Chapter 1

Hermione woke up that day thinking it would be normal. Go to Potions, Charms, Herbology, and Runes. Nag Harry and Ron into studying. Maybe explore the Restricted Section if she felt gutsy. It was her seventeenth birthday after all.

She didn't count on Peeves.

The resident poltergeist was kitted out in a most unusual costume. Gone was his jester like apparal, and in its place was an ensemble of a long coat, loose shirt, breeches, and boots. He had a peculiar black hat perched precariously on top of his semi-corporeal head.

"Avast ye saucy wench!" he cackled. "Pay heed to me or face the Cap'n's Daughter!"

"Peeves," Hermione groaned, "What do ye want?"

"Shiver me timbers First Mate Nick!" This scallywag is naught but a landlubber!" Peeves cried the alarm to Nearly-Headless Nick, who was drifting by.

"Sink me!" exclaimed the ruffled ghost. "The lass is known across the Seven Seas as being the quickest draw. Matey, this is nigh near as ill as a dance with Jack Ketch." Shuddering, the two spooks weighed anchor and left the girl alone.

"What in the name of Merlin was that?" Hermione asked the portraits nearby, but was met only with the swashing of buckles. Impatient fer breakfast, she hurried down flights of stairs with all haste, ignoring the suits of armor scrubbing the deck.

Hardtack, cackle fruit, and salmaguni sat on the tables. Tapping her biscuit on her mess kit as she saw her fellow Gryffindors do, Hermione spied weevils falling out. Put off by this discovery, she set it back down and took a swill of her drink. Not a drop was swallowed before she sprayed it on the boys sitting in front of her. Harry and Ron.

"Can't hold her bumboo, the wench," Harry lamented, working a piece of gristle on a dubious slab of meat.

"I don't fancy giving her grog," added Dean, scarfing down his own hardtack.

"Ye scurvy picaroon! Arrgh. This messdeck? She'd climb the mizzenmast afore drinking down a pint of anything on this table," Ron said through bites of Old Horse.

"The poxy lass does fly wi' us 'neath this Jack," and here Harry pointed to the black flag with the Gryffindarrr crest flying on a mast that seemed to sprout forth from the table itself. "I be ready to lay down a piece of eight that she can drink a whole flask o' grog." He spotted another girl. "Ye, wench! Bring me a rum and more grog and don't leave me marooned an' in want of yer beauteous company."

Ginny brought a tankard of rum and one of grog from behind Hermione. Stretching across the table, she set them down in front of Harry. Then, not taking a care to her skirts, she walked across the table before sitting down. On Harry's lap.

By this point, Hermione's eyes had bugged themselves entirely out of her skull. Downing the full mug in one go, Hermione decided it was all a bad dream.

---

Later that day, she'd hear that the choir had surrounded her, singing. If she didn't think too hard, she could dimly remember the words, "What shall we do with a drunken witch?" "Jinx her hair and watch it fall out," "Put her on a broom and watch her fall off," and "Soak her in the lake until she's sober," chanted very loudly and off-key. When she could remember this, she'd nervously finger her shorn, wet locks and check fer bruises.

The next day, she decided that it was not how she had expected to spend her coming-of-age. And that International Talk Like a Pirate Day should have been kept to America, thank ye very much.

A/N: International Talk Like a Pirate Day on Poufwa! Mix that with the L.A. Meyer book, Bloody Jack, and "What Shall We Do With a Drunken Sailor" and you get this.

Chapter 2

The Narwhal & Fig was a failing pub, as Judy the barmaid knew very well. The sign hanging above the door had seen one pistol shot too many, the floors numerous spewings of consumed drinks, and the stools too few patrons. If she were Barnaby, she would have closed years ago. But with a young lass to care for, she was not going to protest even the meager pennies the job brought in. Judy gave the tables a half-hearted wipe as she watched her daughter play with a worn wooden pull toy that looked that it may have been a dog.

Before she could muse on the inadequacy of the plaything, a man strode in through the door. Seeing his gleaming straw-colored mustache, Judy gaped. Even the lass, normally unaware of the world while at play, stopped. He looked a quintessential gentleman of fortune. Each of the buttons on his velvet frock coat shone like galleons that Judy had been lucky enough to glimpse once. Unlike many of the regulars, this garment was unstained and pristine. In fact, his whole ensemble was impeccable, and if not for the ease with which he moved, Judy would have suspected him a younger son pretending at piracy. Many young men thought it a lark.

"Mistress, a tankard of your finest mead," the stranger commanded in an even voice that rang through the deserted room. Removing his hat, he sat down at a table in between her and the awe-struck lass.

"Begging your pardon sir, but we've only got rum on hand. We usually don't serve customers of your caliber," dipping a quick curtsey, Judy inwardly flinched. "But I'll get it out straightaway." She scurried to the back room where the better quality swill was kept.

"No need to hurry," he called after her. "I'm in no rush." Looking at the grimy girl staring at him, he cracked a smile, showing that a few teeth had been replaced with gold. "Are you hungry lassie? I've got a bit of a treat I picked up in the last port I was in."

The girl hesitantly tugged her dog with her as she approached him. Silently she tilted her hand as he handed her an orange treat caked with sugar. "What is it?"

"The shopkeeper that sold it to me said it was crystallized pineapple," he said. "Go ahead and try it."

Nibbling on it, her face lit up. "Thank you sir." Hastily, she retreated to the back room where her mother was emerging, laden with tankard and rum.

"Ethel?" Judy called after her daughter. "I'm sorry sir, she's usually rather polite. Now, what ship did you say you hailed from?"

Taking a sip of the rum, and grimacing, the man answered, "I didn't. I'm Captain Horace Slughorn of the Felix Felicis."

A/N: Dedicated to PS.