Captain Jack Sparrow was many things. A theif. A scoundrel. A liar. A friend. A lover. A murderer. The list could go on and on, but he really didn’t have the patience to sit around and make a list all of his shortcomings. Not that all of them were shortcomings - some of them were much worse. And sometimes much better. But very rarely the second.
Jack Sparrow was many things. But nobody would ever dare claim he was good. He was not sweet. He was not nice ... most of the time. He didn’t like kittens. He had been known to kick a puppy from time to time. He was a sonofabitch pirate with an amazing streak of luck that had followed him throughout his entire life.
Jack Sparrow liked pretty things - he always had. He liked to collect things, liked to wear them, like to kill people to get to them. But there was one item in his possession that he would not part with, even for a second. It didn’t stay on his ship, didn’t come in to contact with the crew members. Even Will Turner, as close as they were, didn’t know of it’s existance. It was the one item that Jack Sparrow would guard with his very life.
It was his wand.
Just a thin little piece of wood, it looked harmless. Looked like something you could pick up out of any forest. But if you knew what it was, if you recognized it for the power it held, you would understand why it was so special.
He didn’t like to use it - didn’t like to bring it out, to let others see it. He protected it, kept it on him at all times, but he also hated it. Hated it for what it reminded him of, for what it would never let him forget. That other life, lost so long ago... Back, before the ships and the gold and jewels, back before the long hair and the accent and the rum. Ah, the rum... This little piece of wood was the one thing that stopped him from being completely and utterly happy. And he hated it. But at times, it was the only protection he had.
Protection ... that was a laugh. It hadn’t protected his wife, had it? Hadn’t protected their son, crying in his cradle, from the maniac who had attacked them, for no reason other than he could. Magic had kept him alive ... but had killed both of them.
He didn’t know how he’d ended up where he had, lying on a beach in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the clothes on his back and his wife’s dying scream still ringing in his ears.
He’d still had his wand, what good it did him. The Knight Bus couldn’t reach him here, and since he had no idea where he was he couldn’t very well apparate safely.
After two days, though, he didn’t have much of a choice. Help wasn’t coming.
He’d ended up at his house, limbs heavy and eyes sleepy as he stared at the spot where his house should have been. It was the right town, and there, the little well his wife had enjoyed taking their infant son to play ...
There were some people there now, talking as they drew water from a well he was certain had been dry for over twenty years or more. But there they were, and that bucket they were bringing up was anything but empty.
He’d wandered off, stumbling back toward the water where he’d found a boat quickly enough, their words still ringing in his ears. A quick spell told him the exact date, and his hands shook as he pushed off to sea, barely even noticing the man shouting after him to get off his boat.
That had been years ago, of course. He rarely thought of it now, pushed those memories to the back of his mind. But sometimes something would remind him ... when he saw a small, dark-haired boy playing with his mother. When he saw a robe, even if it was on a priest. He had worn robes like that, once. Different than theirs, of course, more colorful and, he was sure, far more comfortable.
Ah, what did it matter? He would never again dress in such a way. He would never again become what he had once been. And so the wand stayed hidden away, reserved only for the most dire of circumstances.
He counted this as one such occasion.
But did he dare? He understood the thematics, understood the spell as well as he could. It was a tricky one, one he had learned from an old childhood rival. They had been at each other’s throats constantly, and it had been mere chance that he had found the boy’s notebook, where he had kept his most precious of creations, his most valued of notes. It was there that he had found this spell. He wasn’t sure where the other boy had found it, but he was sure that it was not one of the boy’s creations. No mere child could have created so complex of a spell, of that he was certain.
It would apparate them from this place - Him, the lovely Elizabeth Turner, and those of his crew who caught his attention. Of Will Turner he had no worries - the boy was, essentially, immortal, his heart now trapped within the chest that Elizabeth had hid only demon’s knew where. He would survive this, if one could call it that. He wasn’t really alive, but neither was he dead, and that had to count for something.
And with a few muttered words, Captain Jack Sparrow completed the spell, his wand hidden from view within the folds of his jacket. He thought it was hidden - thought that none had seen him remove it, and wouldn’t have understood what it meant even if they did.
He had underestimated his current opponent. And overestimated the his own genius. Again.
The man wasn’t confused at all - a little surprise, maybe, but not confused. He took a step forward, as if to try and stop the spell from taking place. It was completed before he got too far, of course, but Jack saw the recognition in his face, and the sudden fear. Strange, that he hadn’t seemed afraid before.
Of course, Jack had never cast this spell before in his life. That worried him a little, but not overly so. They would survive, or they wouldn’t. Simple enough. Of course, if they got caught somewhere in the middle, that would make things far more interesting - and perhaps that was something to worry about. He hadn’t thought of that before ...
But the spell was cast, and in a flash of brilliant white light that left him nearly blinded, he felt an unseen force grab at him and pull. It was one of the oddest sensations he had ever experienced - and he’d been through some doozies. It was different from apparation - he was used to the tug at his navel that came with that particular spell, even after all these years. But this was a shove, and a pull, even as he was pushed away. For a second, he almost thought he wasn’t going to make it.
What a way to go out.
But in barely seconds - much longer than apparation, truth be told - he found himself in a crumpled heap on the ground, leg still smarting from where he’d been dropped. And he had been dropped - instead of appearing in the same position, he had appeared several feet above the ground. In a Dungeon.
Oh, bloody lovely.
Clambering to his feet, Jack Sparrow hissed in pain, bending down to rub at his injured leg. It wasn’t that bad - a bruise, maybe a sprain. But it hurt like hell. Not that he hadn’t endured worse, but still.
Letting loose a heavy breath, he stared around himself with a frown, wondering idly why this particular dungeon filled him with such a sense of forboding. He had certainly been in ones much more ... decorated than that, after all. In retrospect, this one was almost ... clean. Bottles and cauldrons filled a room, a desk pushed against one wall and several chairs upended, as if they had simply been thrown in here. Who would use a dungeon cell to hold supplies, though?
Well, besides Snivellus. But that snarky git didn’t count - he was hundreds of years from now, probably standing in front of a potion’s cauldron getting his hair even more greasy.
If that was even possible.
Elizabeth Turner slowly rolled over on to her side, groaning in a quite unladylike manner. She was on a crumpled heap on the floor, directly to the left of her husband who was standing there dazedly - the only one to stay standing. He had a dazed look on his face, blinking slowly as he stared around the room.
Wait, how was he here? Wasn’t he ... Didn’t he ... What the bloody hell?
Will, for his part, was just as confused as his friend, staring around the room with an alarmed expression. His wife had yet to clamber to her feet, was still gasping for breath. He, personally, could hold his breath indefinately - the living dead and all that.
“Jack, what - what did you just do?” He asked, voice unconsciously roughened as he helped his wife to her feet. She leant heavily against him, face hidden in the groove where neck met shoulder and her right arm wrapped around his waist.
Jack merely gave him a look, however, leaving just what that look was supposed to mean up to his own imagination to come up with.
He wasn’t exactly the imaginative sort.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Will shook his head before turning to inspect the room around them. It wasn’t as bad as ost other dungeons he had seen in his time; pristine compared even to those of Port Royal - and others, of other ports of call? There was no comparison; barely livable those, if at all.
Evenn the walls here were clean, though the floor could use a good sweeping. It was obvious they were beneath the ground, however; the feel, the smell. The lack of windows. There was just a certain feeling to being beneath the ground. Confining, entrapping. He had never enjoyed the feeling before, liked it even less now.
“Huh. Tha’s interestin’.” Will jerked around to watch as Jack moved toward the door, arms still tightly wrapped around his wife. She seemed to be having a particularly brutal reaction to whatever it was Jack had done, clutching tightly at his neck as she shook slightly.
Jack stood just before the door, head tilted to the side before he reached for the handle with a shrug. Frowning when it proved to be locked, he gave a heavy sigh before Will could make a comment, drawing the strange stick Will hadn’t noticed earlier and muttering something under his breath. When he tried the handle this time, it gave easily, and Will was left to stare in confusion, before hastening after the other man as he proved unwilling to wait for Elizabeth to pull herself together.
“Not good ... not good.” Jack was muttering under his breath - and while Will couldn’t help but agree that their present location wasn’t the best he could have wished for, it was certainly better than the battle they had just left. “Jack? Do you know where we are?” That was the most worriesome possibility, that Jack had done something particularly ... pirate-y on some previous date. Made somebody angry, perhaps.
“No. Nope. Not happenin’. Not possible. Mhmm. Can’t be right. We could not have just - how could we-?” Jack was still muttering under his breath, though the words reaching his ears were starting to worry Will more and more with each passing second.
Jack stepped out into the hallway, back to the door as he glared at the painting of an elderly woman, a shocked look etched on to her face. “What in the world are you wearing, young man?”
Will jumped at the sound of the voice, staring at the painting in shock as Jack’s expression just grew darker.“Whose tha’ current Headmas’er?” He asked shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting most of his weight to his right foot.
The painting frowned, glancing to her left, and Will realised with a start that the painting next to her was staring back with the same expression. “Albus ... Dumbledore?”
“Jack ...” Will paused, wondering just how to phrase this. “One of the ... people ... just ran off. Should we worry about-” Before he could finish his question, Jack was bolting off in the same direction the painting ... person ... had moved, a look of st ark fear written across his face. “Jack!”
Elizabeth seemed to have finally come to her senses, as she bolted after the man, and Will was left to hastecn to catch up with them.