return of the king (Harry Potter/Arthurian Legends)
Artemisia stands up before Harry Potter has even finished owlishly blinking at the Goblet of Fire, disbelieving of what just happened to him.
She raises her wand and flares her magic, tendrils of red and gold wrapping around her ribcage.
“I invoke Suzerain Rights to take his place.”
Murmurs rise in the crowd of Hogwarts students. The professors exchange looks before looking at Albus Dumbledore.
Artemisia glances at the younger boy, running an absent hand on the stiff red sleeve of her Durmstrang uniform.
He really is tiny, she thinks.
She has tried not to dwell too much on it since she laid eyes on him, stepping down from Durmstrang ship with her wand tightly clutched in his hand.
She thought she could ignore the burden so obviously placed on his frail shoulders, his too-tired eyes and the wry slant of his mouth as he walked the corridors, as if he expects the world to lash out at him at any moment.
She thought she would be fine leaving Albion’s fate to him and burying her head in the Austrian sand, but she cannot. Coward, has howled the magic of this land since she has stepped on it, and she has failed to block it out. She must do something.
Harry stares at her, wariness and hope battling in his gaze. He wants to ask what Suzerain Rights are, it is obvious.
She will not let him show his ignorance so blatantly in front of everyone.
“I am Artemisia Wyrmhauser, first of her name.”
Most of the Slytherin table rises, and bows. Some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs follow, as well as a handful of Gryffindors. Some bows are deeper than others, signalling to her that her line was not forgotten by her subjects. She could not recognise them all even if she tried.
Fifty Houses swore themselves to House Pendragon, and only Houses Abbott, Avery, Bulstrode, Crouch, Fawley, Flint, Greengrass, Longbottom, Ollivander, Parkinson, Prewett, Weasley, Yaxley, Slughorn, Smith, Peverell and Bones remain.
She recognises others, those who swore allegiance to House Le Fey rather than to the Pendragons. She sees no Princes, so the descendants of Mordred must have died out, though she suspects that one of the professors must be related to them.
The descendants of William the Conqueror are all in Azkaban and lost their Suzerain Rights when they bowed to a Dark Lord, but their former vassals are there still: she sat at the Slytherin table and heard enough from the Malfoy heir to know they’re still around.
Her Durmstrang schoolmates stare at her with confusion. None of the students in her year and the one above has links in Albion, except for Nikita Dolohov, who obviously prefers not to advertise his connexion to his Death Eater cousin.
(Besides, Antonin Dolohov only studied in Albion because his father was an ambassador, he doesn’t actually have blood claim to this land.)
As far as they know, she is from a secretive Austrian House, who boasts a respectable lineage but no notable accomplishments, save for the fact that most of them were killed personally by Grindelwald and the others were finished off by an illness that swept through them a decade ago.
As it stands, only one member remains of House Wyrmhauser.
Artemisia smirks. “Wyrmhauser is the Germanised name of House Pendragon. King Arthur's throne sits empty at the Wizengamot, and it is mine by right, as the descendant of the last king of Albion. My House has hidden for centuries and waited for the return of our forefather. But if Albion does not protect his children, maybe it is time for us to step in and act as wardens, as is our right. And I will start by protecting my vassal.”
“House Potter didn’t swear allegiance to the Pendragon line,” protests a boy at the Hufflepuff table, “you have no Right over him.”
“House Potter didn’t, but the Peverells did,” she counters, “and they kept their true name throughout the centuries, regardless of how they presented themselves to the world. House Peverell never died; like the Pendragons did, it hid, and now is the time to step into the limelight once again.”
“Lady Wyrmhauser,” says Dumbledore, leaning forward, “Saying such thing in public will endanger Mr Potter.”
“Endanger him more than he already is at this time, when unknown entities enter his name in a deadly tournament designed for a higher level of magic than he can boast?” She turns back to the person concerned. “As your liege, it is within my rights to take on this challenge in your stead. Will you accept?” she asks softly.
“I accept,” says Harry firmly.
***
The next day, she is inundated with formal requests of vassalage, and the Daily Prophet claims the return of House Pendragon to the British soil.