Author’s Note: Here we have the first installment of my new story the Avalon Seven. This is a Slash Harry/Harem that features canon characters, original characters, and usage of some of the celebrated British Royals.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-authored fiction and is not meant to infringe on the rights of the rightful owners of any of the stories used herein nor to cause harm or embarrassment to the real life characters used.
Edited: 2 February 2016
The Avalon Seven
Prologue: Finding Harry
John Watson strode down the corridor of the free clinic he made a habit of donating his time to, his jaw set in grim lines and tension radiating from his every move. There was little that phased the war-worn doctor and former combat surgeon however there were two things that never failed to get under his skin and raise his often-overlooked and formidable ire: child abuse and/or molestation. Thankfully for the poor mite lying too-still and quiet in his OR sleeping off having his skull stabilized from a nasty blow – and he didn’t need his partner and lover Sherlock to tell him it was from a heavy pan, likely cast-iron – and surgical pins being implanted through more than a dozen bones in his too small body, this case was an open-and-shut child abuse with no molestation or rape markers to be found.
Though that prognosis could always change depending on the little one’s behavior once he awoke. Tiny and underfed, the wee mite could have been assaulted in other ways – ones that didn’t leave marks but told a world of tales by behavior. Which meant John needed to call in the big guns.
Sherlock was already on his way.
If there was anyone who could get to the bottom of the John Doe sleeping in a medicated haze, it would be the infamous consulting detective who happened to hate child abuse as much as if not more than John himself does.
“What do you already know, John?” Sherlock snapped out as he slammed open the clinic door and started down the familiar halls with Watson at his side.
“John Doe.” John obediently began rattling off the confirmed information the staff had collected both from the boy and the officers that brought him straight to the clinic for help. “Found by patrolling foot-officers in an alley of a London suburb. Brought directly in for care after they confirmed he was still alive.” Here John sighed, that being the end of the verifiable facts. “From my analysis he’s been horrifically abused and/or neglected for several years and could be anywhere from two years of age to much older depending on his current levels of food deprivation. He has scarring over seventy-five percent of his body from knife wounds to burns to lash marks. Honestly Sherlock.” Gentle brown worried eyes met their icy-green match. “I’m shocked he’s still alive, let alone that he survived his surgery.”
“A survivor then.” Sherlock muttered to himself as he stared through the glass window that looked into the room.
The genius quickly catalogued the various markers that upheld John’s appraisal of the situation before moving quickly into the room and taking a closer inspection both of the sleeping child and his belongings.
It wasn’t until the lanky man placed one long-fingered hand gently on the boy’s brow that he got the shock of his life. Literally. An arc of power jumped between the boy and the grown man.
Jerking his hand up and away in surprise Sherlock snapped an order at his partner before striding from the room.
“Keep an eye on him John. Don’t leave him alone, not for any reason.”
“May I ask why?” John called out at the retreating back of his temperamental lover.
“I need to make some calls. Urgently.”
Within the hour, John hovered nervously nearby as the formidable sight of the three Holmes men congregated around the waifish form still sleeping quietly in the hospital bed. Never, outside of Sunday dinners presided over by the indomitable Lady Holmes, had John ever seen all three of the infuriating geniuses in the same place at the same time. And even the Lady herself had to beg, borrow, and threaten to make her beloved dinners possible.
On this occasion they’d all just…shown up.
First came his lover Sherlock returning from making his calls – presumably to the other two Holmes men or at least Mycroft – who took up his standard seated lotus position in the rigid visitor chair, fingers steepled under his chin. He sat in uncharacteristic silence, forbearing even to mutter deductions under his breath, eyes firmly fixed on the abused boy in the bed. A shadow would cross his handsome face every now and again as the child would whimper from either nightmare or memory-induced fear even in sleep.
John knew that the boy would have an effect on Sherlock, children abused and otherwise tended to do so either to good or ill, but never would he have suspected such thoroughly baffling behavior.
Behavior that wasn’t alleviated upon the entrance of his older brother, who behaved nearly identically as Sherlock first had: examining the boy, touching him carefully upon the brow after a prompting look from his brother, then sending his shadow “Cynthia” this afternoon a speaking glance. The shadow merely nodded before hitting keys on her ever-present cellphone and backing out of the room to take up vigil in the hall. Mycroft rather than speaking to anyone leaned stoically against the wall, hands gently crossed and resting on the hook of his umbrella, and joined Sherlock…in whatever it was they were doing.
Now and then they would share a look that for once John couldn’t decipher, talking in that not-speaking way the genius pair had, and ignoring any of John’s attempts to catch either of their gazes.
It wouldn’t take a standard-fare genius to conclude that the Holmes brothers knew something they weren’t as yet inclined to share, nor one of their caliber. And John for all his faults could often keep up with the duo. When he felt like it which wasn’t often. The way their minds worked was simply too exhausting on the day-to-day.
But for once they’d successfully out-paced him without so much as a word.
It was as fascinating as it was troubling, especially since it all revolved around the too-small boy on the bed.
Siger’s arrival – John had met the patriarch before and one wasn’t likely to mistake a Holmes – was unexpected to say the least. He’d thought they were waiting for one of Mycroft’s government people or perhaps one of Sherlock’s less-than-savory contacts to come and answer their questions about the child. Even their friend DI LeStrade. Instead it was the elderly but imposing Lord Holmes, Viscount of Ravenscroft, who strode elegantly through the door.
No one who saw the three together could doubt their close relation, both Holmes boys taking drastically from their father’s noble heritage, Siger being the 21st Lord Ravenscroft to hold the title. While Sherlock was made handsomer than his father or brother from the introduction of blood from his Hawkins mother whose own mother was a particularly lovely Stuart, they all were Holmes’s to the bone.
Something easier to forget with Sherlock who preferred science and deduction to statesmanship unlike his father and brother: the British Government and the former British Government.
It was a post that they’d held since the 1st Lord Ravenscroft who legend had it served under Richard the Lionhearted – and kept the country solvent while the King went off on his Crusade.
Siger took one look at the child and sucked in a shocked breath.
“It can’t be.” He whispered, brushing the fringe of the boy’s unruly hair off of his forehead and revealing a particularly nasty scar that John was at a loss to explain the origin of.
“Who is he, father?” Mycroft prompted when Siger seemed content to stare in a bewildering combination of fury, disbelief, and awe.
“He can’t be squib-lineage.” Sherlock announced abruptly from his side of the boy’s bed. Squib-lineage being the Holmes name for a muggleborn witch or wizard. It simply made no logical sense to any of their genius minds that power would suddenly spring up from nowhere. Neither nature nor magic functioned in that manner. That they were the products of generation after generation of squib children being cast-off from their magical families made much more sense.
A supposition supported by the few experiments Sherlock had performed on the matter. All three of the Holmes men were barely more powerful than Squibs after all, their inherent magic instead being directed towards powering their intellects rather than their magical cores. A quirk of the Holmes line that allowed for someone magic-born to manage the mundane government that went back twenty generations to the last Magical monarchy.
It was the last known descendent of the Slytherin dynasty who cast the spell that made the Holmes’s brains a wonder of analytical thought, the now-defunct liege Lords of the House of Holmes.
One line of the House managed their Magical affairs while another managed the mundane ones. When either line is in danger of dying out, the other line will produce a “spare heir” who will have the requirements to take over the other. A safeguard most recently coming into play with Siger, Viscount Holmes, and his older brother Sherrinford, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Holmes.
“He’s too powerful for that.” Mycroft agreed. He still wasn’t sure of the child’s heritage but no magical child born from a squib could leak power the way this one did. A half-blood could, most in modern times being far more powerful than their “pureblood” peers, Dumbledore being an excellent example of such. “Which leads to the question, what is a child who is powerful enough to send shockwaves through myself and Sherlock doing in a mundane hospital, let alone in this condition?”
John quickly brought both of the elder Holmes’s up to date on the little one’s medical status, otherwise content for now to simply watch the byplay between the brothers. He knew of magic, Sherlock had told him of that world, but it’d never crossed his mind that such a thing would be what was behind his lover’s odd – even for Sherlock – behavior.
A forlorn look crossed Siger’s implacable face at the update from his son’s lover. He quite liked Dr. Watson and approved of him for his finicky younger son. He simply wished the man had better news.
“He’s neither squib-born,” Siger said at last after clearing his throat, his voice gaining strength as he squared his shoulders and face the others. “Nor is he a John Doe. Who he is, is the victim of a kidnapping more than two years ago after his parents were brutally murdered by a Dark Lord and terrorist.”
Mycroft frowned. He remembered his father getting him up to date when he took over his post after the end of the last wizarding war. That would make this child…
“The Potter Heir?” Mycroft asked, shocked to the bottom of his custom Italian-leather loafers. “There’s never been a report of the child being kidnapped.”
Siger snorted, rolling his eyes at his child.
“There wouldn’t be, would there?” He asked with the exquisite sarcasm he’d passed on to his sons. “When the man doing the kidnapping was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”
“Dumbledore?” Mycroft felt like someone had smacked him in the face with a three-day-old salmon. “What on earth…?”
His father explained. “In the absence of their parents or godparents, Heirs to any of the seven Royal, seven Utmost Ancient and Noble, or seven Most Ancient and Noble Houses are entrusted to the care of their House Stewards. It’s one of the most ancient of our laws, dating back to before the Founding of Hogwarts. Back to the seven kingdoms of Avalon in fact. Dumbledore,” Siger sneered at the name. “Is a commoner for all that he holds himself as a beacon of power and virtue. He had no more right to give the child to his mother’s adoptive sister than he did to attempt to appoint himself the boy’s magical guardian.”
His sons ignored the “adoptive” part of their father’s statement in favor of focusing on the current problems they faced in light of their father’s information. However before they could continue John broke in.
“As fascinating as this all is.” He said dryly. “This Dumbledore is most likely searching for him as we speak if he’s behind this – at least as far as his placement with abusive caretakers goes. I can’t think that a man as much a career political force as you make him sound will be happy that the child he kidnapped and hid away in the mundane world is missing or dead. It’s a reputation disaster in the making. We need to get the little one somewhere safe before we do anything else.”
“Yes,” Siger nodded with a sigh. “Yes of course. The shock of the situation as obviously affected me more than I’d thought possible.”
Sherlock locked eyes with his partner, devious mind spinning.
“I’ve an idea…”
Hours later in a lonely castle overlooking the turbulent North Sea, a weary Lord lifted his head from the work cluttering his desk and a tapping could be heard at his study’s window.
Reaching over, Lord Gawain Wallace, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Wallace and Steward for the Potter Holdings, opened the sash and allowed the tawny-feathered owl into the room and relieved the exhausted creature of its burden. Flipping it over, he raised a brow at the sight of the rarely-used sigil of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Holmes’ Mundane Title, the House of Ravenscroft. If he remembered correctly it was currently held by the younger brother of the current wizarding Lord Sherrinford Holmes, Siger.
Excitement raced through the Lord as he remembered exactly what interest he shared with the House of Holmes.
Breaking the seal his excitement was trebled by the words on the page written in an elegant script, one he’d only seen once before in his life.
He’s been found.
Was the message.
And that was all that was needed.
The Heir of the Utmost Ancient and Noble House of Potter had finally been found. Now it was time to bring Harry Potter, his sworn Lord-in-Waiting home. Dumbledore be damned.
A/N 2/2/16: I’m going through and editing these, trying to clean up the chapters and make sure they’re consistent before publishing the new ones. There will be minor tweaks for the most part that should make them a cleaner read and clear up a few confusing points. Now would be a good time to go through and re-read them before the new chapters are posted. ~ Sif