Waking up is a surprise. Harry’s head is pounding enough to let him know he is alive but also to make him wish he wasn’t. He doesn’t care to open his eyes yet, and plans to raise his hand to shield them from the sun he can feel on his skin, but when he moves his arm, he feels the familiar tug of a shackle and chain, and his eyes spring open, uncaring of the light that burns them and makes his head throb.
The sight that greets him is so confusing that Harry blinks, certain that he is still drunk. He is on a beach on the shore of some island, there is a fire flickering, on the verge of dying, and a trunk, but the oddest thing of all is the person he’s shackled to—Abraham, the captain’s favourite sailor. He’s still unconscious, his handsome face more pleasant when relaxed in sleep rather tha
