Professor James Norrington glanced in vague disinterest at his new class; a mélange of faces gazed back: they were the usual mix of hyper interested and couldn't-care-less. If he wanted to he'd be able to pick out who had taken the class out of personal interest, filling up the space on their timetable; who'd taken it because it was the only course which would fill up the space on their timetable, and who was there because it was a requirement of their course that they study his subject. On top of that, he could pick out those who'd encountered Dr Barbossa already in their academic careers—a slight twitchy nervousness characterized their demeanor. New year, different students, same characters; the only difference this year was a slightly higher take-up of his subject—he'd even had to turn down a couple of people, although what young Messers Pintel and Ragetti had hoped to gain from a class in Maritime History when they were majoring in clothes design they had been loath to reveal.

All in all, he concluded as he finished writing the course title and his name on the roll of acetate placed across the overhead projector, it wouldn't be any different than usual and at least it helped to fund his own research into the subject.

A few weeks later, he was wondering if he was being wound up. The front row—usually left unpopulated—had been occupied by a quintet of friends who did their best to waylay him after every lecture. It had got to the point where he'd discreetly looked up their names on the departmental boards yesterday so that he could at least put names to faces. The two to his left were young Lizzie Swann and William Turner; he'd not had to look up her name, and that's where the inquisitiveness about names had started, as he'd been sure his old friend Weatherby Swann would wish to know the character of his daughter's new boyfriend. Furthest to the right, and often seen peeking through the curtains to the view of the harbour from this lecture theatre, was Andrew Gillette; Theodore Groves, seated to his left was constantly drawing his attention back; the enthusiasm those two young men showed for all things nautical was something Professor Norrington allowed himself to smile over in private—after all, it hadn't been that many years ago when he'd been a young student daydreaming out of the very same window while Professor Pellew taught this class, trying to enthuse his students with information James himself had learnt years before.

The character in the centre of the group was the one who unsettled him; androgynously beautiful, his unkempt dark hair obviously being encouraged to break parental strictures, but it was that intense chocolate-dark gaze underscored by an increasingly flamboyant smudge of kohl which caught and held him, causing his thoughts to skip in a most unfamiliar manner any time he glanced in their direction; he knew he should stop watching the group, but somehow, he.... He stopped, blinking and losing his sentence completely for a moment before recovering "...which was often referred to as 'a short drop and a sudden stop', for reasons that should be fairly obvious..." and continuing with the unruffled panache colleagues envied him for. Until he made the mistake of glancing again in the direction of Mr Sparrow. Who blinked, and confirmed what James had thought he'd imagined.

Saved by the clock—a glance told him it was only a couple of minutes before the end of the lecture. Hoping the class wouldn't mind his stopping a little earlier than he'd planned, he reminded them of the assignment due in at the end of the week, adding that if anyone wished to contact him they should do so by e-mail as the new voicemail system was proving less than reliable.

He hurried from the room, striding back to his office for a soothing glass of strong dark rum. Good God, James Norrington, he chastised himself once his thoughts had calmed into coherency, stop reading so much into things! No doubt he did it for some girl he's meeting at lunchtime. Even if it were for you, he's a student! Now pull yourself together and check your e-mail. But then his eye landed on a brown paper wrapped package sitting in his in-tray. Nervous fingers picked it up, checked for a return address (there wasn't one) and then unwrapped it gently. A leather bound book; no, not just any leather-bound book; his father's logbook from their schooner Pannikin. Why on earth would he send me that? wondered the young professor as, out of the corner of his eye he discerned five distinctive silhouettes through the glass of his office door. One glance between the door and the sash window facing the harbour where his own yacht lay moored, and his decision was made. Undignified it may be, but when faced with a choice between two mysteries, Professor James Norrington would choose the dangers of single-handedly sailing the oceans to those embodied by a slight, beautiful boy with "I LOVE YOU" stenciled across his eyelids.