Harry Turner, formerly Harry Potter, was now nine years old. Even at this young age, the striking features inherited from both his parents were becoming undeniably apparent. He was tall for his age, with a sturdy build that hinted at future strength. His thick, dark brown hair was kept neatly combed, a reflection of the disciplined upbringing he was receiving.
Growing up in this new world had been a revelation. He had learned that his mother, Elizabeth Turner, was no ordinary woman, but the formidable Queen of all Pirates, a title that resonated with a certain rebellious familiarity within him. He also knew his father, William Turner, was the legendary captain of the spectral Flying Dutchman, bound to his duty ferrying souls lost at sea.
Deep within him, Harry could sense faint echoes of his dormant magic. It was a familiar hum, a potential he couldn't yet fully access. He could almost feel the presence of the Deathly Hallows, changed and somehow integrated within his magical core, waiting for a spark.
His youth was a blur of constant learning and rigorous training, befitting the son of pirate royalty and a man bound to the supernatural. His mother, a pragmatic and fiercely protective woman, had told him plainly, "You are the legacy of two legends, Harry. The world, in its ignorance and fear, will not always be kind." And so, she had sought out the finest tutors, ensuring he was prepared for any eventuality.
His formal studies were extensive. Under the tutelage of a stern but brilliant scholar, Master Finch, Harry devoured subjects like cartography and navigation, learning to chart the treacherous waters of the world and guide ships by the stars. Maritime Lawn and the Pirates code were also key components of his education, ensuring he understood the delicate balance of power on the seas. He excelled in multiple languages, quickly picking up Spanish, French, and even some of the more obscure dialects spoken in the far reaches of the Caribbean. History, particularly the golden age of piracy and the legends surrounding myths, and artifacts, fascinated him, stirring echoes of his own past.
Beyond academics, his physical training was relentless. He became proficient in swordsmanship under the watchful eye of a seasoned master-at-arms, learning to wield a cutlass with surprising skill and agility for his age. He was taught the arts of moving stealthily, essential skills for survival in a world of shifting alliances and hidden dangers. He even received instruction in firearms, mastering the use of pistols and small cannons.
Much of his practical education came from Captain Teague, the enigmatic keeper of the Pirate Code and, surprisingly, the father of Jack Sparrow, a name Harry recognized as a strange but oddly reliable friend to his parents. From Teague, Harry learned the subtle art of negotiation and subterfuge the importance of understanding the motivations of others, and the unspoken rules of the pirate underworld. He also learned invaluable insights into the supernatural elements of their world, the curses, the mythical creatures, and the delicate balance between the living and the dead.
Each of Harry's instructors was astonished by the boy's quick intellect. He mastered complex subjects with astonishing speed, displaying knowledge that seemed far beyond his years. He could grasp intricate tactical strategies in naval warfare after only a brief explanation, and his understanding of ancient lore often surprised his tutors. What they couldn't understand was the century of experience that resided within him. Re-experiencing infancy had been a difficult ordeal. The helplessness, the constant needs, the indignity of it all it was a stark contrast to his previous life. Yet, Harry had endured, his mind a sharp tool even in a baby's body. His mastery of Occlumency from his past life allowed him to effortlessly construct a detailed mind palace, a vast library where he meticulously organized his memories, the echoes of his past a secret landscape within.
When her duties allowed, his mother would share tales of the past, her voice softening as she spoke of his father. "Your father, William," she'd say, her eyes showing nostalgia and love, "is a brave and fearless man. He carries a heavy burden, bound to his duty. He doesn't even know of your birth, my son." But there was a hopeful note in her voice as she continued, "Soon, Harry. Soon you will meet him. It has been nearly ten years since your father last set foot on land. The time is drawing near."
Three weeks later, the salt-laced air whipped around Harry and his mother as they stood silhouetted against the sky just before dawn. The eastern horizon was beginning to paint with deep purples and fiery oranges of the approaching sunrise. A hush fell over the shoreline, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the sand.
Then, just as the first rays of the sun's fiery glow began to show over the horizon, painting the sea with shimmering light, a jolt of emerald energy ripped through the tranquil scene. The air crackled with an otherworldly power, and a flash illuminated the water. Harry could see a ship, the Flying Dutchman, approaching. For the first time since his rebirth, Harry understood that there was magic in this world as well. Its ghostly sails billowed despite the lack of wind, and its dark, hull cut through the waves with an unnerving silence, a phantom vessel materializing from the unknown depths.