoulders with many a king and queen in his day before setting his sights on Neverland.

It shows now as he sits across from the god of death at his desk, arms lax against the arm rests of his ornate, teal chair made of coral, finger spinning his signet ring.

“You want me to storm the barrier?” Hades states rather than asks.

The king’s answering smile is sharklike. “Now you’ve got it.”

“I’ll never get through in time.” The second anybody sees him, Hades, the god, the King of the Underworld, the overseer of the dead, the giver of wealth, the enemy of Zeus’ favorite son, the barrier will start to close far too soon, for he, above all the villains sent to the Isle, will not be allowed freedom

“You don’t have to,” comes the boy’s easy response, and Hades has the distinct impression he’s being laughed at by the Isle and her chosen ruler.

“Then why should I bother?”

“Why, to deter the bad behavior of others, of course,” he says, magnanimously.

Hades barks a dismissive laugh at the insult it is. “You want me to try and storm the barrier as a deterrent?” he scoffs. “Do I look like a stoner and his dog?”

The pirate’s gaze turns predatory as he cocks his head to the side, looking the god up and down, assessingly. “You look like a predator.” Hades would feel flattered if he didn’t feel so put upon by it all.

“So what? You want me to make a run for it, fail, and all for what?” The immortal starts pacing. “A little assurance that some random children can get out? Whoopty doo! Why should I care though? Don’t you know that this will just cause Auradon to up security? You may never get another VK off this rock!”

“Exactly,” the boy king says.

“What?” That draws him up short.

“Better they up security than us uppin’ the death count by forcin’ our way in an’ out of places,” the brunet says, finally standing from his seat, skirting gracefully around the side of the desk, red coat tails fluttering, looking regal. Whether or not the boy turned king wanted to be recognized as such, he sure was acting the part, Hades thinks.

“There’s a reason why Uma abandoned her plot to force Auradon to bring down the barrier,” the teen states it as fact, and, as far as he’s concerned, it probably is. “She knew it would only lead to more blood shed.”

“The goal is to get as many of us off the Isle alive, if we are to get off at all,” Harry continues as he comes to stand toe to toe with the god.

“And if we can’t get off the Isle?” Hades asks.

“We’ve survived this long. We’ve survived worse, and we’re making the Isle better and better, day by day.” The red in the teen’s eyes seems to subside as he adds, “You haven’t been topside much, have you?”

“Things are changing,” he says. “The tides coming in.”

_____________________________________

“Will you marry me?” King Ben of Auradon asks, voice reverberating through the nearly empty fish and chip shop from its crappy little telly, its color fading in and out.

“Will you be my queen?” he asks that purple haired traitor, prompting Harry to throw the meagre food Gil placed in front of him at the TV.

“Feck you!” he bellows, sparking red, as the purple haired fae exclaims, “Yes!”

He can’t believe Auradon’s nerve! Turning this momentous day for the Isle children into another one all about them. This will all but ensure the news of the four more VK coming over to being second page news.

“Those feckin’ idiots! Have they no idea wha’ we’ve been through?” the King of the Isle seethes.

He had to send the Smees and the other children with their guardians to the limos under guard (undercover, of course) because the streets still weren’t a hundred percent safe—the perpetrators of the fire and the attacks on Celia and the attempted one against Dizzy were still at large. Thankfully his crew had gotten there just in time, but there is no guarantee others won’t get any last minute ideas.

Harry hears the sound of the shop’s doors opening with Gil and Jonas scrambling toward whoever dares to approach the king.

“Bad time?” comes the teasing question from the god of the Underworld.

No wonder his crew was unable or, more likely, unwilling to stop the newcomer’s approach.

“Don’t ye hav’ somewhere ta be?” Harry asks, taking his hook off of his belt loop, having the urge to move his hands in the rhythmic self soothing that is siding his fingers over the curve of the cool metal, watching as the light catches on its rounded, yet sharp, surface.

The god is fiddling with an object of his own, blue and stonelike, that wasn’t in his hands when he came to Harry’s ship in the wee hours of the night turned morning hours before. “What? And miss the seething?”

Harry’s grip on his hook tightens, red having yet to fully recede from his vision, and the immortal must decide not to push his luck further. “Alright, alright,” the blue haired man concedes. “I’ll start my ‘angry stomp’ now.” He then proceeds to do just that, stomping obnoxiously out of the shop, as agreed upon.

Harry rolls his eyes at his departure, utterly done with the day that this has already been.

“Gil,” the young king says, summoning his second in command to his side.

“Yes, Captain?”

Harry starts toward the back door of the shop. The other pirate is forced to follow after him with Jonas bringing up the rear.

“I’m goin’ back to me room. Wake me when Auradon makes their announcement.”

“Announcement?”

Harry doesn't bother explaining, far too tired from recent events, feeling the building pressure of a migraine coming on. Maybe he overdid it with the lack of sleep this week?

Unbeknownst to the new Isle king, the land across the water continues screaming, crying, begging for her younger sister to reconsider, banging on the barrier between them.

Pounding.

Pounding.

Pounding.

Chapter Text

Hades almost escaped the Isle of the Lost.

Mal, Ben, Ben’s parents, and Fair Godmother decide not to make the announcement about the Isle’s closing for two days, giving themselves a buffer to decompress from the almost prison break that was the god of the Underworld—for which the half fae is secretly grateful for.

Immediately following the decision in the king’s office, though, said king is wincing, clutching at his head, stumbling.

“Are you okay?”

“Son?”

“Ben?”

“King Ben?”

They all voice their concern, but the young man waves them off, shrugging their reaching hands off of himself.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re clearly not,” Mal says, reaching for his arm to steady him, comfort him.

He flinches.

“Ben?”

“It’s just a sudden headache,” he insists, flashing a tight smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

Mal swallows, blinking back tears at the sudden distance between them.

“It’s probably all the stress of the engagement and then the attack,” Belle, his mother, reasons. “Maybe you should go lie down.”

Ben won’t meet Mal’s gaze as he respectfully nods in agreement without saying another word before departing.

And Mal feels incredibly alone.

_________________________

In search of being less alone, Mal finds herself back at Evie’s cottage, arriving just in time to hear the tale end of a story Dizzy’s telling the rest of the Core Four, with the three other new VKs spread out around the living room.

“—and then King Harry made me his Royal Seamstress!”

“Who?” Mal asks, raising an eyebrow as she plops down on the couch beside Celia, who brackets Dizzy with Evie on the other side.

“King Harry?”

Celia rolls her eyes. “You know, Harry Hook. The only capable older VK left, with enough clout, after you and Uma left.”

Mal draws back at that, feeling unexpectedly attacked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Jay snorts from where he lounges on the floor, back against the opposite couch where Carlos and the Smee twins sit. “That crazy pirate, capable enough to be king of the whole Isle?”

“Yeah,” Carlos adds, snickering, “I mean, the only thing he’s king of is the King of Destruction.”

The two older VKs share a laugh, high fiving each other.

“Guys,” Evie reprimands, watching with Mal as Celia’s face hardens and Dizzy puffs up her cheeks in irritation. Across from them, the Smee twins start to noticeably pull away from the still snickering son of DeVil and Jafar, pulling themselves closer to the arms of the couch.

“Guys!” Mal tries, but it’s already too late.

“That’s not true!” Dizzy shouts, standing.

“Woah, woah!” Jay says. His hands go up in a placating gesture. “We were just joking.”

“Yeah,” Carlos giggles, “I’m sure Harry’s a great king.”

“He is!” The young girl stomps her foot.

Mal can’t believe this. “Didn’t he threaten you and extort you for money in your grandmother's shop?” she asks. “I can’t imagine he’s gotten much nicer since Uma’s left town.”

Celia answers before Dizzy can, getting up to stand in solidarity by the other Isle girl. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of,” she says with a pointed look at the half-fae.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Celia says, gaze assessing, before turning to the other younger VKs. “Come on Dizzy, Smees, let's go.”

“Dizzy!” Evie calls as the daughter of Facilier leads the aspiring seamstress out of the room by the hand, the twins scrambling off the couch after them.

“Let them go, E,” Mal says, suddenly tired.

“But—”

“Yeah, they’ll come around,” Jay says, getting up to put a comforting hand on her shoulder as he passes to the kitchen, Carlos following close behind him after a hesitant beat.

Would they, though? That seems like a really strong reaction for something they would just ‘get over.’

“Mal?” Evie says, pulling the half fae from her musings.

“Hm?”

“What do you think she meant about Harry being king?”

“Yeah,” Jay says while rummaging around in the cottage’s fridge and cupboards, piling Carlos’ arms with food for them to snack on. “Last I checked, there’s no royalty left on the Isle, besides the Evil Queen and maybe if you count Ursula and her sister.”

“I don’t know. Carlos, thoughts?”

“Why are you asking me?” the son of DeVil asks, already starting in on a bag of chips in one of his hands. “I hardly know anything about how the pirates do things.”

She rolls her eyes. “Great. If our resident genius doesn’t know…”

Jay loudly shuts a drawer pulling out spoons for the ice cream cartons amongst the pile in Carlos’ arms. “I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s probably just Harry asserting dominance on the Isle in Uma’s absence.”

“I’m not so sure it is,” Evie says.

“Me either,” Mal agrees, turning to the blue haired princess. “E, you're on recon duty.”

“What?! Why me?”

“Because Dizzy trusts you, and if anybody's going to tell us what’s been going on on the Isle since we left it, it’s her.”

“But—!” Evie tries to argue, but Mal is already making her way to the door, any chance at a good mood that evening thoroughly foiled. It also conveniently allows her to put off telling Evie about the permanent Isle barrier closure.

_________________________

“Hey,” Evie says to Dizzy later that night, creaking the door to the girl’s room open, hefting a tray of apples and caramel in her arms. “Can I come in? I brought snacks.”

The young seamstress still looks morose from where she sits against the headboard of her bed, sewing a button onto a coat she’s obviously been working on. From the small size and blue hue, Evie assumes it's likely for one of the twins. “I guess.”

The princess takes it as permission to enter, smiling a small smile at her young charge that doesn’t quite meet her eyes and which Dizzy awkwardly watches, setting her sewing aside as Evie sits in front of her on the bedspread.

“Is this about me defending King Harry?” she asks.

Evie shakes her head. “Here,” she says, taking an apple slice from the tray set between them and dipping it in the melted caramel, “try this.”

Dizzy huffs, but takes the fruit from her, taking a bite.

“Woah!” she says, eyes widening. “This is amazing!” Evie giggles. “I didn’t know apples could taste like this!”

“That’s because getting caramel on the Isle is next to impossible,” the older VK tells her. “You know, people in Auradon will put apples on sticks for festivals and holidays and dip them fully in melted caramel. Sometimes they’ll sprinkle nuts, chocolate, and other things all over them, which the caramel holds to the apple like glue as it dries.”

“Woah!” Dizzy gasps in awe. “Will I get to go to a festival?!”

“Of course!” Evie says, the other girl’s excitement infectious.

“Cool!” the young VK says, taking another bite of caramel apple.

Evie watches her young charge eat for a moment, just basking in her happiness, in her joy that all the Isle kids should be able to experience.

“Mal and the others,” the older VK starts, causing Dizzy to pause mid-bite, “nobody knew Harry could do some of what you described.”

Evie pulls her legs up onto the bed more fully. “But that doesn’t mean the King Harry you spoke of doesn’t exist or is undeserving of praise.”

Dizzy sets down her apple slice. “You believe me?”

The question breaks the older teen’s heart a little.

“Oh!” Evie shoves the tray further down the bedspread so she can join her little seamstress up by the headboard and gather her up into her arms. “Of course I do! Never be in doubt,” she tells her, kissing the top of Dizzy's head as she clings to the older VK, sniffling.

“Then why did the others—?”

Evie shakes her head, closing her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Dizzy asks, sitting up a little, causing the older VK to look at her—a girl, a young woman who is almost the same age Evie and Mal were when they came to Auradon, but somehow so impossibly innocent.

“Old rivalries,” Evie sniffs, not able to continue gazing into those too innocent orbs. “Bad blood? A belief that only Mal was born as the true leader of the Isle?” She huffs a self deprecating laugh. “So many things it could be.”

“But,” the blue haired princess meets Dizzy’s eyes when she says, “that doesn’t mean their opinions won’t change. They haven’t seen it, they haven’t tasted it,” she cracks a smile, “sort of like caramel apples.” This earns her a watery smile from the younger VK.

“So how about you start from the beginning?” Evie suggests, pulling the tray back toward them. “Tell me everything about King Harry’s exploits, hm? And how his royal seamstress came to be?”

That earns Evie the biggest smile yet from Dizzy. “Okay!” she says as she reaches for an apple slice and begins her tale fully.

“So it all started the night of the cotillion…”

Parts of the beginning of Dizzy’s story, Evie already knew first hand. Everyone in Auradon and the Isle waited with bated breath to see if Uma’s plan would succeed or fail.

And it failed.

From there, the recounting devolves into that of a fairytale. A whole people, a kingdom, seemingly making itself known over night.

“Everyone just woke up, still angry, having dreamt of the ruler we needed,” Dizzy says, “the change Uma and Mal promised us.” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure how we all seemed to come to the conclusion that it would be Harry. Something just pushed us towards the docks and it just all sort of clicked. Ya know?” she says by way of explanation.

“Celia and her dad say it was the will of the Isle, the land itself. That she’s alive. Does that make sense?” the young VK asks, grabbing another apple slice.

Evie finds herself slowly nodding. “I think so…” She remembers her mother mentioning something about how the land she ruled in Snow White’s father stead did not respond to her like it should.

“It didn’t like me.” Her mother had shaken her head in disbelief. “It didn’t matter what I did, but it just refused to listen to me. But, oh, it loved that Snow White!” she had spat. “Always Snow White! Always growing flowers where she would find them when she’d go out to collect water from the well, even though I’d have the other servants pluck them from the courtyard! They always grew back! Can you believe it?!”

Dizzy continues her story, unaware of where her blue haired friend’s mind had briefly wandered, finally at the part where she became the king’s personal seamstress. Evie makes sure to laugh and congratulate the young VK at all the right parts.

From there, Dizzy goes on to describe all the initiatives Harry and his council enacted, including the Night of Black Blood.

“Did my mother?” Evie can’t help but ask, feeling dread curling in her gut.

“No,” Dizzy vehemently shakes her head, messy buns bouncing. “But Cruella DeVil…” and Evie supposes that is answer enough.

Dizzy continues with her story, of how the orphans and other children of the Isle all had a safe place to sleep at night now (or as safe as it ever could be on the Isle). Then comes the harrowing tale of how King Harry’s crew had to save Dizzy from being killed after the announcement that she would be amongst the few going to Auradon the next week. How Celia was attacked outside her father’s shop. How the Smees’ apartment was set on fire.

“Oh my Apples!” Evie gasps. “Dizzy, are you—? I’m so sorry! We didn’t—! How did we not—?!”

“It’s okay,” the young VK tries to comfort her blue haired friend.

“No! It’s not!” Evie stresses, gripping Dizzy by the shoulders..

“I owe you and the other VKs an apology. We all do! We should have known.”

“But you—”

“We should have known,” Evie says firmly. “We know the darkness of the Isle better than anyone. We should have known or, at the very least, suspected something like this could happen.” Tears start to work their way down her cheeks. “We should have sent guards to remain with you. We should have just picked you up the same day! We didn’t have to wait a week. Apples!” the princess cries, curling in on herself, “Why did we wait a week?!”

Evie’s so thankful she was able to get Dizzy off the Isle and, most of all, she’s thankful to one Harry Hook. A sentiment she never dreamt of herself ever feeling. The only question now is how to explain this all in a way Mal and the others will be able to digest and not dismiss outright.

“There, there,” Dizzy says, patting her shoulder. “I’m sure King Ben had his reasons.”

Did he, though? Evie wonders. The only thing Evie can think of is No.

Maybe?

Please tell her Ben wasn’t so stupid as to—

“The proposal,” Evie gasps with a sudden epiphany, and suddenly inexplicably angry—the angriest she’s ever been since she’s come to Auradon.

Tomorrow, she vows, the blue haired princess will confront Ben about this awful planning.

Tomorrow, she’ll tell the other Core Four members what the new VKs went through in their absence.

Tomorrow, after Jane’s birthday party.

They can’t make the same mistake with the other VKs they are going to bring over.

Tomorrow…

Chapter Text

Tomorrow is today, and the Core Four find themselves blindsided by the arrival of an evil Audrey on Evie’s cottage’s walkway.

It quickly becomes apparent that the blue haired princess’ plans for the day will have to be postponed as they travel to the Isle to remove the curse placed on Mal and to obtain Hades’ Ember.

When Celia and the Core Four set foot inside their former home it is immediately apparent that the Isle is different from when they left it just before the cotillion.

“Is it just me or does the Isle seem a lot cleaner than it used to be?” Jay asks after Mal discovers her face is back to its youthful appearance.

“Yeah,” Carlos says, “I noticed that too when we came back those other times to get the new VKs.”

“And, is it just me,” May begins, “or do the people seem happier to you?”

Jay makes the mistake of nodding at one of the street rats he used to know only to get a dirty look in response. “And I don’t think it’s because of us,” he adds.

Celia snorts. “Of course it’s not because of you.”

The Core Four all look sharply at her.

“You know something,” Mal asserts.

Celia smiles slyly at her, shrugging by way of answering, before quickly leading them to her dad’s arcade.

She doesn't bother to explain Harry's decrees to them—they didn't bother to hear her the first time, and Evie supposes that’s fair. There is also not much time to get into all of that right now if they want to get in and out of the Isle fast.

Mal scoffs at the younger VK, and the blue haired princess can only sigh and pointedly not point out how the street sign on the corner has Mal’s name crossed out with Uma’s name written in above it.

Maybe they’ll all figure it out on their own.

____________________

Once they make it into Dr. Facilier’s arcade, of course her friends can’t leave well enough alone, with Mal asking if Carlos’ orphanage initiative has really made that much of a difference to the Islanders.

The Voodoo man laughs, shaking his head. “Haven’t you heard, little missy?”

“Heard what?”

“Why, the new Isle reforms, of course. It’s fall in line or die out there. And I don’t know about you, Sweetheart," he says before turning his attention to his youngest daughter, putting his hands on her shoulders from behind, “but your Pops wants to keep on the side of the living a bit longer.” Celia looks up at her father, smiling conspiratorially back at him.

“Reforms?” asks Jay, drawing closer to them from where he was inspecting one of the old pinball machines he used to frequent, probably checking to see if anyone has beaten his high score on it in his absence.

“Yeah,” Mal says, disbelievingly, “I think I’d remember putting any ominous reforms in place.”

Dr. Facilier’s smile drops as he’s quick to correct. “That’s because you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” The soon to be Queen of Auradon’s forehead crinkles. “How could—”

“As far as the Isle is concerned, you ain’t the ruler of us.”

Mal’s only response is to scoff and cross her arms. Evie wants to slap a hand to her forehead or maybe shake her friend by her shoulders. Was her friend always this—this egotistical? They’ve been away from the Isle for months upon months at a time. It’s rather hard to enact any change from the outside besides getting Auradon to send over better supplies and try to let a few more VKs off the Isle.

“But the Isle is part of Auradon—,” Carlos tries to argue.

“But not of it.” The Voodoo man’s eyes survey them each in turn. “Like recognizes like—,” he says, pausing to focus his attention back on Mal, “and the Isle ain’t be recognizin’ you no more, girl.”

Mal is too stunned to respond, so Jay continues in her stead, snorting, “You act as if the Isle is alive or something.”

“Oh—she is,” Dr. Facilier tells them, matter of factly. “All magical lands are—even ones forced to forgo magic. There's still magic in the soil.”

“How is that even possible?” Carlos asks, ever the scientist.

“Much like matter can’t be created or destroyed, so too exists magic.”

“So you’re saying—,” Mal starts, but whatever she’s about to say gets interrupted by Jay as he notices a familiar evil princess on the nearby TV screen showing Auradon’s main news station.

“Audrey!”

_____________________

“Captain!” Gil’s voice through Harry’s cabin door pulls him from heavy slumber. “My King!”

“Mm?” Harry grunts, eyes slowly cracking open, crusted with sleep, from his position on the bed without a shirt on.

The blond must find this to be permission to enter, because he barges right in.

“You told me to wake you when Auradon made their announcement.”

The pirate sighs, still feeling slightly off. His headache is still there, but sleep dulled its insistent pounding.

Getting his hands underneath him to lift himself up from the mattress, stretching his back, he asks, “‘Bout the barrier?”

“No,” Gil says, and that has Harry freezing.

Looking over his shoulder at the first mate, the king glares at the blond. The more muscular VK correctly interprets this to mean he should hurry up and deliver his news.

“It’s Princess Audrey.”

“Who?” Harry swings his legs out from under his scant covers to grab for a new shirt to wear, discarded on the floor.

“Sleeping Beauty’s daughter,” Gil clarifies as his captain and king shrugs on his chosen clothing.

“Huh,” Harry says, standing up and starting to accumulate his accessories scattered about his mess of a room.

The blond swallows. “She, uh, has Maleficent’s scepter and seems to be turning people to stone and cursing them to fall asleep.”

The young king snorts. “Oh yeah?”

The other pirate nods. “Yeah and—Oh!” Gil clearly just remembers something, which only makes Harry sigh as he turns to look in his broken vanity mirror. His makeup doesn’t look unbearably smudged.

It will have to do, he thinks to himself as he picks up his sword from its place leaning against the bed to sheath into its holder on his belt.

“Yea’?”

“Mal, Evie, Carlos, Jay, and Celia are back on the Isle.”

“What?!” Harry turns on his heel to face the blond, having, thankfully, just put his sword away or else he’d have likely swiped the other teen with its pointy end by accident. “Why didn’t ye lead wit’ tha’?!” he snarls, eyes collecting a film of red.

Gil looks puzzled by this.

“But you said—”

“Ferget wha’ I said.” Harry slashes his hand through the air between them before pushing past the idiot and out of his room.

“Des!” the king shouts, summoning the light footed girl, Desiree, to his side, out from one of the other living quarters on his way to the ship’s topside. “Report!”

“The traitors and Celia arrived about half an hour ago by motorbike. They just entered Dr. Facilier’s arcade. It seems Celia and Maleficent’s daughter are going to see Hades.”

Harry nods. “Good. Keep an eye on them.” The king turns to face his guards, Gil and Jonas, who have fallen in behind him. “You two, go and make their life difficult.”

“Um, difficult?” Gil asks.

The captain sighs. “Take their motorcycles.”

“Oh!” Gil nods in sudden understanding.

______________________

“Glad to see the mobs didn’t get ya, Kiddo,” Hades winks at Celia when she comes out from hiding to stand by his daughter.

Mal rolls her eyes. He must be referring to the girl’s time in Auradon. Speaking of Auradon…

“Dad, why did you try to break out of the Isle?” she asks. “You must have known it wouldn’t work.”

He snorts. “Of course I knew it wasn’t going to work.”

“So then why—?”

“I’m a god,” Hades says by way of explanation, before plopping himself down on his rickety old couch. “Do I need a reason?”

Mal just shakes her head in exasperation.

“By the way,” her father continues, “have you gone to see the king yet?”

“What?”

“You know, it’s common courtesy and all that to visit the ruler of the land you’re visiting.”

She snorts dismissively. “Yeah, okay, Dad. I’ll get right on that.”

She doesn’t think anymore of his advice as he proceeds to give her his ember and send her on her way.

Why should she?

_________________________

An hour after Gil and Jonas leave their king’s side, only one of them returns, and with unfortunate news.

“Gil’s gone,” Jonas says. “He jumped through the hole in the barrier after Celia and the traitors.”

Harry sighs wearily.

“Shite.”

Chapter Text

The day is saved by the Core Four, Celia, and, in a strange twist, Gil and Uma.

Though the barrier permanently closing has come to light to Evie, the blue haired princess still hasn’t found time to bring up the other multitude of issues Dizzy’s recounting of Auradon’s failings has brought to attention

It’s the day after Audrey was defeated. Hades was just escorted back to the Isle. Uma, Gil, and Celia are close to leaving for the small isle, too, when Ben stops them on their way out of the castle to say, “I think we need an official representative of the Isle of the Lost.”

The King of Auradon, Mal, Jay, and Carlos all look to Uma, but Evie lets her gaze fall to Gil. She watches as his face crinkles in confusion.

“I can’t,” the sea witch says. Her former second mate’s face smooths out, relieved.

Mal doesn’t see this, though, isn’t watching. “What do you mean you can’t?” she asks. “When we left the Isle, you’d practically become their queen. This is perfect for you.”

“Yeah, and then who left the Isle?” Uma questions bitterly. “Who next left the Isle without a word?”

Her words seem to finally be getting through to the other VKs as silence descends upon them.

“Surely your pirate crew—,” King Ben starts.

“Doesn’t answer to me,” the former ship captain turns to Gil. “Not anymore.” She looks back at the rest of them. “I failed them.”

“No,” the king still tries to argue, “I’m sure you didn't—”

“Yes!” Uma shouts back vehemently. “I did!”

“But Harry and Gil—,” Carlos says.

“Are the only ones that might even possibly still recognize me as their leader.” She shakes her head. “They’re too loyal for their own good.”

Evie looks to the blond to see what he made of that comment, but Gil just smiles at this, nonplussed.

“So,” Ben asks, “who will lead the Isle of the Lost if not you?”

“Harry,” Uma says simply.

And, already, Evie is wincing in anticipation of Mal’s response, and she is not disappointed.

“Are you serious?” her best friend asks.

“Mal—,” Evie sighs.

“They weren’t all joking?!”

The blue haired princess wants to bury her head in her hands.

“Wait, wait, wait—,” Carlos says, stepping in between them all. “So Dizzy and the Smee twins, Celia, were they all telling the truth? Harry’s really been crowned King of the Isle?”

Uma remains silent. Her eyes dart to Gil, who just shrugs and smiles.

“Well, yeah,” he says earnestly. “Like, who else was it gonna be?”

They lapse into another bout of shocked silence.

“I don’t believe it,” Jay finally says, shaking his head.

“The guy that tied Ben to a post?” he scoffs pointedly to Ben.

“The guy who will do anything for his dad’s hook?” Jay’s gaze lands on Uma, who glares, lifting her chin to dare him to continue. Seeing this, he looks away. It must be all the confirmation he needs. “Shit.”

“Come on guys, it can’t be that bad,” King Ben says.

“Sure,” Mal says sarcastically, “I can’t think of any reason a deranged pirate shouldn’t be in charge of an island full of children and dangerous criminals like my mother.”

Evie speaks up before either Uma or Gil has a chance, sick of the ignorance and naivety of her friends. “He has been making life as good as it can be on the Isle given his limited resources, or did you not hear what Dizzy and the others said?”

“Come on, E,” Jay says, pointedly not looking in Uma and Gil’s direction, “you gotta admit, it's all a little far fetched.”

Evie gives him a disbelieving look. “Jay, Harry literally robbed Dizzy’s shop right in front of Mal. Do you really think she has any biases?”

There’s a moment of silence before Jay offers up a weak, “Dizzy likes everyone?”

“Then what about me?” Celia finally speaks. “Will you take my word for it?

“You want to know why they made him ruler of the Isle?” She looks at each and every one of them in turn. “It’s because he never left! He never gave us any false promises! He gave us what he could. He protected us. If it wasn’t for him, Dizzy and the Smees wouldn’t be alive today and I wouldn’t ever have been able to step foot outside my father’s place again.”

Evie moves closer to the daughter of Dr. Facilier in an attempt at comfort. “Celia—”

“No!” she says, backing up. “You weren’t there!” She surveys them again. “You all could have ruled her, but you left! You abandoned her!”

“Wait—what? Whose her?” Mal asks.

“Who’s been abandoned?” King Ben asks.

“The Isle of the Lost, duh,” the younger VK says, like it's obvious, like they all are stupid. And maybe they are, Evie thinks.

“All magical lands have to have a ruler, someone who can maintain their land, whose very essence is allowed to become tied to it. It’s how royals keep their claims.” She looks over to Ben as if he should know this. “The land literally recognizes them and feeds off of them and they off it.” She lets her gaze slide back over to the VKs. “And since we all were born of this magically suppressed Isle, we all had some of the potential to rule it.

“For older lands,” Celia says, looking back at the king, “with long lineages of rulers, this magic is less apparent, watered down over time. The land goes to sleep and its people can sometimes forget that it's there—”

“My headaches…,” Ben murmurs almost too quietly for Evie to catch.

The daughter of the Voodoo man continues, not hearing the Auradonian or uncaring, “—while newer lands, like the Isle, have new magic that is very much awake and more linked to its first peoples.”

“So, why didn’t the Isle choose Mal or Uma to tie itself to before?” Jay asks.

Celia rolls her eyes. “Because it was waiting for them to come of age. You don’t just tie that much magic to a kid.”

“And sixteen is when a royal comes of age,” Ben says, the gravity of magic inherent in all of the lands of the kingdom just now seeming to break through to him.

“Yeah,” Celia says, “sixteen tends to be a magical year for some reason.”

“And,” Carlos swallows, “how old is Harry?”

“He’d just turned sixteen as I left,” Uma answers.

“I was fifteen when I left, almost sixteen,” Mal says, seeming to finally be coming to the same conclusion as everyone else. “Uma only just turned sixteen a few months ago.”

“Gods,” Jay says.

“Well,” Ben says after they’ve had another long moment to digest this information, “then it looks like we need to schedule a meeting with the ruler of the Isle of the Lost.”

“Before that, though,” Evie chimes in. Her smile is overly sweet as she steps up to Ben. “Perhaps we should address your decision to wait a week between the announcement of the VKs we would be taking with us and the pick up date.”

The son of the beast looks thrown by this sudden turn. “Uh—”

“And why you thought the moment before we would be picking up the other VKs was the appropriate time to propose to Mal, overshadowing our efforts to highlight our VK program.”

Wide eyed, the king swallows. “Uh—”

“And why none of us,” Evie looks to Mal, Carlos, and Jay, “thought about the consequences of leaving four children unprotected on an island full of desperate criminals and VKs after we basically painted a target on their backs.”

“You did what?!” Uma’s eyes narrow at them.

Evie’s smile turns dark as she says, “Let’s talk.”

“Yes,” the sea witch agrees, coming to stand beside the blue haired princess to stare down the Core Four and Aurodan’s king. “Let’s.”

Chapter Text

Harry barely has time to react to the news Desiree delivers to him before he spots the approaching entourage through his spy glass from his place at the helm of his ship.

The teal of his captain’s braids stun him, and he can’t identify what he feels at the sight of her.

A part of him is relieved. A part of him never doubted her return after these many long months. She’d always find a way back to him, to the Isle.

But, another part of him, the one more connected to her and the darkest parts of himself, the cruelest parts he’s inherited from his father—is enraged.

How dare she return after abandoning them?!

Where was her loyalty?!

Harry could have gone through the barrier with Gil had he gone instead of one of his other crew members. He could have left, but he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

A captain doesn’t just abandon their ship, their people, not knowing how or if they would return.

The King of the Isle grips the side of the boat in a white knuckle grip, the weight of his crown of various tangled metals and jewels heavy on his head, watching the group draw near.

Harry has to hold himself back from jumping from the ship and swimming to the docks, whether to hug and fawn, or punch and skewer, he doesn’t know—and it's best he doesn’t find out.

“My King,” Bonnie prompts from his side.

Harry hands the spyglass off to her.

“Lower the gang plank and let them come up.”

“My King?”

“We’ll talk on the deck.” He doesn’t want Uma to see him using her captain’s office in that way, as much as he wants to, appealing to the hidden vindictive part of him. He’ll just have to split the difference.

“Bring me throne,” he orders. “An’ hav’ Helga come up here. Hav’ her people at both ends of the plank, stationed around the sides.”

“Glad I don’t have to argue for your safety this time, my King,” comes the German woman’s voice from behind him.

Harry turns to face her with a withering glare, which does nothing to hinder her smug smirk.

“I won’t be takin’ any chances.”

“As is wise,” she replies.

“Go,” the pirate king orders, sick of the knowness in her eyes—of the silent ‘Unlike Uma,’ that is so clearly present. It irks Harry as much as it helps spur on the prideful warmth glowing in his chest. “And summon me uncle, too.” There isn’t any time to gather the rest of his council for him, so this will have to do.

The Isle watches this all, seething and preening.

Her sister sits with baited breath.

_____________________________________

When the Core Four, alongside Ben, Celia, Gil, and Uma, step aboard the deck of the Lost Revenge, they are greeted to the sight of a contingent of well organized guards headed by Helga Sinclair, who stands just behind a seated Harry Hook with Mr. Smee. The Isle King’s seat is a teal throne painted with accents of red, clearly having been originally meant for a different ruler. On top his head sits a crown made of an array of twisted ores and sparkling gems of various sizes.

Evie is happy to note that the scolding from her, Uma, and Celia, and the clear respect Harry wields from the other Isle inhabitants, has her three long time friends and King Ben bowing shallowly, but respectfully, to the newly installed King of the Isle.

Gil, Uma, and Celia bow lower alongside Evie.

Harry’s only response is a raised eyebrow at the different displays. It’s unclear if he's surprised or not with the amused grin he’s sporting, but it’s something.

“King Harrison Killigan Jones,” Ben says, speaking for them, being the most prominent in station of those gathered before the other king.

“King Benny,” Harry says, forgoing any other formality. “To what do I owe ye the pleasure?”

“I apologise for missing your coronation,” Ben earnestly says, straightening from his bow, everyone else behind him following his lead.

The pirate king laughs.

“You do?!” Harry practically crows with delight.

“Well, aren’t ye sweet?” he says, voice dripping sarcasm.

“Is this where I’m supposed ta say ‘I’m sorry fer missin’ yers’?” He lets his chin rest in the palm of one of his hands, propped up on the arm of his chair. “Ye’ll fergive me tha’ I was unable ta attend.”

Ben tries not to make his nervous swallow noticeable as he chuckles awkwardly. “No, no. That’s alright.”

“Are you sure?” Harry prods.

“Harry—!” Mal starts, but Evie’s hand clamps down hard on her arm, preventing her from saying more.

The King of the Isle stares at the two of them for a long moment, eyes flashing red, before Ben's clearing of his throat recapture’s his attention.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the King of Auradon says, “but I brought you a coronation gift.” Ben takes a long rectangular box that Jay had been carrying into his own hands and makes a show of slowly approaching Harry’s seated form and presenting it neatly to him once he is a few paces away.

Harry makes a barely perceptible gesture with his hand, prompting Sinclair to step forward and accept the package on her king’s behalf. This allows Ben to retreat back to his original place amongst the VKs. Meanwhile, Sinclair quickly inspects the gift. Deeming it harmless enough, she hands it carefully over to her still sitting king, who accepts it with a sigh, as if the whole ordeal is a painful, but necessary process, which, Evie supposes, it is.

The blue haired princess never really thought about it, but her best friend’s royal life isn’t as glamorous as the news networks and the news sites make it out to be, is it? All the pomp and ceremony. All the lengthy and drawn out meetings, talking in circles.

Evie hasn’t once envied her friend for being drawn into the royal lifestyle the Evil Queen had always envisioned for her daughter. Not since that very first Parent’s Day at Auradon.

Opening the lid of the box, Harry pulls out an ornate silver, ceremonial saber, bejeweled with stones of gold beryl and blood red rubies with a detailed, almost exact, replica of the design on Harry’s signet ring, taken right from Dizzy’s sketchbook for a one time casting, at its hilt. All of these details the new king takes in with what Evie thinks is an impressed expression.

“I thought a king should have a proper tool to knight those under his command,” Ben explains.

“Mm,” Harry hums, letting a finger skim down the flat side of the blade, admiringly.

“I suppose we have been lackin’ one of these,” he eventually concedes, bringing his gaze back to the other ruler. “Thank ye.”

Ben’s face breaks out into a bright and hopeful smile. “You’re very welcome. I hope it can be the start of good relations between Auradon and the Isle.”

“Mm,” Harry hums again. His eyes flash red, putting Evie more on edge. She can feel Mal similarly tensing underneath her hand that’s still on her arm.

“So, Auardon and its many kingdoms recognize me claimin’ the throne?”

Ben swallows. “I speak for all of Auradon and her people.”

Harry cocks his head to the side, as if listening to something, eyes going distant, and Ben allows for the pause, seemingly expecting it.

Finally, the pirate blinks back to the present, a wide grin slowly unfurling across his face.

“Ye do, don’t you?”

The other king doesn’t answer, but Harry’s laugh is answer enough.

“So,” the King of the Isle drawls, “where does that leave us?”

“You’re referring to the barrier?” Ben assumes.

Harry nods. “Or do ye typically leave the lands ya recognize under yer lock an’ key?”

“We’ll be removing it,” Ben tells him.

“Oh?” Harry asks as the guards around him exchange significant looks. “Tell me, when exactly did you come ta tha’ decision?”

The King of Auradon looks sheepish at this. “Admittedly, it is a very,” he tellingly looks at Mal, and Evie has to stifle a sigh at how obvious he is, before Ben meets Harry’s eye once more, “recent decision.”

And because Harry isn’t an idiot, of course he pounces on what his fellow ruler just revealed. “I take it not all were in agreement?”

Mal squares her shoulders and Evie decides to drop her hand and let things play out.

“Hades didn’t give us much of a choice,” the half-fae says. “It was Auradon’s safety or the Isle’s freedom.” She meets Harry’s gaze, head held high. “We did what was best for our people.”

Harry looks neither surprised nor disappointed by this declaration. “So, you admit the Isle is not of your people?”

Mal’s eyes widened at this. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.”

“But I was wrong,” she insists. Now it is Ben who tries to step closer to her, wanting to calm the flashing green in her eyes, but she shrugs him off. “I was wrong!”

The King of the Isle watches this all happen rather impassively.

“Not really,” he finally says. “The second ye left the Isle an’ chose to listen to Auradon, become a different land’s queen, ye ceased ta be one of hers.”

Mal looks stricken at this.

“The Isle may have been created by Auradon, but it does not belong to it. She has come inta her own without ye.”

“Fine,” Mal bites out, finding some resolve even as Evie can see her fighting back tears. She was always so much more sensitive than people thought. “But I was still wrong to want to close the barrier forever.”

To this declaration, Harry shrugs with a mischievous smirk. “Perhaps.”

“You can't seriously be agreeing with me that we should have just closed the barrier?!”

“Who da ye think is the one who ordered Hades ta act as he did?” Evie can feel her jaw drop open at this, much like her best friend’s does.

“Best way to ward off other villains from escapin’ or killin’ more innocent VKs in their want to get off the Isle,” Harry goes on to explain. “I knew what the possible repercussions might entail—and I’d rather those of the Isle all stay alive trapped under a barrier than a few free and the rest dead, wouldn’t you?” The King of the Isle looks so weary and resigned just then, like he's aged ten years before their eyes, like he’s seen and done more things in the last six months than the rest of them could ever fathom. It strikes Evie the momentous extent of what exactly they all left him to deal with on the Isle in their absence.

“That is—,” Mal starts.

“A reasonable and responsible way of handling the situation,” King Ben smoothly cuts in, bowing his head solemnly.

“On behalf of all of Auradon, I apologize that you had to go to such extremes because of our lack of foresight.”

Harry leans back in his chair, neither accepting or denying the apology, which Evie supposes is probably the best they could reasonably hope for, as he moves on to asking, “When can we expect the barrier to come down?”

“Tomorrow,” Ben answers, lifting his head once more. “The barrier will come down at noon and the magical bridge will permanently be set in place.”

The other king nods. “And all of those on the Isle will be able to come and go as they please?”

“Within reason.” Ben carefully says. “Certain villains like Gaston and—”

“Tha’ won’t be an issue.”

Ben falters. “What do you mean?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at them. “Didn’t Dizzy an’ Celia tell you?” His eyes skirt to where the young VK stands.

Celia throws up her hands. “Hey! Don’t look at me! I tried to tell them!”

Her king snorts, turning her attention back to Ben. “All villains and VKs unwilling to abide by the Isles' new values—no rapin’, no general murderin’, etc.—they’ve been culled.”

The sharp inhale of King of Auradon speaks for itself.

“What?”

“Ye left us wit’ no choice, Benny,” Harry sneers. “We have no room fer proper prisons, an’ ye keep sendin’ shipments of evil doers ta our shores. Pray tell, wha’ were we supposed ta do?” He stares down the other ruler, daring him to argue.

The words Dr. Facilier had told Mal in the arcade that suddenly comes to mind, “It’s fall in line or die.”

Cocking his head to the side, Harry asks, “When can we expect yer drop offs, of prisoners, and garbage, ta stop?”

Ben looks taken aback. “Uh—the prisoners will stop immediately.”

“Good. And?”

“And—,” the King of Auradon starts, licking his lips nervously, “no more garbage will be shipped. Better supplies overall will be shipped instead and continue to be shipped as a show of good relations between our kingdoms from today onward until more formal trade agreements can be established.”

“Hang on,” Mal begins. “What makes you think anyone will want to remain on the Isle, that people won’t just want to leave once the barrier is down? There won’t be anything holding them back from leaving.”

“I don’t know, Mally,” Harry goads. “What made you wan’ ta come back the first time?”

And that, Evie can tell, Mal doesn’t have a good answer to.

“The Isle is home to many a soul. For many, it is all they have ever an’ will ever know, an’ ye can’t tell me we won’t have interested parties from other kingdoms at least a wee bit interested in settin’ up shop here, hm?” The king grins.

“Now,” he snaps his fingers, which seems to be the cue for Mr. Smee to step forward, the man writing wildly on a piece of parchment he’s suddenly pulled out from his belt, alongside an extra quill.

Two guards step forward with a small table that they set down between the two kings, much to the Core Four’s, Ben’s, and even Uma’s bafflement.

“Good,” the King of the Isle says graciously, rising from his seat and approaching the table where his father’s former first mate places the piece of paper he was scribbling away on. “Let’s make it official then, unless ye have anythin’ else you’d like ta add?”

Ben hesitantly steps toward the table. “Is this—?”

Harry just grins, gesturing to the pen and ink. “Ye first, Benny boy.”

_____________________________________

The celebration the following day concerning the dropping of the barrier and the official announcement of the Isle as its own independent nation and kingdom outside of Auradon’s sphere of influence goes on well into the night.

As the party is winding down, it finds the new King of the Isle of the Lost sitting on the edge of the newly permanent bridge that leads to the Isle with his former captain, their feet dangling over the side. It’s the first time they’ve been truly alone amongst all the preparations and well wishes, especially since Harry had made a point of ignoring her during negotiations with the King of Auradon.

“Harry,” Uma says.

“Hm?” The son of a pirate finds himself slightly buzzed this evening, feeling warm and fuzzy from the barrier’s fall. It allowed for the Isle’s reuniting with the magic that could only belong to the mainland of Auradon, along with an influx of the Isle’s own magic coming in that had been restricted under the barrier. It felt like the warmest hug he’d ever had and made him nicely drowsy and complacent, especially as the day turned to night. And, best of all, it wiped out any traces of lingering mistrust and anger he felt toward his goddess of a captain.

“How did you do all this?” she asks, breaking through the cozy feeling to keep his mind from wandering too far, the sound of partying on the shores of Auradon and the Isle muffled by their distance.

“Do what?” he asks.

“This.” She knocks there shoulders together to grab his attention as she pointedly nods towards Auradon and then the Isle. “How did you manage all this?”

“Oh!” Harry says with a huff and a lazy wave. “I jus’ asked meself, ‘wha’ would Uma do?’” At least, that’s how it all started.

“Harry,” Uma sighs, taking one of his hands in both of hers, turning to face him. The touch draws his eyes to the sight of his hand being wrapped up by her soft, smooth, near black skin in the moonlight.

“Hmm,” Harry hums.

“Harry, I’d never think of doing half the things you did.”

Her words draw his gaze up to those dark, powerful, demanding eyes he’d so missed.

“That’s not—”

Uma cuts him off with a finger to his lips. “It’s true.”

“Uma,” he whispers against her skin.

She looks sad and proud all at once. “You don’t need me,” she tells him.

“No!” he all but shouts, alarmed. He takes her hands in his, reversing their positions, so she can’t slip away from him. Never again.

“I do,” he argues. “I do need you.”

“No,” she continues. “You never needed me, Hook.”

“Maybe,” Harry finally relents, because, maybe in the strictest sense, it’s true.

“But I’ve always wanted you,” he admits, because that’s ever been truer. “And I would give ye me throne if I could.” If he thought the Isle would have her back in such a capacity.

The Isle rumbles her disapproval as Uma objects, “Harry—”

“Please,” he pleads, because he’s not above begging, and he wants his captain—his heart—back. “Don’t leave me again.”

Uma finally stops trying to reason with him. She’s always known he’s been gone for her—mad for her—always for her.

One of her hands escapes his grasp and comes up to caress one of his cheeks.

“Harry,” she sighs, searching his face, maybe memorizing it, drinking it in like he’s drinking in hers under the glow of the full moon.

“I can’t promise I won’t ever leave you again,” she says. “But I can always promise to come back.”

“Swear it?” he asks, innocently lifting up his trusted hook.

Uma cracks a smile at that, hooking her finger on it, bringing Harry’s attention, for the first time, to the signet ring on her hand—a glinting octopus wrapped around a trident.

“I swear,” she says, with a mischievous grin. “And to seal it—” she takes his face in her hands, leaning in, “—a kiss.”

As Uma brings their faces together, finally making Harry’s pipe dream a reality, he has the passing wonderful thought that he’ll likely get to wear those fine clothes his mother prepared for him after all.

And isn’t that a wonderful thought?