Archive of Our Own

He is not omnipotent. The Boy King has a king of his own.

His master is merciful. Everything is within the Boy King’s control as long as he keeps an eye on the intruders. He cannot keep them from coming in, but he can do unto them whatever he wishes if they break the rules. He just needs to take care of the rule breakers and heathens, the rest can freely traverse his domain. That is all he needs to worry about. His master is merciful.

There is always a ‘but.’

But the Boy King wants more. His power comes with the freedom to do anything he wants, within reason and within closed gates. Therefore, if he wants complete omnipotence, he needs to be completely free. He needs to be free. He needs to be free.

Ever since the day that ridiculous notion entered his head, he has been haunted by visions. They feel like memories, but the Boy King has no history. No before's and after's, only his kingdom and his subjects. And yet, they come anyway like rats in the night. One, a levitating feather. Two, a cloak nowhere to be seen. Three, pure green. Four, five, six, seven, so on and so forth. The eleventh and twenty-fifth contain a freckled face and a mane of curls respectively. They keep appearing in his head, in bits and hints when he opens his eyes and roams his land, in dreams and nightmares when dawn comes and he sleeps. They persist even after he remembers the word ‘friends.’

Then, ‘best friends.’

Then, ‘where are they.’

‘Why don’t they get me.’

‘What good are outlaws if they don’t bring anything of value into my land.’

‘Why can’t they bring my best friends.’

He keeps the interesting ones in his court, but most are awfully boorish. Some even remind him of bad things. Bad people. He drives them out. When he feels like it, he collects their eyes. The Boy King cannot just get help from any intruder he finds.

Something screeches. He does not need to look to know that The Thing is banging on the windows on the Third Level. He never lets it in, because he knows better. Many intruders do not know better, however, and he has to clean up their messes. It is fine. It is simply another duty of the Boy King.

Tonight, the expected crash of glass giving way does not come. The Thing’s limbs slap against the windows as it crawls this way and that, trying to get the intruder’s eyes on it. When it does not get what it wants, it screams louder and slinks its body to other Levels. The Boy King can see its twisting shadow on the floor as it slams on his windows as well. He does not relent, and neither do his other subjects, the knowledge that it will give up impaled in their subconscious. Soon enough, no sign of it remains. His eyes return to the spotless windows, watching another intruder navigate the grounds below. A shadow is stalking her, but that is for her to deal with.

Meanwhile.

The footsteps make no noise. Their owner knows the art of silence and is exceptional at it. The Boy King knows better, for his eyes are watching in the corners and his ears are listening between the tiles.

The Crawlers are slumbering, thus the intruder has nothing to fear. Nevertheless, he is afraid. The Boy King does not mind. Fear is fragrant.

When the footsteps nearly reach the top of the staircase, the Boy King unfolds himself from his seat. He looks at his small hands and short legs. He knows he looks like a child, an infant, even, in the standards of his world. He is not called the Boy King for nothing.

But, he feels like doing something different tonight. His joints pop, his knuckles grind. He arches his back and feels the knobs of his spine knocking against each other. He curls his feet, blood rushing to his throat. One moment, his head feels overinflated, overstretched, and the next, he is fine. He is taller now, his jaw sharpened, his neck thick. He spreads his fingers then clenches them into fists.

The shift is unpleasant, but he likes this form. His power is challenged less often when he is no longer a child.

A bright burst of light comes from behind him. Ah, the intruder is here. The Boy King turns around to face him.

The hand holding the flashlight shivers before righting itself. Intruders always wear a uniform, for some reason, and this one is no different. And yet, this one is quite different, indeed.

His hair is of the lightest shade of blonde, akin to snow. His skin is tan, littered with scars and tattoos, but something tells the Boy King that it used to be paler than ever. Unmarked, unmarred. His silver eyes are glassy under the moonlight, to the point where they seem transparent.

Rage piles up in the depths of the Boy King’s stomach. He keeps remembering something—something!—but he cannot understand what. All he knows is that this man is here to see to the Boy King’s demise.

The lips of tonight’s intruder form a two-syllable word, the bottom one trembling.

“P-Potter.”

The Boy King does not know what it means. Murderous anger subsides for a moment. No intruder has called him that before.

How strange.

Should he keep this one alive?

“Come,” the Boy King tilts his head. “Let’s take a walk.”

The intruder flinches. His feet shuffle like they will back away from the Boy King. His eyes pin on those feet, and they stop moving. The intruder quivers like an old branch trying not to succumb to a thunderstorm. Then, he straightens and squares his shoulders. His eyes narrow. Interesting.

Despite himself, the Boy King is curious. He hides a smile.

“Sure,” the intruder’s hand clenches around his flashlight. “Lead the way.”

The Boy King leads them both through the dark.