Inside the dark and cramped cupboard, the air was suffocatingly thick, stale with the pungent stench of old wood and dust.
A narrow little bed pressed tight against the wall, its faded sheets frayed down to the edges.
A thin, small boy lay curled on top, looking like a heap of discarded rags.
Suddenly, that small figure bolted upright, standing straight up on the bed.
The boy’s eyes were wide and dilated; instinctively, his palm slapped against his hip—where a sword ought to hang, the blade belonging solely to Captain Potter.
Yet his fingertips met only rough, cotton pajamas.
Harry James Potter’s breathing hitched for a fraction of a second as his sight gradually cleared, unveiling a scene from six years ago.
His former home.
This space, originally intended for the homeowner’s storage and barely big enough to fit a single small bed, had once been his home.
A sudden surge of bewilderment and helplessness washed over him, as though he had just awakened from a long, unbelievable dream.
How could that have been just a dream?
The great Captain Potter of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, bearer of a Letter of Marque signed personally by King George II—how could that possibly be a mere dream?
The ruthless and selfish Blackbeard; Jack Sparrow, who yearned for freedom; Davy Jones, hopelessly devoted to the Sea Goddess; the endlessly greedy Barbossa; Elizabeth, with her mouth full of lies; and him—Harry Potter, the Earl of the High Seas who represented order and bound the pirates together!
Was all of it truly fake?
Before long, however, Harry halted his spiraling thoughts!
The very first lesson a pirate’s life had taught him was never to lose his head in the middle of chaos!
Taking a deep breath, Harry pressed a hand against the surging emotions in his chest, allowing reason to slowly return to those bright green eyes.
He stood barefoot on the bed, his toes gripping the thin mattress, pulling up that vast store of memory to examine it once more.
It really did feel like a dream.
Because it had no proper beginning.
He remembered suddenly collapsing onto a ship.
It hadn’t been Blackbeard’s Queen Anne’s Revenge—he wasn’t worthy of such a legendary vessel back then—just an ordinary three-masted full-rigged ship.
The Janos Pirate Crew.
He had spent his first year of piracy there.
As a minor hand, he started out climbing the masts to adjust the sails, scrubbing the deck, and hauling cargo.
Later, when the crew noticed he was literate and far quicker at arithmetic than the average sailor, the second mate took him under his wing to teach him nautical charts and how to calculate latitude and longitude, earning him the occasional half-glass of rum in the captain’s cabin.
Beyond that, Harry had picked up a medley of miscellaneous skills on that vessel: basic brawling, the art of trickery, tricks at the gambling table, alongside genuine swordplay and a real tolerance for alcohol.
And, of course, plundering.
Plundering and treasure hunting were the keynotes of pirate life.
But most of the time, plundering took center stage—unless they were lucky enough to find a treasure map during one of their raids.
Heh, they were villains!
Every last one of them was a scoundrel!
Yet to Harry, they were far better people than the Dursleys ever were!
All in all, that first year hadn’t been half bad.
Right up until the Janos Pirates crossed paths with the Queen Anne’s Revenge; every adult pirate was slaughtered, blood painting the ocean red, and he, along with the other young hands, became slaves aboard that legendary vessel.
Oh, right.
It’s summer break now, and I’m supposed to be starting at Stonewall High.
Harry dug through his memory for a long moment before finally remembering his current situation.
It sounded absurd—the great Captain Potter was going to attend a secondary school.
Heh.
Without lifting a finger, the “legal” toll he collected from passing ships in a single day was more wealth than those teachers, or even the headmaster, could earn in a lifetime.
And he was supposed to go learn from them?
To learn how to be a law-abiding citizen?
How ridiculous!
“Up! Get up right now!”
A sharp female voice rasped against the wooden door like a dull blade, followed instantly by a barrage of fist thumps—bang, bang, bang—shaking dust down from the doorframe in small showers.
Aunt Petunia’s voice was always this loud.
Or rather, noisy!
Harry opened the door to his “home.” Outside, it wasn’t his home.
It was the Dursleys’ house.
His aunt had married Mr. Dursley, and because his parents had died in a car crash when he was small, he had been taken in by the couple.
“Hey, look at that! There’s my boy, already bursting with impatience to go to Smeltings!”
A booming male voice drifted over from the dining room.
Harry glanced over to see Mr. Vernon Dursley sitting at the head of the table, his bloated frame completely filling the chair, his face gleaming with greasy contentment as he held open a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
Aunt Petunia stood beside him, one hand resting fondly on his shoulder.
Their eager, tender, and proud gazes were fixed entirely on the younger Mr. Dursley at the far end of the table.
Dudley was squeezed into a maroon tailcoat so tight against his round body that the buttons looked ready to pop at any moment.
Holding a knobbly walking stick, he paced back and forth around the dining table, his fat face oozing pompous grandiosity while he muttered under his breath about the proper demeanor of a gentleman.
Ah, what a heartwarming family of three.
Harry cast a cool glance toward them, turned, and stepped into the bathroom opposite.
The moment he stepped inside, a pungent smell of chemical dye hit his nose.
Harry glanced at the iron tub in the corner, where a pitch-black rag was soaking.
Well, that wasn’t a rag.
That was his school uniform—the one he was supposed to wear to Stonewall High.
Petunia was practically a genius when it came to housekeeping; she had actually come up with the idea of dyeing Dudley’s old clothes to serve as his new uniform.
A rather miserable existence.
Squeezing out some toothpaste, Harry gave it some thought.
His current state really wasn’t all that different from when he was a slave aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge.
The former was mental oppression.
The latter required him to constantly prove his worth—otherwise, he’d be bound up with rope and tossed overboard to feed the fish.
Maybe I ought to leave this place, or perhaps…
Harry’s gaze fell onto the mirror, catching his own scrawny face, dark hair, and bright green eyes.
Having already tasted the sweetness of power and strength, he had no desire to live the life of a slave ever again.
His gaze swept over to the sink, where several stray strands of hair lay scattered around a comb.
Wait a minute…
Harry suddenly realized something.
He wasn’t wearing glasses, yet he could see everything with absolute clarity.
“It wasn’t a dream.”
Harry stared into the mirror at the somewhat undernourished face.
Certain things remained the same as before.
But other things had changed.
By his fourth year in those waters, he had no longer needed glasses.
After taking on the task to slay Davy Jones, he had obtained a voodoo potion brewed by Tia Dalma using drowned spirits’ brains, kraken ink, and giant eagle eyes.
It hadn’t merely restored his vision—it had granted him sight as sharp as a spyglass.
And—
Harry pulled his bangs upward with both hands.
On his forehead, the lightning scar was completely gone.
The hideous soul hiding inside had vanished.
In that dream, during his third year when he attempted to steal the Sword of Triton—forged by the Greek sea god himself—from Blackbeard, that ugly soul lurking inside his body had been slain.
Set within its hilt were three Triton sapphires.
They bestowed divine power upon the blade.
And likewise, in his hands, that sword had unleashed a magnificent power that Blackbeard had never been able to summon.
Harry James Potter, the true captain of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, had brought the entire ship truly to life.
“Harry! Harry!”
Petunia’s voice erupted from outside the door, sharp with impatience and irritation.
“What are you dawdling in there for? Breakfast is getting cold!”
Harry sighed, turning on the tap.
“Coming, coming.”