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Title: The Curse of the Greek Fire
Author: [livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Word Count: 2k-ish
Rating: PG
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.
Summary: Prompt by [livejournal.com profile] bonfoi: Struck by Greek fire, the character becomes a flaming something every time they get angry. Just how does this fiery character get tamed? Will they ever be able to bestride a rolling deck again?
Warnings: Un-beta’d. Slut!Ginny. Shameless plundering of The Princess Bride. Implied bestiality with dub-con. And in case you haven’t guessed by now, crack.

Draco woke up in his cabin on the White Feather with a pounding headache and no clothes on. Again. And most depressingly, not for any good reason that he could recall. The First Mate was peering at him anxiously from what seemed to be an unnecessarily respectful distance.

“What just happened?” Draco demanded, looking around for the clothes he’d been wearing the last thing he remembered. He’d just been informed that supper would be two hours late as the cook was blind drunk and had passed out in the stew… and then everything had gone black.

“Arr, sir. It were one o’ they mysterious fires again, that it were, cap’n.”

Draco sighed. “Macmillan, we were at school together. I know you can speak proper English.”

“Er, sorry, sir. I’m afraid we had another unexplained fire.” For some reason, Macmillan was looking shifty.

Another? Damn it, man, what was it this time?”

“Er, well, sir, the damage to the ship wasn’t too bad, but I’m afraid your suit and wig were beyond saving…” he cringed slightly and started backing towards the door, but Draco was too upset to even think of throwing something at him. His best wig! Would the horrors of life on the ocean wave never cease?

“And have Filch keel-hauled for spoiling my supper!” Draco yelled after the rapidly retreating figure of the First Mate.

Not for the first time, Draco cursed his father for sending him to sea. He’d said it would make a man of him; well, although learning how to be buggered in a hammock without falling out was no doubt a useful life skill, Draco had yet to feel any more manly than he had when he’d started. And he was fairly sure shipboard life was having an opposite effect on some of the men; the bosun had taken to wearing dresses and calling himself Molly as soon as they were out of sight of land. Draco supposed he should have the man flogged, but he did look rather fetching in petticoats.

But buggery aside, life aboard ship was no fun at all. The food was awful, there were no parties, none of his friends were here, and as for the chance of any decent conversation… Draco sighed heavily. He’d settle for a day with no one going “Arr” at him.

And then they’d had that run-in with those beastly pirates slinging Greek fire at them. One of them had even had the nerve to score a direct hit on him. When he’d looked up and seen a gigantic ball of flames heading straight towards him, Draco’s whole life had passed before his eyes. It had been a damn sight more pleasant than anything that had happened since he’d set foot on this rotting hulk, that was for certain.

He’d woken up after the attack feeling slightly… odd. And obviously, rather surprised to be waking up at all. Ever since then, whenever he got angry about anything (which happened fairly regularly on this floating turd crewed by dung beetles) he ended up having a blackout which always seemed to coincide with a mysterious fire. And why was it always Draco’s clothes which were destroyed by the flames? Leaving, incidentally, Draco himself without so much as a blister. Not that he was complaining about the last part, but it was all very odd.

And he had a strong suspicion that the crew knew more about it than they were telling him. He’d have had them all given the cat for insubordination, (possibly utilising some sort of rota) but oddly enough, discipline actually seemed markedly better these days. The men fairly jumped to obey his orders, and there was a look in their eyes that, if it had been directed at his father, Draco might have called respect, or even fear.

Hm. Maybe coming to sea had made a man out of him? If that was the case, Draco thought excitedly, maybe he could go home now? He’d have to write to Father straight away!

And wait six months for a reply, Draco reminded himself dejectedly. Sighing again, he heaved himself out of bed and went to select a new suit from his now sadly dwindling wardrobe. Much more of this and he’d be asking to borrow a frock from the bosun.

Fate seemed determined to crap on him lately, Draco reflected miserably, as he watched a rag-tag bunch of filthy, leering buccaneers board his ship, cutlasses raised. The White Feather had been taken completely by surprise, without a shot being fired. Well, no one had told him he was supposed to mount a watch at night time. Why couldn’t pirates keep business hours like any sensible person?

Draco quailed as two identically hideous figures, distinguished only by the eye-patches which they wore on opposite sides, swung themselves onto the deck to face him and leered wickedly from underneath twin mops of vomit-coloured hair. On closer inspection the eye-patches appeared to have been knitted, and one bore an embroidered “F”, the other a “G”.

“We be the dread pirates Weasley,” one of them snarled theatrically, brandishing his cutlass.
“Tremble, ye scurvy dog!” his double added, grinning madly.

“No, you’re not.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’ve met the dread pirate Weasley, and there was only one of her. Note, please, the use of the female personal pronoun. As far as I can tell, you are both of the male persuasion.”

“Ah, that’d be Ginny!”
“Our little sister.”
“It’s a family thing.”
“Passed down from our father.”
“The first dread pirate Weasley.”
“And continued by his children.”

“Are you saying your entire family is employed in the looting-and-pillaging industry?” Draco asked incredulously.

They nodded in eerie unison. “Well, except our brother Percy.”
“But we don’t talk about him.”
“He’s the dread accountant Weasley.”
“You don’t want to get on the wrong end of one of his audits, mind.”

“Well, your little sister attacked my father’s ship whilst I was aboard. Hardly the actions of a lady. She made poor Father her personal prisoner for hours. I hate to think what he must have endured. He won’t speak of it, but I’m sure she tortured him. There were dreadful moans and cries coming from the cabin she had him in. He had to sacrifice his favourite cabin boy to get out of her clutches. Trotter, or Snotter, I think his name was, although I always called him Scarhead.”

“You mean Harry!”
“Oh, we’ve met him!”
“You wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”
“Not that he’s spent much time in them himself lately.”
“Or in anything else, really.”
“Unless you count Ginny’s – ”

“I don’t want to know!” Draco interrupted firmly.

“ – Ginny’s cabin, we were about to say.”
“Why, what did you think?”

Draco could feel his brows drawing together in a frown, and it made his blood boil. These two be-freckled bastards had boarded his ship, all but brought on a migraine with their ridiculous double-act, and now they were giving him wrinkles as well? It was too much. He drew in breath to give blistering voice to his anger…

…and knew no more.


Draco opened his eyes wearily. Cabin? Tick. Headache? Tick. Naked? Tick. Idiotic First Mate grinning nervously? Fucking tick. He sighed. “Let me guess. Another fire?”

“Arr. But it saw they scurvy pirates off, like the cowardly dogs they be…” Macmillan flinched, presumably at Draco’s expression. “I mean, the pirates turned tail and ran at the sight of the dr – I mean the fire, sir.”

Well, that was something, at least. Draco turned to more pressing concerns. “Have I got any more clothes?”

“Well, sir, there’s that crimson outfit you said made you look fat…”

Draco sighed. “Hand it over.”

“Ship ahoy, cap’n! ”

Draco jumped. Did the man have to shout so loud? “Well? Are they pirates?”

“She ain’t flyin’ the Jolly Roger, cap’n. The name on ‘er bows is the Wyrm’s Turn. They be a-signallin’ they wants to parlay.”

“Oh, well, let them come alongside, then. It’ll be nice to have some company for a change.”

Draco waited impatiently for the ship to manoeuvre itself alongside. It was a handsome vessel, with an intricately carved dragon for a figurehead in place of the usual busty floozy. Draco approved.

“Captain Charles le Belettesque wishes to speak to you, cap’n.”

Le Belettesque? Draco couldn’t recall having heard the name before, but it definitely had an air of quality. Finally, someone with some breeding.

But what on earth could it all be about? Was the man bringing a message from his father saying Draco could go home? Draco tried not to let his hopes run away with him as the captain swung himself aboard the White Feather with an easy grace.

Whoever he was, he walked with a swagger that Draco found strangely arresting. And clearly, breeches were being worn much tighter than they had been when he’d left port. And just as clearly, a certain part of his anatomy informed him, that was a Very Good Thing. With an effort, Draco wrenched his gaze to the man’s face – and went suddenly cold. Freckles, red hair… “You’re another bloody Weasley!”

The bastard grinned at him. “That’s right. My brothers told me I might find something of, ahem, personal interest aboard the White Feather.” He stood there, insolence in his very stance and a suggestive look upon his damnably handsome face.

Draco saw red, and not just because of the man’s ponytail. False names, false flags, false pretences… “Don’t you pirates ever play fair?” he demanded furiously, even as the blackness closed over him once more.

Draco woke up in his cabin with a nagging sense that something was different this time. He still had a headache (although curiously, other parts of him were feeling a little sore this time as well); he was still naked… ah. That was it. He didn’t usually wake up with a gloriously shagged-out looking redhead in bed with him.

“You know, some people would call this date-rape,” Draco muttered sourly, but without any real heat. After all, Weasley or Belettesque or whatever he wanted to call himself looked even better out of his breeches than he had in them.

Charlie grinned. “Oh, you were willing enough at the time.” He glanced down significantly. “Looking pretty willing right now, too.”

“Well? Are you going to do something about that?” Draco pouted.

“Oh, yes,” Charlie murmured wickedly, lowering his head obligingly. Draco just had time to wonder why the end of Charlie’s ponytail looked singed before coherent thought became utterly impossible.

Draco stood upon the deck of the Wyrm’s Turn, hands clasped behind his back and feet braced against the motion of the waves, and smiled in approval at the men doing whatever it was they did to keep the ship afloat. Life aboard the Wyrm’s Turn was a damned sight more pleasant than it had been on the White Feather. True, everyone still kept saying “Arr,” but at least they didn’t expect Draco to organise everything. And although the job of First Mate seemed to have entirely different duties here, Draco could hardly describe them as onerous. Some people might describe it as a demotion, but Draco preferred to think of it as having found his niche.

The only slight trouble was that Charlie had a terrible habit of picking arguments with him, which meant Draco was having even more blackouts than before, but waking up in bed with Charlie was much more fun than waking up alone, so he found he really didn’t mind all that much.

And although he’d never admit it, Draco was rather fond of Charlie calling him his fiery little dragon.
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